Dive to Oblivion

6

After the day’s work had been completed, it was the custom of the occupants of Starfish House to convert the dining area of the habitat into a motion-picture theater. Lisa would prepare the popcorn, and the aquanauts would sit back to enjoy a movie selected from their video cassette library. Afterwards, with the room still blackened, they would often turn on the exterior spotlights, and watch a fascinating show of a vastly different sort take place right outside the habitat’s observation window.

Attracted by the unnatural light, the stars of this live performance were hundreds of species of colorful reef fish. And most of the time, their spellbound audience would watch them glide by until the wee hours of the morning.

Instead of a Hollywood spectacle, Ivana Petrov chose for this evening’s entertainment a film that both she and Pierre Lenclud had directly participated in making. Its characters were thousands of shuffling lobsters that covered the sandy sea floor in a single, orderly file.

“Exactly where did you say this event occurred?” asked Tomo, his popcorn all but forgotten.

“We first turned on Misha’s video camera at a depth of nine hundred and seventy-six feet,” answered the Russian.

“That put us well onto the southern slope of the Andros Trench, near the northern terminus of the Tongue of the Ocean.”

Lisa Tanner shook her head in wonder.

“At the very least you could have brought back a dozen or so of those beauties to Starfish House. Why my mouth’s watering just lookin’ at all those meaty tails!”

“I’ve read about such phenomena occurring before,” admitted Tomo.

“But this is the first time that I’ve ever seen it with my own eyes.”

“Is it a mating ritual?” questioned Lenclud, between sips of his sherry.

“That it is. Commandant,” replied Tomo.

“The behavior in this instance is much like that of the spawning salmon, though to my knowledge the actual breeding ground of the spiny lobster has yet to be found.”

“And here we were so close to discovering it,” reflected Ivana, a hint of disappointment flavoring her tone.

“I’m anxious to see the first pictures of your other discovery, Dr. Petrov,” said Karl Ivar, who had been seated at the back of the room, casually dressed in a pair of cut-off jeans and a Save the Whales T-shirt.

“They’ll be coming up very shortly,” returned Ivana.

“And I guarantee you that you won’t be disappointed with them,” added Lenclud.

“I must admit that I was a skeptic at first. But after personally seeing the formation, my instincts tell me that it’s got to be man-made. But I’ll let each one of you come to your own conclusions, once you see the film we brought back.”

Bored by the seemingly endless procession of lobsters that continued to fill the video screen. Lisa Tanner let her thoughts wander to a much more exotic subject.

“I sure wish that Misha hadn’t broken down. Who knows, that road could have led you right to the front gates of Atlantis.”

“If that’s the case, the fabled lost continent lies somewhere in the Tongue of the Ocean,” offered Ivana lightly.

“Because that appeared to be right where the road was headed when we were forced to turn back.”

“Speaking of Misha, what’s your exact prognosis on its condition, Karl Ivar?” questioned Tomo.

The Norwegian solemnly shook his head.

“Right now, it doesn’t look all that good. Without a proper alternator, I can’t get Misha to hold a battery charge. We’ve already gone through three spares, and even if they send down another, it won’t make much difference, unless it’s of a totally new design.”

“Couldn’t we borrow one of the other diving saucers?” asked Lisa.

“It’s a shame to have to stop our exploration right when it’s getting so interesting.”

“Since the Academician Petrovsky carries two of these vessels, I asked for the services of one of them in my dispatch,” informed Ivana.

“And now we’ll just have to wait and see if fate is on our side.”

Lenclud excitedly pointed towards the screen.

“Look, there are the first video pictures of Dr. Petrov’s latest discovery, the Andros road!”

All eyes went to the screen, as it began filling with a wide-angle shot of a section of the flat, rocky pavement that had originally sent them down into the depths. Though it was partially covered with sandy sediment, the tightly interlocking, square-cut stones were clearly visible, prompting an instant response from the habitat’s head cook.

“It’s simply incredible! Its origin has to be Atlantean.

Who else could have built it? I tell you, mates, this goes to prove that Plato was right after all.”

