by Ahern, Jerry
“Yes, Comrade Chairman,” Antonovitch nodded.
“So. If we can forge an alliance, so be it. If not, we shall destroy^ them with our particle beam weapons.
Once they respond, we shall know their exact location beneath the ocean surface, each signal computer monitored, of course.” And he smiled again, stubbing out his cigarette as he shifted his feet from the corner of the desk and looked Antonovitch in the eye. “We have become invincible, Comrade Marshal.” “Yes—invincible.”
Chapter Ten
The composite video display which dominated the forward bulkhead was set for forward view and revealed shoaling some five hundred yards ahead of the Reagan along its present course. Sebastian’s long fingers were splayed across the illuminated plotting board which dominated the control station.
“Navigation—ten degrees left rudder and hold it there.”
Lieutenant Junior Grade Lureen Bowman responded “shifting to ten degrees left rudder, Captain.”
Darkwood swung his chair right. “Communications—are you picking up anything, Lieutenant?”
“Just some low frequency noise, Captain. It could be electronic stuff that’s out of tune and crept into the wrong bands. I can’t make anything out of it at all, sir.”
“Very good, Lieutenant Mott. Advise me if there’s any change.”
“Aye, sir.”
Darkwood rotated his chair to face forward again, the shoaling more pronounced now on the video display.
“Bring that rudder amidships again, Navigator.” He refused to call a woman “Helmsman” or, worse
still, “Helmsperson.”
Sebastian spoke. “Captain, I’d advise blowing fifteen percent air to the starboard tanks.”
Darkwood’s eyes flickered from the video screen to T.J. Sebastian’s face. “Order the blow, Mr. Sebastian, and alert the crew we’ll be running out of trim.”
“Aye, Captain, blowing fifteen percent negative buoyance starboard tanks.” Sebastian reached for his microphone, speaking into it. “Now hear this. This is the First Officer speaking. Until further notice, secure to run fifteen percent off trim to port.” Sebastian put down the microphone and ordered Lieutenant Bowman, “Navigation. Blow fifteen percent air to starboard tanks and hold.” Sebastian turned to the Engineering Station saying, “Commander Hartnett, please advise me should there be any change in reactor status.”
Hartnett nodded, saying, “I will advise you, Mr. Sebastian.”
Darkwood’s command chair was gyroscopically balanced, and automatically adjusted fifteen degrees of attitude toward starboard. He had been to Iwo Jima once before for one of the few surface survival classes, this more years ago than he had wanted to remember when he had been a student at the Naval Academy. He had been one of five cadets allowed to stand on the bridge while the skipper of the submarine which had brought them there navigated the inlet. There were charts of course which showed the depths and bottom contours but it was a matter of pride in the submarine service that you didn’t scrape the bottom with your hull. Plus, since this was an unauthorized, unannounced visit to the island, there was always the possibility that some overzealous person working with the island defenses might shoot first and ask questions afterward. “Lieutenant Mott.”
“Aye, Captain?”
“Send this for me on all standard defense frequencies using the Sigma Three Code. Compliments to Colonel P.Q. Armbruster, Commanding. This is the United States attack submarine Ronald Wilson Reagan. We are entering through the inlet without orders because of an emergency security situation. We will surface at the approximate center of the lagoon—” and he checked the face of the dual display Steinmetz on his left wrist. “We will surface at the approximate center of the lagoon at precisely 0900 hours. I anticipate he will have security personnel in the vicinity to verify identification. Signed Darkwood, Captain, Commanding U.S.S. Reagan. If you got it all, there’s no need to read it back, Andy.”
“Aye, sir. I got it.”
“Send at once, Lieutenant.” And Darkwood turned away. The video display’s forward view revealed that the shoaling was receding to starboard. “Mr. Sebastian. Correct this uncomfortable list to port. I think we’re safe enough now if we surface to periscope depth and resume normal speed while keeping a good eye on the bottom.”
