by David Poyer
“Not a risk-free launch,” Henrickson muttered.
“I’m thinking, this isn’t the real thing,” de Cary put in.
“What do you mean?” said Dan.
“That’s not the Shkval. Can’t be. It’s only half the size.”
“Demonstration vehicle?”
“Reduced scale. A test bed.”
Dan had to admit, it made sense to demonstrate on a reduced scale, especially in the middle of a city. No Western capital would have permitted live ordnance testing smack in the middle of its downtown, where an errant turn could send a couple of tons of high-speed weapon up a slanted bank and down a commercial avenue. He looked around for Siebeking, but the attaché was gone in the crowd.
The audience spread out along the riverside, staring down at the launch barge. Which the techs, too, were leaving, jogging across a quickly lowered, bouncing gangway, taking their prospective customers’ places near the buffet. Putting a few more yards between themselves and the launch platform. Where now only the supervisor, and one orange-suited tech remained, the latter at a stand-up console, the former a few feet aft of the tube, talking into a cell. Then he flipped it closed and stuffed it into a pocket. He swung himself onto the gangway and jogged shoreward.
A prolonged hooting came from the distant guard boats. The spectators fell silent. The orange-suited tech clamped on a hard hat, ear, and eye protection. He looked over his shoulder, down the river, then crouched. His arm moved once, to the right, then suddenly back to the left.
With a sudden deep thud, then a hiss of released air, the whole barge recoiled. A cloud of vapor shrouded the tube, cloaking but not quite obscuring the burrowing splash of something long and heavy wallowing deep into the river. The water closed again in a clashing swirl of foam. A half-ring of white plastic skipped across the surface, somersaulting through the air in slow motion. For a moment there was nothing more.
Then something ignited, deep below.
The light came up like a glowing apparition beneath the river, turning the chill gray a murky, tropical, opal-hued green. Within it a lance of pure white radiance burned beneath the Moskva. Dan felt heat on his cheeks and forehead, and only just kept himself from stepping back. Instead he leaned forward, straining his eyes for every scrap of information he could gather.
But the heat-pulse lasted only a second. The white-hot light began to move. Then from one instant to the next vanished, absorbed by the turbulent river as the angle between it and his gaze increased.
A creamy froth surged up, boiling and spiking queer peaked pyramids of water that blew apart, showering the barge. The wind picked up the spray and carried it over the audience, which recoiled from the river’s edge, shouting and slapping at their coats and faces. Dan and Henrickson and de Cary stood without moving. He sniffed, trying to extract information from the mist, but it just smelled dank, like steam and river. No; there was an undertone. For a moment, almost like coffee beans. Then hot iron. Metallic? Or more like dirty old socks? It slipped away even as he sniffed again, the freshness of new sensation vanishing as nerve endings accommodated.
The spectators surged again, aiming cameras and field glasses up the river. Dan blinked through the spray. But so far, nothing. The river rolled on. The barge, the red flag stiff in the wind, the motionless boats, the distant golden spires, all were the same.
He lifted his Seiko and caught the sweep hand. A little over thirty seconds. He raised his eyes to the river, then returned them to the watch. He did this again, then lifted his head, and stared at the faraway barge.
A brilliant point ignited, so overpowering his legs dropped him into a hunch and his arms jerked up to shield his face. All he could think was: nuclear. De Cary flinched, too. Behind them others cried out as a double crack like the earth splitting rolled over the city and then echoed, rebounding from hundreds of buildings, and across the whole center of Moscow birds whirled up crying and darting as if to escape the sudden advent of an apex predator.
“Holy smoke,” Henrickson muttered. “That wasn’t RDX.”
Dan straightened to see distant specks of debris raining down over a two-hundred-yard-wide circle, above which a white mushroom hearted with orange fire rolled upward. It lofted like a balloon till the wind took it, driving it off the river and off over the city, still rising, still milling, but rapidly thinning, so fast he suddenly grasped what it was: not so much smoke, though it contained smoke, as a cloud of superheated steam, condensing into microscopic droplets as it hit the cold fall air. And beneath it, behind it, no trace of the barge, the flag, the panel, whatsoever. Only that roiled foam, rocking and steaming.
