Dive to Oblivion

16

Ever since the fire in the hangar, a somber, almost funereal atmosphere prevailed inside Starfish House.

The aquanauts took the loss of the mini sub like that of a co-worker, and the team’s leader took it upon himself to boost their badly sagging morale. It was during lunch that Pierre Lenclud directly confronted the group, who had gathered around the dining room table.

“Mes amis, it’s time for all of us to come to terms with the fact that we will no longer have the services of our diving saucer. I know that all of us have grown dependent upon Misha, but now that must change. Until this great experiment is ended, we will have to get used to doing things ourselves, with no more excursions into the depths, and no additional muscle but our own. Can you live with that?”

“It doesn’t sound like we have much of a choice in the matter,” remarked Ivana.

“I relied on Misha more than any of you, yet I certainly don’t want to give up.

Even though I still think we’ve been the victim of deliberate sabotage.”

“I disagree,” countered Karl Ivar.

“I’m the only one to blame for that fire, and I take full responsibility for it.”

Ivana snickered.

“Comrade, your sentiments are noble, but your perceptions naive. It’s obvious that you don’t understand the ruthless nature of the forces that we’re dealing with.”

Before the Norwegian could respond to this, Pierre Lenclud slapped the palm of his hand hard against the table.

“Enough of this senseless bickering! It will get us absolutely nowhere. If this team is to survive intact, then we must put this incident behind us.”

“I’m with the Commandant,” concurred Lisa Tanner.

“So we’ve lost a valuable piece of machinery. Big deal. We’ve still got our life-support system, and all the other features of this underwater city. So let’s not go and lose our perspective, or we’ll ruin this once-in-alifetime opportunity.”

Tomo quickly got on the kiwi’s bandwagon.

“Well said, Lisa. I was looking forward to using the saucer to help me put up the walls of the fish pen. But I’ve been waiting five long years to attempt this experiment, and I’m quite prepared to do all the manual labor myself. I say forget Misha, and let’s continue with this great adventure while we have the opportunity to do so.”

“You won’t have to work on the fish pen by yourself, Tomo,” said Karl Ivar.

“I think I’ve figured out a way to raise those steel frames by utilizing a simple lever and our underwater winch.”

Pierre Lenclud appeared delighted with this news, and he exclaimed, “Now that’s the spirit!”

“Spirits?” squawked Uige, from his perch at the Frenchman’s side.

“Where’s the spirits? Where’s the spirits?”

“See what we get for having a lush for our mascot,” joked Lenclud, who broke out in laughter along with the rest of his teammates.

This served to break the tension, and even Ivana Petrov seemed to have her spirits lightened. For the first time in over a day, she smiled. And when she spoke, her very tone had changed.

“I guess that I have been taking this entire incident much too seriously, Comrades. I apologize, and promise to look beyond my own selfish goals, and reapply myself for the good of the project as a whole. Who knows what may be discovered right outside the doors of Starfish House.”

“Before we go and get too involved with a new project, mon amie, I’m going to need you to assist me in Habitat One. It’s time to recharge the compressor with helium, and then there’s another inventory to begin.”

Ivana warmly responded to this request. “Lead the way. Comrade Lenclud. And this time you can be my lookout for any prowling sharks in the area.”

“With pleasure, mon amie,” said the Frenchman with a relieved grin.

Thomas Moore didn’t know which would be the harder of his two tasks, briefing Captain Walden on his mission, or summoning the nerve to crawl into the Avalon. Much to his relief, he got through both of them with a minimum amount of stress.

No sooner did Moore return to the Rickover from this visit to the Academician Petravsky, when the captain called him into his stateroom. “I’ll make things as easy as possible, Moore stuck to the truth, and told Walden everything, from the first time he set eyes on the Lewis and Clark, to his encounter with Homer Morgan, and all that he had learned from Admiral Proctor back in Washington. He concluded by reaffirming his skepticism, but emphasizing the necessity of keeping an open mind and following every available lead to its end.

Walden had been a physics instructor at the Naval Academy, and had a previous knowledge of the Philadelphia Experiment. Also a skeptic, he nevertheless expressed his belief that the scientific principles behind Einstein’s theories were sound, and that a device that could render matter invisible, then teleport it to another location, was well within the boundaries of scientific possibility. Like Moore, he immediately dismissed the black-hole story as pure science fiction, and agreed that it was in the best interest of the investigation to deploy the DSRV with all due haste.

One factor that Moore hadn’t anticipated was that John Walden had been a personal friend of the Lewis and Clark’s skipper. They had served together on a past command, and Walden had even had dinner at his house several times. Genuinely saddened by his disappearance, Walden pledged his full support, and Moore left the stateroom ready for the next challenge.

