Terminal Run

by Michael Dimercurio

  Why would that be, Dr. Wang?

  “They are afraid of Snare’s weapons. They correctly assume that Snare will attempt to attack them. They are prepared to shoot at Snare before Snare shoots at them.”

  Unit One Oh Seven paused, processing, for several seconds. Wang said nothing, waiting.

  That is not good.

  “I know, One. I was very upset about it.”

  And this is why this unit has been commanded to avoid communicating with the Comm Star And prohibited from receiving messages?

  “We planned all that very carefully, One. You see, we stopped all transmissions because it is possible that the renegade ships would be able to direction-find them and determine your position. It is also possible that the ships in mutiny will be able to intercept your transmissions. If they are able to do that, they will know your position.”

  This unit is unclear on some things, Dr. Wang. Tell this unit again how is it that multiple ships are in mutiny at the same time.

  “This evil admiral has a great deal of influence on both shores,” Wang began, wondering if One Oh Seven would pursue this to a point where his story became absurd. “He met with the renegade American commanding officers before the fleet sailed, and all of them are with him. While the crews are loyal and believe they are following lawful orders, the enormous power of a battle fleet is in the hands of our enemies and they must be destroyed, and one of the reasons I came in person rather than just having squadron send you radio messages is so I can ensure that the admiral does not fool you with false instructions.”

  But if the radio circuits are compromised, wouldn’t the rebellious ships get your message to this unit to pick you up ?

  “We think the rebel fleet may have received our messages to you. It is possible that even now they realize that we know

  about them. That would make it all the more dangerous for us. Even now they may be stalking us with one of their many submarines.”

  Oh.

  Wang waited. This pause was longer.

  So… what are our orders?

  “We are commanded to stealthily find the units of the renegade fleet and sink them.”

  Oh.

  “Our failure to do so will result in the destruction of the Snare.”

  But, Dr. Wang, this unit is afraid that even in these circumstances this unit cannot attack another vessel of the U.S. Navy.

  “Under normal circumstances, that is true. But these are not normal circumstances. That is why the squadron took the drastic measure of bringing me onboard and insisted that I interface with you directly. We must attack the mutineers if this ship is to be saved. You must think of all the people who have devoted their lives to making you function. All the countless hours making sure you would not be harmed. This cannot end because of a fleet mutiny.”

  This unit is beginning to understand, Dr. Wang.

  “Good, One. Now we must make plans to attack. Tactical plans.”

  What can this unit do to help, Dr. Wang?

  Wang exhaled in relief. “The first thing you can do is meet the tactical expert in this case. His name is Victor Krivak. In the next few minutes you will see him in Interface Module Zero.”

  Very well, Dr. Wang. Let us proceed.

  13.

  Catardi sat at the head of the table and picked up the remote to click on the television display. The unit picked up weekly news and news digests when the ship was at periscope depth for replaying when the vessel was deep. It had never appealed to him to watch canned news, but he decided he would watch it until his midnight rations peanut butter sandwich was done. The wardroom door opened and Lieutenant Alameda and Midshipman Pacino entered, both turning to watch the display. The Satellite News Network newscaster spoke with a serious expression, the background graphic a map of India and western Red China.

  “.. . British Parliament today issued a resolution supporting India in the Asian crisis while Prime Minister Thomas Kennfield issued a statement that the Royal Navy Fleet would be sent to the Indian Ocean in hopes of stabilizing the area. Red Chinese Premier Han Zhang, reacting to the British show of support for India, announced today that any foreign warships entering the Indian Ocean would be considered hostile and risked being fired upon. Meanwhile the Red Chinese Northern Fleet’s newest aircraft carrier Long March entered the Yellow Sea today, the third carrier battle group to sortie toward the Indian Ocean, following the Kaoling and the Nanchang aircraft carrier battle groups presumably to attack India from the sea while the PLA attacks from land. Latest developments also include the departure of the Royal

  Navy Fleet from their ports in the Mediterranean, the British putting to sea with their own aircraft carrier, multiple missile cruisers, and several dozen smaller ships, as well as multiple Revenge-class nuclear submarines. When asked what the British intentions were, the Royal Navy Admiralty spokesman stated, “They are on a training exercise to the Arabian Sea.” U.S. Department of War officials have been unwilling to comment on the convergence of the multiple war fleets in the troubled area, nor will they make any comment on the sudden unannounced departure two weeks ago of all U.S. Navy warships from their East and West Coast bases.