A bell suddenly chimed three times in the distance, and Uige came flying into the room with feathers madly flapping. The parrot picked the top of the video projector for its landing pad, all the while loudly squawking.

“Dolly’s home! Yes siree, Dolly’s home! Hello, Dolly!”

“I bet she’s got an answer to my request,” said Ivana.

“Or maybe she’s brought the spare part that I need to fix Misha,” offered Karl Ivar.

Without further hesitation, both stood and darted off to the adjoining ready room. With his curiosity also aroused, Lenclud joined them.

He found his associates gathered around the open hatch, facing the head and upper body of a full grown bottlenose dolphin. Known to all as Dolly, the dolphin was their link to the support ship that always remained on station above them.

Dolly was responsible for delivering the mail, various foodstuffs, and other items such as the spare parts that Karl Ivar was waiting for. She carried these objects in a watertight pressure cooker, with a specially designed strap, which fit over the dolphin’s blunt snout. One of these pressure cookers lay beside the hatch, next to the bell that Dolly was trained to ring to announce her arrival. Remembering well the day that Uige arrived in just such a manner, Lenclud walked over to greet their newly arrived guest. “Ban soir, ma cherie. What did you bring us from above?”

Lenclud kneeled down to scratch the underside of Dolly’s neck, and the dolphin responded with a burst of animated clicks and whistles.

“You don’t say,” deadpanned the Frenchman, who reached into a nearby bucket, and fed Dolly a mullet.

Meanwhile, Karl Ivar anxiously unscrewed the lid of the newly delivered pressure cooker. Much to his disappointment, it held only a single white envelope, which he pulled out and handed to Ivana.

She opened it, and read its contents out loud.

“Dear Dr. Petrov, I regretfully inform you that I am unable to grant your request at this time. Because of mechanical difficulties, both of our diving saucers have been indefinitely taken out of service.

We are currently waiting for newly designed spare parts to be flown in from the rodina. Will advise upon their receipt. Yours truly. Admiral Igor Valerian, Commanding Officer, Academician Petrovsky.”

Disgustedly flinging this dispatch to the deck, Ivana sarcastically added, “So, they’re going to have newly designed spare parts flown out to us from Mother Russia. Now that’s a joke if I ever heard one. Such a thing could take months to happen.

And in the meantime, all of us will be long gone from this habitat. Why did the U.N. have to go and provide us with a Russian support ship?

Now I’ll never be able to learn the extent of my new find.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Doctor,” advised the Norwegian.

“Why don’t I go and take another look at Misha. There’s got to be something that I can do to get that charge to hold.”

With practiced ease, Karl Ivar slipped on a wet suit and shouldered a scuba tank. He then signed the diving log, spit into his face mask, pulled it over his head, and joined Dolly in the water.

“Come on. Dolly,” he said before putting the regulator hose in his mouth.

“We’ve got some work to do.”

He left with a thumbs-up, and seconds later, disappeared beneath the water with the dolphin close at his side.

“Don’t look so glum, mon amie,” said Lenclud to his sulking co-worker.

“If anyone can fix Misha, it will be Karl Ivar. So let’s return to the others, and finish our film, before the popcorn goes cold.”

Admiral Igor Valerian stared down at the black waters from the Academician Petrovsky’s prow, visualizing the unique collection of structures lying on the sea floor sixty feet below. The sixty seven-year-old Russian naval officer had to admit that when he first saw the original plans to the Mir habitat, he didn’t think that the project would go beyond the planning stage. But reality had proved him wrong, and the underwater habitat had been home to a group of five aquanauts for three weeks now.

The mere thought of men and women actually living beneath the seas amazed the whitehaired oldtimer. He had certainly seen his share of astounding scientific advances. And the Mir habitat was only another example of the rapid pace at which modern technology was moving.

In many ways, the vessel that he currently commanded was yet another example of this new, hightech generation. The Academician Petrovsky was officially classified an oceanographic research ship.

Launched in 1990 from Leningrad’s United Admiralty complex, the three-hundred foot long, steam turbine-powered vessel was built with no expense spared. Its operational systems thus incorporated state-of-the-art Soviet marine design.

