“The Bartlett and the Kane may arrive by evening on the third,” the operations officer said.
“We are going to be too late,” Sodur lamented. “The Americans will steal our technology.”
Ignoring the pessimistic officer, Oberstev turned to his aide. “Alexi, what do we hear from Plesetsk?”
“Director Piredenko, with assistance from the nuclear laboratory, devised a computer model of the impact, General. The scientists believe that, no matter which side the payload compartment landed on, it is likely that…” — Cherbykov consulted his notebook — “the F-two-six module, which controls the solenoids that operate the control rods, would have been severely damaged. The computer model suggests that the control rods may have been moved to the ninety-six percent open position”
“Which means?” Oberstev asked, impatient at the details.
“The nuclear mass will rise to a supercritical state. The freon coolant, providing that the pumps continue to operate, may alleviate the heat for several days.”
“Give me a date, Alexi. Please.”
“No earlier than 1800 hours, September eight, General.”
“And?”
“No later than 2400 hours, September nine,” Cherbykov reported.
To the obvious chagrin of every person in the combat information center. They all stared at Oberstev.
“Perhaps,” he said, “it is time to tell the world. The ships in the affected area should be warned.”
“I disagree, Comrade General,” Sodur said. “We have a great deal of time available to us, as yet. We will recover the reactor and neutralize it.”
The patrol ship’s captain cleared his throat and said, “I am not certain that you understand the difficulties involved, Colonel Sodur.”
“Our Navy has always vaunted its expertise,” Sodur countered.
“Our ability to make the recovery is not in question,” Leonid Talebov said, “but the amount of time in which to do it certainly is.”
“Then we should communicate with Chairman Yevgeni and listen to his recommendation.”
Oberstev was not the only one to stifle a sigh. They all knew what Yevgeni would say.
At most, they would have two days!
The telephone rang in Overton’s room, jarring him from a nap that had been encouraged by three Mai Tais.
He rolled over on the bed, his bare back prickling from the stiff breeze pouring through the open French doors to the balcony, and grabbed at the phone.
“Wilson.”
“Ned, Will. I’ve got you a ride.”
“Plane to Midway?” Overton asked, hopeful.
“Nope. No boats available at Midway,” Nelson explained. “We managed to charter a cruiser out of Maui called the Oversight. Fitting, huh?”
Suspicious, Overton asked, “Who’s ‘weʼ?ˮ
“Well, it’s tough, finding boats that will go into the area. Expensive, too.”
“Come on, Ned.”
“Bunch of us got together, to share the cost.”
“Bunch of who?”
“Couple newspapers…”
There went his exclusive coverage.
“Couple radio stations … ”
And the immediacy.
“And three network camera teams.”
“Goddamn it!”
“Sorry, Will. You know how it is.”
Overton slammed the phone down.
Curtis Aaron was at the helm of the Queen of Liberty. Sometimes, he liked to take control.
The horizon ahead still carried the red hues of sundown, though the sun had disappeared some time before.
The seas were running smoothly, and the Queen, a sixty-foot wooden-hulled Chris-Craft that had been built in 1959, cut through them nicely.
Next to him on the flying bridge, under the canvas sun shield, Dawn Lengren studied the radar screen, her forehead pressed against the hood that protected the screen. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a skimpy halter top. Her leaning position gave him an instrument panel-lit view of her small cleavage, the shadows moving erotically over her skin. Aaron was aware of stirrings, and he was beginning to think about retiring for the night. Let someone else steer the barge for the next eight hours.
“Anything, Dawn?”
She sat back in the cushioned seat. “There’s lots out there, Curtis, but I can’t tell what’s what. They may be freighters and tankers.”
“We’re looking for a boat headed west.”
“I know that. I count seven on the thirty-mile scan. Look at it yourself.”
Aaron would not have known the difference himself. “No, I believe you. We’re bound to intersect them somewhere along the line.”
“Maybe Jacobs knows where he’s going,” Lengren said, implying that Aaron did not know.
He turned his head and looked aft on the right side. A half-mile away, the Arienne, a Greenpeace boat, was showing her running lights. No matter how Jacobs might snub Aaron from time to time, he had certainly been quick to follow him out of Santa Monica.
“I doubt it, Dawn. He’s keying on us.”
“Yeah, but … ”
Her voice was drowned out by the abrupt high-pitched roar of engines.
Aaron almost ducked.
A four-engined airplane shot overhead, headed west. Aaron would swear that it was less than a thousand feet above the water.
“Dumb bastard,” Dawn said.
The inside of the Navy C-130 Hercules was spartan. Wiring and hydraulic conduits snaked along the ceiling and fuselage walls. There were rattles, metal against metal. The rollers in the floor chittered. The four Alison turboprops roared throatily, dissuading attempts at conversation.
Brande sat in one of the pull-down, canvas seats against the left side of the cavernous cargo bay. He wore a set of headphones that diminished the noise of the engines and let him listen in on the intercom chatter of the crew and the radio dialogue of the pilots.
In front of him, centered in the bay, were Turtle and Gargantua. The smaller robot was aft, and both rested on wooden pallets. The floor and the aft, lowerable ramp were made up of aluminum rollers, and the pallets were locked in place by nylon tie-downs. Since they did not have any windows, the cargo master had lowered the ramp while in flight in order to give them a view, but the view was of an endless blue sea. The twilight had deepened into grayish gloom, and the sea looked like darkened concrete. Brande figured the surface was just about as hard as concrete.
Strapped around the perimeter of both ROVs was a heavy-duty polyvinyl sac which, with any luck at all, would be inflated by C02 cartridges at the proper time.
Brande was dressed in a dark blue wetsuit which had the MVU logo embossed above his left breast. On the canvas seat beside him was a battered white helmet that the Navy apparently did not mind losing since they had lent it to him with no proviso for its return. He was strapped into a deflated Mae West and main and reserve parachutes for which the Navy would probably bill him. His civilian clothes were packed into a small waterproof bag hooked to his belt.
Over the headset, he heard one of the pilots make a call, obviously on the marine band. “Orion. This is Baker Two Two.”
“Baker Two Two, Orion. I think we see your lights. The voice was female, and Brande thought it belonged to Connie Alvarez-Sorenson.
“I’ll blink them for you, if you do the same for me. We’re at nine-five-zero feet.”
“Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine,” she said and, after a moment, noted, “I’ve got you.”