“You’re right, naturally.”
“What about the length of crew shifts, Dane?” Roskens asked. “That worries me.”
Because each descent and each ascent would require over three hours for DepthFinder, Brande had extended the bottom time for crews to ten hours from their normal maximum of six hours. The six hours required for a crew change took too much away from search time.
“I think our people can handle it, Ingrid. And it still gives us plenty of safety time on the battery packs.”
“We’re using up go-juice at a damned scary rate, if we’re going to maximize speed on DepthFinder’s motors,” Emry said.
“I don’t know of a better compromise,” Brande said.
In shallower water, SARSCAN or Sneaky Pete would be trailed below the research vessel, almost directly under it because of the weight of the cable. Twelve to fifteen thousand feet of fiber-optic cable was not only extremely heavy, but it also created a lot of drag in the water. The Orion would be slowed to four or five knots, greatly increasing the time required to cover the search area.
For this search, SARSCAN would be towed behind DepthFinder on no more than two hundred feet of cable. At maximum output on her propellers, with a heavy tow, Depth-Finder could make around twelve knots, about three times the speed the Orion could make towing from the surface.
The door from the corridor flew open with a bang and Dokey and Otsuka burst in.
“You tell’em,” Dokey said, headed for the galley.
“We got arms,” she said.
Brande grinned. “I knew you’d do it.”
Dokey emerged from the galley with two cans of Coke. “We could celebrate better if this chicken outfit allowed booze on board.”
“Talk to the head honcho, don’t talk to me,” Brande said. “Gargantua’s back in condition?”
“Damned right,” Dokey said. “I practiced by tearing toilet paper squares off a roll, then power-lifting a few fifty-five-gallon oil drums. I wanted to lift Kim, but she wouldn’t cooperate.”
Otsuka sipped from the Coke Dokey gave her as she sat down. “I’d have felt like Faye Wray.”
Roskens laughed.
“Thanks to both of you,” Brande said.
“Just a program problem,” Dokey said.
“One that required rewriting nearly seven hundred lines,” Otsuka added.
“I don’t know how we could have missed that earlier,” Brande said.
“Nobody thought about Okey not being able to think in metric,” she said.
Dokey hung his head until his chin was against his chest. “I’m a miserable scientist.”
Everyone agreed, and Brande excused himself to go up to the bridge, then back to the communications room. Bucky Sanders was manning the console and gave up his seat to Brande.
He called Hampstead at Pearl Harbor.
“According to what I see here,” Hampstead said, “you’re moving right along.”
“Bring me up to date, Avery.”
“The CIS has two subs working the area, Dane. The sonobuoys have identified them, and we’re recording their search pattern. I don’t think they’re finding anything.”
“How deep?”
“Our best guess is around two thousand feet.”
“I think they’re wasting their time.”
“Perhaps”
“Are they going to share their findings with us?”
“They have not, as yet,” Hampstead said. “I talked to Carl Unruh earlier…”
“Who’s he?”
“Deputy Director of Intelligence for the CIA. He’s trying to get someone to call Moscow and ask that the search data be released to us.”
Brande could imagine who ʻsomeoneʼ was. “What about information on the rocket?”
“There’s nothing new since I talked to you at noon about the computer modeling. We’re pursuing a great many channels on that.”
“Did you realize that your conversation is beginning to sound as if you’re part of the spy business, Avery?”
“God in heaven, no! I never thought I’d be sitting in a naval operations room, much less conversing with people who perform clandestine activities.” There was a hesitation as Hampstead covered the phone and spoke with someone. “Admiral Potter would like to speak with you, Dane.”
“Put him on.”
“Dr. Brande, this is David Potter.”
“How are you doing, Admiral?”
“Dr. Brande, as soon as you reach the area of operations, you are to report to Captain John Cartwright. He is aboard the RV Kane.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because he is coordinating the operation locally. He will make your assignments. “
“Not mine, Admiral.”
There was a very long pause. “That is the way it is going to be, Dr. Brande. We can’t have civilians going off half-cocked.”
“I’ll be glad to keep you abreast of what I find, Admiral, but this is my business, and I’ll conduct it my way. Mr. Hampstead will be my liaison.”
“No, Dr. Brande. We will conduct this search my way. If you do not agree with that, then I will commandeer your equipment and still do it my way.”
“Let me talk to Hampstead.”
When Hampstead came back on the line, Brande said, “Avery, you better get hold of someone in power and get that asshole off my back.”
“Iʼll try the CNO.”
The Winter Storm was running silent at ten knots of speed. Part of the reason for the slow speed was to give the three sonar operators — all of them now on watch — a better chance of locating strange signals. One man, Paramanov, was monitoring the deep-tow sonar, while the other two men kept watch on the submarine’s standard sonars — forward-and side-looking, and took turns relieving each other.
The recorders were running, taping all of the sonar activity, which was very little. One exceptionally strong return had been recorded to the southwest, at 1,000 meters of depth, and dutifully recorded on the chart, but the consensus was that it belonged to a sunken ship, very likely of World War II vintage.
Mostly, the 116 men aboard the submarine were intensely conscious of the depth, 700 meters currently. It made them nervous and closemouthed. People spoke in whispers, when they spoke and it was not entirely necessary.
Those who were not on watch sat on their bunks, not playing chess, not playing cards and not talking. The tension was palpable throughout the submarine.
Lieutenant Kazakov walked the corridors, keeping an eye on the tension. He was acting very self-important today, Gurevenich thought, perhaps in defense against his own taut nerves.
Kazakov had a bruise on his forehead. He had been on the conning tower ladder the previous night when Mostovets came sliding down the ladder, slapping a boot into his head. Gurevenich had been right behind Mostovets on the ladder, calling out for an emergency dive even as he slammed the hatch shut and dogged it.
The Winter Storm was already in descent when the keel of the excursion boat struck the forward hull. It had been a sliding, grating contact, but when they surfaced several kilometers away to examine the hull, white paint rubbed into the dark gray paint of the submarine’s forward deck was the only evidence of damage.
Kazakov had called for an immediate investigation by some international body. Mostovets had suggested the use of a single torpedo to register their complaint. Instead, Mikhail Gurevenich put them to work contacting the Tashkent and initiating the search.