“Think about the damned Tashkent! Do you want to be responsible for more deaths?”
“Other people, paid better than I am, make the decisions,” Dewey said.
“Look, you idiot! Look over there! The submersible is already deployed.”
“And you should recall it as soon as possible,” Captain Dewey told her. “You are placing a large part of the world at risk.”
The reporter decided to interrupt, rather than observe. “The lady’s plan seems logical to me, Captain. What are you objecting to?”
Captain Dewey turned his head and solemnly surveyed the reporter. Thomas could practically see the wheels turning inside his head. Thinking about headlines.
The commander sighed. “Very well, I’ll radio Hawaii, but I don’t think Iʼm going to get very far.”
As he left the bridge, the reporter asked her, “Your first name is Kaylene? How do you spell that?”
Avery Hampstead could not believe that so many people could get so pissed off just because one man wanted to save a hundred men.
The operations room was in turmoil. Technicians banged angrily on keyboards, hauled messages in and out, updated plotting boards. Cmdr. Harold Evans held a microphone in one hand and held a headset against his ear with the other hand, talking to some captain aboard the Bronstein. Adm. David Potter, who was seated at the table next to Hampstead, was red-faced and on an open line to the Pentagon. Hampstead figured he was talking to the Chief of Naval Operations.
The nuclear people had congregated in one corner, trying to stay out of the battle zone. They were smarter people than he had given them credit for being.
They had known for some time, via radar contacts, that Brande had veered off course in the direction of the Los Angeles. What had really raised temperatures was the Orionʼs continual, “on track, on schedule,” responses to every query sent out by CINCPAC.
Hampstead had even tried the telephone, but only reached an answering machine. “Sorry we can’t get to the phone right now, but we’re on track, on schedule. Try calling back in a couple days.”
Potter slammed his phone down. His face was an even deeper red. “The son of a bitch!”
“Who?” Hampstead asked.
“All of them.”
“Admiral,” Evans said, “Captain Dewey has a Kaylene Thomas on board.”
“Who’s Thomas?”
“She’s the president of Marine Visions Unlimited,” Hampstead offered.
“What the hell does she want?”
“She’s got a plan to save the Los Angeles,” Evans said.
Hampstead thought the commander sounded hopeful.
“You tell her to get that goddamned boat of hers back on course.”
“Sir? Shouldn’t we…I mean, there’s men…”
“Don’t question me, Commander. I care about those men, but I do what Washington tells me to do. You do what I tell you to do. Got that?”
Hampstead wondered if there was not another line of work in which he might be happier. One located a long way from Washington.
It was not until the Winter Storm had approached the surface and deployed its antenna to transmit its latest search data to the Timofey Olʼyantsev that Capt. Mikhail Gurevenich learned of the catastrophe that had struck the Los Angeles.
He had immediately ordered the search temporarily abandoned and the Winter Storm onto a heading toward Captain Taylor’s vessel.
He had only momentarily considered reporting his change in mission to the OVyantsev, and then had foregone the report.
Now, as they neared the reported coordinates, cruising at 200 meters of depth, sonar had reported surface vessels, the American submarine at depth, and what was likely a deep-diving submersible.
He told Mostovets, “Lieutenant, I am going to the communications compartment. You have the deck.”
“I have the deck, Captain.”
“Decrease speed to five knots.”
“Five knots. At once, Captain.”
“Then we want to dive within a few hundred meters of the Los Angeles and stand off to the west.”
Gurevenich walked aft and entered the communications section. Radio Operator Kartashkin was on duty.
“Kartashkin, turn on the acoustic receiver.”
“Yes, Captain.”
The technician leaned to his far right and worked the switches and toggles on the little-used transceiver.
A babble of noise erupted on the speaker. Kartashkin refined it with the squelch and filters, then began to scan the spectrum of frequencies.
“Stop! There!” Gurevenich said.
He had heard a garbled phrase, then had to readjust his mind to accept English.
Kartashkin fine-tuned the set.
Two different voices, both unknown to Gurevenich, were exchanging information.
The DepthFinder had submerged almost as soon as Brande had released the lift cable tying her to the Orion. He had clambered down through the hatchway, accidentally kicking Dankelov in the shoulder, and dogged the hatch tight. About a bucket of salty seawater came with him.
“Did you get a fix on that antenna buoy, Valeri?” he asked.
“Yes, Dane. It is one hundred and fifty yards away. We should take a heading of two-three-six.”
“Got two-three-six,” Dokey said. He was operating the sub’s controls.by leaning across from the right seat.
Brande settled into the canvas seat and took over the controls.
The sub descended at her maximum rate as Brande rotated it to the new heading. He eased in minimal forward propulsion. The tossing and turning of the surface had completely subsided. The ride was smooth and the interior of the hull seemed exceptionally quiet. Hum of electronics.
“Fire up the sonar, Okey.”
“Coming up.”
“Depth sixty feet,” Dankelov said. “Lithium hydroxide blower operating at full speed. Oxygen reserves nine-six percent.”
“Let’s have the cabin recorders, Valeri. We may want a record of this.”
“Recorders on. Acoustic transceiver on.”
Almost as soon as he said it, Mel Sorenson checked in. “DepthFinder; status report.”
Dankelov put the acoustic transmissions on the instrument panel speaker and reported for them. “All systems are green, Captain. Depth nine-eight feet. Normal descent.”
Dankelov, whose speech was so formal normally, gravitated to the American radio idiom of clipped phrases whenever he got hold of a microphone. It was, Brande thought, much like the Citizen’s Radio band craze of earlier years. Everyone who bought a radio sounded like an Alabama trucker with the pedal down as soon as they got on the air.
Brande stared out the forward porthole. There was nothing but blackness. He flipped the toggle for the floodlights, which gave them a forty-foot range of vision. A golden-orange fish darted from in front of them, too quick to identify.
“Got’em at fourteen-thirty-seven feet,” Dokey said. “Hey, we’ve got another one coming.”
“Another what?” Brande asked.
“Sub. I don’t know whose it is.”
“Keep an eye on it.”
It took them almost fifteen minutes to achieve the depth Brande wanted, about twenty feet lower than the Los Angeles.