“Center the target,” Sarovan repeated to the four men below.
Slowly the image descended, until the tube was centered in the middle of the image.
“Initiate ten-second countdown on warhead detonation,” Sarovan ordered. The man next to him slammed his fist down on the red button.
When the countdown hit five, Sarovan leaned forward to the mike. “Project!” he yelled. “Project!”
There was a bright flash of light.
The image faded.
One of the scientists monitoring a panel spun about. “The warhead is gone!”
That was confirmed as the countdown passed through zero and nothing happened in the chamber.
Sarovan’s broad smile showed his exultation. “The wave carried the warhead to the target. We have succeeded!”
Vasilev realized he had stopped breathing and had gone completely rigid, waiting for the explosion in the chamber. He untensed his muscles, taking a deep breath.
“That is it?” General Vortol asked suspiciously.
Sarovan pointed at a radio. “Call your plane monitoring the area.”
Alarms rang on the Skylark. The Thresher had been at depth for fifteen minutes without a problem, but now garbled reports were coming of electrical trouble. Then suddenly the communication was gone. The sonar men on the Skylark threw down their headsets as a tremendous explosion roared into their ears.
The captain of the Skylark ran to the side of his bridge.
He staggered back as the surface of the ocean erupted in a massive mound of white water two kilometers off his starboard bow. The fountain went up two hundred feet, then slowly subsided. The large wave hit the Skylark, rolling it thirty degrees over, and then passed.
“Get me contact with Thresher!” the captain yelled as he ran back into the bridge. The sonar men put their headsets back on, but all they heard were noises that everyone associated with submarines prayed they’d never hear: the sound, like popcorn popping in the depths, of bulkheads giving way, and the high-pressure noise of air escaping into the ocean.
That noise meant that what remained of the Thresher was headed for the bottom and 129 men had just died.
Far overhead, circling to the east, a Soviet TU-20 Bear-D reconnaissance plane noted what had happened.
General Vortol put the radiophone down. A broad smile crossed his face. “They saw the explosion reach the surface!” He grabbed Professor Sarovan by the shoulders and gave him a vigorous hug. “You did it!”
The doors in the chamber below opened, and soldiers and scientists walked in. At the other end of the control center, Vasilev slowly relaxed. He walked over to the computers and pulled the tapes off, putting them back in their case. He turned and walked to the elevator, knowing he was done here. He stepped in as the sounds of the celebration behind him rose. The doors swung shut and blocked out the noise. With a jolt, the elevator began going up.
In the control room, Sarovan pulled a bottle of vodka out of a drawer, and drinks were poured all around. What no one remembered in the excitement was that power was still being fed to the four men through the leads to their heads.
General Vortol was beside himself. “We cannot be defeated now! We have the ultimate weapon! We do not need Cuba to base our missiles. We can strike anywhere in the world from right here.”
On the surface, Vasilev stepped out of the elevator, the heavy doors sliding shut behind him. The bitter arctic wind cut into the exposed skin on his face.
Inside the experimental chamber, the scientist closest to one of the coffins reached forward to open the lid, when his right hand suddenly jerked upward. The scientist didn’t have time to ponder this strange development for long, because the arm snapped like a twig, bone protruding from the forearm. He screamed, staggering back.
At another coffin, one of the other scientists jerked backward, his hands going to his eyes, tearing at them. Fingers came forth dripping blood, holding two eyeballs, the occipital nerves still dangling.
There was a moment of shock in the control room, then Sarovan dropped the bottle and sprinted to the panel Vasilev had been at. He slammed his fist down on the button Vasilev had watched over. Canisters exploded, pouring gas into the chamber. The surviving scientists and soldiers in the experimental chamber turned and ran for the door, but it slid shut in their face, locking them in.
Sarovan watched as the scientists at the last two coffins grabbed each other around the throat. The gas was now rising inside the chamber. It was fast acting and Sarovan almost regretted having to use it, but there would always be other bodies to use now that they had had this success. The men trying to get out slumped to the floor, bodies twitching as the gas tore into their nervous system.
“What is happening?” Vortol demanded.
“Everything is under control,” Sarovan said. He pointed at the coffinlike objects in the chamber. “They will be dead in twenty seconds. The— ” Sarovan’s jaw dropped open in shock as the heavy lids to all four coffins flew off, spinning through the air and crashing down. The four men inside all sat bolt upright, their heads turned in his direction, eyeless sockets fixing him with their dead gaze through the gas swirling about them. The wires still dangled from the sockets in their heads. Something formed in the air above the men— a black vortex, five feet in diameter. Sarovan had never seen anything as dark, as if the universe had opened up and was showing him its deepest depth.
Sarovan stepped back from the blast glass, hands raised in futile defense. Lightning crackled around the vortex, arcing outward. Then the vortex exploded and all was consumed.
On the surface, Vasilev spun about as the massive elevator doors buckled as if a huge hand had punched them from the inside. The earth beneath his feet trembled violently, and he fell to his knees on the icy runway.
Chapter One
Wires and tubes crisscrossed on the bed, and Sergeant Major Jimmy Dalton carefully scooted them aside as he gingerly sat on the edge. With a callused hand he tenderly brushed a stray lock of gray hair off the face of the woman lying there.
He could feel the press of her thin thigh against his hip, and he stared at her face, letting his hand lightly trace over every wrinkle and line etched there by the years, lingering on the closed eyelids. He let out a deep breath and took her hand in his, careful not to disturb the IV line in the back of it. He leaned over, his lips close to her ear. His voice was a low, gravelly one, one that gave an immediate sense of confidence to the listener.
“Well, my Treasure, another great day in airborne country. The colonel gives his regards. He was by last night. Lots of people are worried, but I know you’re going to be all right.
“The Christmas formal is only six weeks away and, well, I was wondering if you might want to escort this old soldier there.” Dalton waited, head cocked as if listening to an answer, before speaking again.
“You’ve been away from home for four months now. I think it’s time to be coming back. I miss you.”
Dalton felt her skin under his fingers. He remembered the long years when he had so yearned for just this sensation, to be able to feel her once more. He leaned close and put his lips to her ear. “You waited for me for five years when I was a POW, I’ll wait forever for you. So we can be together once more.”
“Sergeant Major Dalton?”