Deep Sound Channel (13 page)

"So I'm supposed to be the sober head," Jeffrey said, "along for the ride to validate the rules of engagement in real time, since SEALs do so love blowing up things. . . . How long do we have to prepare?"

"The time it takes to sneak over there and get in position. Five days, roughly."

"Jesus, sir."

"Look, I understand your feelings. But I can't send the other officers, I need them here. You're my backup, my alter ego on policy and doctrine."

"And I'm expendable."

Wilson sighed. "Jeffrey, I was an XO too. You need to be there. These guys can't just phone home for instructions like in Desert Storm. The enemy homeland has continual surveillance for clandestine comms, extremely sophisticated defensive signal intelligence and jamming."

"I'm sorry, sir. I must sound unprofessional." "Any other questions?"

"Why is Ilse Reebeck going?"

"She knows the territory, and her expertise will be of use."

"How do we know we can trust her, sir? She's one of them." Wilson tossed Jeffrey an unlabeled videocassette. "What's this, sir?"

"Since the war broke out six months ago, the Axis have been staging executions of their own dissenters. Her brother's part of the third batch in, next to his girlfriend. They made them take their clothes off first. Play it on your state-room VCR."

"No thanks, Captain." Jeffrey tried to hand it back.

"No, I insist. It's in color, with dramatic close-ups while they hang. Good camera work, anatomically explicit."

Jeffrey blanched.

Wilson looked right at him. "We can't have anyone going to Durban with the slightest doubts. The outcome's too important."

Jeffrey inhaled deeply, then let it out.

"Watch the tape now," Wilson said, "before the briefing." "I will, Captain."

"Just remember, you and the SEALs at least are legitimate combatants under international law."

"You mean that if we're captured we're POWs?"

"Miss Reebeck, her they'll string up by her neck from the nearest tree or lamppost . . . after the troopies are done with her."

Jeffrey swallowed, feeling angry and protective . . . and manipulated.

"Anyway," Wilson said, "ask COB to see the crew gets fed. I know we've got repairs to do, but work with him on mandatory rest breaks for all hands."

"Aye aye, Captain."

"That applies to you as well. How long have you been u?"

p

Jeffrey eyed his wristwatch, a waterproof old Rolex that he'd blooded in Iraq. "Thirtytwo hours."

"Get some sleep, after the briefing."

"Yes, sir."

"Ask the mess management chief to have lunch ready in the wardroom at thirteen hundred local. Department heads, the SEAL team leader, Sonar, and our guests. You make the invitations."

"Yes, sir."

"Have him lay on something special. We just survived Challenger's first real taste of battle."

"I forgot how hungry you get after combat, Captain. It isn't like the drills."

"We'll hold a memorial service for the three dead crewmen in the morning." Wilson paused. "Morning, mourning. Sorry for that awful pun."

"It's macabre having them in the freezer, sir."

"Life goes on, Mr. Fuller. Someday you might just have my job. Then you'll understand." Jeffrey realized now the captain's eyes were red, and he sounded slightly nasal.

"I'll talk to COB about the arrangements," Wilson said, "so add that to your Plan of the Day."

Jeffrey nodded, then moved toward the door.

"Oh," Wilson called after him. "And, XO." Wilson gestured toward the head that connected their two state-rooms, the boat's executive john. "You're awfully odorous. Take another shower, please."

Ilse wiped her lips with a linen napkin as the steward cleared the china. The sonar officer, young Sessions, turned off the Mozart on the stereo.

"So, Miss Reebeck," the CO said, "what's your impression of our table?"

"Very nice, Captain Wilson. I've always heard that navies serve the finest food."

"There was nothing fresh or frozen at the tender," Jeffrey said. "Frank Cable's priorities don't cover haute cuisine, Miss Reebeck."

"Everything was good, Commander, even if it came from tins and boxes. . . . And I wish you'd call me Ilse."

"Good," Wilson said before Jeffrey could respond. "Let's all be on a first-name basis. You can call me Captain." The others laughed politely, and Ilse sensed they liked knowing their exact place in the hierarchy.

The steward came around and filled everybody's coffee cup. He brought tea for Commodore Morse, who tugged idly at his beard.

"Sorry our navy's dry," Jeffrey said.

"Let's hope for a speedy passage," Morse said.

