“If we have operational ability, then yes.”
“Okay, fill me in here. The thing sinking to the bottom, that’s a sub right?”
“Probably.”
“There are men on that sub and you don’t know if it’s an American or NATO sub.”
“Whoever they are, at this depth they are all dead.”
“Yes, but what if it sunk from the surface? Then there would be survivors.”
“First off we’d have seen a surface ship from fifteen miles off, and second, what do you propose we do about that? We are on a dark mission here. Survivors would compromise our mission and this boat’s secrecy.”
“Look, I was alone up there when the Vera Cruz sank, and I am here right now, alive, because someone didn’t give me up for dead.”
“Agent Burrell, you are here to advise and observe. I am the mission runner, and as long as there is a chance we can complete our mission and maintain operational integrity, we go. And that, Lieutenant Burrell, is an order, my order.”
Brooke’s blood started to overheat. She was about to pull rank as a White House operative, but she thought of Mush. His command. How as master and captain of a ship, the one essential was that his authority could not be undermined. So she flipped on her brain’s safety switch and said, “Yes sir,” and returned to her seat. She saw a second thought slam into the commander’s head. “Has there been any nuclear signature?”
“Reviewing now — there is a slight level but far less than a crippled nuke would put out. It could be natural background radiation in this part of the ocean floor, sir, but definitely not any indication of rupture of a containment vessel. So, sir, if it was a sub, the reactor scrambled and for now it is contained.”
“Okay, but I want you on that monitor. If it raises one rad, I want to know about it and we all get the hell out of here.” He then turned to Brooke, the slightest attitude of contrition visible on his furrowed brow.
On the Halibut, the captain was trying to raise the DSRV, “Little Chick…Little Chick.”
The DSRV, caught in the tremendous eddy of the sinking sub, was lifted up and arced around like a Ferris wheel going in reverse, its tiny motors no match for the swirling water rushing to fill the hole where the giant hull was falling. It was only the skill of the driver and his adroit manipulation of the handgrips that directed the attitude of the motors, allowing the tiny craft to just miss the descending bow of the crippled craft. As it slid by, the DSRV’s lights briefly illuminated the bow and the name Vladivostok. The wreck plummeted through their position, two hundred fifty feet above the ocean floor. Then the currents quieted and they were finally able to take stock of their situation.
“Henhouse, this is Little Chick.”
“Good to hear you, Chick. What is your situation?”
“A little shook up, but still watertight and we have maneuverability; batteries are good, air supply nominal.”
“Did you see whatever that was?”
“Affirmative. Russian Akula class sub, read Vladivostok. Deep sixed.”
The captain’s eyebrows rose at that bit of data.
The guys in the DSRV continued, “Henhouse, do we abort?”
“Hold for orders, Little Chick.” The captain switched the frequency on his overhead panel and hit the transmit switch, “McDonald, this is Henhouse; Little Chick is good to go. I recommend proceeding unless you got a big picture reason to abort?”
With that, Commander Randell turned to his radar and sonar techs, “What is the trawler doing?”
“Still in place, no increased EE, sir. It looks like he’s unaware of any calamity.”
This confused the commander. Surely they were listening and the implosion of the Akula was a giant noise in the water. “Sonar, where’s the thermal layer?”
Wherever warmer water lies atop cooler water, a sonic wall of sorts is created. Therefore, it was possible the trawler never heard the implosion. The sonar man affirmed that the position of the temperature gradient could have shielded the Russian spook ship from the acoustic waves. He knew it was just a matter of minutes before the Russian trawler would try to make contact or try to ascertain the Akula’s situation. It meant there was a window of opportunity to complete the mission. “Little Chick, let’s keep dancing.”
“Affirmative.”
The Akula landed upside down three hundred yards east of the shipwrecked hull, which was suspected to be the target ship. The DSRV buzzed down and hovered at fifty feet above the wreck. They radioed back to Henhouse confirmation that they were indeed above the Vera Cruz.
The news was met on the control ship with a slight cheer. Brooke, however, was processing all the data she had absorbed. The cop in her took over the meeting going on in her head. “Commander, what was the Akula doing here? Why is that trawler here? Why would the Russians be as interested in this wreck as we are?”
“It’s possible they want those crucibles back.”
“Doubtful; they are old tech to them. No, the only value they have is the value they have to us — evidentiary.” Brooke’s mind reached for a criminal motivation to the Russian behavior she had just observed. Returning to the scene of the crime was axiomatic. However there was one reason that would compel a perpetrator to return. “Commander, call off the DSRV!”
The commander turned with a look that said, “Why would I do that?” as he said those exact words.
“That sub was here to destroy the evidence.”
“Well, he’s not going to be doing anything but becoming a reef.”
“How do you know they haven’t set charges or…”
The driver of the DSRV nearly jumped out of his harness as another DSRV entered his field of view. “Henhouse, we got company. Holy shit, another DSRV!”
“Little Chick, this is Henhouse; they must be from the Akula!” He threw the switch to relay the news to Brooke’s spy ship, “McDonald, we got more company.”
“Son of a bitch,” the Commander on board the American control ship uttered. “Have they seen your Little Chick yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Tell ’em to go dark, play possum, and let’s see what happens.”
“Roger that.”
Brooke couldn’t help but interject. “Commander, that Russian DSRV is now an orphan. They could alert the trawler.
“Not likely, for the same reason we cannot speak directly to ours; because they don’t carry powerful RF so as not to waste battery. For all the trawler knows right now, the Akula went off the air.”
“The men in the Russian DSRV had to hear the implosion; they are on the same side of the thermal layer,” Brooke said.
“So what are you saying?”
“That they’re as dog-headed as you, and are out to complete their mission if they can still breathe.”
“And you think their mission is seek and destroy?”
“Why else haven’t they tried to surface after their “Henhouse” sank?”
Brooke could see the commander was an agile thinker as he judged her words purely on their merit and seemingly with no baggage left over from the tug of war they’d been playing for the last few minutes.
He keyed his mike, “Henhouse, can you disable the other DSRV?”
Aboard Little Chick, the two-man crew looked at each other as they heard the request. They immediately engaged their thrusters and advanced toward the Russian submersible, ready to attack with nothing more than claws — and balls. They switched on their HD video feed but not their lights, so as to not give away their approach. The Russian’s lights were on and the Little Chick crew could see they were carrying a five-foot wide container that was roughly the shape of a beer cooler in the arms of their machine.