Dive to Oblivion

14

Mimi Slater spent her free day in Miami at her hotel.

She slept well, for the first time in recent memory, and treated herself to a late brunch. She passed her afternoon reading the newspaper around the pool, and even had a chance to join an aerobics class in the exercise room. She was in her room getting ready for dinner when the telephone rang, and a familiar female voice greeted her.

“Hon, it’s the doc. How the hell are you?”

“I’m doing just fine. Dr. Elizabeth. Where are you calling from?”

“I’m down in the lobby of your hotel. Why not join me in the lounge for a cocktail, and you can tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“I’ll be down in a couple of minutes,” replied Mimi, who was grateful that she had already showered and needed only to throw on some clothes.

She found the psychic seated in the lobby lounge, beside a potted palm tree. Dr. Elizabeth was dressed in a brightly colored, loose-fitting Hawaiian shift, and wore sunglasses and a big, straw hat. An animal carrier lay on the ground beside her, and Mimi could just see the black fur of the psychic’s Persian cat inside.

“Have a seat, hon, and name your poison,” greeted Dr. Elizabeth, after putting down the coconut shell that she had been sipping from.

“But be careful, these rum smoothies are wicked.”

Mimi sat down, and after ordering a glass of white wine, got right to business.

“I chartered us a boat yesterday afternoon. The captain seems like a real nice fellow, and is prepared to get under way practically any time we’d like.”

“What do you feel about takin’ off tonight, hon?”

“That’s fine with me. Dr. Elizabeth.”

“Good. I’m always excited when I’m about to go on a cruise, and couldn’t sleep now even if I wanted to.

How are you really feelin’, hon? You certainly look a bit more rested since last time I saw ya.”

“To tell you the truth. Dr. Elizabeth, all this activity seems to be good for me.”

“There’s nothin’ like travel to make ya forget all your cares. You needed this break, lady.”

“I just hope that we’re doing the right thing,” said Mimi thoughtfully.

Dr. Elizabeth tenderly reached out and took Mimi’s hand in her own.

“Quit feelin’ so guilty, hon. Those doubts of yours are only natural. When we get out there on the open seas, you’ll soon enough know that you made the right decision. Say, you don’t get seasick, do ya?”

Mimi shook her head that she didn’t, and Dr. Elizabeth smiled.

“That’s good to hear, hon. Because all that medication can dull your psychic powers, and I’m gonna need you fully alert to help me contact the entity.”

“How do you go about doing that?” questioned Mimi, not really certain just what an entity was.

“I’ve got a little ritual, hon, that helps me focus my powers and make the connection. When this channel is opened, my psychic guide will be there to lead us along the path to our goal.”

“I still can’t believe that I’m going to get a chance to talk to my husband, and that he’s in another universe.”

“You’ve gotta believe, hon. Remember, it’s your faith that’s gonna make this thing possible. I’m only the conduit.”

In the background, a piano began playing. Mimi recognized the music as Gershwin’s, “Summertime.”

She had heard this same song very recently, but couldn’t remember exactly where. Seemingly picking up on her thoughts. Dr. Elizabeth began softly humming along with the melody.

“That’s sure a fittin’ song,” said the psychic.

“This being the last full day of summer and all.”

Mimi had almost forgotten the date, and looked down to the floor when the cat began to meow.

“Sounds like Isis wants to sing along also,” she said with a grin.

“What about some chow before we hit the seas?” asked Dr. Elizabeth.

Mimi readily accepted the offer, yet excused herself to make a single phone call to Virginia Key first. Only when she was satisfied with the results of this call did she join Dr. Elizabeth in the dining room.

The evening buffet included seafood specialties, and Mimi and Dr. Elizabeth put away their fair share of boiled shrimp, scallops, grilled red snapper, and succulent lobster tails. Isis had her portion of this feast during the drive that followed, and all were content as they passed over the Rickenbacker Causeway and took in the sparkling lights of Miami to their left.

The wharf area was for the most part empty of other cars, and Mimi parked her rental vehicle and led the way onto the nearby docks. Carrying the cage holding Isis, she passed by the sleek cabin cruiser that had been responsible for yesterday’s catch of bonito, and halted alongside the rather decrepit wooden trawler that lay beside it. This vessel’s owner could be seen on his hands and knees, at the stern, over the open engine hatch. With the assistance of a flashlight, he was in the process of exploring the compartment’s innards, and failed to note the presence of newcomers.

“Excuse me. Captain Al. It’s Mimi Slater.”

