by Joe Buff
Treading water casually, he looked up and pulled off his mouthpiece. He exhaled deeply, then took a breath. "We're ten feet from the bottom, remember. Be careful, don't leave any tracks in the sand." He redonned his mouthpiece and sank, and the chief followed quickly.
The chief reappeared in a minute. "We're ready. Watch out for nocturnal eels." He popped down again.
Jeffrey and Ilse went midway in the group. Jeffrey sat on the hatch coaming, fastened his big combat swim fins, held his mask and mouthpiece securely in place, and rolled forward.
The water was sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit, cool, comfortable in moderate doses with the protection of snug bodysuits. Finally the last SEAL was down.
"Grab the line, people." Clayton's voice, now quacky from high-pressure heliox, rang through transducers at Jeffrey's temples. Jeffrey reached up and groped with his hand.
Good, got it, the rope that led back to the stern.
The big hatch swung closed, killing the red battle light. Jeffrey saw eight eerie cyalume glows, greenish,
plus his own on his arm, but nothing more past his amber mask display. The water appeared fairly clear here, as Ilse had predicted.
"Take a minute, get acclimated," Clayton said.
Jeffrey steadied his breathing. He realized he was starting to sink, so compacted was he by the crush of the water—he let a smidgen of gas into his soft-pack redundant-bladder buoyancy compensator. He felt for the flat underbelly of the ASDS as a reference point, then floated horizontally.
Jeffrey brought his free hand to the flexible part of his mask, pinched his nose through the rubber, and swallowed. He unsealed his nostrils and exhaled into the mask. There, that's better. It took care of the Squeeze, helping his body adjust. It was years since he'd been down this far, outside an SSN hull.
"Comms check, status check, sound off," Clayton said.
"One, good to go," the first shooter said.
When Jeffrey's turn came, he said, "Four, good to go," distorted by the helium's high speed of sound, filling his mouthpiece and larynx. Ilse was Five, Clayton Six.
Finally the last SEAL said, "Nine, good to go." The digitized gertrude was working.
Jeffrey wondered idly if it could somehow be programmed to compensate for the effect of the gas on their voices. But at least this way they avoided nitrogen narcosis, oxygen toxemia at depth, and too-strict limits on bottom dwell time from nitrogen infusing their tissues and blood. Rapture of the deep, oxygen seizure, decompression sickness—Jeffrey knew all were killers.
"Move aft and mount up," Clayton said.
Ilse had swum with dolphins before, but it was something else to be one, riding inside the dolphin-shaped robotic swimmer delivery vehicle. She let her legs follow the motion, up and down again and again as her stealth SDV drove her forward. Its flukes and flippers gave tremendous momentum, far faster than the sustained one knot the best combat swimmer could do, far more efficient than the best man-made shafted rotary propulsor.
Ilse smiled to herself inside her mouthpiece, the Draeger now feeding pure oxygen as she maintained shallower depth. She rushed for the surface and sprinted and blew. She felt like a mermaid, a water nymph.
On her augmented dive mask display, plugged into the onboard computer, she could see the rest of the team arrayed in an arc, like a pod of natural cetaceans. They made twelve knots over the bottom, steering course three two five, but actually moving on course two nine five, because of the leeway of the current. The water was warmer now, near the surface, 72°F.
The active sonar in the SDV 's head, just like a real dolphin's melon, gave off whistles and clicks, mapping the sea and its floor. Some emissions were ultrasonic, but Ilse could feel them nevertheless, slight tickling on
her scalp and chin as she rested her forehead on sorbothane padding. The dolphin was equipped with glass eyes, optical-quality portholes. Each time she breached she watched lightning bolts shatter the sky.
"Form up more tightly on me," Clayton called. "We'll ride on a wave, conserve power:'
Ilse flexed her elbows and worked the hand controls mounted on both sides of her head.
She aimed a bit more to the right. As the mechanical dolphin edged into the turn, the stowed equipment bags pressed on her hips, not uncomfortably but enough to know they were there. She could hear the slight whirring of drive motors, and her eardrums felt each change in depth. The SDV was free-flooding, through blowhole and anus, quite anatomically correct—its jaws didn't open, its face was fixed in a grin. With a knob on the control grips she fine-tuned the air bladders, adjusting her buoyancy and trim.