A murmur ran along the embankment. As one, the faces, swarthy, dark, pale, turned back to the guest barge.
Aboard which, at a word of command, the techs stood aside. A middle-aged brunette with wind-blushed cheeks stepped to a microphone and began reading from a clipboard. Russian first, then what sounded like Chinese, Arabic, and other languages. She seemed to be fluent in them all. Then she got to English.
“You have just witnessed live demonstration of underwater missile weapons system. The warhead detonated is small demonstrator model. Full size ‘Shkval’ export model double this size with much larger warhead. Komponent Corporation offers underwater missile for sale or lease. Discuss with us terms. Full system is available with credits through special program Ministry of Defense.
“New announcements from Komponent, maker of advanced underwater weaponry for national defense. Shkval-K is armed with shaped-charge warhead designed to burn through submerged armor, backed with rods of depleted uranium as incendiary. You see effect of quarter-sized warhead on moored ship today. Full-sized warhead will burn through one meter steel or five meters reinforced concrete, not counting fracture effect, with shaped charge penetrator permitting entry of uranium rods two meters long. These combust upon contact with air, water, or petroleum fuel. Optimally effective weapon against even the most difficult target at sea.”
Beside him Henrickson sucked a breath, de Cary stiffened. A cold wave propagated up Dan’s spine.
Depleted uranium was the heavy metal left over when fissionable isotope was extracted for use in weapons or reactors. Relatively inert radiologically, though there were those who disagreed, it was twice as heavy as lead. The U.S. packaged it in antitank rounds, in place of conventional explosives. When a “magic bullet” slammed into a tank, it, it burned its way through solid steel, then sprayed apart inside the turret in an inferno of phosphorouslike flame that ended any possibility of life.
But what she was describing wasn’t a tank killer. This combination of speed, penetration, and terminal effect could only have been designed to penetrate the carefully crafted, highly classified combination of heavy underwater protection—mainly of HY-80, though other steels were used, too—and empty voids evolved over decades to protect U.S. Forrestal-and Nimitz-class carriers from torpedo attack.
Up till now, modern carriers had been so fast and maneuverable, well defended, and heavily armored, that nothing short of a wave of supersonic cruise missiles, or a nuclear weapon, could achieve a serious probability of kill. But being hit with three, or two, or maybe even one of these warheads—he’d have to run the numbers, discuss this with Monty—even the newest carrier would be crippled, if not destroyed from within by unquenchable fire and the toxic smoke and fragments that had made U.S. ordnance so effective against Saddam’s tanks.
He tuned back in to the translator as she announced it was possible to upgrade existing contracts for earlier versions to the new K version, for only a modest additional sum. And that one customer had already done so. Dan wondered who. China? Iran? This was sounding worse and worse.
“We’re gonna have to crunch some numbers on this thing,” Henrickson muttered. “This could really be—this could really be something.”
Dan just nodded, aware, as Henrickson probably was, too, of all the nearby ears. From the murmurs around them, the same conclusion was dawning on other minds. Minds n
ot well disposed to America.
He stuffed the flyer into his pocket. Threading among the earnestly talking buyers, he plowed toward the gangway down to the barge. Behind him he heard de Cary. “Commander! Wait.” But he didn’t slow, just kept on. He got to the brow and was halfway down it before one of the overcoated heavies caught up. He shook the guy’s hand off and kept going.
But not for long. Strong arms seized him. “Stop, you. Wait in line,” one of them growled in his ear.
And it was true, a queue was forming. A sign-up line, it looked like. Aboard the barge the guys in orange suits were getting a chance at the vodka. They looked relieved as they tossed back shots. A few feet from the brow, flanked by more guards, stood several older men. One was Academician Dvorov.
De Cary, at his elbow. He murmured, “We operate carriers, too.”
“Yeah?”
