by Bill Schutt
Glancing down and to her right, Valentina saw a parachute blooming amid smoke, meaning that Andrei would soon be taken prisoner, if he survived. Now, if only my blood pressure and reflexes are strong enough to keep me conscious through the next sharp turn, the stories I will be able to tell! No jet plane ever took on an aircraft carrier before. . . . But she had been slowing to a photo-recon approach when the shooting began and her plane, though powered by the newest jet engines to come off the assembly line, was still subsonic. Maneuverability and engines were just not designed to kick her out of harm’s way fast enough—not because the plane could not withstand the acceleration and hairpin turns, but because human bodies could not.
Two Hellcat fighters were coming up to meet her—They’re slower, only prop-driven, with maybe a little more freedom to make sudden dives and turns, but I’ve got speed and my country and anger on my side.
The lead fighter engaged—whether in a short burst of warning fire or in an actual attempt to kill her, Valentina did not know, or care. Eleven seconds later, an American was bailing out and his plane’s engine was tearing itself apart.
“Going to live through this,” she breathed with relief, after outmaneuvering another spray of lead and leveling out above the cloud tops. The afterburners were spent and shut down but the pilot thought herself lucky to still be taking in air and flying a plane that seemed to be operating—at slacking power but operating nonetheless—until she made the mistake of banking to starboard in preparation for another pass, to assess what was happening to Andrei. That was the moment in which the turbine began to sound like an old vacuum cleaner trying to pick up chunks of taffy, and she made the additional error of trying to throttle up. Hellcat bullet fragments—laying in wait like clots in a vein—were sucked right through the heart of the engine and spun about, producing new and instantly turbine-killing shreds of metal.
The plane died in Valentina’s hands.
Like Andrei and every other good fighter pilot in her squadron, she had planned for this possibility, planned for the day she might go down in a bad place and need to keep a coveted piece of new technology secret.
Flaps up, nose down, Valentina aimed for the darkest, deepest patch of water she could recall from the pre-sortie maps. Then she drew in her knees until they hurt, in preparation for punch-out. Her commanders understood how the great turning of the last war, against Japan’s favor, had occurred at Midway with the loss of Imperial Japan’s most skilled pilots. The Kremlin had studied this outcome and learned its key lesson. Valentina therefore knew that the ejection system would work, for even in this circumstance, the pilot was valued more than the plane. Her main physical worry was the instrument panel: if her legs were not drawn in to the point of maximum endurance, the panel would scoop out her kneecaps the moment the ejection booster ignited.
The next worry was striking the cockpit canopy only one small sliver of a second after it, too, was ejected—which in this case, nose down and in a dive toward dark water, was not even close to actually happening.
Once the seat was safely away and the parachute deployed, her next, less physical worry came to the fore. Valentina watched the plane hit water like a snowball striking concrete. Even if they can dive down to find it, there’s not enough left for anyone to piece together.
So far, so good, she said to herself, in the American vernacular. Now her worry was capture. The pilot had taken “deep-wire” hypnosis training—by which she was sure to keep the plane’s secrets, even if “friendly” Americans plied her with unimaginable amounts of vodka.
Below she saw Andrei being fished out of the water by one of the carrier’s escort ships. Another rescue crew was approaching a second chute floating, but the Hellcat pilot seemed MIA.
That’s sure to complicate any prisoner exchange, Valentina thought, and then thought she saw something large moving away from the carrier’s side.
She did not know how to describe it, beyond a general feeling that the sea looked strange.
July 10, 1948
Aircraft Carrier Intrepid
Five Miles Offshore of Santorini
Tucker believed he had reached the comms to the island stack in time for Christian to call a cease-fire and save the Russians—and hence everyone else.
But now it was all so clearly too late. A popular Hellcat pilot was missing and the two prisoners would be held 100 percent accountable.
Still . . . before both Russians were safely climbing rescue nets, the lieutenant had, like Valentina, spied something strange moving away from the Intrepid’s starboard side. Up until that moment, the cries of the burning monsters would be the one and only thing Tucker believed he could never get out of his head, or be able to adequately describe.
At first Tucker thought he was watching a great cloud rippling away, just beneath the surface. An iridescent green circle, the size of a bulkhead door, glowed balefully within the mist, like “ball lightning”—either an eye, or something trying to give the illusion of being an eye. Using the island stack for scale, the lieutenant estimated the length of the cloud—the “eye and the tentacles” at one end, the “tail” at the other—to be at least a 175 feet. Yet at certain moments, as he gazed upon it, the thing seemed like many animals joining together to create the impression of being an individual of great size. At other moments he wondered if it was a single animal trying to look like many.
In either case, the overwhelming impression was that he had witnessed, at almost point-blank range, a huge octopus or squid.
July 4, 1874
London Times
Sinking of the Schooner Pearl, 150 Tons, James Floyd, master, with a crew of six. Latitude 8 degrees 50 minutes North, Longitude 85 degrees 05 minutes East.
