The Krone Experiment k-1

by J. Craig Wheeler

  “So what did you say you are doing about all this?” Rutherford wanted to know.

  “Not jackshit.” Isaacs described his skirmish with McMasters.

  When he finished, Rutherford inquired, “Can’t you get McMasters to reopen the file, now that you have this confirmation from our data?”

  “I doubt it.” Isaacs frowned in concentration and rubbed his prominent nose. He got up and paced the room. Post handball thirst nagged at him. He wished he had a cold beer.

  “You’ve told me something new. The source of energy driving the seismic waves somehow proceeds into the ocean. That banishes my lingering suspicion that we were dealing with an ordinary, if highly regular, seismic phenomenon. But we’re no closer to understanding what’s really happening. Without a more substantial change in the situation, McMasters would stand to lose face if he backs down. I’ve got to have something beyond the fact that this thing is amphibious before I can go back to him and convince him to reopen our investigation.”

  He crossed the room twice more, thinking.

  “He’s right that there’s no obvious reason to consider this Agency business. But dammit! It’s got to be somebody’s business.”

  Rutherford rubbed his chin. “Is this thing dangerous?”

  Isaacs stopped pacing and faced the man seated at the desk. “Not clear, is it? Whatever it is, it makes a lot of noise that travels through rock and water. But noise alone doesn’t make it dangerous.” He resumed his pacing.

  “The scary part is that something is moving through that rock and water, making the noise. We haven’t the faintest idea what. That doesn’t make it a threat, but it sure as hell makes me nervous!”

  Rutherford leaned forward on his desk, watching Isaacs perform his epicycles. “Listen. Your seismic data were ideal to track this thing over large distances coherently and establish that it moves along a fixed direction. But with your hint of where and when to look, our sonar detections should give a higher precision. We could put a ship right on top of it and find out what we’re actually up against.”

  Isaacs sprawled stiffly in a chair, as if he might leap out of it again at a moment’s notice. “Actually, we could do something like that on land, too, if McMasters hadn’t tied my hands,” he responded. “You’re right, though, you’re in a position to proceed, and I’m not.

  “There is a practical point,” Isaacs continued. “As it stands now, you don’t formally have enough information to move on your own. You need our knowledge that it behaves in a systematic way.”

  Rutherford nodded his assent.

  “But I can’t give it to you officially because of this roadblock McMasters has thrown up.”

  Isaacs smiled and leaned forward in his chair. “I think you’re going to have to wake up in the middle of the night with a sudden insight. Your past brilliant record would presage such a breakthrough.”

  Rutherford gave an exaggerated “aw shucks” gesture. “Actually, it might be better if it didn’t come directly from me. McMasters knows we’re friends, and he might fit things together and give you a hard time for leaking information. I think I can handle it so that one of my associates has the inspiration.”

  The two men grinned at one another and then lapsed into a contemplative silence. After several minutes, Rutherford stirred and walked over to a window and looked out.

  He turned and asked, “What in hell are we getting into here, Bob?”

  Isaacs returned his look, unspeaking.

  Rutherford continued, “I keep coming back to the fact that this thing is locked to a fixed direction in space. That must be a crucial hint. And the fact that it moves easily through solid Earth and miles of water. What does that mean?” He turned to the window again, anxious to express disturbing thoughts, but subconsciously unable to face his friend at the same time.

  “You know the image I get? A beam. A beam of some kind, focused into the Earth and playing back and forth.”

  He turned suddenly, angry at a situation that departed so profoundly from his experience, forcing him to strange, uncomfortable extrapolations.

  “Damn it, Bob, you know I’m a hard-nosed, practical man. But don’t we have to face up to the idea that something is out there? Doing this to the Earth?”

  Isaacs ground his right fist into his left palm. “I confess, Av, when I first heard about the selective orientation in space, I found myself toying with such a notion. I put it out of my mind as idle fantasy. Now I don’t know. I do know the more I learn about this thing, the more scared I am.”