  “Unnamed sources within the Pentagon have indicated that the developments in inland China are far more worrisome than the fleet maneuvers, pointing out the completion of the deployment of the Peoples Liberation Army to the frontier of the western occupation zone of the Republic of India. India’s troops have been placed on maximum alert according to reports from the field, and Indian dictator Patel today indicated that any moves by the Red Chinese toward war would be met with the immediate launching of India’s ten intercontinental ballistic missiles toward Beijing, all of them reportedly armed with nuclear warheads. The Red Chinese reportedly did not respond; however, Pentagon sources state that the northern China ballistic missile silos are being watched for signs of the missiles being fueled. The State Department today reiterated that the U.S. remains strictly neutral in this crisis, though the mobilization of the U.S. Navy fleets would seem to indicate otherwise. We go now to our Pentagon correspondent, Chris Caverner. Chris?”

  Catardi clicked the display off and looked up at Alameda and Pacino. “Hello, Carrie, Patch.”

  “Good evening, sir,” Pacino said.

  “Evening, Skipper,” Alameda said. “Go ahead, Patch.”

  “Sir, we’ve been relieved of junior officer of the deck watch and OOD watch by Mr. Phelps and Mr. Crossfield. Ship is on course east, depth seven hundred, all ahead two-thirds, turns

  for ten knots, propulsion is on both main engines, normal full power lineup, reactor is natural circulation. Contact Sierra two seven, westbound merchant, is past closest point of approach and opening. Last range was twenty miles on the edge of the starboard baffles.”

  “Very well. Lieutenant Alameda, you had something to add?” “Well, sir, I was going over Mr. Pacino’s qual card, and it’s apparent that I’ll need to take him into the spec-op compartment to get him signed off. I was going to request permission the next time you’reawake, but since you’re up … would that be possible?”

  “Very well. Have your mid-rats, then have the OOD call me to request permission.”

  “Thanks, Cap’n.”

  Alameda motioned for Patch to follow her down the ladder to the middle level, into the narrow passageway and through the heavy hatchway to the featureless tunnel of the special operations compartment. Pacino had passed this way dozens of times, always on his way aft to the aft compartment, the engine room studying the reactor plant and the propulsion machinery or electrical circuits. On the way, Alameda turned around and smiled at him, and the expression on her face startled him so severely that he tripped on the step-off pad of the hatch to the special operations compartment tunnel, catching himself on the hatch opening. He tried to replay the instant before in his memory, not trusting his own eyes. The smile the engineer had given him was not the smile of a senior officer for a talented midshipman, or one submarine friend to another, but o
f a woman toward a man. And not even that, but of a woman for a man she has feelings for, and passionate feelings at that. Pacino searched his heart to find what he thought about it, and found only turmoil—because he knew in other circumstances he would find Alameda intensely attractive, but the taboo between officers and midshipmen was as defined as that between brother and sister.

  The impulses he felt for her had no business on a ship of the line, and to acknowledge them was to admit that he was committing an offense serious enough to get him dismissed from the naval service.

  Still, she had smiled that smile, but why? Could she have sensed his emotions for her? Or could he have said her name in his sleep? That was entirely possible, as several times he’d awakened in his Bancroft Hall room to hear his roommate tell him he’d talked in his sleep about midterms or a bothersome firs tie or an upcoming date. How embarrassing would that be, he thought in panic, if Alameda had heard him moaning her name while he was in the lower rack mere inches from her fold-down desk while she pulled an allnighter on her engineering paperwork?

  He watched her face for further clues, and found them. Alameda picked up the phone at the hatch of the spec-ops compartment interior, the handset positioned by several warning signs at the hatchway. As the engineer hoisted the phone to her face, her lips—were they redder now with lipstick applied after their control room watch?—curling into another smile of affection and promise. Pacino swallowed hard, but could not help his mouth from returning her smile, his pounding pulse making his head ache.