The following strange story has been communicated to the Indian papers:
Passengers of the steamer Strathowen, bound from Colombo, Ceylon:
“Our course was for Madras, steaming over a calm and tranquil sea. About an hour before sunset on the 10th of May we saw on our starboard beam a small schooner lying becalmed. There was nothing in her appearance or position to excite remark, but as we came up with her I lazily examined her with my binocular, and then noticed between us, but nearer, a long, low swelling on the sea—which, from its colour and shape, I took to be a bank of seaweed.
“Someone on the schooner fired a rifle at the object and it began to move.
“As I watched, the mass was set in motion. It struck the schooner, which visibly reeled, and then righted. Immediately afterwards, the masts swayed sideways and I could discern the enormous mass and the hull of the schooner coalescing—I can think of no other term. After the collision, the schooner’s masts swayed towards us, lower and lower; the vessel was on her beam-ends, lay there for a few seconds, and disappeared, the masts righting as she sank.
“The object had squeezed on board between the fore and mainmast, pulling the vessel over and sinking it. Its body was as thick as the schooner and about half as long. Our steamer put out lifeboats and picked up five of the crew swimming in the water.”
Captain James Floyd, regarding the Loss of the Pearl:
“A great mass rose about a half mile off our starboard side; it looked like the back of a whale, and it seemed to be basking in the sun. The creature shifted brown, the colour of seaweed, and drifted toward us. I fetched my rifle, but as it happened there was a Newfoundlander among the crew called Bill Darling who not only knew it was a giant squid, but also understood that bullets were ineffectual against such soft flesh and merely served to enrage.
“Tragic. I fired in any case and hit the target, and with that the animal shook; there was a great ripple all around him. The Newfoundlander shouted, ‘Out with your axes and knives, and cut at any part of him that comes aboard! Look alive, boys—and Lord help us!’
“Not aware of the danger and never having seen or heard of such a monster, I gave no orders, and it was no use touching the helm or ropes to get out of the way. We were becalmed. There was no wind for our sail
s. I gave no orders.
“The Newfoundlander and two of my crew found axes, and one rusty cutlass, and all were looking over the ship’s side—and in the time I have taken to write this far, the brute struck us. And the ship quivered. And in another movement, monstrous arms like trees seized our vessel and keeled her over to one side. In another second the monster was aboard, holding on between the two masts, and I heard a shout, ‘Slash for your lives!’ But all the slashing was to no avail. I caught sight of the Newfoundlander, Bill, squashed between the mainmast and one of those awful arms. And the brute, still gripping the two masts, slipped his vast body overboard, and pulled the vessel down with him.”
Chapter 20
Anger, Denial, Acceptance
The nature of our future depends on the future of nature.
—Anonymous
Do you not realize that the sea has a life of its own? Tiny plants near the surface use the sunlight and make most of the oxygen we breathe. You must respect them. You must respect everything about the sea. It is the most precious thing we have. We need it to live, but it doesn’t need us. The oceans and the Earth lived four and a half billion years without us.
—Jacques-Yves Cousteau
July 10, 1948
Dmitri’s Overlook
Santorini
As Mac watched the smoke trails of three downed aircraft pulling apart in the wind, he discovered a level of anger and simultaneous hopelessness for which there were no words.
Dmitri seemed equally dumbstruck.
In this place, at this moment, silence suited Mac. What’s left, he wondered, for the damned to say to the damned?
Throughout the oppressively humid air, and detectable only as radio waves, the Intrepid’s voice thundered. Captain Christian had ordered his radio operator to send a message—uncoded, in both English and Russian:
AMERICAN FLEET TO USSR FLEET. THESE ISLANDS AND THEIR PEOPLE ARE UNDER PROTECTION OF THE UNITED STATES NAVY. ANY FURTHER ACTS OF AGGRESSION ON YOUR PART WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE AND OVERWHELMING RETALIATORY RESPONSE.
—CAPTAIN USS INTREPID
The captain of the Kursk, referring to the Intrepid’s downing of two Russian reconnaissance planes, sent essentially the same message.
Each was trying to say to the other, Get off my back!
“I’m guessing,” Mac said at last, “that this is not a good time to suggest you’d be welcome to join our side.”
“What?”
MacCready’s eyes narrowed. “Surely you know where you stand.”
“Defection? How can you believe this is over?”
Mac looked out to sea without answering.
“Yes. The aircraft carrier. And maybe it’s armed with something to turn this whole island into an oven. I’ve read about a man who faced an entire civilization that prided itself on being more highly cultured and more technologically advanced. Moses phoned in enough power to part the Red Sea, and win. So, never underestimate a man when you believe you have backed him into a corner.”
“Or when he wants his people to be free.”
Dmitri allowed a faint smile toward the American. “You, the microbiologist, and your friend who talks to the animals would be valuable assets, if we let you live. So, why don’t you flip sides?”
“Not on your life.”
“Then you understand me.”
“Not really. First, you jump in at least twice, trying to save me and Yanni—then you capture us. Why bother to save us at all? What? Out of the kindness of your heart?”