  Avery Rutherford stood next to the captain of the USS Stinson and gazed out across the ocean as it reflected the early morning Sun. Rutherford delighted at being able to spend these long days of mid-June where he loved to be the most. His job was challenging and important, but it kept him behind a desk far too much. He had grown up in boats of all sizes in the waters off Newport and the only time he felt fully alive was at sea. A hectic week had been required to feed Isaacs’ hint to his aide, Szkada, then to work up a plan and arrange for the ship, but it was worth it. Rutherford felt great!

  The captain barked commands as they closed on the chosen position. Finally, the trim craft lay dead in the water, and they waited and watched and listened. The ship, a Spruance class destroyer, was designed for intelligence work and bristled with sophisticated tracking and detection devices. At last, word came up from the sonar room that their target had appeared, moving incredibly rapidly, headed for the surface in a scant thirty seconds. Rutherford gritted his teeth and trained his field glasses on the water a thousand yards away where they had calculated the influence would reach the surface.

  The sonar data were automatically fed into the ship’s computers to plot the trajectory. He listened to the tense messages on the intercom from the sonar room, the voice clipped, rapid, hurrying to keep up with something moving too fast. The new prediction showed the point of surfacing to be several hundred yards further from the ship than originally estimated, but still very close. Ten seconds. Rutherford felt a knot of tension as beads of sweat grew on his forehead. He tried to keep his mind neutral, but an image kept intruding, that of a ray guided by an unseen hand. He could sense that ray arcing through space like nighttime tracer bullets, then cutting a swath through the Earth.

  Over the intercom came the tinny squawk as the sonar operator counted down the time to contact with the surface:

  “Five.”

  “Four.”

  “Three.”

  “Two.”

  “One.”

  Rutherford held the binoculars tightly to his face, the magnified image of the water welded in his brain. He braced himself for the shock, either physical or mental.

  “Zero.”

  Nothing.

  Absolutely nothing happened except for a small splash at the margin of his field of vision. Then he blinked and even that was gone. Faintly over the water a strange hissing carried, but that, too, quickly faded.

  Rutherford and the captain exchanged amazed looks.

  The captain punched a button on a console.

  “What have you got?”

  “Nothing, Captain, it’s gone,” came the negative reply.

  He turned to Rutherford.

  “If it’s like the Seamount event, sonar should pick up something going down after some delay.”

  Rutherford nodded.

  The sonar man had been alerted not to increase the gain on his instrument in the interlude.

  Again came the faint hiss. Rutherford raised his glasses too late to see a second rise of spray some distance from the first splash.

  “Whup! There it is!” came the report of reacquisition from the sonar room. They listened as the relayed reports followed the acoustic noise to the sea bottom far below.

  Rutherford spent the next two hours in the computer room overseeing the analysis of the tapes of the sonar signal. His examination of the previous underwater events suggested to him that the phenomenon did not move along precisely the same line. This data suppor
ted that view. There was a certain erratic behavior superposed on the basic fixed direction of motion. They would never be able to tell exactly where and when the surfacing would occur. He thought to himself, so your aim’s not perfect, you bastards, and took some satisfaction in that.

  The estimate of the next nearest surfacing was refined on the computer and Rutherford reported that to the captain. After some discussion they agreed that for all the furor underwater, whatever it was seemed to lose potency at the surface. They agreed to get as close as possible to the next event. The destroyer headed for a spot about a hundred and ninety miles west which, in a little more than twenty-four hours, would fall along the right path at the proper phase so that the phenomenon should approach the surface.

  They arrived in late afternoon and spent the remainder of the daylight hours cruising the area obtaining comparison data on the sonar background and checking for anything that could represent a precursor to the expected event. There was none.

  Rutherford turned in early. He spent a restless night and dropped into sound sleep only shortly before daybreak when a young crewman awakened him.

