The CIS foreign ministry negotiators, on the other hand, were pressing for charges against the excursion ship that had attacked the Winter Storm and for removal of the civilian ships that were hampering the search efforts.
They had yet to settle on mutual topics which might be negotiable.
The Defense Department was well represented this morning. Benjamin Delecourt and Harley Wiggins had been buttressed by the Secretary of Defense, three service secretaries, and generals from Navy, Marines and Air Force.
They had shown up last night, as soon as Unruh had reported the new meltdown data to the DCI, the National Security Advisor and the President.
The Senate and House attendees had not been advised of the foreshortened timetable.
No decisions had been reached, more than twelve hours after the National Security Agency had finished interpreting the computer tape.
Unruh’s nerves grated from the inaction.
The plotting board appeared to be suffering from the same inaction. The movement of ships seemed infinitesimal. To the west of the impact zone, the Kirov and Kynda task forces had not moved. To the east, the Navy task force out of Hawaii was still en route, but had slowed down by order of the President, who had finally come to his senses, in Unruh’s perception.
Within the zone were the four research vessels — Kane, Bartlett, Orion and Eastern Flower — and the converted Timofey Olʼyantsev. Their movements were sluggish on the chart as they inched along after their deep-diving submersibles and towed sonar gear. All of them were being dogged by civilian ships that had sailed northeastward from the media-broadcast impact point as soon as the research vessels began to follow their search patterns in the true impact zone. Kane had reported that a large yacht loaded with media people was staying close by.
The Navy’s DSRV had finally been repaired, and along with its cable, was en route to Hawaii from San Diego. Current forecasts, however, predicted that the weather would not permit a parachute drop of the robot to the Kane.
The actual area of the search had been tinted blue on the electronic display. It formed a trapezoid with the parallel sides running north and south, two miles long on the western edge — longitude 176°10′6″. The eastern boundary had been set along longitude 176°10′50″, about thirteen miles east of the point of impact. That side of the trapezoid was twelve miles long, extending as far south as latitude 26°19′55″.
After discussions with the oceanographers aboard the Orion and an apparent argument with CINCPAC, the Navy people aboard the Kane had refined the area, based on what they knew about the angle of the rocket as it hit the sea. If it had not broken up immediately, they estimated that, with its fins for stabilization, it could glide up to twelve miles.
Based on information recorded from the sonobuoys, the CIS submarines had been covering a much larger area, and Unruh hoped the Russians did not know something the American experts did not know.
A few subsurface geologic formations had also been indicated on the display, resulting from information forwarded by the Los Angeles before her accident and from the Houston. The site of a shipwreck, probably dating from World War II, had been identified, but it was southwest of the search area.
As reports came in from the research vessels, channeled through the Kane and CINCPAC, the technicians were beginning to display a few negative numbers. Depths of 17,000, 18,000, and 19,000 feet were starting to be shown. Just from the spacing of the numbers, Unruh could picture an exceptionally rugged sea bottom.
To the south of the search area, with the bottom right corner of the search area extending over it, was the suggestion of a deeper canyon.
Unruh remembered standing in downtown Colorado Springs once, looking up at Pikes Peak. The tip of the peak was 8,000 feet above the city, 14,000 feet above sea level. That view had been awesome. Thinking about the reverse, depths of 20,000 feet, stretched the imagination to the breaking point.
Picking up a sugared donut from the stainless steel cart, Unruh carried it over to the table and sat down next to Mark Stebbins. His dietary regimen had gone to hell, and he was afraid to face a scale.
Gathered around that end of the table, all of the advisors were still debating the finer points.
Unruh was getting damned tired of it. He had been on the brink for over a week. All he needed was a simple goddamned decision. He broke in. “Gentlemen, I know Iʼm low dog in this house, but I’m the one who’s supposed to inform the civilians. Can I have a yes or no?”
The President looked at his watch. “The computer model says twenty hours from now?”
“Yes, sir.”
The President looked up at the display. “There doesn’t seem to be much progress.”
“No, sir.” They had been delaying a decision, hoping to hear optimistic reports from the Pacific.
“If we tell them what Piredenko predicts, the searchers might scatter, and we’ll never find it.”
Probably, Unruh thought.
“If we don’t tell them, we’ll probably find it. We also stand to lose a few people if it does go supercritical.”
“A few people,” the CNO said.
“No,” said the President. “We’ll keep Pyotr Piredenko’s estimates to ourselves.”
It was a tough way to go, Unruh thought, though he also agreed with it. Though he had never met Brande or any of his oceanographic scientists, the heroic splash Wilson Overton’s article in the Post had made over the rescue of the Los Angeles had given Unruh an appreciation for the courage and dedication of the people on the research vessel.
He reached for the telephone, to call Hampstead, then remembered that the Commerce undersecretary did not handle classified information very well.
Withdrawing his hand from the phone, he decided no call was necessary.
He hoped that Overton did not have to make, in addition to a hero, a martyr out of Brande.
“Orion, this is Winter Storm.”
“Si, this is the Orion. Go ahead, Storm.ˮ
“I am Captain Gurevenich. I would like to speak with Mr. Dane Brande”
“Un momento. Iʼll find him, Capitan.”
The English language never failed to amaze Gurevenich. New phrases kept popping up.
He was beginning to lose track of how many times they had covered the search area in the last five days. The constant tension of cruising at the extreme depth limits, in addition to doubled watches, had worn the crew to a frazzle.
And his men still did not know that they were looking for a prize that could mean their deaths. That knowledge caused Gurevenich a great deal of sleepless rest. The junior officer, Lieutenant Kazakov, had demanded more information about the rocket after his visit to the American submarine, when Commander Taylor had let slip the word reactor, but Gurevenich had sworn the lieutenant to secrecy. Still, when they passed each other in a corridor, in the wardroom, or in the control center, Kazakov treated him to baleful, accusing looks.
Sr. Lt. Ivan Mostovets appeared in the hatchway to the communications compartment, and Gurevenich motioned him inside.
As soon as they had achieved a cruising depth of twenty meters, to deploy the antenna as well as give the crew a respite from the nerve-wracking depths, Gurevenich had chased the radioman from the compartment.