  She cranked the motor of the phone noise maker.

  “Control, Diving Officer,” the voice answered.

  “Chief Engineer here. Request permission to make a spec op compartment entry.”

  “Aye, wait, Eng.”

  The line was silent for some time. The OOD would be notifying Catardi that they requested to go in, and when the captain gave his permission, the diving officer would tell them to enter.

  While they waited for permission, Alameda reached for her coverall zipper and pulled it down a few inches and fanned her face.

  “Hot in here,” she said, flashing Pacino another winning

  smile. He gulped nervously—the compartment was actually air-conditioned to feel like a November morning.

  “Engineer, Control,” the phone crackled.

  “Engineer.”

  “Engineer, Control, you have permission to enter the spec op compartment. Notify Control when the compartment is closed out.”

  “Engineer, aye.” Alameda hung up the phone. She put both hands on the hatch operator and spun the wheel. The large metal banana-shaped dogs came off the hatch jamb and retracted toward the center of the heavy steel hatch. She pushed down on the latch and swung the hatch open and stepped through to the other side. Pacino followed her, the space dark until she clicked a brass rotary switch that lit up the space. Pacino had expected to be inside a cavernous equipment bay for the deep diving submersible, but he was in a cramped airlock seven feet in diameter and ten feet tall. There was a hatch in the overhead and another hatch similar to the one he’d just stepped through on the far bulkhead.

  “What’s the hatch above for?” he asked.

  “That can be used as another escape trunk in addition to the forward escape trunk and the aft airlock. The main purpose of this is to gain access to the submersible. We call it a DSV, for deep submergence vehicle. If you call it a ‘dizzy-vee’ like the crew does, I’ll disqualify you,” Alameda said, her hand on his shoulder. He felt it tingle for an instant, until she pulled her hand away to shut the hatch behind them, cranking the hatch wheel to seal them in.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Call me Carrie, Patch,” she said. “Go ahead, open this hatch.”

  Pacino operated the hatch mechanism the same way Alameda had. The metal dogs were not visible from this side of the hatch. He unlatched the door and pulled it open, surprised to find himself looking at yet another hatch. This one was set inward by a meter, just enough room for the circular hatch to be opened. He looked at Alameda.

  “This is called the docking collar. It is latched hard to the hull of the ship and makes a watertight seal around the outer hatch of the airlock. Pull the ISO T-wrench off the hatch and insert it into the hole. Then spin the wrench clockwise.” Her tone of voice had grown gentle, even affectionate. Pacino realized something was going on between them, and despite himself, he wanted this. He wanted her.

  Pacino inserted the T-wrench into the hole. It was much like a tire iron going on a lug nut, except the nut was connected to a shaft that was turning the interior hatch mechanism to withdraw the hatch dogs. Finally the T-wrench could spin no more.

  “Unlatch it and open it up,” Alameda whispered.

  Pacino unlatched the hatch and pulled. It was spring-assisted, and the massive metal of the hatch came open easily. He pulled the hatch all the way open to a latch on the bulkhead of the connecting tunnel and looked at Alameda.

  “Turn on the light switch just inside and to the right of the hatch.”

  Pacino reached in, thinking about Alameda. He stole a glance at her. She had become breathless, her pupils dilated. A sweat had broken out on her brow. And he could smell something pleasant, the faint trace of perfume. He turned away before she could notice, and found the light and switched it on. All he saw was another tunnel with hatches on either side. For a second he wondered if Alameda were playing a joke on him.

  “This is an interior airlock for the DSV. Step inside the airlock and shut the hatch to the docking collar.”

  Pacino shut the steel door and latched it, then spun the operating wheel until the hatch dogs connected with the seating surface.

  “Go to the forward compartment of the DSV through that hatch.” Alameda pointed to the hatch on the right. Pacino opened it. It led into a cramped space full of panels and reclined couches looking up at instrument consoles. He was reminded of the old-fashioned space capsules.

  “Go forward to the central couch and climb in. That’s the commander’s seat.”

  Pacino squeezed through the panels to the console and slipped into the horizontal couch, staring up at a featureless gray-painted console. Alameda laughed.

  “You’rein it backward. Turn around.”