"Go deep," Clayton ordered. "This roller is breaking." Ilse and the others obeyed. She could hear the roller crashing, feel the jumbling tug of its surge. She pitied a sailor adrift in such seas— each cubic meter of plummeting ocean weighed just over one metric ton.
"Patrol craft coming in," the SEAL chief's voice sounded.
"I see it," she heard Clayton say. She saw it too on her sonar, now that they were under the waves. It was off to port, undoubtedly laboring hard. It gradually drew in closer.
"Let's give the lookouts a show," Clayton said. "On my mark, when the range falls to two hundred yards, we'll close and then caper a bit off her bow"
"Watch out for the pounding and yawing," Ilse heard Jeffrey say, "and also watch out for her screws."
Now Ilse saw the coast on her sonar. Bearing three three zero relative were two rocky corners of land, slowly
drawing closer as the robotic dolphins worked their way across the Agulhas Current.
Between those two contacts lay the tidal estuary at the mouth of the Ohlanga River.
"Outer reef approaching," Clayton said. "Maintain twenty-five-foot depth. The surf here'
s terrific."
Ilse worked her handgrips, complying. She saw the reef in outline on her mask display, ten to twenty feet farther down, a hundred feet across, stretching as far north and south as her sonar would go. The sonar picked up biologics, looking like static or snow on her screen. Her dolphin was jostled by turbulent water, swells piling up to explode.
She'd dived these reefs in better days, in much better weather, for fun, and she'd tanned on the yellow sand beaches. She knew there were beautiful coral formations beneath her here, and tropical fish in breathtaking colors. Now all was blackness.
"Okay," Clayton said. "We're through. The sandbar's next. Form line ahead. Watch out for what's left of the shark nets."
The water was deeper again, some seventy feet, but suddenly shelving, the boulder-strewn inner surf zone coming up. Ilse shifted into position, the fifth in the column of dolphins of war.
"Now's the toughest part, people," Clayton said. "We're past high slack water because of delays. There are strong rips working against us, and even this close to spring tide it'll be very shallow."
Ilse saw on her mask that her pulse had gone over a hundred. This was the first time she really felt scared. She moved a bit closer to the dolphin in front of her, Jeffrey's.
"Six, Eight, I'm at bingo battery charge," she heard over the gertrude.
"Six, Four," Jeffrey called, "I'm close to it too. This storm is more work than the model predicted."
Ilse glanced at her own amp-hour levels. She was doing better, she weighed less.
"Keep going," Clayton said, and then something garbled.
"Six, Five," Ilse called. "Repeat, please."
Clayton's answer was unintelligible. The outgoing tide, the gale from the west unobstructed over the estuary, the Ohlanga's rain-bloated outflow, all made the swells pile up hard. The wave action on the inner bar was ruining sonar conditions, so thick was the air and sand being mixed with the water. Ilse's ears crackled constantly, though her range to the bottom was constant. They were all drifting now to the north, a strong longshore countercurrent inside the reef that was spoiling the dolphins' formation.
Suddenly reception came back for a moment. "—fast," Clayton shouted. "This one's a rogue wave! Pull back, Three,
pull back!"
"I'm out of control!" Three said. Three was the SEAL chief, Clayton's salty second-in-charge.
Ilse heard the roar of the plunging breakers getting louder, a crescendo in the darkness.
There was a crashing concussion, a million tons of angry seawater falling mercilessly in on itself—the shock of it rattled her bones.
"Everyone circle between the reef and the bar," Clayton said. "Get down to four zero feet. That should be under the surge and the set."
Ilse turned tightly and dived. Her pulse read 128. Her respiration was 30, too fast. She switched back to heliox—if she kept hyperventilating, pure 02 this deep would give her convulsions for sure.
"Three, Six," Clayton called. "Three, Six. . . ." Nothing. "Where's Three? Does anybody see Three?" No one answered.
"One, Six," Clayton said, "come in. Two, Six, come in." Nothing.
"Six, Four," Jeffrey's voice said, "I was watching on sonar. I think One and Two made it through."
Then someone said, "Christ, I felt something snap." "Give me a proper report," Clayton said.
"Six, Three, I'm damaged."
