Ultra Deep
Authors: William H. Lovejoy
Ultra Deep
William H. Lovejoy
Copyright © 1992 by William H. Lovejoy
William H. Lovejoy has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1992 by Zebra Books, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
This
one
is
for
my
friend
,
editor
,
and
advisor
Paul
Dinas
For
providing
inspiration
and
for
arousing
curiosity
,
especially
through
his
book
,
The Discovery of the Titanic,
I owe my gratitude to
Dr. Robert D. Ballard
Table of Contents
Chapter One
0520 HOURS LOCAL, PLESETSK COSMODROME
“Respectfully, General Oberstev, I cannot…”
“Ah, but Pyotr Nicholavich, you can.” Dmitri Oberstev was not in the mood for defeatism. He did not allow negativism to crowd his own thoughts, and he deplored it in others, no matter their talents and capabilities.
“Yes. Certainly, the problem is not insurmountable, General, but not in the time allotted.”
Oberstev turned to the windows overlooking the control center. Below him, he saw that most of the technicians were seated before their consoles. His aide, Colonel Cherbykov, meandered through the center, stopping to talk to controllers or to inspect information readouts. Many of the monitors, and the large screen at the end of the room, currently displayed a two-mile distant view of the A2e on the launch pad. Actually, it was yet another variant of the A2, though it had not been officially designated. If it were up to him, Oberstev would call it the A2d. The A2 was the orbit-achieving workhorse of the Strategic Rocket Forces, with over a thousand successful launches since its inception.
Floodlights lit the gantry and the area immediately surrounding it with a glaring whitewash. A mist from transferring fuels swirled about the steel skeleton of the gantry, quite ghostly in the night. Beyond the pad was only darkness, with a sparse sprinkling of stars. Dawn took longer to arrive in the latitudes of the Arctic Circle, where the Plesetsk Cosmodrome was located.
Though smaller than the Baikonur Cosmodrome in the Kazakhstan Republic, Plesetsk was still a large operation. From its forty-plus launch pads, it managed to launch at least one rocket a week. Winter launches were commonplace. Most of the payloads were military, ranging from scientific experiments to Salyut photo-reconnaissance satellites.
While Col. Gen. Dmitri Ivanovich Oberstev was not in charge of the cosmodrome, he did have total control over the Soviet Celestial Laboratory Project, called
Red
Star
, and the A2s assigned to him departed the earth at his discretion.
He turned back to the scientist. “It is September the first, Pyotr Nicholavich.”
“Yes, General.”
“It is five-twenty in the morning.”
Pyotr Piredenko nodded his agreement.
“The A2e is scheduled to lift off at eight o’clock. It is the primary event in a month-long celebration of the New Order.”
“I am aware of that, General Oberstev.”
“Not to mention that it carries a significant component for the laboratory.”
“That worries me,” Piredenko said. “I should not like to lose it.”
“We cannot disappoint Moscow.”
“We could very well disappoint Moscow, if the A2e malfunctions.” There was an uncharacteristic resolve in Piredenko’s tone. He did not normally resist the
Red
Star
project director’s wishes.
Oberstev grimaced his displeasure. He asked, “What is the success ratio of the A2?”
“Very high,” Piredenko said, “but we have never attempted a payload of this weight.”
“Soviet space vehicles are celebrated for their massive payloads,” the general argued. “Besides, the boosters will more than compensate for the additional mass. Your very own computers say as much, Director.”
“This configuration is untried on the A2. For that reason, we must not ignore any warning at all, General.”
There was some truth in what the director of the Flight Data Computer Center had to say. For the first time in the Soviet
Red
Star
program, large booster rockets had been attached to the sides of the A2e, an imitation of the American Titan III, in order to provide the initial thrust necessary to raise the oversized payload module into orbit.
Oberstev surveyed the earnest look on the computer scientist’s face and almost reversed his decision to proceed. He had the authority to do so, but others in higher places depended upon him. Moscow had ordered a live telecast of the launch for the citizens of the Commonwealth of Independent States. The event was a rarity, and no one in the Kremlin would appreciate having it canceled. Moreover, they would remember for a long time, and in a negative light, the name of Dmitri Oberstev.