"Hear, hear," Wilson said. The others chuckled, more heartily this time. Ilse tried to imagine what it was like to spend long weeks at sea without even a beer. I guess I'll find out soon, she told herself. She didn't smoke, but she'd seen it was permitted in certain areas. Right now the smoking lamp was out—men were servicing the weapons. The steward brought a silver tray of fresh-baked cookies, chocolate chip. Ilse loved chocolate chip cookies. She'd expected to crash emotionally after the battle, but instead she still felt high. This dessert would be the perfect capstone to her first half-day of war. The smell of the warm chocolate filled the air. Wilson passed the tray around, not taking one himself. He cleared his throat.

"Again, gentlemen, congratulations on a well-done job so far. Please pass that to your departments." The men all murmured thanks.

"As some of you have heard, we'll hold a memorial service tomorrow. But I see no better way to honor our deceased comrades than dedicating our efforts going forward in their honor."

There were murmurs of assent.

"I do not say that lightly," Wilson said. "Our next task, if we succeed, will strike a crucial blow for freedom, neutralize a very dangerous threat. Ilse, maybe you should give your summary now"

Ilse sat up straighter. She'd noticed the captain and the others had grown more formal in their manner. Navy rituals, she told herself. Through all the easy lunchtime chitchat between the men, she'd felt like an invader in a very private world. Turbine-blade erosion rates, radiological spill drill reaction times, speeding up the new guys' progress on their quals.

I want to be a part of what they're doing, Ilse told herself. I want to know my efforts matter here, that they accept me. She tried to make her voice sound deep and confident.

"Our objective is to destroy a Boer bioweapons lab, at Umhlanga Rocks."

"That's in Durban?" Jeffrey said.

"Kind of, sir," said Lieutenant Shajo Clayton, the SEAL team leader. "It's ten miles north of the downtown area, but still well inside the city's main defensive zone.,

"So it's germ warfare," Jeffrey said. "Like Saddam again. What is it this time, anthrax?

Pneumonic plague? Botulinum toxin?"

"Not germs or viruses, Commander," Ilse said. "Archaea. "

"The stuff that lives in hot vents? Those black smokers on the ocean floor?"

"Yes," Ilse said. "Primordial microbes. A new domain, technically. They're usually benign. They have industrial applications."

"Like cleaning oil spills, right?" Jeffrey said.

Ilse nodded. "But South Africa has done genetic engineering, with help from German scientists. We think they've made a killer strain, one that seeks out humans."

"How do we know this?" Jeffrey said.

"They didn't tell me everything," Ilse said. "Others like myself, who got out and know something, gave hints. Satellite imagery too, of bunkers being built in isolated areas, next to fenced-in trailer parks of captured U.S. tourists, bunkers meant for keeping something in. Suspicious movements of black children where we're going."

"Huh?"

"The Natal Sharks Board," Ilse said, "on a hilltop overlooking the shore at Umhlanga Rocks, did oceanographic research for many years before the war. They had daily shark dissections for school kids."

"Like a science museum?" Jeffrey said.

"They used sharks caught and killed in the big nets that protect the swimming beaches. That stopped with the war, but then it started up again. Black youngsters, the same group every day, are bussed in and out, except now and then a kid goes in and we don't see him come out."

"Human experiments?"

"Your government thinks so," Ilse said. "The real clincher is the air filtration. The basement at the Sharks Board has a positive-pressure NBC system. That's strange enough, for what should be a low-priority installation. Somehow your NSA learned half the filter banks run backward. The air goes through the micron-level catchments coming out of the facility."

"So there's a negative-pressure inner sanctum," Jeffrey said. "Probably a spy bird caught the infrared gradient of the air exhaust going the wrong way, on an especially hot or cold clear night."

Ilse nodded. "The school kids might be circumstantial, but this is a clear-cut signature of a biosafety level four containment."

"Not level three?" Jeffrey said.

"No," Ilse said, "the output volume's much too great. It's a whole lab, not just suction hoods."

"What does this stuff do to you?" Jeffrey said. "The species they've been using digests sulfur." "So?"

"Sulfur's in acetylcholine, the human body's neurotransmitter. It's also found in cystine, a key amino acid. Disulfide bonds in cystine form a polypeptide, collagen, the basic building block for our connective tissues."

"So?"