"Where are you, Three? Pulse on active."
Ilse saw him signaling off to her left, down near the bottom.
"I'm moving to help," Jeffrey said.
"Three," Clayton said, "watch your gas mix. Do you still have propulsion?"
A pause. "Yeah," the chief said, "but I'm blind. My head-up display's been knocked out."
"Keep pulsing," Jeffrey said. "I can talk you through if I know where you are. . . . Watch out, slow your rate of ascent."
"Three, Six, is your backup dive console working?" "Uh, this is Three, uh, I've got magnetic compass and saltwater depth."
"Three, Six, don't forget to adjust for the freshwater river."
"Yeah, LT, I know the drill."
"Six, Four," Jeffrey said, "these rollers are just too powerful. We have to stay back in the troughs." "Concur," Clayton said. "We might graze the bottom,
but I'd much rather that than be pounded to pieces." "I'm ready for another go," Three said.
"Form line abeam," Clayton said. "This is taking too long. We'll all chase the next twenty-footer. And watch out, people, don't get skewered by one of the sharpened-steel landing craft obstacles."
The last SEAL accelerated hard, then leaped the semi-submerged barbed-wire entanglement that protected the river and beaches. So, Jeffrey told himself, all we have to worry about now is getting shot at.
The dolphins avoided the mud flats, following a deeper channel near the south bank of the wide Ohlanga estuary mouth. On his sonar Jeffrey could see the bank and the channel—the north bank was lost in the clutter. When he broke the surface, Jeffrey could make out through his eyeholes, by the flicker of lightning, machine-gun posts overlooking the beach promenades. The sandbagged emplacements on top of the dunes looked like igloos. The nearer one's weapon tracked him and the other SDVs from almost pointblank range, till the team moved upriver past its arc of fire. Jeffrey was sure the MGs on the far bank were trained on them too—at four hundred yards they were in easy killing range for 12.7mm tripod-mounted crew-served fire, even in such adverse weather and lighting conditions. Jeffrey saw poles on the near bank that looked like aiming stakes. He wondered if the SDVs' path had been registered for mortars and artillery.
But the intel was correct. These were disciplined troops; they didn't waste ammo on wildlife. Ahead now Jeffrey's display picked up the pilings of the viaduct that carried the M4 national motorway over the Ohlanga. Two searchlights snapped on, one near each bank, catching the dolphins in enfilade. Right above them, as the column of raiders approached the bridge, Jeffrey saw soldiers lean over the rail.
"Maintain speed," Clayton said. "Don't hit one of the pylons."
"Four, Three, how am I doing?"
"You're fine, Chief," Jeffrey said. "Just hold this bearing." As the searchlights swept past, Jeffrey got a glimpse of SEAL Three. "Jesus, Chief, your whole dorsal fin snapped off."
"When that rogue wave hit, I got rolled over twice on the bar."
As Jeffrey got closer to the motorway bridge, the pilings spread farther apart on his mask display.
"Four, Six," Clayton called, "any pearls of wisdom for all of us combat virgins?"
"Yeah," Jeffrey said. "Some things you never get used to."
They were almost up to the bridge. Jeffrey's legs waved constantly inside the fake dolphin's flukes, making slow progress against the flood current which was strengthened by a venturi effect between the concrete abutments. He knew he was splashing, the SDV'
s equivalent of screw cavitation, but that couldn't be helped and it was sort of realistic.
Real bottlenoses coming upstream to eat or play would make splashes too. Hopefully the sentries wouldn't notice or care that these dolphins were larger than any others they'd seen.
"A guard's going to throw something," Jeffrey heard Ilse hiss.
"Easy," Jeffrey said, "easy. These things are lined with Kevlar, and we've got flak jackets on underneath." "It looks like some kind of grenade!"
"Don't panic, Ilse," Jeffrey said. The SEAL chief was safely under the roadway now, so Jeffrey slowed down. "I'm right here, Five, right next to you." It occurred to Jeffrey that if razor-sharp white-hot shrapnel did penetrate the high-modulus aramid fibers and hit human flesh, these dolphins would bleed just like real ones.
Jeffrey looked up through an eyehole. A soldier looked straight down at him and tossed something.
"Fuck!" Ilse said.
Then, in the searchlights, Jeffrey saw the object flutter away.