The silver-haired oldtimer looked slightly embarrassed as he switched off his flashlight and quickly looked up.

“Hello, missy. I was just makin’ some last minute adjustments to Sunshine’s carburetor.” “Don’t let us stop you,” said the psychic as she climbed onto the boat’s fantail and set down her suitcase.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Elizabeth.”

Al stiffly stood, and made a point of wiping his grease-stained right hand on his coveralls, before pulling down the bill of his sailor’s cap and issuing a mock salute.

“Pleased to meet ya. Doc. The name’s Alphonse Cloyd. But please, call me Al.”

Dr. Elizabeth scanned the wooden stern and curiously peered into the engine compartment.

“How’s she been runnin’, Al?”

“Sunshine’s a lot like her master. Doc. She just keeps movin’ right along, slowly but surely. So don’t you worry none, she’ll get us there sure no ugh “I believe she will,” said the psychic, who read the truth of this promise in the black man’s honest face.

Mimi boarded the boat, and carefully handed the cage to its owner. Dr. Elizabeth wasted no time opening the wire-grill door, and Isis strolled onto the deck.

The cat contentedly stretched, and then was kept busy with the assortment of scents that permeated her new home.

“My, what a beautiful pussycat,” commented Al.

“When I was a lad, we once had a big white cat who used to hang out down by da docks. Boy, did it ever get friendly when it got to be time to cut up da day’s catch.”

“Isis just loves fish, Al,” replied Dr. Elizabeth.

“Then she certainly came to da right place, Doc, because I’ve got a locker just plumb full of fresh bonito fillets, just waitin’ for her.”

Mimi returned to the dock for her bag, then stowed it away in the boat’s interior cabin. The cramped compartment featured a tiny private bathroom, a small galley, complete with a hot plate, a table with four wooden chairs, and two bulkhead-mounted sofas that doubled as beds. The only artwork present was a poster, tacked to the wall beside the kitchen area. It showed a large, swampy expanse of water, with a flat bottomed John boat floating on it. A pair of shabbily dressed black fishermen occupied this vessel, and it was Al who explained this poster’s significance while he was preparing them some tea.

“That’s a scene right outta my childhood, ladies.”

Mimi and Dr. Elizabeth were gathered around the table, and it was the psychic who politely probed.

“Where were you raised, Al?”

“Florida’s Lake Okeechobee,” answered Al proudly.

“I was born in Port Mayaca, just a stone’s throw from da water. My, oh my, was that some wild place in those days. We had gators comin’ right up to da front door, and you never saw so many snakes in all your life.”

“Sounds dangerous,” remarked Mimi.

“Not really,” returned Al.

“My pappy taught us to respect nature, and da only critters we had any trouble with were da mosquitoes. I soon enough learned that skunk oil would take care of them, and I spent my childhood without so much as a snake bite.” “I envy you,” said Dr. Elizabeth.

“I grew up in the wilds of Brooklyn. A city of that size didn’t have much nature to offer — an occasional songbird and plenty of rats and roaches.”

“I don’t mean to be nosy, or anything, but what’s callin’ you to da waters off Andros?” asked Al, as he wiped chipped ceramic mugs, none of which matched.

“I know dat it’s not for da fishin’.”

“That’s for sure,” answered Dr. Elizabeth with a chuckle.

“The closest that I ever want to get to a fish is my dinner plate.”

“Then why go to all da expense of charterin’ this boat?” continued the oldtimer.

“Al, you look to me like you’re a man of some religion,” observed Dr. Elizabeth.

Al pointed to the ceiling and replied to this.

“I respect and fear da Lord — if dat’s what you mean, Doc?”

Dr. Elizabeth nodded and directly met the black man’s curious stare.

“Al, I guess you could say that we’ve chartered your boat for some very special prayers.

All that we ask is that you leave us alone when these prayers begin, and that you guarantee us absolute quiet.”

“I can certainly handle dat. Doc,” replied Al, who poured a spoonful of loose tea into each of the mugs and then filled them with hot water.

“I thought you could,” said Dr. Elizabeth, while catching Mimi’s furtive glance.

Al served them their tea, and began whistling as he proceeded to pull a dented pewter flask from his pocket. To the melodic strains of “Summertime,” he poured a good portion of the flask’s contents into his tea, then looked up and smiled.

“I’ve got some tasty red-eye sweetener here, if you’d care to join me.”

“Pour away,” instructed Dr. Elizabeth as she anxiously held out her mug.