A crew of ninety manned the ship. They were a mix of civilians, scientists, and naval technicians.

They also carried along three representatives of the United Nations, whose flag they currently sailed under. Such a dual loyalty was new to Valerian, who was used to sailing beneath the red banner of the Russian fleet. But these were new, so-called enlightened times, and as a veteran survivor of the Great Patriotic War and Stalin’s bloody purges, he had long ago learned to swim with the tide of change, and to not fight a current which one couldn’t alter even if one wanted to.

They had left their home port on the Baltic four and a half weeks ago. After stops in Sweden, Norway, and the United Kingdom, they crossed the Atlantic, making port in New York City. This was Valerian’s first visit to the place known as the Big Apple, and he’d never forget his first view of the Statue of Liberty, and the amazing island of Manhattan.

Never before had he seen such incredible buildings. And there seemed to be people everywhere.

It was in New York that they picked up the observers from the United Nations, and then set sail for the Bahamas, where they had been since.

Unlike many of his fellow sailors, Igor Valerian had never liked duty in the tropics. He was a native of Siberia, and his solid, six-foot-four-inch frame was stilled by constant heat and humidity. His body thrived on fresh, cool air, and it was in a vain search for this rare commodity that he left his cabin below deck, and climbed up to the Academician Petrovsky’s prow.

The night was but a carbon copy of all the others. The air was thick and heavy, smelling richly of the sea. An occasional breeze blew in from the east, though its oppressive heat was far from refreshing.

Doing his best to make himself comfortable, Valerian wore a lightweight pair of white cotton slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. Yet sweat constantly poured off his forehead, and it was an effort merely to breathe.

To ease his discomfort, he brought along a bottle of his finest potato vodka. Without bothering to use a glass, he brought the bottle to his lips and swallowed a long, satisfying mouthful. The vodka had been distilled alongside the shores of Lake Baikal. Its sharp, distinctive taste coursed down his throat like a red-hot flame and hit his belly with a jolt, making him feel truly alive again.

Oblivious to the gently rocking deck beneath him, and the distant, muted cry of a lonely gull, he let his thoughts go back to his beloved homeland.

Soon he’d be forced to retire, and a life spent sailing the planet’s oceans in defense of the rodina would be over.

It was at the tender age of seventeen that Valerian first put on the uniform of the Soviet Navy.

With his childhood prematurely shortened by the invasion of the Nazi horde, he became a man beneath the frozen Arctic sea, when he was assigned to a submarine that was based in the besieged city of Murmansk. An exploding German depth charge all but deafened him, and to this day he still heard a ringing in his ears, to remind him of his shipmates who never survived this same blast. Yet another physical legacy of the Great Patriotic War was the patch that he wore over his left eye. This was the byproduct of a Nazi artillery barrage. He was assigned to Naval headquarters in Leningrad at the time of this near-fatal injury, and he came to the attention of his superiors when he all but refused treatment so that he could continue on duty.

Hard work and the ever-present hand of fate guided his career, and by the time the war was over, he was a full-fledged captain. The postwar years were a time of unparalleled growth for the Soviet Navy. From a mere coastal defense force, the fleet grew into a legitimate blue water navy, capable of reaching the farthest corner of the planet.

In the years between Stalin’s death and Khrushchev’s rise to power, he worked as an aide to Admiral of the Fleet Sergei Gorshkov. Appointed to this post at the unprecedented age of forty-five, Gorshkov was a great visionary, and it was under his expert tutelage that Valerian was able to realize his full potential.

Igor was there the day the first Soviet Zulu V class submarine test launched the first sub-carried ballistic missile, a good two years before the U.S. Navy was to begin construction of a vessel with similar capabilities. He was also privileged to work on the new Krupny class destroyers, the first surface combatant ever to be outfitted with surface-to surface missiles, designed to counter threats from Western aircraft carriers.

In 1967, he was made executive officer of the Moskva, the world’s first helicopter carrier. Five years later, he received full command of a Krivak class destroyer, a post that led to over a dozen other distinguished commands on a wide variety of surface combatants and submarines.

