“Predictions?”
“Based on just the data available, Ingrid thinks they’ll lose about fifty feet an hour for maybe ten hours. Then the pressures may open up the rupture some more”
“Crew?”
“They reported to CINCPAC that everyone’s accounted for. Two minor injuries. There are thirty-seven people aft in the main engine room and sixty-three more forward of the reactor space.”
“They’re not going to attempt survival suits, are they?” Dokey asked.
In some cases, sub crews could escape a stricken vessel by climbing into the airlock, flooding the lock, opening the outer hatch, and rising to the surface.
“I shouldn’t think so,” Emry said. “It’s just too damned deep. And they don’t have the air reserves to blow out the airlock forty times.”
“Coming up as fast as they would have to,” Thomas said, “all that would reach the surface would be dead bodies.” She sounded pretty damned somber to Brande.
He turned to Dokey. “You’re thinking?”
“I’m thinking that, even if we could mate DepthFinder to a hatch, we could only transport three, maybe four, people on each dive. That’s twenty-five-plus trips, Chief. What we need here is Voyager.”
“So we have to do it a different way. Are the sub’s diving planes operable, Larry?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll have to check.”
“Don’t ask them now. Let’s stay off the air.”
“What if CINCPAC asks for us?”
“I’ll handle that. Any other queries, Paco and Bucky just say, ‘we’re on track, on schedule.’”
“Our track, our schedule, not the Navy’s?” Thomas asked.
“That’s right, darlin’,” Sorenson said.
“But the orders…”
“Confiscated my ship; they can’t draft my mind,” Brande finished for her.
“What the hell they going to do about it, anyway? Shoot us out of the water?” Dokey asked.
“You might not have mentioned that possibility,” Sorenson said. “You ever see a navy get mad?”
“Let’s go below and join Ingrid and her computer, see what the alternatives are,” Brande said.
“Limited, I think,” Emry told them.
They filed down the companionway to the main deck, Brande trailing.
He could not resist reaching out and touching Rae Thomas on the side of the neck.
She looked back at him.
Smiled.
But it was a grim smile.
The Situation Room was crowded with important people now. They had begun arriving as soon as word about the Los Angeles’s plight had gotten out.
The President’s face was deeply creased with concern, and his eyes looked extremely tired.
The Director of the DIA, Gen. Harley Wiggins, said, “If we take the Orion off her mission and send her to help the sub, we could lose twelve or eighteen hours. That’s a difference that might affect history.”
The Chief of Naval Operations said, “I know I’m biased, Harley, but those are my people. If we’ve got a chance to save them, I say we take the chance.”
The President looked at Unruh. “Where’s Mark?”
“On the way, sir.”
“You’re speaking for him? You’ve been on top of this from the beginning, Mr. Unruh. What do you think?”
Vienna suddenly looked damned good. Unruh tried to balance the pros and the cons, but kept seeing mind-pictures of Machiavelli and Locke and Kant. He remembered he had hated philosophy. He saw the unnamed faces of 143 Commonwealth sailors, now residents of the deep.
He saw the unnamed faces of a similar number of American submariners.
He saw diseased fish, shrimp, lobsters resting on restaurant platters.
Cancerous, tumor-filled.
Dead seagulls, mutant pelicans.
Islanders, tourists, fishermen dying.
“I guess, Mr. President, I would say that the Orion has a more important mission just now.”
The President asked for more opinions from around the room, particular to inquire of Senate and House armed forces and intelligence committee members who were present.
He mulled it over for three minutes.
Then said, “Admiral Delecourt, order CINCPAC to tell the Orion to continue toward her objective. That is our first priority.”
Avery Hampstead had decided hours before that he did not like his job.
Now he detested it.
When Brande finally came on the line, Hampstead said, “Good evening, Dane.”
“Are you sure, Avery? It’s been a bad day for the U.S. Navy.”
“No, as a matter of fact, it’s a rotten evening.”
“You’re passing on bad news?”
“I have orders for you from Admiral Potter.”
“Just what I wanted to hear about. Look, Avery, we’re going hell-bent for the Los Angeles. We’ll be there in about six hours”
“No” Hampstead said.
“No? What the hell, no?”
“You’re to continue to the impact site.”
“Fuck that.”
“The orders come from the White House, Dane. There’s no way I can affect a change in them.”
“They’re going to let a hundred and ten men die?”
“There’s more at stake, Dane. I’m sure it wasn’t an easy decision. I know it wasn’t.” Hampstead was glad he was a few thousand miles away from where those kinds of decisions were determined.
“We’ve got time, Avery. Three days. It starts ticking on the tenth.”
“If the nuke people are correct.” Hampstead looked across the table at Harlan Ackerman of the NRC, who did not want to meet his eyes.
“And up to eleven days,” Brande added.
“If the nuke people are correct, I repeat. The President does not wish to play with the clock, Dane.”
“The President? Or his goddamned committee?” Brande asked.
“We’re doing what’s expected of us. That’s all we can do.”
“Sure.”
“Dane, I need to know your plans.”
“We’re on track, on schedule.”
September 7
Chapter Thirteen
The Bronstein had reported the Orionʼs position to CINCPAC as soon as the frigate had positively identified her on radar.
In compliance with Brandeʼs standing order, Paco Sanchez and Bucky Sanders had replied, “On track, on schedule,” every time CINCPAC yelled at them over the radio.
The satellite-linked telephone was not being answered. Brande just figured he would have to argue with Hampstead, and he did not have time for arguments.
The fantail of the research vessel was ablaze with lights, alive with activity. The team members had been double-checking and preparing DepthFinder for the past four hours. The sheath below the bow had been exchanged for a larger one, and Atlas was secured in place.
Brande stood alongside the submersible with Dokey, Dankelov and Thomas. He patted his baby on her flank.
“How come, when you were president, you still got to dive?” Thomas asked.
She had been complaining that Brande would not let her make the dive. He had selected Dokey and Dankelov for his crew members.
“Because the chairman of the board was compassionate back then,” Brande told her. “He’s less compassionate now, and he’s made up a new rule.”
The withering look she gave him almost erased the pleasant memory of their mid-afternoon tryst. She could not be certain whether or not he was protecting her, favoring her, or picking on her.