The yacht with all of the radio, television, and newspaper reporters had been told to stay out of the cordoned-off area, and Overton felt, probably excessive, glee at that. There would not be video at eleven.
He thought that his manner aboard ship — staying out of the way, being polite — had paid off. Most of the officers were almost cordial to him now.
Between scans of the sea, Overton had been jotting on a yellow pad, writing the start of what was going to be an in-depth story on the amazing cooperation between the Russians and Americans in this time of crisis.
It was shaping up.
He raised the binoculars and looked toward the research and patrol ships again. Scanned the raging waters near them.
Nothing.
He took a quick look to the right, toward the Kane.
Nothing.
On their left was the CIS cruiser Kynda, and Overton checked it with the glasses.
Noth…
Looked again. Refocused.
Cruiser.
Going like a bat out of hell.
OCEAN FREE screamed from the hull.
“Hey!” Overton yelled, pointing.
Every officer on the bridge turned, raising their field glasses to their eyes.
Why had someone not seen Aaron coming on a radar or something?
But where was he going?
Overton trained his glasses on the research ship, but did not see anything he had not seen in the last hours.
Switched to the Commonwealth ship. Same thing.
Wait.
A hundred yards this side of the CIS ship, something was bobbing in the sea.
He leaned into the window, spun the focus wheel.
A submersible had just surfaced. All he could see was the sail, and it disappeared, falling behind a wave crest.
Alarms sounded and the Bronstein surged forward.
Overton held onto a grab bar, trying to keep the binoculars trained on his target.
Jesus! That Aaron was crazy as hell.
Probably did not know the difference between a reactor and a submersible.
Getting close.
The cruiser was maybe a couple hundred feet from the sub.
He was going to stop?
No. Plunging straight ahead.
The submersible rose into view at the top of a wave.
Overton felt sick. It was as if he personally had pushed Aaron into this.
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
The cruiser slammed into the sub when it was at the top of the wave.
A second went by, two seconds.
Wilson Overton saw the flash of the detonation before he heard it. Bright yellow-red-orange fireball.
The thunder rolled slowly toward him, but he was already bent over, his stomach contracting, and his supper splashing on the bulkhead.
Brande had been talking to Pyotr Rastonov when Rastonov’s phone went dead.
He had immediately asked Rae, “What happened up there?”
“God, Dane, it’s awful.”
“Jesus, what? The reactor?”
Dokey looked at him with a white face.
“No. Some cruiser just crashed into the Sea Lion. It blew up. Fuel tanks.”
Brande’s stomach churned.
“I should have gone to the bathroom before we left,” Dokey said.
“The Olʼyantsev and the Bronstein are putting boats over.”
“How about the reactor?”
“Mel says another hundred feet.”
Brande looked at his own depth readout. They were at 600 feet and rising at the maximum rate.
“Everybody ready?”
“Yes,” she said. “Bob’s got a crew ready, and he’s talked to the Russian nuclear people. Svetlana did the translation.”
By the time the DepthFinder reached the surface and began to toss in the swells, the reactor was on the aft deck of the Orion. Brande cruised around near the stern, waiting.
Dokey talked to Connie Alvarez-Sorenson on the UHF.
At twenty-one minutes after midnight, Bob Mayberry came on the radio. “Control rods are shut down, Dane.”
“Son of a bitch! Good job, Bob.”
“Aw, hell! Those guys in Russia were wrong. I think we had smother couple hours.”
September 16
Chapter Seventeen
Rather than subject himself to a potential inquisition by the fourth estate, Hampstead bought economy-class tickets on a commercial carrier, and United Airlines got him into San Diego International within two minutes of the advertised arrival time.
He and Adrienne stayed in their seats until the people in a hurry had jammed the aisles of the Boeing 767 and then gushed forth into the terminal. Then they got up and deplaned leisurely, Hampstead carrying their two overnighters and Adrienne’s hanging bag.
Kaylene Thomas was waiting at the gate for them.
“Dane couldn’t make it?” he asked.
“Unavoidably detained,” she said. “But he said he’d get in touch with you later in the week. If you’re actually taking a whole week’s vacation.”
“The whole week.” He nodded. “Anyway, my primary purpose was to introduce the two of you. Kaylene, Adrienne.”
The two women shook hands and sized each other up. Adrienne was several inches taller than Thomas, but she had the dark coloring of the Hampsteads. Her only resemblance to Avery was in the slightly elongated shape of her face. She had laughing green eyes and a smile that could charm the last twenty bucks out of Scrooge.
“I’ll run you out to La Jolla,” Thomas said. “And Dane said you could use his car while you’re here.”
“The old Pontiac?”
“That’s the one.”
“I think we’ll rent,” Hampstead said.
“I like old cars,” Adrienne told him.
“Before we go,” Hampstead said, “let’s find a place to sit down and get our business over with.”
They walked up the concourse to the terminal and found a coffee shop with a vacant table.
Seated amid the luggage and beautiful women, Hampstead said, “Adrienne?”
His sister dug through a voluminous beige leather purse and came up with the envelope.
Thomas gave him a questioning look.
“Adrienne handles money well,” he said. “Better than Brinks. She also raises funds well.”
Thomas took the envelope, but before opening it, said, “You know the Navy billed us for that C-130?”
“I know. I took care of it directly.”
Thomas smiled and opened the envelope.
Frowned.
There were quite a few checks in there.
“The first one completes our contract, Kaylene. Three hundred and sixty-some thousand. The rest of them are from grateful governments. Japan, Korea, the Philippines, California, Oregon, Alaska, like that.”
“My God, Avery! How did that happen?”
“I got some phone numbers, and Adrienne made some calls.”
Thomas looked at his sister with some awe and respect in her eyes. She said, “Have you ever considered a career in fund-raising for a poor oceanographic research firm?” Hampstead was glad he had introduced them.
Brande was unavoidably detained in the semidarkened lounge of the MGM Grand, enjoying a Johnnie Walker Black Label and a trio of young ladies who did credible things with old standards like ʻStardustʼ, ʻBlue Skiesʼ and ʻUnchained Melodyʼ.