It was strangely ironic that he should end his long, distinguished career in command of an oceanographic research ship. Yet Valerian knew that this could very well be his most important assignment of all. And if it was successful, it would be a most fitting way to announce his retirement.

The mere thought of returning to civilian life-with nothing to do but write his memoirs — scared him, and he once more raised the vodka bottle to his lips to ease his anxieties. There was a sound of voices behind him, and he turned and spotted two young sailors gathered at the rail in the midst of a smoke. One of these individuals was a woman, her high-pitched laugh most discernible. He could tell from their lighthearted conversation that they didn’t seem to have a care in the world, and in this manner they represented their entire generation.

With the spicy taste of the vodka still flavoring his tongue, he contemplated the vast changes that had all but stripped the soul from his homeland.

Today a new generation had come of age — they had already forgotten the painful lessons that Valerian and his contemporaries had learned during the conflict with Germany and the Cold War that followed.

These spoiled, pampered youngsters didn’t know the true meaning of sacrifice, and all they seemed to do was complain and whine. Because of them, the greatest social revolution that the world had ever known was threatened, doomed to failure by this generation’s indifference.

Of course, the force that led these youngsters astray was capitalism. Like a malignant cancer, the selfish, wasteful ways of the West gnawed into one’s soul. And today Soviet youth was blinded by the petty desires of consumerism. What began innocently enough with blue jeans and rock-and-roll music, led to the destruction of the Russian family, and the values that had guided generations past. The first real sign that the disease was reaching fatal proportions was when East Germany abandoned its communist path. Eastern Europe soon followed, with the Soviet Union the next inevitable victim.

Like the scared old men that they were, the rodina’s leaders allowed the sickness to spread into the republics, threatening the cohesive structure of the motherland. The decision to abandon state control and adopt a free-market system was a fait accompli, and showed how deep the cancer had spread.

When faced with a potentially terminal illness, the patient has an ever-shrinking list of strategies for survival. One of the most desperate choices is the severing of a limb, in the hope of strengthening the rest of the body. This was just the course of action that the Soviet Union’s leaders decided upon, when they turned their backs on the socialist principles of Lenin, and chose to make massive cuts in the military.

Vessels such as the Academician Petrovsky didn’t come cheap, and in today’s Russia they could never be produced at all. What really bothered Valerian was the fact that his countrymen had forgotten that it was because of a strong military that no outside enemy had crossed their borders in the last four and a half decades. This was a bloodless victory, whose only expense was in rubles, not human lives.

But would they be so fortunate in the near future?

With all their talk of disarmament and peace, the United States of America continued to build up its arsenal of both nuclear and conventional weapons.

To realize this frightening fact, one had only to look at such advanced systems as the Stealth aircraft, Star Wars, and the new generation Seawolf submarine.

Because submarines were the true capital ships of today’s navies. Valerian especially feared America’s Seawolf program. Seawolf would be the first new class of submarine to enter the U.S. fleet since the 688 class was introduced in the 1970s. Reported to be ten times quieter than its predecessors, with three times the sensor range and a greatly expanded weapons capability, Seawolf represented the most advanced underwater warship ever to sail beneath the seas. It alone would shift the balance of power to a point where the Russian Navy would be completely defenseless.

Since the leaders of the Soviet Union had decided in their blind folly to abandon any further spending in the all-important area of research and development, the red banner fleet could never hope to field a submarine as advanced as Seawolf. That meant that the only way for them to get ahold of such vital technology was to steal it. And this was just what Admiral Igor Valerian hoped to do during this last and most important mission of his lifetime.

With no less an issue than the very future existence of his beloved homeland at stake, the one eyed veteran mariner anxiously looked up to scan the northwestern horizon. From his current vantage point, he could just make out the distant flickering lights of Nicolls Town, on the northern tip of Andros Island. In two more weeks, from this general direction, the first Seawolf submarine would come for test trials, beneath the deep waters of the Tongue of the Ocean. And if all went as planned, this prototype vessel would never make it to the nearby U.S. Navy underwater test range, and instead become the invaluable property of the Red Banner fleet.