Mimi declined this offer, but she recognized the song she’d heard in the hotel’s piano bar. It had been from Al’s lips, just yesterday.

Captain Alexander Litvinov spent most of his afternoon inside his cabin aboard the Pantera, working on his personal log. He had started keeping a diary shortly before entering the Nakhimov Naval Academy in Sevastopol. The early days of his military career had been exciting, and he was glad that his father had recommended that he document this portion of his life.

He had kept on writing, and he couldn’t count the number of small, spiral notebooks that he had filled with his impressions and exploits.

Alexander hoped someday to combine these books into a cohesive account, and then have it published.

For he was living proof that no matter how humble one’s beginnings were, there was always the opportunity to better oneself.

Forty-two years ago, he had been born in the small Siberian town of Bratsk. His parents were both Kievbred engineers, who had volunteered to work on the Angara River hydroelectric facility. This was in the days when the pioneer Communist spirit swayed the hearts of young and old, and his parents spent the rest of their lives attempting to harness the wild rivers of Siberia, to obtain clean, inexpensive electrical power.

Alexander’s fate was sealed the day his father took him on a weekend fishing trip to the shores of Lake Baikal. Never had the impressionable youngster seen anything like this lake, the largest fresh-water body on the entire planet. The surging waves entranced him, and when his father told him of other bodies of water called oceans, which made Lake Baikal look like a mere pond in comparison, Alexander knew that his destiny lay at sea.

Soon after entering middle school, he joined the All-Union Voluntary Society for Assistance to the Navy, otherwise known as the DOSAAF. This paramilitary club did much to prepare him both physically and mentally for his chosen career. Because of his excellent grades and spotless disciplinary record, his application for enrollment in the Nakhimov Academy was accepted, and on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, he left Bratsk to become a man of the world.

He then broke the seal of his first diary, to record his journey on the Trans-Siberian Railroad. This was a great adventure, and he fought the urge to sleep, so eager was he not to miss a sight.

His father’s stories did little to prepare him for the immensity of their country. It took a week just to reach the Ural mountains. From there a rail journey of several more days was needed to reach Stalingrad, Dnepropetrovsk, and finally, Sevastopol.

The Nakhimov Academy was situated on the shores of the Black Sea, and Alexander initiated his studies with one eye on the sparkling blue waters. Four years later, he graduated number one in his class, and received his first junior assignment, aboard a diesel powered training submarine, based on the Baltic Sea, outside of Leningrad.

To get there, he boarded another train, and saw yet more of the rodina with memorable stops in Odessa, Kirov, and Moscow itself. Though he had only a day to spare, his hasty tour of the capital brought him to the Kremlin and the grave of the Soviet Union’s founder.

Viewing Lenin’s mummified body was a great inspiration, and Alexander reboarded the train anxious to defend the socialist principles to which Lenin had dedicated most of his lifetime.

Alexander’s summer in the Baltic whetted his appetite for more submarine duty, and after attending nuclear-power school in Leningrad, he became a reactor specialist aboard an Echo class attack sub. After distinguishing himself as a loyal, hard-working line officer, he served with distinction aboard the latest nuclear-powered attack and ballistic-missile-carrying submarines.

A year ago, he had been teaching physics at the Academy, and didn’t know if he’d ever be sent to sea again — when the most exciting assignment of all was given to him. At long last, he was to have his very own command. And what a command this turned out to be!

The Pantera was the most advanced undersea warship that the rodina had ever produced. Its sensors and electronics were first class, and easily rivaled those of their primary adversary. Unfortunately, the world’s changing political climate made this a most confusing time to take such a prototype vessel to sea, and he often wondered if this great expense was necessary.

With the breakup of the Soviet Union and the fall from power of the Party, went the end of the infamous Cold War. Today the enemy wasn’t the United States, but internal strife within the boundaries of the motherland.

As one of the new generation of naval officers who hadn’t seen service in the Great Patriotic War, Alexander was participating in one of the greatest demobilizations in history. Half of the rodina’s submarine fleet had already been retired, with more to come. This would leave them with a vastly decreased force level of mostly newer, more capable vessels, with class names such as Akula and Pantera. These were the undersea warships that would take the rodina into the twenty-first century.

Alexander’s current diary segment was a discussion of the new geopolitical climate, and Pantera’s place in it. As far as he was concerned, their present patrol was nothing but a friendly exercise in hide-and-seek. Following the USS John Marshall across the Atlantic was only a game, as was their current assignment.

