“Now there’s bad blood between the two of them again,” Morley murmured. “What a surprise.”
The two ships the captain had ordered into position reported for duty. “Open fire, all barrels,” Korodin commanded almost offhandedly.
A moment later they heard the roar of artillery. Searing lines of fire hissed out one after another toward the island, hit the massive steel walls and—almost incredibly—broke through, leaving huge holes. A muffled cheer broke out on the bridge.
“Sustain fire,” the captain ordered. “Empty your magazines.” There was satisfaction in his voice, too.
The cannon continued to fire. At some point, though, they made no further impression. The holes in the gate and walls around it weren’t getting any bigger; rather, they seemed to be shrinking.
“Cease fire! Cameras, close-up!”
The smoke dispersed. Cameras pointed toward the zone that had been at the center of the bombardment just in time to catch the holes in the steel walls and gate close themselves up. There was the sound of indrawn breath.
“That’s crazy,” Morley murmured. “Alien technology. And here we are, watching live.”
“I could do without the experience,” Angela said.
Captain Korodin took off his cap, smoothed his ice-gray hair, and put his cap back on again. Then he picked up the microphone. “All ships: the enemy has the capacity to repair damage from a direct hit. We do not know how extensive this capacity is, but we will do our best to push it beyond its limits. All ships in the fleet will coordinate firepower. Submarines are to use sea-to-air missiles; frigates will use artillery and rocketry. Target is the construction that looks like a gate. Until further information is available, we will assume that even for the extraterrestrials a gate is a weak point. It is important that all hits strike the target as close to simultaneously as possible, to maximize the effect. Action to begin immediately. Captain Korodin out.” He nodded to an officer who clearly had the task of coordinating all the ships.
The ship on which they stood was also part of this second attack; Charlotte felt it begin to move, felt the floor beneath her feet vibrate as the engines started up. She felt queasy. More than anything else she wanted to stop all this—if only she knew how. She realized that every muscle in her body was tense. She watched Captain Korodin as he stood there, his jaw thrust forward, his head straining on his neck, his eyes fixed upon the island as though he could conquer it with his gaze alone. Had there been somebody close to him among the men lost to the island? Or was this simply the normal rage of a commander whose men depended on him, who was in charge of their safety?
This attack would be futile as well—Charlotte was suddenly certain of that. Morley didn’t need to utter his warnings of doom, and indeed he had stopped. He was now sitting there, motionless, staring down at the tabletop. Angela was gnawing at her lower lip. Adrian was watching matters unfold with his usual frowning, skeptical interest. He was the only one who didn’t look as though he would rather be anywhere else.
The first reports began coming in from ships that had reached their firing positions. The man at the console passed on each report in a low voice to the captain astonishingly calmly.
“Fire at will,” Korodin ordered at last, equally matter-of-fact.
The recoil from the guns on deck shook the whole ship, violent blows that felt as though a gang of enraged giants were beating the stern with huge hammers. Charlotte saw trails of smoke, an immense number of them, converge upon the island from all sides, saw them strike the steel fortifications, then saw the island disappear in a cloud of smoke. Charlotte craned her head. Had it worked? Had the Russians really managed to bomb the island to smithereens, to finish off the grisly technological power that lurked within? She found herself caught up in the mood, wishing for its destruction, unable to imagine any other outcome. Even the recoil had been bone shakingly powerful.
But then all of a sudden a clamor broke out at the control desks, and the men leapt to their feet. Orders were shouted and hectic activity broke out. The captain, holding a microphone to his mouth, could be heard over it all shouting over and over, “Retreat! Retreat! All ships full speed astern! Immediately!”
“Oh my God,” Charlotte heard Adrian whisper next to her. She couldn’t stay seated any longer. She hurried to the window and could hardly believe what she saw through the flying spray and the distant clouds of the explosions. Something silver that looked like a huge lizard’s tongue detached itself from the fortress and unrolled in a matter of seconds, aiming for one of the ships closest to the island. It stretched and lunged ruthlessly through the air and across the waves until it had reached the ship and made contact. That same instant the Russian ship began to change. It stopped firing. The bridge and conning tower collapsed into themselves, and the stern billowed and bloated, changing color. The whole ship mutated into something that no longer bore any resemblance to a battleship but instead looked like part of some nightmare second fortress, in front of the island. Now she saw that there was already something else inside this armored sea wall: the remnants of the first ship to have been attacked this way. It was this first counterattack that had caused all the commotion and led to the order to retreat. Now their ship was retreating, too. The island vanished out of sight behind them.
Captain Korodin ordered them taken from the bridge and back to the sick bay, evidently the only place he had to put them. After they were given something to eat and drink, the American soldier and the Russian soldier came to take the remaining statements. Both were having obvious trouble focusing on the task.