Thrilled by this exciting prospect. Valerian lifted his bottle up before him, and silently toasted for success to the warm, tropical trade wind. He then sealed this toast with a mouthful of vodka that stung his throat and left him red-faced and gasping for breath.

At this inopportune moment the ship’s which man-warrant officer — climbed up onto the prow.

Viewing his commanding officer in apparent distress caused a look of sincere concern to cross the senior enlisted man’s bearded face.

“Are you feeling all right. Admiral?” he worriedly greeted.

“Of course I’m all right, Comrade,” managed Valerian.

“And you can feel this good as well, if you’ll just join me in a sip of vodka.”

“I’m afraid that I’m on duty, sir,” replied the embarrassed which man “Since when has that ever stopped a red-blooded Russian sailor?” returned Valerian as he held out the bottle and winked.

Looking like a thief in the night, the which man hurriedly put the bottle to his lips and downed a healthy swig.

“My, that is tasty,” he observed while handing the bottle back to its owner.

“What brand of vodka is that?”

Valerian readily answered.

“It’s Irkutsk potato vodka. Comrade, distilled on the distant shores of Lake Baikal. Have you ever seen Lake Baikal, my friend?”

The which man shook his head that he hadn’t, and Valerian passionately continued.

“Well, I grew up on its northern shores, in the tiny village of Kosa.

And I can personally attest to the fact that there is no more beautiful spot on this entire planet. The water is cool, sweet, and crystal clear, and even the air smells like nectar.”

“Sounds wonderful, sir,” shyly returned the which man who abruptly changed the course of this unexpected conversation.

“Admiral, Senior Lieutenant Alexandrov instructed me to inform you that Lieutenant Antonov and his team are on their way up, and will be returning to the ship shortly.”

“Do we have the results of Antonov’s mission as yet?” questioned Valerian, suddenly all business.

“Not that I know of, sir. The senior lieutenant is waiting beside the moon pool where the team is to be debriefed.”

“Then by all means, let’s join them, Comrade,” said Valerian, who drained off the rest of the vodka and threw the empty bottle overboard.

One design feature unique to the Academician Petrovsky was a large, rectangular opening cut into the bottom of its hull. Known as the moon pool it offered the ship’s technicians a relatively safe, convenient access to the sea below.

To get to the moon pool Valerian had to travel below deck, and proceed aft — towards the ship’s stern. A steep stairwell conveyed him down to the spotlight-illumined waterline, where a steel-latticed catwalk completely surrounded the moon pool itself.

A tall, distinguished officer, with a two-way radio clipped to his belt, waited for him here.

“Viktor Ilyich, I thought that the team was on its way up,” impatiently chided the one-eyed veteran.

“That they are, sir,” replied Valerian’s secondin command Senior Lieutenant Viktor Ilyich Alexandrov.

“If you look towards the center of the moon pool you can just see their air bubbles now.”

By the time Valerian spotted this disturbance, the first of two diving saucers broke the waters surface.

The bright yellow mini subs were exact duplicates of the one used by the occupants of the Mir habitat, with the one exception being a properly designed alternator. As the lead saucer crept over to the edge of the catwalk where the two officers stood, its hatch sprung upwards and out popped a devilishly handsome, blond-haired sailor, dressed in dark blue coveralls. His appearance caused a broad smile to turn the corners of Valerian’s face, and the newcomer returned this greeting with a grin of his own.

“So Neptune has sent you back to us after all, Comrade,” welcomed Valerian.

Lieutenant Yuri Antonov answered while climbing up onto the catwalk.

“Even Neptune knows better than to fool with the spetsnaz. Admiral.”

This comment caused Valerian to break out in a hearty laugh, and he reached out to give the ruddy cheeked commando a firm handshake.

“Now tell me, Lieutenant Antonov,” said Valerian in all seriousness.

“How did the inspection go?

Did you find the malfunction?”

“I can’t really say,” replied Antonov, while watching his copilot climb out of the saucer.

