“Andrei Sergeyevich Petrov, I demand that you prepare the system to be activated at once!”
Senior Lieutenant Alexandrov entered the lab in time to hear Petrov calmly voice himself.
“You can demand all you want. Admiral. But it will make little difference to me. I will not activate the power grid until the design faults that I recently discovered are rectified.”
Valerian was surprised by this revelation.
“What design faults are you talking about, Doctor?”
“That is the reason that I was sent here, wasn’t it, Admiral?”
Halting a moment to stir his tea, Petrov added, “After a careful analysis of the data that I collected during my visit to the floor of the trench, I believe I know why your initial experiment failed. The fault lies not with the magnetic generators, as we first suspected, but with the electrical source that powers them.”
“Whatever do you mean. Doctor?” questioned Valerian in a calmer tone.
Petrov took a sip of his tea before answering.
“My calculations indicate that we will need an additional power surge of at least ten percent to ensure complete success. Only then will the dematerialized object end up at the target location.”
Valerian appeared relieved by what he was hearing.
“That’s easy enough to correct. Comrade. All we need to do to produce this additional power is operate our reactor at full capacity. That should generate the ten percent additional surge that you say is needed.”
“As you very well know. Admiral, such a thing is much too dangerous. The reactor on board this ship is not designed to run at full capacity. We risk a partial meltdown or even worse.”
Valerian abruptly changed tactics, and replied with a gentle almost brotherly concern.
“Unfortunately, we have no choice. Comrade. There is no time to install a new reactor, and for the sake of the rodina’s future security, we must make do with our present capabilities.”
The wall-mounted telephone began ringing, and Senior Lieutenant Alexandrov answered it. A brief conversation followed, after which he hung up the handset and briefed his superior.
“That was the which man Admiral. He reports that the signature of the 688 is quickly approaching the capture zone. It will be within range in another three and a half minutes. He also indicates that radar has picked up a small surface vessel in the area. It is believed to be a fishing trawler.”
“That radar sighting is not important at the moment, Viktor Ilyich,” returned Valerian.
“What concerns me is that we are about to lose an opportunity to try the system before Seawolf puts to sea. Please Doctor, I implore you. Supervise this final test, and I promise you that I will scrap the entire project if it should fail.”
“That will mean absolutely nothing if our reactor explodes,” retorted the physicist. “But it won’t!” replied Valerian.
“I wish that I could share your optimism. Admiral.
But I’ll tell you what. If you agree to see to it that the U.N. observer team immediately leaves the ship, I will attempt a single full power surge. After fifty years of merely pondering a theory, I too am curious to finally see if it belongs in the realm of reality or not.”
Valerian’s face broke out in the warmest of smiles.
“Of course I’ll agree to this condition. And thank you, Comrade. I guarantee you that you won’t be disappointed.”
From the open bridge of the Sunshine, Al peered through a pair of binoculars, and took in the large ship that lay motionless in the water due south of them.
This vessel was painted white, and had sleek, modern lines. Though it displayed no deck guns, Al sensed that it was a military ship of some sort, and he decided to give it a wide berth when it came time to pass it.
A gull cried harshly from above, and Al put down the binoculars. The rich scent of incense filled the gentle sea breeze with an alien odor, and he slowly redirected his gaze to his boat’s fantail.
His two passengers remained seated at the card table, with their hands tightly linked, and a thick, white candle flickering between them. Al had seen wise women like Dr. Elizabeth before, while growing up in the swamps of Okeechobee. His mama had called them healers, and Al would never forget visiting one such elder who spoke in strange, frightening tongues and was known for her love spells that she wrote out in gator blood.
Still not certain why the two white women had gone to the expense of chartering his boat, Al left the bridge and headed aft. The setting sun did little to relieve the oppressive tropical heat, and as he slowly walked out onto the open stern, the large black cat sprinted between his legs. He watched as this creature excitedly leaped up onto the gunwales, and stared down into the sparkling blue depths with eyes wide with wonder.
“Even Isis knows what’s going on in the water beneath us,” said Dr. Elizabeth, her voice unnaturally deep and guttural.
“I tell you, it’s nothing less than the battle between good and evil!” “But what about Peter?” asked Mimi Slater, her tone tinged with worry.
“Will we be able to contact him?”
Al watched as Dr. Elizabeth proceeded to take off the straw hat that she had been wearing, and throw it on the deck. Then with a reverent slowness, she looked into the powdery blue sky and spoke forcefully.
“With the coming of the equinox, the Tuaoi stone shall awaken. The crystal capstone will be activated, and the link reestablished between Mother Earth and its cosmic swan. Woe to those who attempt to divert the force for their own selfish gain. For we are witnessing a struggle as old as man himself. Only if the powers of the white light prevail, will the lovers be reunited to sanctify this greatest of all victories.”
20
“Torpedo has just broken the five-hundred-yard threshold. It’s got capture!” exclaimed Tim Lacey.
John Walden listened to these dreaded words from his perch behind the helm. His pulse quickened, and he scanned the gauges before him for any sign of redemption.
“Thirteen hundred and fifty feet, and continuing the dive, Captain,” tensely reported the COB on their current depth.
With the deck angled sharply downwards, and the hull plates moaning in response to the pressure at these depths, Walden glanced up at the speed indicator.
Somehow the engineering crew had managed to squeeze out another precious knot of forward speed.
But this effort would all be in vain, unless their pursuer could be countered.
“I’ve got a clear picture of the walls of the trench on the fathometer. Captain,” informed the navigator.
“At our present course and speed, we’ll impact the lower portion of the western ridge in another two minutes time.”
“Torpedo range is down to three hundred yards,” added Lacey, his somber voice scratchy from use.
“Thirteen hundred and seventy feet,” reported the Cob, who had chewed his unlit cigar down to a bare stub.
Walden allowed the depth meter to fall another ten feet before calling out forcefully.
“Take us up, helmsmen!
Full rise on the planes!”
Having anticipated this order, the helmsmen yanked back on their steering yokes, and the depth gauge fell yet another ten feet before it momentarily stopped, then began turning in the opposite direction. The deck was now angled sharply upwards, and as Walden regrasped the steel handhold, his glance returned to the speed indicator.
“Come on, Rickover. I know you’ve got it in you,” he softly urged.
Over at the sonar console, Tim Lacey tried his best to sort out the cacophony of sounds being conveyed through his headphones. With the torpedo due to strike them any second now, he bravely turned the volume gain to maximum amplification, and searched the roiling depths for any sign of the weapon. And it was then he heard the distinctive buzzing signature of the torpedo, that seemed to momentarily intensify, before steadily lessening. Yanking off his headphones, he excitedly cried out into his microphone.