“Oh, Captain MacCready. I can assure you that kindness has nothing to do with it.”
July 10, 1948
Aboard the NR-3
Southwest of Santorini
The two overhead explosions were so powerful that Walter found it difficult to believe Corning’s huge cockpit windows managed to hold together. Both shells had come down nearly halfway below the surface before detonating. The second blast-and-implosion briefly lifted the NR-3 entirely off the seabed, with a sharp yank to her stern.
Simultaneously grateful and surprised to be alive, Walter was equally relieved that the reactor crew in the aft compartment was able to completely restore power within only three minutes of the attack. No water came in. All of the shock-resistant wiring supports held strong, and Walter’s equipment was easily brought back to life.
The captain and his copilot had no sooner finished the restart checklist of the sub’s controls when Walter became distracted by something outside. Neither pilot noticed the distraction, for they were both craning their necks back toward the flight engineer’s seat.
“Hey, Professor,” the copilot had barked. “How the hell’d they find us? And why shoot at us? For all they know, we could retaliate with a nuclear torpedo!”
“I hope you gentlemen will be happy to know we’re still mission-ready,” Walter replied, “because I don’t believe they have any idea we’re around.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s just a matter of us being too near that shipwreck—wrong place, wrong time.”
“Then why would they shoot at the wreck?”
“I think because the wreck was attracting other visitors,” the OSS veteran said, and nodded toward the objects that had distracted him.
Up front, cockpit switches were flipped and two floodlamps blazed to life, more fully illuminating the undersea landscape ahead. Minds, too, were illuminated.
Both pilots and one commando had uttered the same words: “Holy shit.”
“Well, there’s something else you won’t see every day,” Walter responded. His sense of wonder seized control, bringing with it a sense of excitement that immediately dried out his throat and forced him to hold back a sudden urge to step away from the flight engineer’s seat and use the cabin’s toilet.
Enormous “snakes” and cephalopod body parts were drifting down from the surface. Tentacles coiled and uncoiled spasmodically, yet landed with the gentleness of snow on a windless night.
One of the creatures, about the size of a bear, had settled to the bottom intact but apparently stunned.
“There you have it,” Walter said grinning. “Some new kind of octopus.”
At precisely that moment, the cephalopod appeared to snap from semiconscious to fully alert, and tried to camouflage itself as a nub of rock or coral. For a few seconds, it had overwhelmed Walter’s listening devices with rapid-fire clicking sounds, crowding out the loud cavitations from the approach of Intrepid’s propellers.
They watched for a very long time as the “rock” shifted its shape and color to something unfamiliar, and then to seabed rock again, all the while surrounded by pieces of its brethren—which continued to wiggle and twitch. In between the occasional chorus of clicking barbs, and return signals from others in multiple directions, the flight engineer’s station had recorded the vibrations of Intrepid and its escorts slowing down, followed shortly thereafter by three aircraft, one after another, impacting the sea surface and bursting apart.
“Sounds like Okinawa’s beginning to happen up there,” the captain said.
Walter winced at the thought, but he could not speak. The cephalopod chorus had resumed, more intensely than before. He turned up the volume ever so slightly so the pilots and the half-dozen commandos could hear more clearly the patterns he was detecting.
“Is that communication?” someone asked.
“I think so,” Walter answered. “Something like dolphin-speak, and maybe every bit as complex.”
Just as quickly as the chorus arose, it died away. Outside, Walter’s strange “new kind of octopus” flickered like a cloud of dazzling blue diamonds, then faded to match its background—faded to near-perfect invisibility.
They all simply watched. What they had just heard and seen left them too astonished to articulate with words. They could do little more than breathe.
Walter broke the spell, coming to the same conclusion as others before him. “Say what you may, but that took real brain power. These things are smarter th
an hell.”
“Is that why the Russians opened fire on them?” the captain asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Makes no sense,” the copilot said.
“I know. Our amazing Technicolor visitor out there looks harmless enough.”
“It’s just sitting and watching,” the captain acknowledged softly—moments before his left shoulder was slammed against the port-side wall of see-through Corning.
Something huge—striking home with even more violence than the two explosions—rolled the NR-3 completely onto its port side. Walter’s seat held him bolted to the floor while a second ramming attack had him bracing for the sub to be turned belly-up, on top of her conning tower and periscopes. He heard unintelligible intercom calls from the reactor compartment, and something like pistons failing and shooting their rods. The two men in the cockpit calmly regained control and pumped up to positive buoyancy. Then, with agonizing sluggishness, the sub began to right itself. Carefully, degree by degree and foot by foot, the captain and his copilot reached an almost comfortable port-side list of ten degrees, and three degrees down-bubble. And there they hovered, twenty feet above the seafloor.
“We’re venting something,” the captain said.
Wisps of black dust and yellow fluid drifted across their forward view, triggering the cockpit’s external chemical hazard detector. Seconds later, an external Geiger counter chimed in. Beyond the wispy fluid, spread across the beams of both search lamps and flaring out its tentacles, was a new cephalopod that appeared to measure at least the length and mass of the sub.