“Aye, Captain. Navigation. Equalize the blow. Bring us up to periscope depth and adjust present speed to all ahead two-thirds.”
“Aye, Mr. Sebastian. Adjusting to periscope depth.”
“Maintain present course, Mr. Sebastian—unless you see fit to do otherwise.”
“Aye, Captain. Maintaining present course and speed.” Sebastian picked up his microphone again. “This is the First Officer speaking. Secure from the previously mentioned navigational correction.”
Jason Darkwood just looked at his First Officer as he stood. He’d never heard one like that before. He moved aft, Seaman First Class Tagachi at the
periscope controls. “Morris, run her up for me when we reach periscope depth.”
“Aye, Captain. We gonna breathe real air, Captain?”
“Shore leave? If we have the time, I suppose. But I understand breathing real air can be hazardous to your health. I had a cough for days afterward the last time I did.”
“Really, sir?”
“Right,” Darkwood grinned, clapping Tagachi on the shoulder, laughing.
Navigation announced periscope depth, Sebastian echoing it, Morris Tagachi activating the periscope controls.
Darkwood stepped to the periscope, the handles lowering. Each time he used either this or the attack periscope, he unfailingly thought of the centuries-old movies he had seen of the early days of submarining. The slightly grizzled, stubble-faced captain ordered, “Up periscope!” and snapped down the handles from the dully gleaming brass tube, his face sweating as he crouched to peer through the tube.
With the periscope aboard the Reagan, there was no need to crouch because they were adjustable to various height levels instantly. There was no reason to sweat unless one was working out in the gymnasium (granted, it wasn’t that large). Wearing a beard as long as it was in Regs was acceptable, but never stubble. He’d always secretly wondered how the Navy Department expected someone to grow a beard within Regs without growing through the stubble stage first.
He worked the buttons for focus as he looked into the periscope, surveying the lagoon which they were now entering. He felt almost like Captain Nemo returning to the island that was the seat of his anguish, but on this island were fellow officers and men in the service of Mid-Wake, fellow Americans.
And—
“Sebastian! Battle Stations! Get us out of here! Now! Down periscope!”
Darkwood pushed past Seaman First Tagachi, sprinting toward the Command Chair, taking the three steps down to the Control and Navigation level in a jump, the Reagan already beginning to rock under him the instant Sebastian ordered, “Now hear this. Now hear this. Battle stations. I repeat, Battle Stations. This is not a drill.” The Klaxon sounded. Sebastian threw down the microphone, ordering, “Navigator, hard right rudder. All back. Blow air. Engineering—reactor status. Navigator—bring her about—faster. Engineering—that reactor status.”
Saul Hartnett sang out, “Both port and starboard reactors on line and running smooth, Mr. Sebastian.”
Darkwood stared at the video display as though he were looking through some huge window. On the beach, at the far side of the lagoon, he had seen Russian troops but no sign of their submarine, and that was what frightened him. Darkwood called back, “Navigator—are we about yet?”
“We’re coming about now, Captain, in five… four… three … two… one … We are about, Captain.”
“Rudder amidships, bring us to half flank speed.” Darkwood moved to the illuminated plotting table beside Sebastian. “Communications—bring up aft projection on the screen.”
“Aye, Captain—you have aft projection.”
Darkwood turned toward the screen, the picture
changed instantly. There was nothing suspicious within visual range. “Communications—give me split screen imaging fore and aft.”
“Split screen imaging now, Captain, as indicated.”
The video display was now evenly divided between
fore and aft views and, to prevent a panicked Captain from making some critical mistake, the words “fore” and “aft” flashed on and off on their appropriate screens. Darkwood focused his attention on the illuminated plotting board. The Reagan was into the inlet channel. Sebastian had done his work well and so had the Navigator, Lureen Bowman. Darkwood made a mental note to mention this in the log. Without looking up, he called to Saul Hartnett. “Engineering— be ready for overdrive as soon as we clear the channel.”
“Aye, Captain,” Hartnett sang back.