"Five, Four, we're okay," Jeffrey said. "It was just an empty cigarette pack."
"All right," Clayton said. "This is a good quiet spot. Hold put while the chief and I do a recon."
Ilse let her SDV idle at four feet of depth to the keel, its dorsal fin barely submerged.
Clayton came on again. Ìt's clear, and air quality k acceptable. All shooters dismount, upend your dolphins, blow ballast, and surface for unloading. Four, Five, you two stay under while we form a perimeter."
Again Ilse waited. Eventually she heard, "Four, Six.. Five, Six. Mission specialists dismount, upend your dolphins, blow ballast, and surface for unloading."
Ilse undid her connections to the dolphin's electronics. By feel she opened the clips that held shut the SDV's belly. She dropped down under it, still breathing through her Draeger. She flipped the SDV over. This wasn't easy. Even submerged, hence neutrally buoyant, it massed almost three hundred pounds. She used one of its flippers for leverage. Finally she reached inside for the control grips and fully inflated the bladders.
She held on and rode the thing up to the surface. She kicked with her swim fins, treading water. Driving rain pelted her head.
She felt some resistance against her fins, more than just the water. With the next lightning bolt she saw why. She was surrounded by tall reeds, the salt marsh of the Umhlanga Lagoon Nature Reserve. She waited, straining her ears against the constant noise of the wind.
Jeffrey and Clayton swam over as the sky flickered once more. Now out of their Draegers and masks, they wore battle helmets instead, with visors flipped down and switched on.
"Feeling better?" Jeffrey said.
"Yes," Ilse said. "Come on, we have work to do."
Silently they pulled her SDV into shallower water. Now she saw some of the other dolphins, floating inverted as if they were dead—she wondered if one of them was the cargo carrier slaved to SEAL Seven's control. There was no sign at all of the SEALs.
Ilse's feet touched the soft gooey bottom, stirring up bubbles of gas. It stank. She figured this was as good a I line as any for a clandestine pee—diving had a diuretic Get on the body.
Jeffrey and Clayton helped her remove her equipment bags and change into her battle kit.
She positioned the high-impact goggles that would protect her corneas from dust and smoke and worse. Then she switched on her helmet and lowered the imagin
g visor.
Lastly she pulled off her flippers. She stowed them inside the dolphin with her other unneeded gear. Clayton and Jeffrey submerged the SDVs one by one, disappearing under he water to clip them shut, free diving, then surfacing again for air.
Ilse adjusted her helmet to sit more comfortably, then tightened the padded chin strap.
Using hand signals, ' layton led her onto dry land near a mangrove tree. She got down on her haunches, looking around, the visor's green monochrome low-light-level TV and false-color IR alternating every half second. The raindrops scattered infrared, but even so, she could see about three times as fur with the infrared photodetectors than she could with he multistage image intensifiers. Sight lines were broken by trees and dunes.
Ilse let the saltwater run off her body, then adjusted her vest. Its front was laden with gas mask, canteens, field dressings, half a dozen ammo clips, primary and backup radiation dosimeters, and four different kinds of grenade.
Ilse shifted her hip holster slightly and opened the strap that held her big pistol in place.
She checked that the weapon was loaded, and switched on the power. She practiced quick drawing three times, to loosen up and make sure her aiming reticle worked.
Satisfied, she looked at Clayton and Jeffrey.
She waited while Jeffrey dabbed her with waterproof
blackface, like shoe polish, from a small tin. She noticed Clayton was using some too, despite his ebony complexion.
"Keeps my sweaty skin from shining," he said, grinning at her in the dark. Jeffrey positioned her helmet mike.
The SEAL chief handed out bottled water. "Draeger air's very dry. Rehydrate."
"Thanks," Ilse whispered. Insects were starting to find them, and she put on odorless bug repellent. The air was humid and heavy, in spite of the low-pressure front of the dying hurricane.
"Comms check, status check, sound off," Clayton whispered. Soon everybody was ready.
"Remember, watch out for bushbuck and wild boar. But think of them now as our friends, constant false alarms for enemy urea sniffers and infrared." Clayton turned to Jeffrey as an especially strong gust punished the reeds. "At least with this weather we don't have to worry about motion detectors."
