The Weapon (35 page)

What he wanted would most likely be in the Uzel, a 70sera digital computer based on the UM-2, a homegrown Russian computer more or less comparable with something like a DEC PDP-8, Univac 1219, or the old Navy Mark 152. An 18-bit machine that ran the inputs and outputs for the torpedoes and the cruise missiles through a digital-to-analog box, with a magnetic core memory of around 256K and a clock speed around 25 kilohertz.

Like most microcomputers of its era, the UM-2 had its read-only memory at the bottom of its addressable memory, with the interpreter, core functions, input matrix, and a little bit of mapped video—just enough to drive a little screen. The dinky memory and snail speed meant it wasn't going to do a lot, but on the other hand you could program it fast and run it with grade school grads. The Uzel could run three attack solutions at once. So, maybe, three Shkval routines too, unless they had two computers. Which might be possible.

Anyway, he wasn't that interested in the computer. What he wanted was the programming. It would probably be in a Russian version of ALGOL called ALGAMS, which wouldn't be hard to compile once he got it into a can. In fact he'd downloaded a compiler that would emulate a PDP-8 in C on his notebook, and thought he had a good shot at making it run an Uzel too.

So he didn't think running the software was going to be a problem, but nobody was sure what media it was going to be in. If the system update for the Shkval had kept the original input devices, they'd load the programs on mag tape, or even paper. He hoped it wasn't paper, because it'd be impossible to copy. They'd just have to steal it, and if he got it wet, he'd end up with papier-mâché. But he couldn't see them putting
new programming on punched tape. Maybe those big old computer cassette tapes. Or an eight-inch disk. Then it'd be easy, audio output to line in on the little recorder he carried in the waterproof case. If they'd transitioned to a PC add-on, he'd tap into the serial port and download into his PalmPilot; he had connectors and jumpers. Or it was just possible the whole thing was hard-wired in as an add-on, a separate computer that reformatted the Uzel's targeting output for the missile's brain. Whichever, fire control programs were generally pretty small. They dealt with straightforward calculations and data. Unless there was something no one had anticipated.

If the program was in ALGAMS he could write an interpreter to let the Palm run it statement by statement, like with the old BASIC language systems. This was slower than compiled operation but it should be easy. Worst case would be if he had to modify the downloaded compiler. He hoped it didn't have any bugs, taking him back to his “finish the project the night before the final exam” college days.

Donnie Wenck sat motionless, bursts of bubbles coming up around his face, watery pale eyes focused far away through the mask.

 

Oberg sat with palms braced on the instrument panel, comfortable as he could make himself. Lenson had browbeat the TEC into letting Obie fly copilot. Which meant they only had one body along from the SDV team, a dude named Vaught that his teammates called “V-Dag,” Teddy hadn't asked why. Bus drivers, the SEALs called the SDV guys. The steady cluck of the prop, the whine of the motor vibrated through the hull. Bubbles roared in his ears. He kept listening for the ping of a sonar, the rumble of distant ships. There was a port above his head, but he didn't bother looking. He'd see nothing, or at most the phosphorescent flare of drifting organisms, flashing blue or green at the bump of the pressure wave.

Instead he studied the forward-looking sonar, which unrolled a multicolored tapestry of the rippled, gradually
shallowing bottom ahead. Here and there metal objects glowed bright blue: trash, jetsam, iron from old wrecks. Numbers flickered, giving distance to the surface and to the bottom. The needle of a magnetic compass wavered.

Next to him, Vaught was fastened to a screen with a point centered on a green-outlined lane. The pilot had his hands off the joystick at the moment, which meant the autopilot was on. He and Teddy examined each other's eyes; then his mask turned back to its study.

When they entered the harbor, they'd switch to inertial navigation. It gave off no signal for harbor security. The rest of the instruments were mainly comms. They had encrypted VHF, Team Charlie's portable SatCom, and modulated ultrasound to communicate with
San Francisco;
but strict silence was the rule during a mission. Especially in the approach phase, when the slightest emission could alert the enemy.

