But all around them were the red and green running lights, along with a few white anchor lights, of a mishmash of vessels. The nearest ship, off the port bow, appeared to be an interisland ferry, perhaps seventy meters in length. The porthole lights were lit in neat rows. Dozens of people strolled the side decks and leaned against the railings, staring outward at…what?
Gurevenich had never surfaced his submarine at sea among so many vessels before. It seemed dangerous for a craft that relied on stealth.
“Conning tower lights, Lieutenant.”
“Lights, Captain?”
“As I said.”
Mostovets gave the order, and the exterior conning tower lights came on, clearly illuminating the red star painted on the side of the sail.
Mikhail Gurevenich wanted these stragglers and gawkers to know that there was a CIS presence in the area. He did not quite know how to tell them that he would brook no interference in the performance of his duties.
The people aboard the ferry saw his lights and began pointing, more people running around the decks to gather on the nearest side, the starboard side, of the ship.
They began yelling at him.
Gurevenich’s English was not good, but he could distinguish some of the words, epithets.
“Bastards…planet-rapers…motherfuckers…pigs … assholes…”
Some of the people yelled in languages he could not fathom. Perhaps Oriental.
“What is it? What are they saying, Captain?”
“I believe they do not like us, Lieutenant Mostovets.”
“What? Why is that, Captain?”
Gurevenich knew the reasons, but he was forbidden to tell even his officers.
The ferry’s propellers went into reverse, and it began to back slowly in a wide circle, bringing the bow abeam of the submarine.
Around them, other watercraft, ranging from small cruisers to fishing trawlers and tramp freighters, began to converge on the Winter Storm,
“What are they doing?” Mostovets asked, his alarm clear in his voice. “They would not ram us?”
In a hundred million years, Gurevenich would not have even considered that possibility.
Now, he was not so certain.
September 3
Chapter Nine
Avery Hampstead was awakened by the night-duty officer’s banging on the door to his borrowed room in the bachelor officers’ quarters.
“Cut it out, goddamn it!”
“Sorry, sir. You’re wanted at the operations center immediately.”
Hampstead sighed. “Coming, coming.”
His schedule of sleep, normally cut-and-dried, had been so disrupted in the past days that, in addition to the time-zone slippage from Washington, his body did not know whether it was up or down, or should be up or down.
He crawled out of the narrow bed and stood naked on the carpet. The window was open, and a stiff, cool breeze puckered his skin.
Not having planned this trip to paradise, Hampstead had arrived without luggage. Admiral Potter’s aide had gone to the base exchange and purchased toiletries, underwear, and white cotton shirts for him. He noted a few wrinkles in his suit pants as he pulled them on, and he was getting damned tired of the striped maroon tie.
Crossing to the attached bathroom, he checked his face in the mirror. He could not remember when he had last shaved, but apparently just before he had crashed into bed. He decided to let it go.
He tied his tie leaving the room, walked the short corridor to the front door, and let himself out into the night. He felt like he was sneaking out of his frat house.
The three-block walk to the operations center was pleasant. The breeze caused the fronds of the palm trees to rustle. The grass bordering the concrete sidewalk had been recently mowed, and the aroma took him back a couple decades. The scent of exotic flowers — frangipani? Hibiscus? — was also riding the zepher.
Inside the operations center, not much had changed since he had left four hours before. Commander Evans was back as the watch commander. Admiral Potter was gone, properly abed, Hampstead assumed.
Four of the nuclear experts who had arrived late yesterday afternoon were drawn into a tight circle at a small table stuck out of the way in one corner. They all appeared sober and serious. Harlan Ackerman, a stocky, unkempt man with wire-rimmed glasses, shaggy beige hair, and sagging jowls, was the Nuclear Regulatory Commission representative, and he seemed to be dominating the conversation.
Hampstead took a quick look at the plotting board which seemed to be moving in slow motion then crossed the room to where Commander Evans was talking to a technician.
As soon as Evans saw him, he broke off his dialogue with the technician.
“Mr. Hampstead, thank you for coming over.”
“What’s up, Commander?”
“We’ve had a bit of a fracas, sir. Over in the area of operations.”
“Fracas?”
“A CIS sub — probably the Winter Storm — surfaced, and several civilian boats tried to ram it.”
“Jesus!” Hampstead thought Evans’s “bit of a fracas” was very British. “Did they succeed?”
“We’ve been trying to straighten out the reports, all of which we’ve picked up from civilian radio transmissions on marine frequencies. The aerial surveillance was dropped as soon as night fell, and our ships patrolling the region were some distance away.”
Hampstead waited, patiently, he thought.
“The sub surfaced sometime after eight o’clock … ”
“Last night!”
“Yes, sir. Eight-twenty, our time, from what we can learn. At that time, an excursion boat and a trawler apparently attempted to ram her. We don’t think they were successful, though several passengers on the excursion boat claim to have felt hull contact.”
“Did they know who they were after, Commander?”
“I believe so, sir. The sub showed her lights. Several witnesses saw a red star on the sail.”
“You’ve notified the CNO?”
“Yes, sir, we have. But … this operation is a bit … chaotic. I don’t know what civilian agencies are involved, or are supposed to be involved, and I thought you’d better be informed.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
Hampstead turned back to the large conference table, plopped in a cushioned and castered chair, and picked up one of the telephones available. He told the operator to connect him with the Situation Room at the White House.
A few minutes passed before Unruh picked up on the other end.
“Avery?”
“Yes, Carl.”
“I was in the little boys’ room.”
“It’s allowed. Did you get the information on the CIS sub?”
“Yes. It was channeled here from the Pentagon. I think people are getting very scared, Avery.”
“So what’s happening?”
Unruh coughed. “What else? Committees. The State people are preparing alternative responses in case the CIS lodges a complaint. The Navy is trying to determine what ships were aggressive and whether or not the submarine was heavily damaged. Bob Balcon has asked a bunch of marine legal experts whether or not we could send in some battlewagons and clear out the area. I expect that opinion to come down any month now.”
“Aside from all of that crap,” Hampstead said, “we now know the Russians are on-site.”
“True. The CNO has sent out cautionary messages to ship commanders.”
“Is there any way we can monitor their progress? The Russians?” Hampstead asked.
“As of ten minutes ago, a decision had been reached to sow the area with sonobuoys, probably right after dawn. I don’t know if that decision will hold.”