They were entering the portion of the channel where the shoaling had been. “Navigation—give me a slow blow to seventy percent negative buoyancy on portside tanks and eighty-five percent on starboard proportionately, and be ready to terminate the blow on my signal.”
“Aye, Captain, starting the blow now.”
It suddenly dawned on Darkwood, as things did at the most ridiculous times, that it was almost crude carrying on such rapid-fire buoyancy orders with a female helmsman. “Warfare.”
“Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant Louise Walenski called back.
“Torpedo tubes fore and aft loaded and operational with HEIS, Captain.”
“Stand by, Walenski. Communications—get on the usual Soviet operational frequencies.”
Andrew Mott called back, “I am already monitoring, Captain. If they’ve seen us, nobody’s talking about it. Who’s out there Captain?”
Darkwood grabbed Sebastian’s microphone from the hanger over the table. “This is the Captain speaking. The island of Iwo Jima is supposed to be a top secret American training center for surface warfare operations. While approaching the island just upon
entering the lagoon, I viewed a significant force of personnel in Soviet Marine Spetznas uniforms and full battle gear. This could have been an exercise utilizing enemy uniforms and equipment. On that off chance, I elected to run. If it isn’t, we’re in potentially deep shit because they wouldn’t be here without one of their Island Classers and we all know how much fun Island Classers can be, right? So stand by. I’ll keep you informed. And keep sharp at those battle stations.” He racked the microphone and called to Lieutenant Kelly, “Sonar—anything I should worry about?”
“Not yet, Captain,” she called back.
“Keep me informed.”
“Aye, Captain.”
He’d made a critical tactical error—something he also intended to note in his log in the hopes of preventing some other Captain from doing the same thing someday. Pulling into an American base, assuming only American personnel would be monitoring his short range communications. Communications—“Communications—anything?”
“Not a word, Captain.”
“Keep monitoring.” They were listing again and the deck didn’t compensate like his chair did. As he eyed the split video image, he said to Sebastian, “If you have any brilliant insights, Commander Sebastian, now’s not the time to hold off on mentioning them.”
“Captain, it seems to me that an analysis of the details suggests why we have not been picked up. If an Island Class submarine isn’t waiting for us when we exit the channel, my theory will likely be correct.”
“Do we have to use that as the acid test?”
“It jwould appear that either indeed the personnel you saw in Marine Spetznas black were merely engaged in a realistic training exercise, in which case we will merely be late for our rendezvous, or, more likely,
since Lieutenant Mott has not received a reply to your Sigma code greeting, there was no one to receive it or everyone was too busy to respond or in fear of their own communications being monitored. Which leads me to infer that the island is under attack. There is ample supporting evidence, however circumstantial, to support such a hypothesis. Marine Spetznas communications equipment of standard issue type of which we are aware is not designed to nor is it ordinarily capable of intercepting short range signals in the range used by our submarines. If an Island Class submarine were surfaced or submerged on the opposite side of an island of the general topographical configuration of Iwo Jima, it is doubtful in the extreme that the said vessel would have intercepted our communications or our running noise, Captain.”
“Then they don’t know we’re here!”
“Unless an Island Class vessel is waiting for us, that seems reasonable to assume based on current data.”
“Did I ever tell you I love you?” And Darkwood clapped Sebastian on the back. He pulled down the microphone again. “This is the Captain speaking. Captain Aldridge and Lieutenant Stanhope to the bridge on the double.” He looked at Sebastian as he racked the microphone. “If you’re right, we’re going to have to play this close to the vest, Sebastian. What’s the nearest American vessel you know of?”
“Commander Pilgrim’s ship, the Wayne, Captain.”
Darkwood nodded. Walter Pilgrim was a good man under fire and the John Wayne was a good vessel. “All right—we can’t risk trying to contact the Wayne—yet. Plot their approximate position as soon as we’re out of here and in deep water, then update the plot so we’ll have an idea how close some assistance might be if it gets that far.”