They ran in for an hour. At one point a noise spoke flickered on one of the displays. He lifted his hood off his ear, and caught the faint thin whine of distant propellers. The pilot angled away, put the spoke on their stern, and it faded.

He craned back into the passenger compartment. The only light now was a dim glow near the overhead, more to keep guys oriented than actually let them see. Lenson and Sumo sat hunched, motionless save for every-few-seconds gouts of used air. Carpenter and Henrickson were playing rock, paper, scissors, with the attitudes of gamblers in over their heads. Wenck seemed to be in a trance, sprawled back, mask tilted, looking at the overhead. Im sat like a coiled spring.

Obie wondered again about the little Korean.

Another hour and a half went by with nothing changing, except for the sea bottom rising on the display, the numbers gradually dropping on the readout. Then Vaught nudged him. He pointed and Teddy switched to the selection screen and went to low power.

The display shrank as the screw-beat slowed. The pilot took the wheel and altered course, oiling it around. Two black bars took form on the sonar. The ends of the breakwaters.

Teddy toggled back to the command screen and hesitated, finger on the button, until Vaught nodded. His bubbles were coming faster. Teddy pointed to his mouthpiece with his other hand. The pilot nodded and his cheeks hollowed as he sucked air. He punched the autopilot back on for a couple seconds as he got his Draeger fired up. Teddy leaned so the guys in back could see him, thumped the bulkhead, and gesticulated to change to closed circuit. Sumo would take it from there, make sure they all swapped over.

Okay, let's get this fucking thing into the harbor. They weren't riding alone. All the other frogmen who'd swam and ridden into enemy harbors rode with them. The Italians had done it for the first time, way back when. Penetrated Austrian and British harbors astraddle torpedoes they called “pigs,” slapped limpet mines on battleships, escaped or died, but had not turned back. Whoever thought Italians didn't have balls had never looked into the Decima Flottiglia MAS.

For the next few minutes he was too busy to think about anything other than his instruments. They were inside the breakwaters, but running blind. It was too dark for visuals, and they couldn't use the sonar or even a fathometer now because some late-at-night operator on one of the ships might pick up a strange signal. They were running on inertial navigation and a simple depth gauge checked against his own jotted dead reckoning on a slate, turn count against course and distance traveled. Every time they came up on a mark to turn the pilot would glance at him. Teddy would nod, then he'd put the helm over.

It seemed like forever before the last correction, in the middle of the eastern basin, that should take them right in to the submarine piers. He started getting concerned, but actually he trusted the inertial more than his own navigation. Finally the pilot brought it around. He lifted his left hand and flashed five fingers.

Five hundred yards? Five minutes? Whatever, they didn't have long. He flipped on the “stand by” light and gave Sumo five fingers, too.

Dan started as the man next to him stirred, and opened his eyes. He'd been almost out, asleep, when Kaulukukui had flicked his mouthpiece. His heartbeat ratcheted as the screw descended the scale, as he felt a bump and lurch, a skating hiss underfoot. His teeth tightened on rubber.

Everyone was inventorying gear, checking valves, feeling for the mesh bags that held what they'd need. His own fingers started doing the walking. Knife, pistol, grenades, spare C4 and detonators, the flat pack with his references, all printed on waterproof plastic. The Navy didn't have much on a Juliet's combat system, but that would be his main job, aside from kicking the Shkval out of the torpedo tube, if indeed they could do that: keep Wenck and Henrickson on task, make sure they got what they needed.

And bring all your guys back, he reminded himself.

Yeah, that above all.

He felt woozy. He couldn't quite make out the gauge. But he still felt as if he needed to breathe, when he already had. He fingered around and found the Add button. Gave himself an extra shot.