“What’s happening now?” Adrian asked. The Russian soldier, a fresh-faced youth with muscles like steel cables who could hardly take his eyes off Charlotte, simply shook his head; it was impossible to tell whether he knew nothing or simply had orders not to say. The American, a straw-blond Texan with freckles, finally let slip that as far as he knew they were waiting for reinforcements, and waiting above all for two admirals to arrive, one Russian and one American. They would take over command on the spot. The way he said it, he clearly believed everything would be fine and dandy when that happened.
“It takes a little while for a ship to get someplace,” he explained. “An aircraft carrier like this has a top speed of thirty knots, as does the escort squadron. And the Arctic Ocean ain’t exactly the best operational theater.…Anyhow, the first American carrier that can get here is the USS Harry S. Truman, and she won’t be here before next week. But the Russian president has given us permission to set up a temporary air-support base on the next island—what’s it called? Ushakova, I think—and the first Globemasters are already on their way. They’ll land on the ice, build a landing strip, put up a few tents for the men, and set up refueling stations. The jets will be flying in around the same time, refuelling in midair.”
Charlotte shuddered. It all sounded so Hollywood. She half expected Bruce Willis to be playing the American admiral.
They managed to sleep for a couple of hours. When they woke up, they learned that the top brass had just arrived and that they were to return to the bridge, please, to tell their story to the new commanders. When they got up there, both admirals were standing in the middle of the bridge, each surrounded by a cluster of staff officers. They were listening to Captain Korodin and his staff explain everything that had happened, with the help of videos and other material.
Rear Admiral Denis J. Whitecomb didn’t look the least bit like Bruce Willis. He had a face like a pancake and a doughy handshake, and despite all the gold braid and medals on his uniform, he gave the impression he spent most days working behind a desk. “Well this is a hell of a situation, if the ladies will excuse my language,” he said in greeting. The forced brashness of his tone made him seem worryingly incompetent.
His Russian counterpart, Admiral Ulyakov, seemed to consider it a point of honor not to speak a word of English himself. He was broad-shouldered, bull-necked, and ba
d-tempered; and he stood in the middle of the bridge as though it were his own ship. His pockmarked nose was flushed red, presumably from the unaccustomed Arctic air, but it made him look as though he had spent the previous night drinking with friends and then been dragged out of bed far too early this morning. He listened without expression as his interpreter translated the American admiral’s long-winded protestations: that Washington insisted the phenomenon be isolated and scientifically studied, and that the US would supply all the necessary funds, capability, technical equipment, and expert consultants.
“The president is convinced that what we have here is not just a unique opportunity to learn a whole new kind of technology, but duty to history. We owe it to the future to handle this discovery with all due care and attention, and to turn it to the very best advantage we possibly can for all mankind. And let us not forget: since in all probability we are dealing with the remnants of an extraterrestrial incursion, since we are dealing with an alien intelligence that is similar in kind if not in degree to our own, reason demands that we behave in such a manner that if we ever make contact with the beings who created this artifact, we do not prejudice our chances.”
After the rough greeting he had given them, Charlotte was astonished at how eloquently the man spoke. In another uniform he could have made a perfectly good priest.
“I am interested in one thing only,” Ulyakov declared brusquely. “Namely: Is whatever has seized hold of this island a danger to Russia, or is it not? And if it is a danger, then I will do everything in my power to remove it. That is my strategy.”
Whitecomb looked downcast. Evidently he had not counted on such a rough reception. “But…our president has reached an understanding with your president that—”
“Your president is a long way away,” Ulyakov interrupted him. “And so is mine. Neither of them can see what we see here. It is easy to consider all angles when you are sitting at a desk, but in the end all that counts is the reality before us. Do you understand me? We are the hands and eyes on the ground. Your president must listen to what you tell him, and my president must listen to me.” He waved his hand dismissively. “So, let’s get to work.”
Whitecomb beamed, displaying a painfully false smile. “Then we agree! That’s exactly what we’re suggesting: a thorough scientific survey of the situation…international experts looking at every possible aspect…throw a wide cordon around the island and secure it—”
“Cordon the island? How do you imagine you can do that?” Ulyakov glowered. “An island is a rock that happens to stick up out of the water. Nothing more. You have a submarine of your own here. Have your men actually looked at the island below the waterline?”
The rear admiral blinked in surprise. “Uh…to the best of my knowledge…I would have to—”
“Well, I sent one of our submarines out,” the Russian said. “All the way around the island’s coastal shelf. It should be back any moment.”
Charlotte and the others glanced at one another unhappily. Why were they here? Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to them. They were just in the way. She also wondered where Admiral Whitecomb had popped up from. He spoke as though he had been in the Oval Office just a few hours ago. But Washington was almost five thousand miles away by the most direct route.
“K-104 reporting, Admiral,” said one of the men at the consoles, presumably the radio operator.
Ulyakov put out his hand to take the telephone receiver, which was on a long spiral cable. Only then did Charlotte realize the admiral was standing on the exact spot Captain Korodin had previously occupied. “Ulyakov,” he said. He listened, nodding once or twice. “Good. Transmit the images.”
He turned to Whitecomb and gestured to one of the screens. “They have found something.”
