“You’re putting in awfully long hours for a commerce person, Avery.”
“Where in the hell have you been?”
“This is Washington, remember? Where else but committee meetings?”
“That’s right, of course. Look, if this were LBJ’s time, we’d be saying the war is escalating.”
“What happened?”
Hampstead told him about DepthFinder’s encounter with a nuclear blast.
“Jesus, Avery! Are they all right?”
“So far as I know. A lot of the electronics on the sub were damaged, but her hull is fine. I talked to your gal Stroh a couple hours ago, and she called back, let’s see, twenty minutes ago. Justice is spending the night preparing a stack of briefs, and in the morning, they’re sending out a platoon of lawyers to counter AquaGeo’s legal claims. The first thing will be to lift the injunction. Plus, she hinted at some other tactics they have in mind, but she wouldn’t elaborate.”
“I’ll bet the Oval Office is now involved,” Unruh said.
“That was my thought, also. The Vice President probably got through. However, Carl, all of this court action may not be soon enough.”
“I know. Monday, the twenty-fourth.”
“Not only that,” Hampstead said. “You know Brande. The guy’s had one of his people die — however that might have occurred, and he’s just been socked by a nuke. I suspect he won’t wait around for the niceties to be finalized.”
Unruh thought about that. Brande did have a proclivity for ignoring the regulations when he thought ethics, morality, or justice were being subverted by the unscrupulous in this world. The fact that he was usually right didn’t enter into it, when bureaucracies were involved.
“Let me hunt down Delecourt and see what the Navy’s up to, Carl.”
“Then call me back, will you? I hate being left in the dark.”
“You’re not the only one.”
Delecourt was at his home in Virginia, the duty officer at the Pentagon told him, and Unruh reached him there.
“Yeah,” Delecourt said, “I heard about Brande’s intimate knowledge of nuclear events from Pam Stroh. The California got a reading on it, and after analysis, our people judge it at twelve kilotons of output.”
“That’s getting too damned big, Ben.”
“A typical tactical nuke is twenty kilotons.”
“Want to make a little wager, Ben? That the next one will be larger yet?”
“My betting money is already in Las Vegas, Carl.”
“What else are you doing?”
“We were trying to be circumspect about this, but I finally had CINCPAC give Harris all the details.”
“Who’s Harris?”
“Commander of the California. Mabry Harris. Another thing, I put a P-3 Orion up, and I’ve got them orbiting the area. The weather’s not too hot, and they’re high, but they have reported activity at Site Number Four.”
“What kind of activity?”
“Three large ships have maintained station there for about the last ten hours.”
“Do your analysts say anything about that?”
“We’ll do a flyover at first light in the morning, Carl, but the estimate suggests that they’re delivering mining or drilling equipment.”
“So, Deride’s starting mining operations on the southern end?”
“While continuing to blow up the northern end,” Delecourt said. “However, it all indicates that he intends to follow through with his mining. That might stand him in good stead in any hearing.”
“Shit. Can we stop the mining or drilling?”
“On what grounds? He’s legal all the way, Carl. And we’re at a standstill because of the injunction.”
“Let’s put the evil eye on him.”
“I could,” Delecourt said, “send the destroyer Maher south to watch the freighters. I don’t think it would do any good, however.”
“Probably not. Anything else I should know?”
“I don’t think… oh, you know about the environmental activists?”
“No.”
“There’s twenty-seven yachts, tugboats, houseboats, and rowboats on their way to the scene. They’ll be a few hours out, yet.”
“Damn. That’s a replay of the Russian thing.”
“Think on the positive side, Carl. They may be able to do more than we’re doing.”
Wilson Overton had faxed his story to Washington in mid-afternoon, and Ned Nelson had faxed back a simple statement: “Hot damn!”
Nelson had also confirmed that Brande’s outfit was under contract to the Department of Commerce, and that the Navy was involved in some way. Both confirmations supported, and gave independent collaboration to claims Overton made in the article. Nelson was trying to run down a rumor that the CIA was involved, and he had put two reporters to work checking the backgrounds of high-level AquaGeo people.
Overton was seated in the banquette in the salon with Jacobs, Freelander, and Lane. Lane had cut her hair; it now only fell halfway down her back, and Overton thought it looked much better.
“You’d think a floating palace like this would have some Scotch hidden somewhere,” Overton said.
“We don’t drink at sea,” Jacobs told him.
“You read my story. Don’t you think that’s worth celebrating?”
“You might celebrate, Wilson. It’s rather discouraging to us,” Jacobs said.
“I’m trying to help you. Look at the PR you’ll get when that bomb hits tomorrow.”
Jacobs smiled. “One, then. Debbie, do you want to see what you can find.”
Lane got up, found bourbon and Scotch in a lower cabinet in the galley, got some ice from the refrigerator, and poured out four drinks for them.
Overton sipped his, knowing he was going to nurse it for a long time. Jacobs could be stingy.
“Can you believe that?” he asked. “Intentionally irradiating the ocean? Emphasis on ‘intentional’.”
“I believe,” Jacobs said, “that you’re finally coming around to our way of thinking, Wilson.”
“Hey, Mark, I’ve never been too far away from it. We’ll get the bastards,” Overton promised.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bull Kontas was proud of his acquisitions. He was grinning widely when, with a crowbar, he popped the cover on a wooden crate with its stenciling blacked out, and stood back so Brande could marvel.
“A torpedo?” Brande asked.
“Got two of ‘em, Chief. They’re old Mark 43s, and they’re electric powered, and they’re slow as hell, but they can do a job. Damn things weigh two hundred and sixty-four pounds. I think they were destined for Nicaragua, but, you know, money talks.”
Brande had no idea in the world what he was going to do with two torpedoes except, like Bull, be the proud owner. Located on the deck next to the battery chargers, the crates were about nine feet long, and the seven-foot, eight-inch torpedoes were cradled lovingly inside each box.
“Damn, that’s great, Bull.”
Okey Dokey tested the cosmoline protectorant with a forefinger. “Greasy mother.”
With his back to Kontas, Dokey looked at Brande and rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, Dane. Control and ignition might be a problem.”
“Got the manuals, too,” Kontas said.
“That’s all we’ll probably need,” Brande said. “I sure didn’t expect you to find torpedoes, Bull.”
“We’re in the underwater business, right. I thought they were damned appropriate,” Kontas said, his weathered face creased into an uncharacteristic smile.