His brain seemed to rev, step up to a deeper comprehension. But only to realize more keenly how dangerous this was. Going under the enemy's radar, under his table, roaches scurrying in the dark beneath the chairs of giants with swatters, with cans of insect spray.

Another lurch, a sliding, canting bump. Wasn't this supposed to be a soft landing? On a mud bottom? The screw caught something and went
clacketaclacketa
before the pilot cut it off. A thunk. He grabbed Henrickson, next to him. Jesus, what were they hitting? The banging and scraping sounded like they were landing in a junk pile. If an enemy sonarman caught this, he'd jerk his headset off and start yelling. He tensed, bracing for whatever they'd smash into at the end of the ride. But it smoothed and they bumped once more before sighing to a creaking, rocking halt.

A red light went to green. Kaulukukui uncoiled like a moray. Hinges creaked as an access panel pushed open. He
oozed out, fins licking, making the hull rock again as his weight left it.

Dan was next. He faced the black hole, counting the seconds off rather than checking his Seiko, which had burrowed up under his wet suit sleeve as if hiding from some sharp-eyed predator. The SEALs wanted three free minutes so they could make sure they were where they were supposed to be, then dig in the anchors so what Oberg called “the pig,” the SDV, would stay put.

He counted, panting, but not wanting to hit the add button too often. If these things malfunctioned . . . the body couldn't detect carbon dioxide buildup. You just lost consciousness, instantly and without warning. The pilot was moving around in the cockpit, doing something that involved a repetitive, muffled thudding. Wenck suddenly started up; Henrickson grabbed the straps on his Draeger and hauled him back to his seat.

. . . Fifty-eight thousand, fifty-nine thousand, sixty, sixty-one thousand, sixty-two. . . .

The bridge of a destroyer—that was where he wanted to face the enemy. Not from under the sea, in the dark, crouched like an oyster in the forgotten muck of a harbor bottom, carrying enough plastic explosive strapped over his liver to blow them all into scraps of drifting fish chow.

He grabbed the jambs of the exit, sucked a breath of moist somehow earthy-tasting recycled gas, and launched himself into an inky void.

Arms going rock hard, putting all his strength into it, Obie took a final turn on the anchor, boring the stainless steel corkscrew deep into the mud and sand. He backed away, fins brushing the ooze, and felt for the line. Just right; so taut it wouldn't kink or coil, but with a little slack to accommodate tide or a passing boat. Though, this deep in the basin, he didn't think tidal current would be a problem.

It was almost completely dark, though random beams glittered down, probably from pierside lights. He aimed his Maglite down the line and pulsed it. An answering blink told him Kaulukukui had the aft anchor in place. He held his glove over the lens, shielding it from above, and sent out another blink.

A shape coalesced in the dark. A hand waved. Teddy re-stowed his flash and sculled around, orienting himself with the luminescent needle of the compass on his wrist. Due east. He checked his gear again, patting himself here and there, and began swimming.

Twenty yards on he collided with something massive covered with hundreds of razor-sharp edges. He backed away from the concrete piling. Felt for the sling of the HK,
which had fouled on his rebreather. Then slowly,
slowly
finned upward.

His glove, groping above him, met a roughness. He finned backward, fending off, until there seemed to be nothing but clear space overhead. He took a deep breath, held it, and drifted upward.

He broke the water with the back of his head, so the black hood would be all that would show at first. Slipped off his mask with face still submerged. Then, trying to match his motions with the jostle of the waves, slowly raised his eyes.

He'd surfaced at the end of a massive baulk of timber. This must be the camel the overhead imagery had shown inboard of the Juliet. He was in the shadow it cast from a row of brilliant lights that stretched off down the pier. They were haloed by what looked like fine dust blowing past. The air was much hotter than he'd expected. Sweat began prickling under the wet suit. He took his time looking things over, despite Kaulukukui's meaty hand gripping his ankle. Stealth and patience. His heart was pumping hard but he felt good, alive the way you never did outside a mission. Probably how his dad had felt, closing some big film deal.