These would be his way in and, they hoped, his ride back to the submarine.
They were Able and Baker, two most unusual porpoises. Dark-bodied, with wavy streaks of white along their flanks, their snouts glistening, eyes gleaming in the bare, red light from the submarine, they were strangely lifeless at this moment, rolling without any attempt to stabilize themselves. And they would remain so until Steve brought them both to life. Able and Baker were ingenious creations of the Naval Office of Scientific Research. At any distance over a dozen feet it would take another porpoise to distinguish them from the real thing. Once they were activated they moved through the sea with precisely the same motions as the living animals.
The naval scientists had labored for years to produce these mechanical electronic simulations. Flexmetal construction guaranteed a full articulation. They moved through the sea with their flukes duplicating the motions of the animals. Their flippers were fully articulated, and the long bodies themselves showed an outer skin that rippled in response to internal movement. Animals kept in huge artificial bays had been studied, and every movement registered was fed into a computer until the computer produced a mathematical readout of the engineering construction necessary to prepare the artificial equivalent of the animal. That meant artificial duplication of biological material, and it also meant developing a computer that would fit within the artificial porpoise and that would perform two tasks: assuring normal movement of the creature on the surface or within the sea, and, providing for input of new command material. The onboard computer had been developed originally for the Gemini spacecraft program, and modified to fit the needs of the porpoise effort. Directional control, or so-called position control, emerged from an old missile program that had been upgraded drastically through the years. It had begun with the original SM-64A Navaho ramjet missile of the Air Force when it was urgent to come up with an inertial-guidance mechanism. The Navaho had to cruise at two thousand miles an hour for five thousand miles, and then plunge with accuracy into its presented target. Along came the ballistic missile to shove the Navaho into a museum, but not its inertial-guidance system. That went into the ballistic-missile submarines of the Navy and into other long-range vessels and aircraft. As components were reduced in size, what had been the size of a large valise now went into a container the size of a softball. It was microminiaturization at its best, and with such manner of packaging, the porpoises became a reality. There was one final key—power. It came from the compact nuclear generators—dense, almost massive containers that ran for only two weeks before burning out, in order to deliver high power during that period. So the porpoises were born with their constant-energy source, their marvelous articulation and shape and movement. The outer skin did more than duplicate the visual appearance of the animal. It bounced along the exact wave length the reflections by radar from the real animal. The two porpoises in the water with Steve had functional blowholes and were programmed to emit the same high-pitched, sonarlike cries as do the real animals.
Steve eased his way to the first machine, code-named Able, slipped into a body harness that packaged him neatly within the porpoise, and placed his hands within reach of manual override controls. He was now within a complete miniature submarine that possessed the distinct advantage of being almost indistinguishable from a living creature. When moving along the surface, Steve would be able to see some distance ahead during darkness, thanks to an infrared scope powered by the single-point nuclear generator. If he went beneath the surface he would draw from the oxygen supplies of the porpoise, rather than draining his own limited supply that was packaged onto the harness he wore. If he believed himself free of surveillance, he could activate floodlights under the water or even use a limited-range sonar that would provide him with an underseas path through otherwise-invisible obstacles. Two-way radio equipment had been fitted into the construction framework. He had automatic transmitters to be activated in an emergency. In the belly of the machine was an array of small, silent-running, torpedo-like projectiles, carrying not explosives but a variety of devices to be used for diverting attention away from him if he should be under pursuit.
He studied the small control panel, the instruments glowing, feeding from the nuclear generator on standby. He flicked the control to bring the power flow to full on, depressed the inertial-guidance and display system. A circular glowscope brightened, and Steve studied a gridmap with glowing reference points. The coast line showed clearly, with indentations of rivers. A slowly pulsating light indicated his own position, and a second light, this one blue instead of orange, showed him the relative position of Baker, the fully robot porpoise. The computer, tied in with the inertial-guidance system, would always show him precisely where he would be in relation to the coast line and the particular bay he sought. Later, if he were still with Able—he smiled to himself, realizing he had already come to think of the machine as a living creature—he would be able to pick up a bearing and position reference of the submarine and go full speed to be picked up.
He turned to a second control panel, much simpler than the array for Able. This was his remote control for Baker, which had no provision for a passenger, internally or otherwise. Instead, the accompanying porpoise was an arsenal of electronic and ordnance equipment. Steve could guide Baker by working the small control stick inside Able, but he preferred to be free of such distraction, especially when he would be closer to the base. While Baker was on automatic, it would remain within a general distance of Able. Not a fixed distance at all, but a computer-directed variation resembling the actions of two porpoises at sea, moving closer and then a greater distance away, slipping beneath the surface and then sliding along the top with the dorsal fin exposed. Unless Steve hit the “command” switch to take over direct control, Baker would maintain its fluctuating formation position with Able.