  Two thousand miles west of where the Stinson made slow circles in the mid-Atlantic, Robert Isaacs roused from a troubled sleep, carrying his dreams with him. He was watching the tops of the heads of figures as they roamed the flat terrain of satellite photos. One figure tried to turn its face upward to be recognized. Isaacs could feel the strain of its effort, the head swiveling backward, the forehead tilting upward, upward, upward, but never enough to reveal the face.

  Then, there—Not a Russian! Rutherford!

  Isaacs jerked awake, staring at the ceiling, his pulse racing. His twitch disturbed Muriel. She snuggled over to him, cupped a bicep in her hand, and pushed her nose into his shoulder.

  “You all right, honey?”

  “Uumph. Just a dream.” He turned toward her and threw a comforting arm over her hips. Soon she was breathing deeply again. He lay awake, slowly relaxing back toward sleep. Rutherford… Ship… Water… Sonar…

  The Novorossiisk!

  This time he sat bolt upright. No dream. Dear god! How could he be so dense? The Novorossiisk was so long ago, succeeded in his attention by the attack on FireEye, the shuttle mission, the feverish developments at Tyuratam. But this had to be it! The Novorossiisk had been in the Med, near thirty- three degrees latitude. The Seamount had reported something going up and something going down. Rutherford had radioed the same behavior yesterday. The Novorossiisk had reported something going down. Why not up? Lost in the shuffle? Who knows? Must check that out. Was the Novorossiisk in the right place? Check that out. Oh goddamn, Rutherford said he was going to sit right on it!

  He rolled out of bed.

  “Bob?”

  “I think Av Rutherford is in danger. I’ve got to make some calls.”

  “Do you want me to get up?”

  “No, that’s crazy; you’ve got to be fresh in court at nine.”

  He pulled on some sweatpants in lieu of a robe and fumbled out the door to the stairs. In the kitchen he blinked in the glare as he tripped the light. He punched the familiar number into the phone, missed the next to last digit in his bleariness, swore, and punched it again. He requested the night radio operator to call him on a secure line. As he awaited the call, he grabbed a note pad and tried to figure out if the Novorossiisk had been right on Danielson’s magic trajectory. He was still too befogged and the numbers too cumbersome. But it was plausible. Too plausible! This thing they chased not only moved through the Earth and oceans, it punched holes in ships!

  As he stared at his scribbled notes on the pad, he slowly became aware of the smell of fresh coffee permeating his nostrils. He looked up to see Muriel fetching cups and saucers out of the cabinet. She caught his mixed look of guilt and irritation that she should be up tending to him and headed him off.

  “I can use an early start, too. I need to polish my strategy.”

  Her husband still looked disgruntled.

  “Besides,” she continued, “if I beat my minions in to work on a Monday morning it will fire them with such defensive zeal that we’ll just blow the opposition out of court.”

  Isaacs smiled wanly at this image and rose to hug her from behind.

  “All right, counselor, you win. Let’s have some coffee.”

  He broke off his embrace suddenly at the sound of the telephone, whirling to grab it in mid ring. He sat and hunched over the receiver as if to make it part of him.

  “Hello? Yes?” He repeated a sequence of code numbers. “Right. I want you to patch a call through the Navy. Top Priority. For Captain Avery Rutherford on the Destroyer USS Stinson. It’s on patrol in the Atlantic. Yes, I know what time it is. What’s a satellite link for? It’s two hours later on that ship. Yes, I understand, but this is extremely urgent.” He glanced at his watch. 4:38. Nine minutes until contact. “Yes, I know you will. Yes, immediately please. Thank you.”

  He hung up the phone.

  “Problem?”

  “Not in principle, it’s just that our vaunted instantaneous satellite communication net is designed to function from various war rooms, not from cozy Georgetown kitchens.”