“I said, we operate large-deck carriers, too, Commander. In the same waters of the Mediterranean and the Middle East. What threatens your Nimitz-class ships threatens Clemenceau and Foch, and will shortly threaten De Gaulle when we commission the first non-American nuclear-powered carrier. This is as much a threat to us, as it is to you.”
He looked at the Frenchman, understanding now exactly why he was here. The British had backed off fixed-wing carriers years before, going to the lower-capability, but cheaper, Harrier-operating ski-jumps they’d fought the Falklands War with. The Russians had almost gotten there, then their economy had fallen apart. The Italians, the Indians, Argentina, Spain, and a few other nations operated older, smaller classes; but only the U.S. and France fielded modern carrier task forces, able to travel great distances, defend themselves, and project air power inland from the sea.
Any possible enemy would love a weapon tailored to neutralize that capability.
Which explained the lengthening line behind them, a line that even involved some shoving. Looking back, he saw nearly every spectator in it. And looking forward, that he was being ushered forward, up to the waiting phalanx.
“Commander Lenson,” said Dvorov dryly, before he had a chance to speak. “Have all your questions been answered?”
He cleared his throat. “A very impressive demonstration.”
“Thank you. And now, as you see, we have others who wish to—”
“Yes sir; I do see. But I’d like to make some arrangement, that we meet privately.”
“You wish to discuss a purchase?”
“I do.”
“Then we can meet, yes, but I warn you, we will discuss details of purchase only. Not of the system itself. You pay the price, you receive what you buy. And not until then. And now, these others behind you—”
The overcoat beside him had his arm, but Dan shook off his hand. He felt as if he was about to step onto a hostile deck, sword in hand. He was taking a risk no one had ordered him to accept. “I don’t know what else you expect of me, sir, but I just want to make an honest deal,” he told Dvorov. “You’ve created something that doesn’t exist anywhere else and we want it. In fact, I want exclusive rights.”
This brought swift translation by the brunette and scowls from the others, but a surprised and, Dan thought, respectful look from Dvorov, as if he’d had one opinion of him and now had to revise it. “Exclusive?”
“We can pay you more than anyone else. And it would be to both our advantage. Think about ten years from now. All right? The Russian Navy will be back. It will go to sea again, strong once more. Is it to Rus sia’s advantage to have a weapon like this in the hands of the Chinese? The Turks? What would this weapon do to your Typhoon submarines? Let’s keep this between us. And maybe, the French.”
The other Russians looked skeptical, but Dvorov didn’t. The bushy eyebrows knitted. “You are serious? You have power to do this?”
This was the rub. He had no mandate for an exclusive buy. But face to face with what this thing could do, he had no doubt it was a brass ring worth trying to grab. Olivero would see it. Maybe Nicky Niles, too, though Dan had never been one of his favorite officers.
And Dvorov must have caught that hesitation, because he reached out. Slapped his shoulder and said gruffly, “You need time, eh? You wish you had asked me this before, eh? Well, right now we must talk to these others. But we will get together tomorrow, eh? I promise, I make no commitments until then. Marina, put Daniel Leonartovich down for tomorrow evening. To discuss a—comprehensive arrangement.”
The soft hand came down on his shoulder again, Dvorov’s gaze eased past him, and Dan stepped aside, looking behind him for de Cary, to tell him it was taken care of, he’d made their appointment.
He was standing by the rail when he saw a half-familiar face glowering behind the engineers, salesmen, translators, and goons around Dvorov. It must have been there all the time, but he’d been too focused on the scientist to notice.
He’d met Vice-Admiral Yermakov his last time in Russia. The reception had been at Petrodvorets, Peter the Great’s “Great Palace.” This time Yermakov looked sober, not reeling drunk; and now he was in civvies, a gray suit and silk tie, not Russian Navy blue and three-starred shoulder boards. But he recalled their conversation then, the vice-admiral’s aggressive blustering.
Yermakov hated Americans. What was he doing with Dvorov? Was he part of Komponent now? And what did that mean?