Ilse wiped a loose strand of hair back from her forehead, then looked right at Jeffrey. "If something eats your sulfur, your brain stops working and your muscles turn to goo." Jeffrey frowned. "How do we defend against it?"

"Archaea's such a simple life-form our immune systems don't respond, so no vaccination's possible. A hybrid could be designed to spread through water, soil, the air, and through any intermediate host or carcass, making it appallingly contagious in a room-temperature nitrogen-oxygen environment."

"Antibiotics?" Jeffrey said.

"Archaea are not bacteria, which lack internal organelles, and they have a different cell wall chemistry, so once they're in your body, drugs won't work. Tetracycline helps conserve the collagen—that's one of its side effects—but not enough to save you."

"And they must think a sterilizing autoclave's some kind of health spa," Jeffrey said.

"That's right," Ilse said, "they're so-called extremophiles. Archaea thrive at temperatures of a thousand Fahrenheit, they're found at pressures of a thousand atmospheres or more, they can be resistant to alkalis like bleach, and they simply love acid, so there's no good way to decontaminate."

Lieutenant Clayton leaned forward. Like Captain Wilson, he was black—African American, Ilse reminded herself. Even through his uniform she could see he had a perfect swimmer's body. He looked almost thirty, more

mature than Lieutenant Sessions somehow, must be more time in grade. To Ilse this reemphasized the importance of the mission—a lieutenant in the navy equaled a captain in the army.

"We have to stop this at the source," Clayton said. "There's evidence they'll soon disperse the R&D, then go into mass production. They use blackout curtains at the lab, of course, and carpooling to save gas, but we can still tell that the research staff's been working very late, like they're on the verge of a breakthrough. There's just one thing we know will do the job. An atomic demolition."

"You're taking in the warhead from one of our Mark 88s?" Jeffrey said. "You didn't bring your own—I'd have seen the guards and paperwork."

"We're getting a bit ahead of ourselves now," Wilson said. He looked at his watch, then asked the steward to send a messenger to fetch COB and the navigator.

"The navigator must be running late," Jeffrey said, "preparing his part of the briefing." Wilson nodded. He poured himself another cup of coffee, then sat back. Ilse saw this was some kind of signal. People relaxed again.

"This infiltration should be stimulating," Jeffrey said, reaching for a cookie. "The facilities around Durban are virtually impregnable."

"That's where we like to be," Clayton said.

"We're looking at interlocking arcs of fire," Jeffrey said. "Nuclear-tipped cruise missiles, supersonic, atop the skyscrapers downtown and on the bluff outside the bay. More launch points on the escarpments up and down the coast, and on the top floors of those big resort hotels, the ones they haven't knocked down to make beach landing obstacles. Constant ASW patrols, using every type of sensor. And minefields, channeled into local SOSUS bottom-listening nets."

Captain Wilson nodded. "Then there's the bigger picture, the Axis hostage strategy. Using innocent people as their shield, which makes it hard for us to act decisively at every level everywhere. They play to Third World fence-sitters—that if we nuke 'em, it's our fault."

"This two-phase coup was brilliant," Shajo Clayton said. "We fell for it at every step."

"South African reactionaries stage a take-over," Jeffrey said. "They claim they're liberating the country, for God's sake, from malicious outside interference. They declare martial law, then put down the inevitable riots with modern nonlethal weapons. They say it's the only way to stop the social chaos— crime, terrorism, and AIDS—all forced on them by ending their apartheid, a system they claim worked."

"They fortify the Prince Edward Islands," Clayton said, "their own territory, halfway between Cape Town and Antarctica. The U.N. orders trade embargoes, enforced by a blockade. In retaliation the Boers close the Horn of Africa to what they call hostile shipping. The busiest maritime choke point in the world."

"They sink some American and British merchant ships," Jeffrey said, "using highexplosive rounds. So NATO mobilizes, like in the Gulf War and with Yugoslavia. Coalition forces drain from Europe and put to sea, where all those tanks and troops are vulnerable as hell."

"But due to pacifist demonstrations, the German deployment lags," Clayton said. " Except Namibia, the colony they lost in World War I, just to South Africa's northwest. There they go in first and meet no Boer opposition."

"Then there's the Berlin Putsch," Jeffrey said. "And then they launch the European ground war. Nuking Poland's how they got the French to cave."