“Per your instructions, we followed the power cable from the moon pool all the way down to the floor of the trench, a thousand feet beneath us, and we didn’t see a hint of damage. When we arrived at the device itself, our first test was of the magnetic resonator.

As far as I can tell, the degaussing pattern was strong and true.”

“How about the electromagnetic generators?” asked Valerian.

“Were they pulsating on the proper frequency?”

Ill “That they were. Admiral. We only recorded the slightest of variances, and most likely that was but a fault in our testing equipment.”

“If the malfunction is not in the resonator, then I still say that we’re projecting the improper energy field,” offered the senior lieutenant.

“And the only way to tell for certain is to bring up the entire device and recalibrate it.”

“But that could take an entire week,” protested Valerian.

“And even if we do get it back in place by the time Seawolf passes through the trench, we still won’t know for certain whether it’s operational or not.”

“Maybe the problem’s with the equipment in Vladivostok,” offered the commando.

“I’ve considered that possibility,” admitted Valerian.

“Well, at least our first test here was a partial success,” said Yuri Antonov optimistically.

Valerian heavily sighed.

“Unfortunately, a partial success is not good enough to guarantee us Seawolf. No, Comrades, it appears that I have no choice but to play our trump card. Though I promised Moscow that we could succeed without him, it’s time to call in the only individual who can find the malfunction and repair it in time to insure our success.”

The footpath led away from the dacha, deep into the surrounding birch forest. Dr. Andrei Petrov knew its every turn, for he had been walking it almost every day for the past five years. This was quite an amazing feat considering that he had just turned seventy years old, and that the doctors at the cancer institute had doubted that he’d ever see sixty-five.

Ever thankful that he had listened to his wife Anna, and worn his winter coat, he pulled the woolen collar up over his neck when a chilling gust of wind swept in from the north. The slender birch trunks swayed to and fro like a single entity, and Andrei looked up to scan the sky. A wall of low, dark grey clouds met his eyes, and he sensed that the first real snow of the season would soon be falling.

Though the official start of fall was still several days away, the lazy days of summer had long since passed. Here in the heart of central Russia, the snows came early, with the winters lasting well into the spring. This was fine with Andrei, who loved nothing better than to sit before a blazing fireplace, with the wood he chopped himself crackling away, as he watched the snow fall outside through the dacha’s central picture window.

Winter was the time to read books, and to listen to classical music on the phonograph. Occasionally, friends and colleagues would drop by, often staying overnight when the weather made travel difficult. These unscheduled slumber parties always turned out well, with plenty of lively conversation, and excellent food and drink to share. Andrei most anticipated these visits when the guests were former co-workers of his at the institute. Then he had a chance to get caught up on the latest gossip, and to learn more about the projects currently under development.

A raven loudly cried out overhead, and Andrei directed his attention back to the path. With increasing strides, he continued further into the forest, to the spot where a bubbling brook split the path in two. All too soon these crystal clear waters would freeze, and Andrei cautiously approached the pebble-strewn stream bank.

Only yesterday, he had seen a fat speckled trout swimming in the waters here. In the spring, he hoped to try his luck with a fly rod, in an attempt to catch this fish. For now he was content merely to catch a glimpse of it.

As he kneeled down behind a fallen birch trunk to await the trout, a rustling in the underbrush on the other side of the creek caught his attention.

Something large was moving through the berry bushes there, and he was somewhat surprised when a full-grown male elk broke through the thick cover and sauntered up to the creek to drink. It was a powerful-looking creature, with a tremendous rack of pointed antlers and a shaggy brown coat. Such elk freely roamed the woods here, and were coveted by the local hunters for their meat.

Andrei was not the type who could ever shoot such a magnificent animal. In fact, he didn’t own a rifle, and he had learned to fire one only for selfdefense during the war. Quite happy to coexist with nature in peace, he decided to quietly return to the footpath and get on with his hike. As he turned around to do so, yet another elk crashed out of the woods directly in front of him. This one was obviously a female, and appeared already to have gotten his scent.

Andrei now found himself in the unenviable position of being sandwiched between the two creatures.