He found the Avalon’s pilot in the wardroom, reading a worn copy of the Navy League magazine. Sea Power. Ned Barnes didn’t flinch as Moore explained to him just what he needed from the DSRV. To guarantee this operation’s secrecy, Barnes recommended that they deploy the Avalon while submerged, a good ten thousand yards from the Academician Petrovsky. That way it would be all but impossible for them to be discovered.

He also advised Moore to bring along a sweater, and a thermos of coffee if he so desired.

Moore took his expert advice on both counts, and ten minutes later was making his way up the stern access trunk. This was his first visit to a DSRV, and he was all eyes as he climbed through the transfer skirt and entered the main pressure capsule. Waiting for him was a skinny, bald-headed sailor with a drooping brown moustache and deep sunken cheeks.

“Afternoon, sir. I’m Chief Ollie Draper, the Avalon’s sphere operator. I’ll be operating the life-support system and manipulator controls.”

“Pleased to meet you, Chief. Is Lieutenant Barnes on board?”

“That he is, sir. You’ll find him in the cockpit, where you’ll also be sitting.”

The pressure capsule was dominated by a large sphere that could hold up to two dozen tightly packed crewmen in the event the DSRV was called upon to evacuate a distressed submarine. With only one way to go but forward, Moore crawled through a tight hatch, and found himself in an equipment-packed compartment which reminded him of an airplane’s cockpit.

Seated in the left-hand position, completely surrounded by dozens of glowing dials and gauges, was Ned Barnes. The grizzled pilot wore a set of blue coveralls, and a matching cap with the insignia of the Dallas Cowboys football team emblazoned on its bill. The seat to his right was vacant, and Barnes addressed the newcomer while going over his “preflight” checklist. “The only way to get yourself properly settled is by going in feet first. Grab those handholds above your head, and maneuver in that way.”

Moore did as instructed, and it took him several awkward seconds to line up his body in the right position.

Climbing into his berth on the Rickover was child’s play compared to this, and trying his best to ignore a cramp in his foot, he managed to lift up his lower torso and ease himself into the spare seat.

“You’re going to be my copilot during this mission,” informed Barnes.

“There are some functions such as sonar and communications that only you can access.

I’ll talk you through, so don’t worry, it’s nothing you can’t handle. And please, we’re on a strict first-name basis here on Avalon. Do you go by Thomas or Tom?”

“Thomas is just fine.”

“Very well, Thomas it is.”

Barnes went back to his checklist, while Moore studied the complicated console that lay before him.

The only piece of equipment that looked familiar was a green-tinted CRT monitor, that appeared to be a condensed version of the screens found in the Rickover’s sonar room.

“Thomas, I’m going to need you to activate the echo sounder,” informed Barnes.

“To do so, push up on those two green toggle switches located to the right of your sonar repeater.”

Moore scanned the console and spotted the twin switches beside the CRT screen. As he pushed them upwards, a constant, hollow pinging noise began sounding in the background.

“Delta, Zulu, Foxtrot, this is Alpha, Omega, Bravo, do you read me?” spoke Barnes into his miniature, chin-mounted radio transmitter.

“That’s affirmative. Alpha, Omega, Bravo,” spoke an amplified voice from the elevated PA. speakers.

“We copy you loud and clear.”

“Am initiating unlock sequence. Delta, Zulu, Foxtrot,” informed Barnes.

“Alpha, Omega, Bravo, you are cleared to unlock.”

After this announcement the pilot’s hands addressed the various switches of the console with practiced ease. There was a loud clicking noise, and the muted, humming sound of an engine turning over.

“Here we go, Thomas,” said Barnes, as he gripped the thick, black plastic joystick that was situated between his knees.

The Avalon momentarily shuddered, and its pilot yanked back on the joystick, causing the DSRV’s bow to angle sharply upwards. This movement was accompanied by a rolling sensation, as the Avalon canted over hard on its left side, and Barnes readdressed his chin-mounted microphone.

“Unlock completed, Delta, Zulu, Foxtrot. We’re proceeding to target.”

“That’s affirmative, Alpha, Omega, Bravo. Good hunting.”

Barnes pulled back the microphone and exhaled a deep breath of relief.

“We’re on our way, Thomas. Now I’m going to need your help activating the video camera.

We might not have any windows in this little lady, but I’m about to show you the best underwater view in town.”

“Captain,” said the concerned voice of the Pantera’s senior sonar technician, “I’m picking up another transient coming from the direction of our target. I believe it’s the DSRV.”

This information caused both Alexander Litvinov and his Zampolit to rush over to the sonarman’s side.

Litvinov anxiously put on the auxiliary headphones, and he momentarily closed his eyes to focus his concentration on the sounds coming from the sea.

“Well, Captain, what do you hear?” quizzed the impatient political officer.