As it turned out, to say that they had found something was rather an understatement. The screen lit up and showed underwater footage of bare, striated rocks patched across with the shadows of ice floes on the surface. It was a monotonous study in white, gray, blue, and black—until the camera caught something that resembled what Charlotte imagined a seabed cable or pipeline might look like. It was neither, though. They saw that as the submarine tracked the object: it was much bigger. It was a steel wall, built along the seabed. And it ran outward from the island. Next came a gap in the rocks and then a ledge, which afforded them a longer view. The massive steel ribs that had formed on the sides of the mountain up on the island simply kept going when they reached the water. Metal arms spread out in all directions like steel roots, running for miles on end. The submarine kept going, its camera trained on the leading end of one of these roots. They could see it inching forward, growing longer and fatter as it went.
“So? What do you have to say now?” Ulyakov asked, turning to his American counterpart. “You want to cordon that? Impossible. You are deluding yourself.”
Whitecomb stared at the screen, where the footage was now repeating. He looked utterly crestfallen.
“This is not just a danger to Russia, this is a danger for the whole world.” The Russian admiral thrust his head forward. “I will request the president’s permission to use atomic weapons. We are going to blast that island sky-high.”
7
At these words an electrical frisson ran through the room. Everybody flinched.
“Admiral!” Whitecomb was almost apoplectic. “Please don’t be hasty. Some of our president’s scientific advisers—serious, well-regarded researchers—think we may be dealing with an alien nanotechnological device here. In fact, they think that is the only possible explanation of events. It’s a technology that offers almost limitless prospects for the future, possibilities we can’t even begin to guess at from where we are today. If we managed to figure it out when it’s served up on a plate like this, it would be like…it would be as though the ancient Egyptians had suddenly been able to build a nuclear power station. As though the Romans had aircraft. As though the Internet were developed in the Middle Ages.”
“Interesting,” Admiral Ulyakov said softly. His interpreter left out the undertone with which he said it, but Charlotte could hear that he was wondering—just as she was—why the American was only coming out with this information now. Not that it was hard to guess. The American government’s top priority was to get its hands on this technology—and if at all possible to be the only ones who did.
“Aside from that,” Whitecomb continued urgently, “it may not even be possible to destroy this thing with atom bombs. Our experts have considered that option as well.” He gave a forced laugh. “The things these folks come up with, huh? Makes a guy think. But they’ve said specifically that even if we blasted the whole island with atom bombs, all that might do is destroy a part of the machinery. Even if ninety-nine percent was destroyed, the shockwave from the explosion would inevitably lift tiny parts up into the stratosphere. And those parts would be seeds that could spread across the whole hemisphere and repeat what they did here on Saradkov wherever they land. Except that this time they would be attacking cities, inhabited areas, our industrial capacity.”
“And what do these admirable advisers of yours suggest we do instead?”
“The only way,” Whitecomb declared, “is to get the fortress under control.”
Ulyakov raised his eyebrows. “I fear that the machinery is more likely to get us under control.”
“It’s the only way,” the American rear admiral insisted.
Ulyakov stared at the floor for a while, his face like thunder, then he raised his head and said, “No. Given the speed at which these roots are spreading, they will have reached the mainland by the time we can set up even temporary research stations. What you say has merely confirmed my decision. We must strike—and we must strike harder and faster than I had thought at first.”
“Admiral…”
“During the Soviet era, we detonated the most powerful hydrogen bombs ever built. Two hundred megatons. T
hat was on Novaya Zemlya, not five hundred miles from here.” He squared his shoulders. “We still have some of those bombs. The time has come to use them.”
That was when Charlotte made her move. She didn’t stop to think—it was as though her body walked forward on its own initiative, drawing her away from the little group of survivors and over to the two admirals. Nobody stopped her. She was a beautiful woman among men who were barely used to having women around. She was untouchable.
“Excuse me,” she said in Russian first to the admiral and then in English for the rear admiral. “There is someone you must consult. Someone who has already built such a machine.”
They listened to her. Because she was a beautiful woman and untouchable.
Sometimes Hiroshi got the feeling his mother didn’t even want him to come visit. As though all he did was disrupt her comfortable routines.
“You really don’t need to make a fuss,” he said again as he took another shirt from the wardrobe and put it in his suitcase. “You don’t need to take any time off work. I won’t get bored all on my own in Tokyo—anything but.”
Mrs. Steel had already left that morning. She would spend her time off with her sister in Sacramento and then come back the day before he did. Her main concern on such occasions had always been who would look after the plants, so Hiroshi had finally had the watering system he had designed built and installed: tiny hosepipes buried discreetly in the ground that ran to every individual root cluster. The pipes were hooked up to moisture sensors, and the whole thing was controlled by a computer. The plants couldn’t be better cared for even by a human gardener.
“But your machine can’t talk to the plants!” Mrs. Steel had protested.
He had to concede that point, though he did add that he was convinced plants preferred the correct dosage of water and nutrients to a conversation, where they wouldn’t have much to contribute anyway.
Lord of All Things Page 47