Fall was rutting time for the elk, when the males were particularly aggressive. This was especially the case if another animal happened to get between the buck and its mate. Only last November, a local woodsman had been found fatally gored to death by an enraged male elk. Not wishing to share the man’s fate, Andrei did his best to continue on his way as quietly as possible.

He almost succeeded in making good his escape, when he inadvertently stepped on a fallen branch, making it snap in half with a loud, cracking crunch. This was all the buck needed, to spot the retreating human between him and his current beloved.

Instinct instantly took over, and the creature lowered its massive rack and charged.

Andrei could think of no better defense than to turn tail and run for it. He hadn’t moved so fast in years, as he frantically crashed through the forest, with the persistent elk ever close on his heels.

He broke out of the underbrush like an Olympic sprinter. This put him back on the relatively clear footpath, and the retired septuagenarian did his best to lengthen his weary stride.

As he passed back into the birch wood, he realized that his pursuer had finally given up the chase. Andrei immediately halted at this point, and his first priority was to catch his breath. Sweat matted his forehead, and a familiar pain suddenly shot up his left arm and once more left him dizzy and breathless.

Yanking off his mittens, he fumbled in his pants pocket for his pill case. His hands were wildly shaking, yet he still managed to snap open the compact metal container and slip one of its tiny, yellow pills under his tongue. The medication took a full minute to take effect, and even then a dull pain continued to course through the entire left side of his upper torso.

An icy gust of wind swept through the tree limbs, further adding to his discomfort, and Andrei realized that it was beginning to snow. And then he heard the distinctive, muffled chopping whine of a helicopter in the distance. He could tell merely from this sound’s deep pitch that it was a military vehicle. And this observation proved true when a dark green, Mil Mi-8 utility helicopter, with the red star fuselage markings of the Russian Army, roared almost directly overhead, only inches from the swaying tree tops.

Because there were no military bases nearby, Andrei wondered what this vehicle was doing here. It seemed to be headed straight for his dacha, and this could only mean that it had come for him.

Andrei had expected this day to come, and he did his best to gather his physical composure and continue homeward.

Sure enough, as he broke into the clearing where his dacha was situated, the helicopter could be seen parked beside the wood pile. A lone soldier stood beside its elongated fuselage, with a lit cigarette between his lips. A column of thick white smoke poured from the dacha’s stone chimney, and Andrei prepared himself for the worst as he walked up to the front door and stepped inside.

Waiting for him beside the crackling fireplace, was a short, bespectacled, middle-aged man, dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit. This steely-eyed visitor needed no introduction. Dr. Stanislaus Bolimin had been the head of the Kirov Polytechnic Institute on the day that Andrei was forced into retirement. It was Bolimin who coldly notified him that after five decades of loyal, unselfish service, he would no longer be needed. That very afternoon he was escorted out of his laboratory, never again to be allowed to set foot inside it.

“Good morning. Comrade,” greeted Bolimin, his nasal tone sharp and irritating.

“Your fireplace is a most welcome sight after my long, cold flight up from Kirov.”

Andrei was saved from having to reply by his wife’s entrance into the room. Anna held a steaming hot mug of tea, which she proceeded to give to their guest. “Thank goodness that you got back before the snow really began falling, Andrei Sergeyevich,” said Anna as she walked over to help her husband remove his coat.

“Are those thorns all over the back of your jacket, husband? I thought that you promised me that you would always remain on the trail.”

“So you’re still straying from the path, even in retirement,” observed Bolimin with a sardonic grin.

“Some things never change.”

“I guess they don’t. Doctor,” returned Andrei disgustedly.

“I hope that I’m not being too blunt, but to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

Bolimin took a sip of his tea and directly responded to this question.

“Your bluntness is most appreciated. Comrade. For you see, a matter of great urgency brings me here, and I have no time for pleasantries. Though I must say that this tea is certainly delicious.”

“I’m glad that you’re enjoying it,” said Anna, who turned towards the kitchen and added.

“Andrei Sergeyevich, warm yourself by the fire before you catch pneumonia, and I’ll bring you some tea and honey.”

