The Final Countdown, page 7
“Walter, I think youd better get out a whole batch of special messages,” Yelland ordered. “To start with, if I didn’t have this bloody headache, it would have occurred to me sooner to issue a warning about the rogue waves that hit us last night. So let’s not waste any more time. Get me a report on the location of the destroyers that were with us until that storm. I want a chart layout on all Russian trawlers, and have command at Pearl give us a new location pattern of our subs within three hundred miles of our present position. All contacts on all command channels are to be checked. As the reports come in, have them directed to the bridge. Staff will collate and keep me updated. Get right to it.”
“Yes, sir.” Kaufman went off the line.
Yelland noticed Warren Lasky standing at the computer command room door. “Mr. Lasky,” the captain called, “are the computers back on line?”
Lasky walked across the bridge to him. “Standard processing, Captain. They seem fit, but we’re running the programmed internal check to study all elements. It takes about twenty minutes to confirm the electrical surges and other problems have been purged. And we need to do that”
Yelland raised a brow; the entire bridge was listening. “Explain that to me, please,” Yelland said.
“Captain, it is physically impossible for a storm of the nature we experienced to end as abruptly as it did,” Lasky replied, and he seemed very certain of his words. “The only event even remotely close to this is a neutercane, which is a meteorological event confirmed in what is known as the Devils Triangle between Bermuda and Florida. And I don’t care much of a damn what anyone thinks about triangles. I’m referring to a storm that erupts without warning, that can turn a placid sea in thirty seconds into howling white water. We did not experience a neutercane last night We had a major meteorological event covering tens of thousands of square miles, an unprecedented electromagnetic effect and it all ended in a period of seconds. Sir, that is unparalleled in the history of weather known to the human race. The computers have rejected such data—if I can translate computereze—as a combination of impossible, insane, and totally reject-able data.”
“Mr. Lasky, you might not be so adamant if you had experience with rogue waves,” Yelland said a bit tartly.
Lasky gave tartness right back. “Captain Yelland, I have a masters in oceanography.” He paused to let that sink in and then went on. “I am familiar to the point of intimacy with such ocean phenomena. Rogue waves come under the heading of tsunamic phenomena and—”
“I don’t care what they call it,” Yelland retorted. “We both know those things can move of speeds of four to five hundred miles an hour, and that wall of water that hit us wasn’t anything that could be called normal, and it certainly can dissipate its immediate-area effects in—”
Lasky broke in. “Tsunamic waves, Captain, are not accompanied with high-atmospheric activity, with electromagnetic disruption on the scale we experienced, they do not disrupt ultrahigh frequency or microwave communications, do not put satellites out of commission, and are not accompanied by sustained winds—shall I go on?”
Yelland was studying this strange civilian with growing respect He might be a smart-assed son of a bitch but he knew where he was speaking. “Yes. Go on.”
“Tsunamic waves are either long-range tidal forces or the results of such activity as undersea avalanches or earthquakes, and when you’re on the high seas, as we have been, you do not even notice such a wave, even when it’s directly beneath you. A tsunamic involvement for us is patently absurd and may be dismissed from all consideration.”
Yelland rubbed his aching head. “All right,” he said finally. “Then what the hell was it?”
“What it was, Captain, was patently, convincingly, historically, realistically impossible.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Yelland snapped.
An unperturbed Lasky stared back without blinking. “I agree.”
“Do you have any theories to offer, then?”
“I do.” .
Damn, the man wouldn’t budge an inch. “Tell me, confound it!” Yelland barked.
Lasky had a strange smile on his face. “Give me a little more time, Captain. If I told you right out, I haven’t the faintest doubt that you would, to borrow a quaint expression, have me clapped in irons.”
’ Yelland’s fuse was burning just a bit brighter. “Mr. Lasky, I have no time for facetious remarks or— damn.” He went silent as Walt Kaufman’s voice broke in on the priority channel.
“Comm to the bridge. Urgent,” came the message.