By appearance, the scientist and the general should have switched roles. Piredenko was squat and blocky, with a square-cut face. His outsize nose appeared chiseled from granite. His dark brown hair was cut short. American football coaches would have been interested in the wide and muscular shoulders straining at his white jacket.
The general, who had graduated from Moscow University in aerospace engineering, was slight of stature, barely topping one-and-a-half meters. He wore spectacles with thick lenses, optically enlarging his hazel eyes to gargantuan proportions. They seemed all-seeing. His hair had gone sparse and gray shortly after his sixtieth birthday. Despite his diminutive appearance, however, Oberstev had a firm grip on his authority, which derived, not only from his rank and his knowledge of aerospace, but also from his many friends and acquaintances among the members of the Military Council of Command and Staff of National Air Defense. Not to be forgotten, either, was his brother, a senior deputy to the new chairman of the
Central
Intelligence
Service
, the CIS.
Since the days of the ill-advised — in Oberstev’s mind — coup attempt, of course, the CIS and the military had suffered dramatic losses in influence, as well as numbers. The Russian Republic was the dominant member of the remaining republics, but the loose federation of the Commonwealth remained in place to govern those activities of a more encompassing nature, such as space exploration.
The general felt, however, that he had risen to his present position almost solely on his own ability, rather than through the intervention of friends and relatives. Wherever it was possible, he attempted political neutrality. He took a great deal of pride in his achievements and in his capacity for understanding and managing people. There were many methods of obtaining cooperation and satisfying goals.
Oberstev looked at the red numerals of the large digital readout located to the right of the main screen in the control room: Time to Launch: 02:18:43.
Down on the main floor, Colonel Cherbykov was hunched over the console that monitored rocket motor telemetry transmissions from the A2e. He stood upright and looked up at Oberstev, shaking his head minutely.
Oberstev’s observation room overlooking the Number Two Fire Control Center was small, containing four overstuffed leather chairs, two side tables, a sideboard containing a large silver teapot, and a small communications console. Oberstev crossed to the chair next to the console and settled into it.
“All right, Director Piredenko. You say the primary flight control computer is malfunctioning?”
“The telemetry we are receiving indicates that to be the case, yes. In one of the subsystems.”
“But the secondary and tertiary backup computers appear to be normal?”
Piredenko nodded his blunt head. “That is correct.”
“And yet, you would not proceed without the use of the primary machine?”
“I would not, General.”
“What is the nature of the malfunction?”
“It appears that the interface which balances the thrust of the main motor against the booster motors is out of synchronization. It is a programming problem.”
“So that you may investigate the problem from your computer center, without boarding the rocket?”
“That is true.”
“And what would you do?”
“First of all, compare the programs of all three computers. Perhaps there is simply a misstated instruction in the primary programming. If so, General, the correction will be quickly made.”
“And if not?”
“Then we must examine all of the programming documentation.”
“Or proceed utilizing the secondary computer,” Oberstev suggested.
The director winced.
“I will suspend the countdown for one hour. No longer.”
Shaking his head sadly, the director scuttled for the door. He was a brilliant man, and Oberstev had no doubt that the crunch of time would urge him toward a successful resolution.
Oberstev lifted the telephone handset from its cradle on the console next to him.
The operator responded immediately. “Yes, Comrade General?”
“Tell the launch director to report to me, then connect me with the office of the First Deputy Commander in Chief.”
Oberstev hated making the call to General Burov. Failures or delays were direct threats to his pride and his well-being. He detested the necessity of such admissions.
Chapter Two
2220 HOURS LOCAL, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Carl Unruh was Deputy Director for Intelligence for the Central Intelligence Agency. As far as he was concerned, his only vanity was the twice-weekly touch-up of the gray at the temples of his dark brown hair. He did not know why he did it. Miriam thought he would look more distinguished if he let the gray shine through.
Other than that, he had come to accept his fifty-three years, the slight paunch protesting his belt, the enlarging bags under his green eyes, the desire for just a few more minutes after the alarm rang. He had also come to accept that most of the desires he had had in twenty-seven years with the CIA, six of them in the operations directorate, were bound to go unfulfilled in his lifetime.