He shook off sudden disquiet. He just had to push on, and hope he saw any cliff edges before it was too late.
De Cary, eleventh back between two excited-looking Middle Easterners. Dan jerked his head toward the shore. Looking concerned, the Frenchman followed him up the shaky, vibrating ramp, toward the attaché, waiting above them beside the embassy sedan.
6
He spent the next morning sightseeing. He felt guilty about it, but there didn’t seem to be anything else to do until the meeting that evening. Henrickson had gone to the embassy after breakfast, saying he wanted to get on their computers.
He’d always been interested in World War II history, so he went to a museum the Mir’s concierge recommended. It turned out to be brand-new, just opened, a massive expanse of slightly uneven paving blocks surrounding Socialist-style statues and disquietingly abstract monuments. He wandered among the dioramas, but the place seemed grandiose and sanitized. It was also empty, aside from dispirited platoons of grade-schoolers.
When he’d seen enough he caught a taxi across town to the Armed Forces Museum. This was older and smaller, but more Slavically down to earth. Out front were parked tanks and missiles that when he’d first joined the Navy had been only blurred photos in binders with bright red plastic covers. They looked rusted and worn and small, and he remembered how each had seemed such a threat, with capabilities beyond what American industry could produce. The interior was packed with banners and displays, less glossy than the new museum, but the real thing. A toppled eagle from the Reichsakanzlerei. Captured Nazi weapons. He stopped at a display of human hair and mounted tattoos on human skin from a Polish village called Maidjanek. The Red Army had liberated the camp there on its way to Berlin.
He remembered another village in eastern Europe, and another massacre. Srebrenica. Now it was happening again, in Somalia, central Africa, the Sudan. Was hate and murder embedded in the human heart? For a time it had seemed humanity was making progress. Instead it had just learned to process mass death more efficiently.
Armageddon had started on a hot August day in 1914, and never stopped; just lumbered on through a century, an uncontrollable behemoth of war and revolution and terror. For a few years, after the Wall fell, its engine had fallen silent. Now the starter was grinding again.
He shook himself. He wasn’t here to magnify the Shkval into a threat to sell countermeasures against. It was to keep an already developed weapon out of the hands of those who’d use it to wreck what little order existed.
He strolled down the boulevard toward the Kremlin. Walked through it, not entering any of the cathedrals or museums, feeling he’d better get back and see what Henrickson had turned u
p. He came out on the river embankment and turned south.
He was stalking along, stewing about how he was going to convince Dvorov to give up profits from selling his wonder weapon to half the rogue world, and how he was going to persuade the U.S. government to back his brainstorm, when a hiss grew at his back.
He spun, to watch a sharp prow peel up the river as it knifed past. It was followed by four bending and straightening backs, four close-cropped, sweat-soaked heads, four pairs of eyes that flicked to him, then refocused on that inner reality athletes saw during a supreme effort.
He shaded his gaze, watching as the crew went by. The shell was long and low, its gunwales centimeters above the surface. It was bright cherry red, like a hand-rubbed finish on a classic car. The rowers were all wiry, all in black and red Spandex and black tights. The cold didn’t seem to bother them. They rowed like pistons. Dan couldn’t see how they knew which way they were headed. He lifted his eyes to another razor prow, another torpedo-shape. The two shells were matching stroke for stroke, perfectly aligned as they sliced down the river. Their speed was astonishing, even given that they were moving with the current. He stood with hands in his pockets, admiring them.
“A coxless four,” de Cary said, behind him. “Interesting.”
“Capitaine! Uh, what did you say?”
“I said, it is a coxless four. A four-rower shell, with no barreur—no, ah—cock-swain? Yes, I think that’s right.”
“ ‘Cox’n’, we pronounce it. You row?”
“I have done some time in double sculls. In Brest and elsewhere. And you?”
Looking up the river Dan saw there were other rowers out as well. “Looks like a fun sport. I sail, myself.”
“You own a boat?”
“Actually I just bought one.” He hoped she was all right; the marina manager had promised to keep an eye on her. “Going back to the Mir?”