Yelland opened his lip mike to all channels for his staff. “Bridge here, the captain speaking. What is it, Kaufman?”
The communications officer’s words brought the bridge to dead silence. “Sir, we’re down across the board.”
“Spell that out.” Yelland’s voice was rasping and harsh.
“Sir, all equipment functions normally. All antennas are back on line. We have full power and we’re transmitting at maximum output. But no matter what we do, we seem to be totally out off from the outside world. We get no response of any land. We have interrogated every satellite wavelength and it’s a zero response. Nothing on the war alert frequency. Nothing to other ships and nothing for aircraft, as well. We’ve even sounded sonar and long-range underwater masers; plenty of echo response but nothing directly answering.” There was a brief pause. “Sir, we’re receiving mostly hash. We’ve scanned every band possible. What has us puzzled, sir, is that we picked up some code transmissions in the 200-meter band. Otherwise, as of this moment, we’re as dead as a doornail.”
Yelland saw the strange smile, almost a grimace, on Lasky’s face. He put aside questioning that man for a few moments. “Keep me posted,” Yelland said crisply. He tapped into another line. In the navigation command center the emergency call flashed. Commander Leo Slattery snatched up the phone. “NavCenter, Slattery.”
“Leo, this is the captain. Flat out—what’s our position?”
“Uh, Captain, a few hours ago we were holding course two six two and two hundred four miles west of Pearl.”
“What the hell do you mean a few hours ago!”
“Captain Yelland, as far as I know we’re still in that same position. But the sun has moved. I mean, uh, it’s moved, well, sir, it’s crazy. If we had maintained our course and heading, based on the same scale as solar movement, we should be two hundred and thirty miles farther west than we are. But according to all checks, we’re right where we were eleven hours ago, as though we hadn’t moved an inch.”
“That’s impossible!”
Yes, sir.
“Is that all you’ve got to say, Kaufman!”
“Yes, sir.”
Yelland snapped off the line. He looked again at Lasky and was disturbed by that sad, terrible smile. He pushed his gaze away from that tremendously disturbing look. Why the hell didn’t Lasky say what he was thinking!
“Owens, Thurman, Lasky,” he said swiftly. “Come with me. We’re going to talk to Kaufman. He sounded as if he was ready to lie down and cry.”
Lasky nodded. “Captain Yelland, he was. He is.” Yelland walked from the bridge, the others following behind. They pushed into the communications center. Commander Walter Kaufman was trembling visibly. That shook Yelland. Kaufman was unflappable and he looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
“All right,” Yelland said. “Spare me all poetics and nuances. Has anything changed from your last conversation with me?”
Kaufman’s face was now stone. “No, sir.”
“You said you had something in the 200-meter band. So there’s something intruding into that vacuum of yours.”
“Yes, sir, but that’s all we’re getting.”
“No question about your equipment?” Yelland’s eyes narrowed as he took the measure of the man. Kaufman was stricken but still with it “No, sir. We’re smack on.”
“How strong is that 200-meter band?”
“On a scale of ten, sir, about three for signal strength.”
“What are you getting?”
Kaufman took a very deep breath. “Morse code, sir. Most of it in five-letter groups. It’s ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“It sounds like someone is putting us on, sir.”
“Explain that!”
“Well, sir, these codes … I studied them a long time ago as a student at Great Lakes. These are old codes for the Royal Navy.”
“The whatP”
“British, sir. But archaic. It hasn’t been used for years.”
“How long is that, mister?”
“Sir, at least forty years.”
Yelland looked about him, his patience scraped thin. “Jesus, has everybody gone mad around here?”