Litvinov held up his hand to silence Dubrinin, and didn’t vocally respond for another thirty seconds.

“It’s the DSRV all right, and it appears to be going somewhere in a great hurry.”

“We must inform Admiral Valerian of this fact,” replied the worried Zampolit.

“Because the DSRV’s most likely destination is Academician Petrovsky itself!”

Igor Valerian was in his stateroom, in the midst of his morning tea, when a knock sounded on his door.

“Enter,” said Valerian curtly.

The door swung open, and in walked Senior Lieutenant Alexandrov, looking pale and perturbed.

“Excuse me. Admiral. But we just received a priority-one communique from the Pantera.”

Valerian looked surprised by this revelation.

“The Pantera, you say? This is certainly an exciting turn of events, Comrade. What does the rodina’s most advanced undersea warship have to say?”

“It concerns the fly man G. Rickover, sir. It seems the Pantera has been successfully shadowing the American sub for sometime now. Minutes ago, the Rickover was monitored as it released its DSRV. And the Pantera fears that it’s headed back our way.”

“You sound surprised by this news, Senior Lieutenant.

Did you expect anything different?”

Alexandrov appeared perplexed, and Valerian compassionately added, “It was obvious from the very beginning that the American naval officer who visited us was nothing but a spy. And now our Yankee comrades are about to stick their ever-curious noses where they don’t belong.” “And what can we do about it?” asked Alexandrov.

“We have several options available to us, Comrade.

The fact that the Pantera has been able to secretly tail the Rickover gives us the advantage. And now it’s time to use our submarine to convey our displeasure.”

Valerian momentarily halted and thoughtfully stroked his chin, before continuing.

“If I remember correctly, the Pantera’s current captain was quite an accomplished strategist while at the Nakhimov Academy.

His zampolit, Boris Dubrinin, is a crafty old fox, and together they should be able to get our message across to the Americans.”

“And how will they do that, short of launching a torpedo salvo?” questioned the senior lieutenant.

“I see that you’ve never had duty aboard a submarine, Comrade,” observed Valerian with a wise grin.

“The Cold War taught us a variety of so-called peaceful ways to rid the seas of an unwanted trespasser. One of my very favorites is a sonar lashing. And then there’s always an old-fashioned love tap. Comrade, you’d be surprised how much damage the Pantera’s specially reinforced bow can do to the unsuspecting American vessel. The Rickover will soon enough be limping back to port, and the ironic part is that they’ll never know what hit them!”

Completely oblivious to the underwater confrontation that was unfolding in the sea around them, the crew of the Mir habitat went about their day’s business with an innocent naivete. To the five aquanauts, the habitat was their entire milieu, with the evil machinations of the outside world all but forgotten.

This state of innocence was especially apparent in Starfish House’s galley, where Lisa Tanner went about preparing for dinner with her usual exuberance. In honor of the first day of autumn, she was cooking a special meal. Back home in New Zealand, it was customary to greet the equinox with either fresh game or local fish. Since neither were readily available, she had to make do with sauteed orange roughy filets, that she had been saving in the freezer for just this occasion.

She also planned to serve canned yams, her mom’s famous broccoli-rice casserole, and jellied cranberry sauce. Pumpkin custard would replace the traditional mincemeat pie, with plenty of caffeine-free, apple spice tea to wash it down.

Her only companion during the entire afternoon had been Uige. The rest of her co-workers stayed busy with chores that took them out of the central habitat.

Even Uncle Albert had abandoned her, the barracuda being conspicuously absent from his usual haunt outside the galley’s porthole. Certain that he’d be back in time for leftovers, she breaded the defrosted fish filets in cornmeal, and went to work on the casserole.

It was while cooking the rice that she became aware of a gathering headache. Beginning in her temples, it quickly expanded, until her whole head seemed to be throbbing with pain. She felt slightly dizzy, and decided that a couple of Tylenol were in order. This medication was stored in the bathroom, and as she left the kitchen, she spotted a small green object on the floor beside the dining room table. Her pain-clouded thoughts were unable to identify it at first, and it wasn’t until she bent down that she realized what she was looking at.

“Oh my God, Uige!”

The parrot was gasping for breath, and seemed to be barely hanging onto life. With Lisa’s exclamation, it opened its eyes wide, then began shaking uncontrollably.

Seconds later, it was dead.

Lisa’s first instinct was to pick up and cuddle the poor creature. But then a sudden realization dawned in her consciousness. Uige hadn’t been there just for his company, but had been included with a definite purpose in mind. She suddenly found herself panting for breath, and knew in an instant what had killed their mascot. The air had gone bad!

Every couple of days, Commandant Lenclud would surprise them with an unannounced drill. The scenarios ranged from fire to a loss of their life-support systems. The Frenchman had insisted that these training sessions be adhered to with the strictest of realism, and they were constantly repeated, until they could practically react to each worst-case scenario in their sleep.