One final performance was built into the two machines. Each was designed to “die,” when necessary, with a performance that would match a real animal in its death throes. If the porpoises were attacked and struck by gunfire to such an extent that no one expected them to survive, they—at least Baker—must “die” with fully appropriate movement and sounds. And as a last resort, should there be the danger of the Russians or anyone else, for that matter, being able to capture one of the marvelous creatures, after a specified time interval the porpoise would destroy itself. The nuclear generator was programmed to overextend itself and to release its energy in a violent spray of heat, consuming the generator and the entire porpoise as well. Should damage be excessive, the generator would “blow” in three minutes. Not much time, Steve thought, but just enough.
He completed his checkout of both porpoises. Time to move out. For a while his movement would be straightforward. Get as close to the base as possible before encountering the defenses. He flicked switches to place the controls on auto, punched a position two miles from the harbor to the sub base as the destination, and felt the fluke behind him vibrate as it moved the porpoise forward.
He had a sudden moment when this whole thing seemed crazy, impossible. Here he was, inside this creature, moving through the sea, the same man who’d ridden a skittering angular metal bug through vacuum to the surface of a world that had never even known the first drop of water.
A direct course would have helped. With a speed of six knots along the surface he could have recovered the distance to the submarine base in just a little more than two hours. But following a straight line would have been a dead giveaway that the porpoises were phonies, and so the computer was programmed to follow an erratic course, much as porpoises might have done. The Surinam coast had taken heavy rains for several days and there was a heavy water flow from rivers and streams into the ocean. This added to the current against which Able and Baker fought, a side current that required constant correction from the computer. It presented no operational difficulties, but it messed up the time allocated just to reaching the coast, and reduced drastically the hours of darkness on which they had planned.
There was nothing to do but ride it out. The wind quickened and Steve found himself taking jarring bounces from wave action. It would be an awful time to become seasick. He activated the porpoise’s oxygen system and that helped somewhat to offset the wave action, as well as the peculiar pitching motion of the porpoise through the movement of the fluke. He concentrated on the infrared scope, hoping it would reveal any vessel at sea. Nothing. He remained within his strange world, a modern Jonah in the belly of a small mechanical whale, watching the glowing pips of Able and Baker crawling across the surface of the gridmap.
He didn’t need the map or the glowing points of light to tell him when he was within reach of the opposition. They announced their presence, still distant, through deep, pulsating waves of pressure that pounded through the sea and trembled through the structure of Able—random explosions about which he’d been briefed. Patrol boats moved lazily in crisscross patterns, trailing explosive charges that boomed and thudded through the ocean. The sounds reaching him were like those of a distant squall line, an intermittent barrage that set off its charges without pattern, that could catch you unawares by its very randomness.
Strangely enough, the explosions were a lure to sharks. It had taken a long time to understand the grim reality of this truth, but the lesson had been learned during and after the great sea battles of the Second World War. The thundering blasts that raced through the sea, the finned marauders seemed to learn, meant fresh meat in the ocean, and the sharks would congregate by the hundreds in response to the booming sounds. The Russians, and whatever locals worked with them, added to the shark presence by chumming the water with fresh meat and blood. It had meant hairy moments for men trying to swim into the base on their own, or even riding atop the two-man torpedo subs. But what had been an obstacle before could now be turned into an advantage. If the porpoises were sighted by their dorsal fins as these cut the water, they would fail to attract any particular attention. If the sharks sighted them they might consider them to be porpoises or, failing to pick up a familiar scent, the sharks might become overcurious. It could go either way, the sharks becoming a problem, or their very presence assuring Steve’s continued anonymity in the water.
Three thousand yards out from shore, as indicated by the glowing pips on the gridmap, the chumming was so extensive the sharks had long since passed any period of feeding frenzy, when they went mad with bloodlust and would strike after anything that moved. No need to. They had more food than necessary, and they swam about in lazy groups, idly curious and content to snap when they desired at the food drifting down from the boats.
The distance to shore was just over two thousand yards when Steve decided to go deeper. Long hours had passed and the sun was already over the horizon behind him. By now he could see what was going on along the surface. Men in patrol boats, bored with the long hours of cruising—and touchy about being tested by their superiors with incessant mock attempts to penetrate the base during the night hours—had taken to shooting at anything they saw moving. Not with the intent of firing at an enemy, but for the sheer relief of the action. The sharks ignored their fellows struck with gunfire, but Steve could hardly afford such indifference. The slow-moving fins of the two porpoises were too promising a target. Time to go down.
He eased forward gently on the small control stick jutting upward from the panel, felt the slapping action of waves easing off. Several feet beneath the surface, he found visibility better than hoped for, the morning light slanting deep into the water. He had been told to expect a deep channel through which the Russian boats moved in and out of the sub base but to avoid, as long as possible, any movement within or over what would obviously be kept under careful study. The gridmap outlined the channel, and Steve maneuvered, now down to four knots, over the ocean bottom to the north of the channel. He kept up the wandering motion, always working closer to the shore line. Several times huge sharks drifted nearby, moving casually, eyeing Able and Baker, making no unusual moves.