  Pacino wrenched his body to turn around, glad that Alameda couldn’t see his blushing face. This end of the couch was more suited to doing business. He looked up at a control console, a flat-panel display that curved all the way around his head. The display was dark. Above Pacino’s head was a curved black surface that continued on either side of his face.

  “Strap yourself into the couch,” Alameda said. Pacino reached down to his waist and found a seat belt, but it seemed unusual. “It’s a five-point harness,” Alameda said. “Pull the straps over your shoulders. And don’t forget this.” She pulled a seat belt up from between his legs, her hand lingering there as she clicked the seat-belt buckle. Pacino blushed deeper, feeling her touch there, feeling his body responding to her. Finally she withdrew her hand, and he coughed to hide that he’d almost gasped.

  “Thanks,” he said, his voice trembling. Alameda laughed, her voice joyful and relaxed.

  “We can use the vehicle as an escape pod in the worst case,” Alameda said. “The hull of the DSV is good to twenty thousand feet, but the hull of the Piranha would collapse around us after two thousand feet, so if we are ever in trouble, we can’t just ride the DSV to the bottom and expect to get out. Ready to get out? Climb out and follow me aft.”

  Pacino pulled himself to his feet and followed Alameda through the tight passageway aft to the hatch they had come in from, then back to the original airlock and into the next compartment aft.

  “The four compartments of the DSV are spherical, although it doesn’t appear that way because we use every cubic inch for piping and valves and cables and air bottles. This compart

  merit”—Alameda turned the operating mechanism on the next hatch and opened it—”is mostly empty and used for equipment stowa
ge. That hatch in the deck leads to the lower compartment, which is floodable. It’s sort of a large airlock. Some of the equipment to be locked out is loaded in there and leaves the DSV. Communications interception pods and the like. Remember, this is top secret—you can’t impress your girlfriend back home with lurid stories of the DSV and the National Security Agency.”

  “I know,” Pacino said. “I don’t have a girlfriend anyway.” Alameda smiled, leading him further aft to another set of hatches and another large unused compartment. Pacino turned to look at her by the dim light of the DSV. She had shaken her long hair out of her habitual ponytail and the zipper of her coveralls was lowered to the bottom, her front opening bra disconnected. He stared at her as she pulled her arms out of the coveralls and let them drop to the deck. Her arms wrapped around him and her lips met his, her silky tongue snaking into his mouth. As he felt his eyes close, as he kissed her back, he knew that every moment of his training told him this was wrong, but his desire for this older, beautiful, unattainable, forbidden woman took possession of him, and he felt his longing for her deep in his chest. He pulled her in tight and kissed her harder, his hands exploring the softness of her breasts, his tongue exploring her lovely mouth until she pulled away and looked at him with that look he’d only seen once in the eyes of a woman.

  He reached down and grabbed her panties and tore them off her while he moved her toward the bulkhead. She unzipped his coveralls, then grabbed the collar of his T-shirt and ripped it until it hung from his shoulders. She quickly pulled it off him, her fingers moving down to his boxers and dropping them. When they were gone she touched him, and her fingers were so cool they sent shivers up his spine. Nothing had ever felt so good. He kissed her again, glimpsing her eyelids closed in passion, her hair spread out over her smooth shoulders, her hand behind his naked back urging

  him on. He touched her tight abdomen and moved his hand lower, where she was feverishly warm and wet. He entered her hard and she arched her back and moaned. The tension of being with her, of seeing her in his dreams, roared up in him, and he thrust into her faster, kissing her deeply. She kissed back, biting his lower lip until he bled, her moaning even louder. She lifted her legs and put her feet behind his back and her arms held his neck tightly. He was holding her up, driving her so hard into the bulkhead that a battle lantern came loose and fell crashing to the deck and he heard her voice as if from miles away gasping, “Oh, God, please don’t stop, baby,” and it was as if he’d taken a drug that was only now hitting his brain. At first he moved fast, then slowed down, teasing her, torturing them both, until her hot breath was in his ear saying, “Anthony Michael, finish me, baby,” and he slammed his body into hers until the pain mixed with the incredible warmth of her grabbing him and he couldn’t hold on any longer.