Taylor grinned at him. “It won’t bother me, sir.”
“John.”
“Al.”
“And I was christened Huckleberry,” Elliot said.
“You’re shitting me,” Cartwright said.
“No. It’s got to be Huck.”
“All right, Al and Huck, we’ve got work to do. I’ve had a few dozen messages from CINCPAC, apparently put together by a bunch of experts looking over the admiral’s shoulder. And I have a strongly recommended course of action to follow. Tell me what you think of it.”
Cartwright spread a large chart on the table. Drawn on it was a grid of lines.
Taylor took one look, compared it to the mental picture he had of the pattern he and Garrison had worked out, and said, “Not much.”
“Me, either,” Elliot said. “My exec and I made some preliminary plans that don’t match that at all.”
Cartwright rolled the chart and tossed it to one side. “Scratch that, then.”
He unrolled a fresh chart and Taylor and Elliot helped flatten it with ashtrays and coffee mugs.
“Okay,” Cartwright said. “First. You know the Russians are already on the scene?”
“News to me,” Taylor said.
“Their first sub got there last night. SSN named the Winter Storm, commanded by Captain Mikhail Gurevenich. He’s a capable man. A short time later, the Tashkent showed up. It’s also an SSN, and the boss man is Boris Verhenski. His dossier, according to Navy Intelligence, says he’s been a fast mover through the ranks and he’s ambitious. One of our recon planes got photos of the two subs meeting on the surface.” Cartwright told them about the eminent arrivals of the rocket cruisers Kirov, and Kynda, and the patrol ship Olʼyantsev.
“That’s them,” Elliot said. “Are we us?”
“Yes, except for the Bronstein and the Antelope which are already in place. They’re trying to be policemen without the authority to police. We’ve also got a private research vessel on the way, the Orion, but it’s a few days out. I doubt that they’re going to be here in time for much search activity. It’d be nice if we could point them in the right direction.”
Cartwright outlined the problems posed by the maverick surface vessels already in the region.
“That’s what we’ve got to work within, Al and Huck. What are your thoughts?”
“How about Navy submersibles?”
“They flew one out of England, but during the stopover in San Diego, discovered some sort of problem. They’re working on it.”
“Are we getting any reports from the CIS subs?” Taylor asked.
“None. CINCPAC says Washington is working toward some kind of cooperation, but nothing is forthcoming as yet”
“Fuck ’em, then,” Elliot said. “Both the Russians and the experts at Pearl. Let’s do it ourselves.”
“Let’s,” Cartwright said.
“I’ll do the drawing,” Taylor said, picking up a sharpened pencil and a straightedge. “I got a ‘C’ in drafting.”
“That’s better than I got,” Cartwright told him.
“Captain Gurevenich wishes to speak to you, Comrade General,” Leonid Talebov said.
“Gurevenich?”
“He is commander of the Winter Storm. Both he and the Tashkent commander are on the frequency.”
Oberstev walked across the bridge and took the microphone from Captain Talebov. The tall naval captain towered over him, and he turned to look forward. He had an unobstructed view of the bow and the seas ahead of the Timofey Olʼyantsev. The ocean was a beautiful aquamarine, as fine as the gem. The sun was gaining on its zenith, shining brightly, but he knew the air outside the bridge was chilled. In the view to his left, the overcast skies seemed to be gaining on them.
“This is General Oberstev.”
“Comrade General, I am Captain Gurevenich. Captain Verhenski is on the channel, also.”
“What is it that I can do for you, Captain? How is your submarine?” Oberstev had seen the report of the ramming incident.
“The damage is minimal,” Gurevenich said. “It will not affect our mission.”
“I am pleased by that,” Oberstev said. “It is the first good news I have had in days.”
“Thank you, General. We have received the search plan from Fleet Headquarters, along with the information that you will be the on-site commander.”
“That is true,” Oberstev said.
“And we have completed the first few legs of the search plan.”
“Yes?”
“The results are negative, General.”
“How deep are your sonars?”
“One-four-hundred meters,” Gurevenich said.
“We are running at the same depths,” Verhenski added.
“You have no feedback at all?”
“It is negative in terms what we seek,” Gurevenich said. “We cannot get the sonar arrays deep enough to find the bottom, except for several mountaintops.”
Oberstev looked around the bridge. Captain Talebov studied him, noncommittal. Alexi Cherbykov shook his head, rather sadly. Janos Sodur was offering the wisdom of his most sour look, suggesting that if Oberstev did not provide the right decision, Chairman Vladimir Yevgeni would know of it within seconds and subsequently provide the correct version.
“I am not a mariner,” Oberstev said into the microphone, “but my recommendation would be that, given the priority of this operation, you operate your craft at the extremes of your depth capability.”
“Is that a recommendation, General, or an order?”
Sodur glared at him.
“An order, Captain. It is an order.”
It was much like swimming in warm crystal, Brande thought. The water slid over his skin like velvet, and he could see so clearly he might have been viewing a television image. Visibility exceeded a hundred feet.
He swam lazily, barely moving his fins, rocking his shoulders easily as his arms trailed out beside him. The weight of the scuba tank was neutralized. The exhalation bubbles rose behind him in a long arc. Below, the vibrant blue and orange and yellow and red hues of coral and sea flowers and tropical fish made his world come to vivid life.
The warm waters of the Caribbean were soothing after the tumultuous month behind him. He and Janelle had received their doctorates on June sixth. On June eighth, his MGTD, which he had restored and raced in rallies, was stolen by a fifteen-year-old refugee from high school who thought he was a future Juan Fangio. The teenager and the MG were both totaled in Trabuco Canyon attempting a curve at twice the posted limit.
On June eleventh, Henning Sven Brande died. Sven died as he had lived, quietly and strongly. Janelle and her mother made around a hundred telephone calls and put off the wedding for two weeks while Brande flew back to Minnesota to help his grandmother with the funeral arrangements. He also helped Bridgette, who suddenly appeared more frail and more dependent than he had expected, move to a duplex in Grand Rapids. The tears streamed down her face when she signed the real-estate agreement to put the wheat farm up for sale. Brande felt as if he had failed two very good people.
He was not in the best of moods when he and Janelle Kay Forester were married on June thirtieth. His outlook was more up-tempo two days laters, after they had checked into the 18th-century manor house tranformed into the Harbor View Hotel in Charlotte Amalie.