The Greywolf was the result of decades of trial and error with deep-sea submersibles. Prior to its construction the record for manned depth was just under seven thousand meters. The Greywolf shattered that record on its first dive, going down to eight thousand meters. Its design was radical, being neither the traditional sphere nor cigar shape most people associated with such vessels. It was shaped like the F-117 Stealth fighter, with composite, flat-planed sides, made of a special titanium alloy.
The three-man crew of the Greywolf didn’t know they owed the makeup of their ship’s skin to the work done on the mothership in Area 51, but that was where Majestic researchers had learned much about various alloys, the results being passed on to other military black projects such as Greywolf.
Commander Downing was not concerned about the dive itself as they cleared through two thousand meters. The depth was well within range, the currents in the area were minimal, and the submersible was operating well within all acceptable parameters. He, and the other two crew, were, however, concerned about their objective. No foo fighter had been spotted close up since the destruction of the lab at Dulce, but all three men had seen classified videotape of the results of that strike. They also knew about the loss of signal from Viking II as it closed in on Cydonia. It probably was all just automatic functioning of the Guardian computer, but they figured that wouldn’t do them much good if they had an accident at five thousand meters caused by Guardian.
Because of the fear that the guardian might react to their presence near the foo fighter base, the Greywolf was being accompanied on the dive by Helmet II, a remotely piloted vehicle, or RPV. It had received its name because that was exactly what it looked like: a helmet with several mechanical arms and sensors bolted to the main body. A large propeller rested in the bottom of the Helmet and provided vertical thrust. Maneuvering was done by four small fanlike thrusters spaced around the rim of the base.
Helmet II was equipped with not only the arms and sensors, but a video camera on top that had an unrestricted 360-degree view and one that ran around on a track just above the lip and thrusters. There was a third bolted to the center bottom, able to look directly down. The views these cameras picked up were transmitted directly back to the Greywolf, where the remote control was, and from there up to the Yellowstone.
As it passed through four thousand meters, the Greywolf came to a halt and sent Helmet II ahead. That was Emory’s job. He sat in a cramped section of the crew compartment and looked at video screens and a fourth computer screen that showed him essential data as to attitude, trim, depth, and speed of the RPV. He controlled it with a joystick that always reminded him of his kid’s game controller for the computer at home. As they slowly descended, Tennyson picked up several sonar contacts a thousand meters above them. He promptly reported them to Downing.
“Whales?” Downing asked.
“No. Submarines.” Tennyson listened carefully, hearing the sound of screws churning through water decrease. “They’re slowing.”
“Ping with active,” Downing ordered. “Let’s get a fix, then I’ll call Yellowstone and find out what’s going on.”
The subs were silent now, fixed in position. Tennyson sent out a ping and listened to the return. “We’ve got three Los Angeles-class attack submarines over our heads.”
“Damn,” Downing muttered. He clicked on the ULF radio linking him to the Yellowstone. “Mother, this is Wolf. Over.”
The reply came back in the flat way ULF transmissions did, muted by the mass of water over their head. “This is Mother. Over.”
“What’s with the subs? Over.” Downing had no time or inclination to be tactful or subtle at four thousand feet. The pressure of the water surrounding their ship would crush them in an eye-blink if the hull were breached in any manner.
Their commanding officer on the Yellowstone was also terse, for different reasons. “We have them on sonar also. We have no contact with them, but we have been informed by CINCPAC that they are here at National Command Authority directive. I don’t know what their orders are, and when I asked, I was told to mind my own business. They won’t interfere with your mission, so ignore them. Out.” Downing twisted in his seat and looked at Tennyson. “Prepare to ignore,” he said.
Tennyson smiled. “Preparing to ignore. Aye, aye, sir.”
“Implement ignore mode.”
“Ignore mode it is.” Tennyson laughed, but it echoed hollow off the titanium alloy walls and died quickly.
“If you gentlemen are interested,” Emory said from his little corner, “I’ve got visual contact with the ridge.”
The other two peered over his shoulder as the rock-strewn surface of the East Pacific Ridge appeared on the video screens.
“How far to the objective?” Downing asked.
“Another two hundred meters down and Helmet should be right on top of it,” Emory reported.
A minute went by, then the view from the bottom camera showed something different. Emory’s hands manipulated both the controls for the RPV and the camera.
“That’s it!” Downing announced as the camera focused on a large smooth black tube sticking out of the side of the ridge. “That’s where the foo fighters are based.”
“And there they are!” Emory exclaimed as three glowing spheres shot out of the end of the tunnel. They raced directly at the camera, splitting off in three different directions just as they were about to collide with it.
The men in the submersible shifted their gaze to the top camera, which Emory frantically maneuvered to try and track the foo fighters. He caught glimpses of one of them turning abruptly and heading back toward the RPV.
Suddenly all the screens went blank as Emory cursed. “I’ve lost the link with Helmet.” His fingers flew over the controls as he tried to reestablish contact. Downing and Tennyson jumped back into their respective seats.
“Give me sonar on those things,” Downing ordered as he quickly powered up the engines.
“They’re approaching.” Tennyson was trying to listen and read his screen at the same time. “They’re coming fast, real fast.”
Downing goosed the engines, then gave full power, straight up. “How long?” “Uh, forty seconds,” Tennyson said.
“Still no contact with RPV!” Emory called out.
“Ping it,” Downing ordered.
A loud ping echoed as the sound wave went out.
“Thirty seconds, no, wait, make that twenty.”
“Damn,” Downing cursed. They had gone up less than forty meters so far. He reached down and flipped open the cover on red switch.
“Negative on ping!” Emory was stunned. “Helmet is gone!” He pulled himself together. “Ten seconds. We should be seeing them any second!”
Downing threw the switch and the interior of the Greywolf went pitch black except for two small battery-powered emergency lights. The drumming of the engines went silent.