The others were blank-faced. Warren Lasky smiled. He knew, damn him! Yelland turned back to his staff. “Get a recon Vigilante into the air immediately with orders for an extreme-altitude photosweep of Pearl and the islands. It is to avoid all contact at all costs. And I mean at all costs, including running from anything that even shows up in the same sky. It is to exercise full capability; long-range radar, full-scan optical and laser photography, and a full ferret electronic sweep. I want real-time data return to this carrier, right into the war room, and then I want everything brought back here processed and delivered to the meeting we’re about to have.” Yelland motioned for the others to follow him and continued as he talked. “Dan,” he said to his executive officer, “you know what I want. Set it up. Full staff.” He glanced at Lasky. “And you, sir, well, I would appreciate your remaining with me. Have you had any further news on your computers?”
Lasky nodded slowly.
Yelland stopped in mid-stride. He lowered his voice. “Sir, you have the damnedest smile on your face. I’m not sure if it’s the Cheshire cat or if those are canary feathers floating about your mouth. Would you care to enlighten me?”
Lasky sighed. “It is a smile, Captain, because I am terrified.”
Yelland was astonished and showed it “Of what, for God’s sake?”
“Yesterday, Captain, yesterday. You see, it’s caught us.” That strange smile returned. “But you’re not ready to hear what I mean, because even I’m not ready to accept what I believe is the truth.” He turned away from the captain and walked on alone, strangely, utterly alone.
9
A feeling of intense but subdued motion marked the deck as the launch crews prepared the rakish Vigilante for its reconaissance mission; Lieutenant Paul Pearson, the pilot in the front of the tandem cockpit, and Mike McCready, the electronics officer in the rear, went through their final checklists. Hand and voice signals told them the launch crew was now at the ready. The Vigilante was fully alive in the sense of the aircraft, and its complex innards as well as the machine were ready to swing into full service. Usually there was an elan at such moments, but now all through Nimitz the sense of the unknown, the inescapable fact of the sun shifting in the sky, had pervaded the thoughts of every man, and they had substituted a cautious expectancy for other feelings. It was difficult, if not impossible, to ignore the dead and the injured and within the aura of the unsolved it was difficult to get back into the hard swing of operations. What saved sanity in many cases was the inescapable reality that they were here, right now, steaming under power at sea with all systems returned to normal. Yet suspicion and fear and distrust roamed through every mind. Every gun position on the carrier was manned with live rounds. Missile systems for use against aircraft, ships, and submarines were kept at the ready. Fighters were on the line for instant launch in full numbers, and three big antisubmarine helicopters were on station, one ahead of Nimitz and the others to each side, antisubmarine warfare (ASW) equipment probing for any submarines that might be in the area.
In CCI—Combat Control Center, or more commonly, the war room—Captain Yelland had assembled his key staff to watch the plotting boards and to listen to any word from either the Vigilante or any other aircraft and systems. Large banks of Lucite display boards glowed from the liquid crystals that were sandwiched between the transparent sheets, ready to come alive at the touch of controls by technicians plotting the Vigilante and other flights. To the rear of the war room sat Yelland and his staff and Warren Lasky, commanding a full view of any activity that might be displayed. The room was set up for direct aural signal from the Vigilante, so that any two-way conversation with the airplane on UHF (ultra high frequency) could be heard as the pilot talked back and forth with the controlling teams.
The main plotting center glowed with life. In the middle of the panel appeared a small representation of the Nimitz, and from the carrier there stretched an arcing dotted line that represented the flight path of the Vigilante. Digital numbers flickered steadily to show the course, heading, altitude, and speed of the airplane. The glowing lines representing the Hawaiian Islands moved steadily closer to the Vigilante.
They heard Pearsons call sign over the speakers. “Victor Fox Trot, this is One Zero Niner, radio check.” Air control answered at once. “One Zero Niner, you’re five by five. Over.”