  He lapsed into tense silence, glancing at the coffee pot, his watch, the phone. Time dragged slowly. After an excruciating interval, the coffee maker stopped gurgling, sighed its readiness. He looked at his watch for the tenth time. 4:40. Seven minutes. How long would it take to move the ship if they did get through? Several minutes? When would it be too late? He did not look up when Muriel put the coffee in front of him. He took a few sips and then watched it steam away its heat, its life force. 4:44. Three minutes, probably too late, anyway. He felt ill.

  The phone rang. He jerked the receiver to his ear.

  “Mr. Isaacs?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’ve got the Stinson. They’re looking for Captain Rutherford. Will you hold on?”

  “Yes, of course. He’ll be on the bridge.”

  Isaacs could hear the operator relay this message to the radio man on the Stinson. Then he spoke to Isaacs again.

  “Bit of a crunch there, sir. They seem to be in the middle of an operation.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Sir?” The voice sounded worried.

  “What is it?”

  “There seemed to be some kind of ruckus there, and then I lost contact.”

  “You what?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I lost contact with the Stinson.”

  Isaacs remained silent a long moment.

  “Sir?”

  “Okay. Try to get them back. Call me when you do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Isaacs hung the receiver on its wall cradle and then slowly lowered his head onto his hands. Seated next to him, Muriel reached a hand to his bare shoulder, her face drawn with concern.

  The sea lay calm and the rising sun burned along the gentle swells.

  The routine of the previous session repeated. Rutherford took a position on the bridge and stood checking the liquid crystal digits as they swapped on his watch. As the time counted down to scarce minutes, an orderly stepped onto the bridge.

  “Captain Rutherford?”

  Rutherford swiveled to face the young man.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “Sir, you have a call on the radiophone.”

  “I can’t take it now! Tell them if it’s important to hold on for a few minutes.”

  The orderly sensed the tension and stepped back against the bulkhead to watch as Rutherford turned to scan the ocean. Within seconds of the predicted time, the sonar room reported.

  “Here she comes!”

  Allowing for the inaccuracies in the calculations, Rutherford had stationed the ship precisely at the point where surfacing was most probable. Those inaccuracies plus the intrinsic meandering of the position convinced him they would be very lucky to be within several hundred yards of the event. He hoped they would be able to se
e something to help clear up the mystery.

  “Coming straight up! Right underneath us!”

  Just so, ruminated Rutherford. At great depths, small lateral offsets in position were difficult to detect. On his watch, the minute digit shifted up by one. Ten seconds.

  “Two thousand meters!” squawked the sonar room link. “Uh, Captain? It’s still headed right for us!”

  In a corner of his mind, a thought began to dawn on Rutherford. Maybe they had been too brash, forsaking a second distant observation. Our measurements aren’t exact, he thought, the thing does wander a little erratically. How confident can I be that our best estimate is wrong, that it will surface nearby, but not exactly where I predicted? What if the small random motion just offsets our position errors and we are correct by blind luck? Even worse, what if many periods are required before the random motion causes an appreciable change in the position of surfacing? Suppose over the small time span since the last event there has been negligible change and my predictions are precisely correct?

  He wanted to be nearby, but, with a sinking feeling he knew he did not want to be exactly on the point of surfacing.

  The sonar room began the final countdown. There was no time to move the ship anyway. “Five.” “Four.” “Three.” “Two.” “One.” “Ze—”

  Chapter 7

  A small hole appeared in the thick plate of the hull just to the port side of the keel. A disturbance winked through the fuel oil stored in the large ballast tank shaped to the hull. Brief instants later similar holes were created in the top of the fuel tank and then in the floor of the engine room. In the next moment a deep score ran across the shaft of one of the four large General Electric gas turbines. A crack sprang out from this defect augmented by the huge centrifugal force, and the multibladed shaft went careening like a rip saw toward the turbine casing as yet another hole penetrated the ceiling of the engine room. On went the succession of holes as if on a rising plumbline, through decks, furniture, equipment, until a last long gash ripped through the floor of the helicopter pad.