Though the constant throbbing pain in her head made the mere process of thinking difficult, the long hours of repetitive training paid off, and she instinctively dragged herself into the ready room. She was fighting for each breath as she reached for her scuba tanks, turned on the regulator, and put the rubber mouthpiece of the air hose into her mouth. The relief was almost instantaneous. She no longer had to struggle to breathe, and even her headache seemed to dissipate.

With her thoughts now clearing, she proceeded to put on her wet suit, weight belt, and dual tank harness.

Then with mask and fins in hand, she began her way into the water to warn the others.

Lisa found her four scuba-clad associates outside, working on the fish pens. Dr. Petrov held a white plastic clipboard in hand and waterproof pen, that they used to communicate with, and Lisa borrowed these objects to spell out the warning.

This dreaded message prompted an immediate response.

It was the Frenchman who led the way over to Habitat One. With their air tanks still in place, they climbed inside to check the compressor. They found it in perfect working order, which meant only one thing.

It was the air mixture itself that was at fault. While Karl Ivar and Tomo went back into the storeroom to see what they could do to rectify this catastrophic problem, Lenclud grabbed the clipboard. He expressed himself with a frantic scrawl.

Gather all emergency scuba tanks. Am returning to Starfish House to issue SOS.

Lisa signaled with a thumbs-up, and she worriedly watched the Frenchman as he turned for the access way to get on with this task.

Thomas Moore had been pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to locate the submerged cables. They located them on active sonar, at a depth of two hundred and fifty feet, almost directly beneath Academician Petrovsky. With the invaluable assistance of the Avalon’s bow-mounted video camera, they verified this find, and began following the snaking cables into the black depths below.

At four hundred and twenty-seven feet, the Avalon appeared to stop dead in the water, and it was Ned Barnes who surmised that it was the thermocline that was most likely impeding their way. To penetrate this dense liquid barrier, additional salt water ballast was brought aboard, and the DSRV was able to continue its descent.

The depth gauge was just about to pass five hundred feet, when the radio activated with a burst of static, followed by a firm male voice.

“Alpha, Omega, Bravo, this is Delta, Zulu, Foxtrot. Do you read me, over?”

Barnes pulled down his chin-mounted microphone and responded.

“Delta, Zulu, Foxtrot, this is Alpha, Omega, Bravo. We copy you loud and clear. How can we help you?”

“Alpha, Omega, Bravo, we need you to break off your current op at once, and head to chart coordinates three-five-zero-one. We’ve just been notified of an emergency aboard the Mir habitat that requires your immediate presence.”

“I copy that. Delta, Zulu, Foxtrot. Let them know that the cavalry is on its way.”

“Well don’t that take the cake,” added Ned Barnes as he pushed the microphone out of his way.

“Looks like it’s a good thing that we were down here snooping after all.”

He yanked back on the joystick, and the Avalon pulled out of its descent, until its bow was steeply angled upwards.

“Thomas, I need you to access the navigation plot. If I remember right, that habitat is located almost due west of us, at a depth of about sixty feet. It’s well within our range, and I can only wonder what in the hell’s happening to warrant this abrupt change in orders.”

“Captain, I’ve got increased propeller revs on the DSRV,” reported the Pantera’s senior sonar technician.

“I believe they’ve just pulled out of their dive.”

“Right now that’s inconsequential, Comrade,” returned the zampolit, who stood directly behind the sonarman, with Alexander Litvinov close beside him.

“Because as the captain here will attest, our proper quarry is not the DSRV, but its mother vessel. What is the status of the 688?”

The bearded sonar operator readjusted his sensors, and answered Dubrinin somewhat tentatively.

“I believe it’s turning on a new course, bearing two-five zero.”

“Why weren’t we made aware of this course change sooner?” barked the enraged Zampolit.

“While you wasted your efforts on that DSRV, our prey almost slipped right out of our fingers!”

“Please get control of yourself. Comrade Dubrinin,” interjected Litvinov.

“Raising your voice like that will accomplish us nothing.”

Redirecting his remarks to the technician, the captain spoke out in a calm, reassuring tone.

“Isolate the 688, Misha, and interface its signature directly into the firecontrol system.”

“Will we be launching a torpedo at them. Captain?” asked the concerned technician.

“I certainly hope not,” returned Litvinov.

“Though all six of our tubes are currently loaded with weapons, our intention here is not to start World War III, Misha.

We’ve only been ordered to scare the American submarine away. And to accomplish this, I think that our first task should be to let them know that we’re here. We shall do this by hitting them with a deafening burst of active sonar, that’s bound to get their attention and put fear in their hearts.”