They were nearly out of the channel, the shoaling
gone. “Navigator. Right the helm.”
“Aye, Captain, righting the helm.”
His fingers were too busy at the plotting table to keep them crossed, but they were crossed in spirit…
“I can help you. My mother had volunteer nursing experience before the war and she’s had a hell of a lot since, my father’s a doctor and I’m not half bad at First Aid.”
“All right,” Margaret Barrow told her, Annie Rourke Rubenstein belting a lab coat over her hospital gown with a little over two feet of dental floss. “Can you check syringes? They’re like the ones in your day, more or less.”
“I’ll fake it,” Annie told her, muttering, “Your day” under her breath, going to the cabinet Margaret Barrow gestured toward. Annie Rubenstein realized, of course, that she was a living breathing walking and talking anachronism.
“And first chance you get, in my office I’ve got some extra clothes—just in case there’s a bleeder and I zig when I should have zagged. Just take the rank insignia off the collar, okay?”
“Okay.” She began to check the syringes.
Chapter Eleven
Darkwood sat in his command chair. There had been no Island Class Submarine waiting for them and they were hiding now well off the coast of Iwo Jima in deep water, still at Battle Stations.
In a ragged semicircle between his chair and the steps stood Sam Aldridge, Tom Stanhope, and Sebastian. “I’m betting Sebastian’s right, gentlemen. That means we’ve got a bunch of our GIs in shit up to their elbows back there on Iwo Jima. And aboard the Reagan we’ve got Doctor Rourke’s daughter, a German officer, and Major Tiemerovna, the two women certainly potential bargaining chips our garden variety Soviet enemies could use as a wedge with the Soviet forces on the surface. An alliance like that could mean the end for all of us. There’s one clear course of action. And that’s our only chance. Sebastian?”
“Yes, Jason.”
“You’ll take the Reagan and make best speed toward Mid-Wake. Once you’re out of range of the Island Classer our Marine Spetznas friends came from, attempt to contact the Wayne. Notify them of the situation and ask them to come to our aid. Mr. Stanhope—”
“Sir!”
“Lieutenant—you’ll be in charge of security aboard the Reagan and that means looking after our passengers. If anything happens, they go before the women and children. Got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Sam. You and I are taking the majority of the Marine Security detail and heading for Iwo Jima. No sense attacking some damned Island Clas
ser with bare hands and Bowie knives. We hit the side of the island where the lagoon is, on the assumption that some of our guys are still going to be operational. The plan’s loose, but the crux of the whole thing is that we win. You can fill in the blanks however you wish.”
“Gee whiz, Jase.”
“Yeah—I knew you’d love it.” And Darkwood looked at Sebastian. “I’ll expect you back here for us as quick as you can get our charges to Mid-Wake. And don’t forget about helping Mrs. Rubenstein to contact her father and her husband. There’s got to be some way of doing it. And knowing Doctor Rourke, he’ll be looking for her and for Major Tiemerovna.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“I’ll want you to get us within range of the island. I’m officially transfering to you temporary command of the Reagan as of—” And Darkwood looked at the Steinmetz. “As of 0952 hours, and Captain Aldridge and Lieutenant Stanhope witness that and I’ll make certain the log reflects that. God Bless us all.”
“Amen to that,” Sam Aldridge grunted.
Chapter Twelve
Her office was at once Spartan and luxurious, elegant in its austerity. The desk was unadorned, but was of real wood, something almost impossible to obtain within the underground city. The wristwatch she wore was of the most expensive brand. Her clothes, tailored, functional, also of the finest fabrics. He had known many women of the Underground City. This one dressed like the mistress of a commissar.
“This is the original prototype of the plasma-powered particle beam gun. It has been successfully tested on armored vehicles, helicopters, and bipod mounted as a replacement for the conventional caseless machine gun in the current inventory.”
She was beautiful. Nicolai Antonovitch was having a hard time concentrating on anything else but that fact. “How many and how fast, Comrade Doctor Alexsova?”