The explosions pounded with greater force through the water. No longer were they distant muffled thunder. Now the blasts came as overpressure he could feel with his own body, jarring motions that rocked Able and blurred the instruments in front of him. He was able to see and to hear the patrol boats cruising the surface. Once a mess of bloody meat drifted at an angle before his path, sliding with a scraping sound along the artificial porpoise skin. A huge white shark followed close behind, drifted to the side and stared directly at him. Steve worked the controls to thrash the fluke and the shark slid away.
One thousand yards. The water temperature was going up. During a period of perhaps thirty seconds he could feel the sudden temperature rise through his special suit. He knew what was happening even as the view blurred. Oil, a greasy layer oozing down from the surface, hotter than the water.
He cursed the oil as it left a thin film across the optical system of Able, seriously reducing his vision from the porpoise. Nothing to do about it now except continue in as straight a line as possible, compensating for the current pushing down from the north, to his right, working toward the entrance to the underground passage. Easier said than done. The current this close to the shore, fed by water pouring down to the sea by the rivers and streams, rocked the porpoise. Visibility worsened as he continued through layers of oil.
Four hundred yards to go. He slowed the forward motion of Able, knowing the Baker porpoise would maintain its speed and position along with his own. Slow down, he warned himself. Think. He felt his right arm trembling, wondered if holding it in the same position so many hours was bringing it on. That, he realized, and the energy drain. He barely drifted over the bottom and reached into a compartment for high-energy food bars and water. He considered several pills he carried for a jolt of energy, decided against the drugs at this time. It could be many hours before he would be able to come back this way, and getting the backlash from the amphetamines could do him more harm than good. He ate slowly, drinking through a tube from the storage compartment of Able. Within minutes he felt better and—
Something smacked against the side of Able. Steve went rigid, tensed himself to unplug from the porpoise and go to his own breathing system and get out. The porpoise rocked again, and he heard a harsh scraping sound. It was one of several cables mooring the bogus floating oil derricks to the bottom. His attention had wandered. He had drifted instead of maintaining position over the bottom. He moved the stick forward, throwing more energy to the fluke. Able swerved sharply as a fin caught against the cable. Then he was free, moving away from the cables.
Two hundred yards, perhaps less. The gridmap wasn’t that accurate where such close range was involved. He’d have to play it now as best he could, commit to the deeper channel used by the subs. That had its own disadvantages. The explosions now thundered all around him. Close enough for the overpressures to hurt. Several blows shoved Able hard to the side, made his ears ring. He hoped they couldn’t keep this up all the time. The pressure waves would work their way along the subchannel, clear through the underground river passage right into the base. It must have some thing to do, he realized, with the bogus attack during the night. The Russians had already stopped twelve men trying to infiltrate the base. Two more last night. They’d be edgy. Maybe not, he argued with himself. They might figure they’d mopped up pretty good. He cut short his self-debate, concentrating on what he would do next. Vision this close was lousy, a combination of oil and muck carried down by the rivers.
He checked his breathing gear. A regenerative system that created no telltale bubbles rising to the surface. He was glad the UDT, the underwater demolition teams, had used these for years, worked out the bugs from the system. But you played advantage against disadvantage. You couldn’t go that deep with the regenerative system. It could raise hell with your lungs. He might have to get away from the porpoise, he realized. That need might come with shocking suddenness. Play it by the numbers, he told himself. While he had the time he checked out the camera, switched to his own breat
hing system. No more horsing around, he instructed himself.
His head ached from the explosions. Long hours locked within the porpoise, breathing tank air. He worked his way to the left, edging south, letting the current carry Able while he went another dozen feet down. Make it more difficult to be seen from the surface. He hoped.
The muck from the shore mixing with oil was destroying his hopes of decent visibility. He toyed with the idea of using the sonar. It would be a considerable gamble. The Russian defenses would be on the alert for such a move. There was no way to disguise the signals, even the weak pulses from Able, if he had to use the equipment. But if things kept up this way he wouldn’t have much choice. The optical system for Able at best left something to be desired, and this was far from best. He shook his head. That last explosion . . . they must have dropped a whole sequence of charges. Not one blast, but a staccato rumbling that slammed into the porpoise and threw him wildly against the harness. Like someone setting off a string of bombs. The pressure waves rolled and tumbled as they slammed into him, allowing no surcease between impacts. He breathed deeply, slowly. Danger here of hyperventilating if he started rapid breathing. Could knock him out easily. He shook his head again to clear the ringing sounds. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. The going was getting dangerously slower and slower.
He increased the power slightly. A shaft of sunlight speared through heavy growth before him. He could slip beneath the billowing, swaying mass. Might be able to use the sonar then. If the men in the patrol boats had seen the porpoises, they might confuse the chattering, high-pitched squeal for real animals. It would be hard to tell the difference. His own sonar signal would be buried within the peculiar acoustics of the mammals. A real porpoise chattered away with an astonishing four high-frequency impulses per second, a cacophony of bleats, whistling cries, sonar clicks, quacks, and even the sound of squawking you expected to hear only from a seagull.
Cyborg 01 - Cyborg Page 19