The chances of actual hostilities with the Americans were improbable. The United States was now a firm ally, whose grain filled their bellies and whose clothing kept them warm.

Russia’s experiments with a free-market economic system were promising, and America’s guidance was invaluable. Communism was dead and buried, and the sooner his countrymen accepted this fact, the better off they’d be.

But how hard it was to break the socialist spell.

Years of propaganda had ingrained a tangled web of lies deep into the rodina’s collective psyche.

Even today, in these so-called enlightened times, the endless suspicions persisted, resulting in missed opportunities, and so much wasted effort.

Alexander knew that some aboard the Pantera would label his thoughts traitorous. Their zampolit was one of them.

Boris Dubrinin was a prime example of all that was wrong in today’s Russia. He was a living anachronism, whose gospel was an irrelevant state Party line. Frustrated by his own personal shortcomings, he was an advocate of a step backwards, to a time when a tyrannical central state had ruled every aspect of one’s life.

The fall of the Berlin Wall showed mankind that no dogma lasted forever, and that freedom of choice was every man’s prerogative. Once set free, democracy swept through Eastern Europe, and soon made itself known on the streets of Moscow.

What Boris Dubrinin and his cronies failed to comprehend was that once the rodina had tasted such freedoms, a return to the blind subservience of the past would be impossible. They were still fighting yesterday’s war, with the true enemy being themselves.

It proved to be the growl of the intercom that redirected Alexander’s thoughts to more mundane matters.

His hand shot out to pick up the nearest telephone handset.

“Underwater sonar contact. Captain!” said an excited male voice on the other end of the line.

“Bearing two-six-zero.”

“I’m on my way,” replied Alexander.

The Pantera’s attack center was conveniently located only a few meters from his stateroom. A tense atmosphere prevailed here, as Alexander strode past the helm and approached the bearded figure seated behind the sonar console.

“What exactly do you have out there, Misha’!” he breathlessly asked.

The senior sonarman pulled back one of his bulky headphones and pointed towards the repeater screen.

“I’ve got a solid underwater transient, sir. But for the life of me, I can’t quite place it.”

To hear for himself, Alexander put a set of auxiliary headphones over his ears, and listened to a clearly audible, pulsating, whirring noise.

“You know, this signature reminds me a bit of that produced by the John Marshall,” he surmised.

“I thought that was the case,” said the sonarman.

“But how can that be, when we left the Marshall behind in Norfolk, with the only other American sub similarly outfitted with a hull-mounted swimmer delivery shell whose home port is in the Pacific?”

“Perhaps the USS Sam Houston has transited the Panama Canal and is currently operating out of Port Canaveral,” offered Alexander.

“Or maybe what we’re hearing is the signature of another submarine, that’s carrying a deep submergence rescue vehicle on its back. Whatever it may be, make certain that you get plenty of tape on it for further analysis.”

“That I will, sir,” replied the sonarman as he returned his attention to his console.

From the other side of the attack center, a familiar bald-headed figure urgently beckoned Alexander to join him at the navigation plot. Though he was in no mood to tangle with Boris Dubrinin right now, he reluctantly crossed the compartment to see what was so important.

“Captain, what do you make of this new contact?” asked the concerned Zampolit.

“My best guess is that it’s either a converted Ethan Alien class vessel, or another class of attack sub that’s been outfitted with a DSRV,” answered Alexander.

The political officer responded to this news while patting his soaked forehead dry with a handkerchief.

“Then for all we know, it could be the same 688 that we tailed from Norfolk.”

“That it could. Comrade Zampolit,” returned the captain.

Dubrinin looked down at the navigational chart that lay before him.

“Captain, it’s urgent that we follow this sub to learn its intentions.”

“What’s the reason for this urgency?” asked Alexander.

“My operational orders say absolutely nothing about such a thing.”

The zampolit pulled a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to Alexander, who read its contents while Dubrinin spoke out in a bare whisper.

“This communique arrived only minutes ago. Captain.

As you can see, the Pantera has been temporarily assigned to Special Development Group Thirteen, and is now under the direct command of Admiral Igor Valerian. Since our new orders implicitly direct us to monitor all American naval traffic headed into the Bahama Islands, we have no choice but to follow this new contact.”

Alexander carefully reread the dispatch and shook his head in confusion.

“This is certainly a strange turn of events. Comrade. What is this Special Development Group Thirteen, and why have we been assigned to them?”

The zampolit sardonically grinned.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Captain. And until we hear otherwise, what else can we do but follow these new orders as directed?”