Quick to follow her orders, Andrei joined his guest beside the brick hearth. There was a look of defiant anger in his blue eyes as he opened the fireplace screen and attacked the burning embers with a poker. The kindling crackled and spat, and Andrei threw in another log before closing the screen and readdressing Bolimin.

“So what exactly is this urgent matter that brings you here, Doctor? I thought that the state no longer had need for a senile old man like myself.”

“You underestimate yourself. Comrade,” returned Bolimin in a condescending tone.

“In the five years that you’ve been gone from the Institute, not a day goes by without your name being mentioned. Your textbooks still grace our classrooms, your many theories are still the subject of intense debate.”

“Don’t stand here in my own house and patronize me, Bolimin!” spat Andrei.

“Or have you already forgotten that you’re the one who sent me packing from the Institute without so much as an explanation.”

“That’s not true,” countered Bolimin.

“You know well why you were asked to leave. The choice was yours. Comrade. And when you continued your anti-state remarks to the Western press, we had no choice but to let you go.”

“Antistate remarks,” repeated Andrei bitterly.

“No one loves this country more than I. And what you mistook for dissent was only my way of sharing with the world what I considered to be the greatest threat to humanity since the development of the atomic bomb!”

Bolimin took a deep breath and replied as calmly as possible.

“I haven’t come here to argue with you. Comrade. Rather to ask your help in a matter of grave importance to this state that you say you love so.”

Before he could further explain, Anna returned with her husband’s tea.

“Is there anything else that I can get for you?” she politely asked.

“Perhaps you’d like some herring?”

Finding no takers for this offer, she shrugged her shoulders and returned to the kitchen. Only when she was completely out of earshot did Bolimin continue.

“What I’m about to share with you is to be held in the strictest confidence. Comrade. Five years ago, on the very day that you were asked to leave the Institute, the Ministry of Defense gave us the go-ahead to begin construction of a full-scale magnetic resonator. We utilized the original plans that you yourself created, and had a working degausser ready to test, twelve months later.”

“You’re not going to tell me that you went and actually built the antimatter device after all I warned you about?” retorted Andrei, his face red with disbelief.

“That we did. Comrade. And as Lenin is my witness, except for a few unexpected side effects, it worked just as you said it would.”

With gathering enthusiasm, Bolimin added.

“If I hadn’t seen the incredible results with my own eyes, I would have never believed them. This went for the representatives of the Defense Ministry as well, whose daily reports to Moscow generated nothing but doubt and skepticism at first. That was until the Minister himself paid us a visit. Needless to say, he left us a full believer, and even went as far as to suggest nominating you for a Star of Lenin.”

Not at all impressed by this revelation, Andrei solemnly interjected, “Spare me the accolades, Doctor. Against my innermost wishes, you went and converted my theories into reality. And now humanity is going to have to pay the price. I guess you know that you’ve succeeded in opening a Pandora’s box and you could reap the most disastrous of consequences.”

Bolimin thoughtfully nodded.

“Though I don’t see it in exactly those terms. Comrade, I must admit that those side effects that I mentioned are a bit puzzling. We seem to be having particular problems with the transferal process.”

Looking somber and totally defeated, Andrei dared question.

“And where is this working prototype now?”

Bolimin sensed that his whitehaired colleague had taken the bait, and he readily answered.

“In the Bahama Islands, Comrade, beneath the waters of the Andros Trench.”

This revelation caused Andrei’s eyes suddenly to open wide with horror.

“You bastard! That’s where my daughter Ivana’s working!”

“Believe me. Comrade, the device is in no way related to the Mir habitat program,” urged Bolimin.

“All that they do is share the same support ship.”

“I don’t care whose authority you need, but you must find a way to take me there at once!” demanded Andrei forcefully.

Bolimin had to keep himself from smiling as he responded to this request. “What do you think that helicopter is doing outside, Comrade? It’s been provided for your personal use, to convey you to Kirov, where an Ilyushin IL-76 transport awaits to fly you to Havana. And from there, you’ll be less than an hour’s flight away from the waters of the Andros Trench.