“Roger that,” came the answer. “Loud and clear.” They knew what the moment was like in the long cockpit of the Vigilante, both crewmen wearing pressure suits and bulbous helmets, sealed into their pressurized compartment, the second man, to the rear of Pearson, literally surrounded by banks of equipment. Pearson normally would be flying this kind of mission with his autopilot controlling the swift jet, but not now. He was on his own ragged edge, and, like the others, he wanted to be capable of instant response to any situation. In the muffled quiet of the cockpit, Pearson studied the readout of his onboard computer. Before him on the windscreen there appeared a grid pattern with thin glowing yellow lines. A red dot moved across the grid toward Pearl Harbor and the coasts of the islands. Pearson tapped several command buttons, and numbers glowed on the screen. He nodded to himself. Everything was on the line. In a few minutes he would have visual contact with the islands themselves. Damn—heavy cloud cover was coming up. It looked like it would be broken clouds over the islands. He nodded to himself and spoke into his helmet mike; no need to transmit any button because he was staying on “open line” to the air controllers and the war room itself.
“One Zero Niner commencing search pattern of the northwest quadrant.”
Air control answered at once. “Confirm and continue.”
Pearson worked the computer before him until the grid pattern winked out; it was replaced by a series of green circles radiating outward from a center point. He studied the pattern and spoke to the electronics officer behind him. “Mike, I’m clean on the board. You got anything?”
“Negative. We—oops, got something. Nothing in the visual range, but radar sweep is picking up something airborne beneath those clouds.”
Pearson called in directly. “Control, you read?”
“Go, One Zero Niner.”
“We’ve got a solid cloud deck now beneath us at about twenty-eight thousand feet. No results on visual, but radar picks up what we confirm as several aircraft in the vicinity of Pearl at altitudes of less than seven thousand. I’m about to start an infrared sweep.”
“Confirm.”
“Ah, roger that, Control. Okay, we’re picking up some heat patterns. Definite aircraft, very slow moving. Also, we seem to be getting thermal high points on the surface. Nothing we can really tell from here. We re rolling all tapes for analysis. Over.”
“Very good, One Zero Niner. Proceed.”
The war room had been taking on an air of quietly growing excitement. At least they had their teeth into something. The softly pulsating line that represented the flight path of the Vigilante had begun a new curve, and now it intersected and crossed the irregular shape of a coastline. They studied the digital curve of the reconnaissance plane holding at forty thousand feet just below supersonic speed. The pilot’s voice came across the speakers. “One Zero Niner now at the end of the scheduled first run. We’re starting Leg Two now. Over.”
“Roger that, One Zero Niner. Be sure you have comparative radar scans of that coastline below you. Confirm, please.”
“Got it.”
“Any visual contact yet?”
Pearson’s voice reflected his own puzzlement. “It’s an empty sky out there. Not only that, but not a single sign of a contrail at our altitude or below, and that’s strange, with all the airliner traffic between the island and the mainland.”
“We agree, Paul. Just keep on trucking.”
“That’s a big ten-four from One Zero Niner.”
No one thought Captain Yelland would mind the joshing. Indeed, he found it an excellent sign that his men were emerging from their blue funk.
The only man in the war room who didn’t respond with some sort of smile or laugh at the radio exchange was Warren Lasky. He had spent every spare moment communicating with the great computers in the carrier. Thoughts swirled in his head, making him dizzy. The realization that his hunches seemed to be correct disturbed him even more.
Jesus freaking Khee-rhist, he murmured to himself.
Captain Yelland tapped the control console before him for attention. “Control, turn off the speakers in the war room. Break in on open line only if something unusual comes up.”
“Yes, sir,” answered a disembodied voice. There would be no unnecessary interruptions from this point on. Yelland looked about him and stopped his gaze on Lasky. “We’ve been going at our problem for some time now. What we’re working out is a general consensus by which we can set our course to try t£> find a way out of this mess. I would appreciate it if you would listen to what we have to say, and if you find it pertinent, please interrupt at any time. You’ve kept a real-time profile with the computers?”
Lasky nodded. “Yes, sir, I have.”
Yelland nodded and glanced at the rest of the men. He held up a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Gentlemen, this represents the findings, conclusions, ideas, and recommendations of every responsible control officer of this carrier. And there’s an overwhelming conclusion that’s been drawn by at least ninety percent of everyone involved.”