His alarm went off at ten-thirty at night. He had napped for two hours on the sofa in his office. Unruh groaned aloud, pushed himself off the couch, and went into his bathroom to wash his face and shave. Donning a fresh shirt and one of the ultraconservative ties that Miriam picked out for him, Unruh got a fresh pack of Marlboros from his middle desk drawer. He lit one while putting on his suit coat, took three quick drags, and put it out.
He had quit smoking three years before and had been working on it ever since.
He left his office, locking the door behind him, and walked the quiet hall toward the elevators. The doors of all the offices were painted different colors. He thought the decor was asinine.
He took the elevator down to NPIC’s floor and got off to find Jack Evoy standing in the hallway with a Coke can in his hand.
Evoy headed the National Photographic Interpretation Center. He always had a harried look, pulled as he was by the NPIC’s mission to provide photographic analysis gathered from overhead reconnaissance for the entire intelligence community — CIA, DIA, NSA, Army Intelligence, Naval Intelligence, Air Force Intelligence, FBI, State, Treasury. All of the acronyms and agencies thought they had first priority.
Evoy’s office was staffed by both civilian and military experts, but he was a civilian, having come up through the ranks in the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research. He was something of a diplomat when it came to saying, “No.” Built along the lines of a greyhound, he was lanky and tall, with a jutting jaw. His suits, though tailored, always seemed too large for him.
“Want a Coke, boss?” Evoy called almost anyone he favored, who was in a superior position, “boss.” His true superior was the Deputy Director for Science and Technology.
“If it has Scotch in it,” Unruh told him.
“Ugh. Sorry, can’t help you.”
“That’s pretty poor social preparation.”
“New austerity, boss.”
Unruh tilted his head down the hall to where a conference room had been set up as an observation post. Light from the room spilled through the open door into the corridor, and he could hear muffled voices. “Are we on time?”
“As far as we can tell, Carl.” Evoy looked at his watch. “Nine minutes, and we’ll know.”
“I wish to hell these people would start launching at civilized hours.”
“It’s a civilized time at Plesetsk.”
“Nothing’s civilized at Plesetsk.”
The two men walked down the hall together and turned into the conference room. It was large, with a boat-shaped table and twenty chairs taking up the center. At the far end, a large screen built into the wall was glowing. An outline map of the Asian continent, along with latitudinal and longitudinal lines, was imposed upon it, and a black circle identified the Plesetsk Cosmodrome close to the Arctic Circle. Major cities were pinpointed by black dots, to provide additional orientation.
Three of Evoy’s staff people toyed with two portable consoles that had been wheeled into the room.
“We’re watching this symbolically,” Evoy said. “All my data feeds will be interpreted by the computer, then shown on the screen.”
“What have you got in place as sources?”
“There’s a Teal Ruby in polar orbit that will give us infrared tracking. The Rhyolite in geo-stationary orbit over the Indian Ocean will help out, as will the Aquacade now cruising the Pacific.”
All of the satellites were sophisticated beyond any dream Unruh might have had as a boy who reveled in reading Arthur C. Clarke and Robert Heinlein. They captured their imagery in almost any level of detail and spat it out in the general direction of a communications satellite which grabbed it and relayed it around the world, then delivered it to friendly ground stations.
“How about NSA?” Unruh asked.
The National Security Agency, the largest of the intelligence agencies, was located at Fort George G. Meade, Maryland. Beyond the development of communications security, it was responsible for foreign intelligence gathering in the electronic communications realm. The NSA broke cryptographic codes regularly and listened in on the rest of the world through its own network of spy satellites.
“They’re up and running on the frequencies we’re interested in. They’ll send us any pertinent voice or telemetry data on the second console over there.”
Unruh went to a small side table and poured himself a cup of coffee from an insulated pitcher. He carried it to the table and sat down.
Evoy sat down beside him.
They waited.
The operator of the second console looked back at them.
“Mr. Evoy, the countdown has been suspended.”
“Shit,” Unruh said.
“For how long?” Evoy asked.
“Hold on.” The operator spoke into his headset. After a short conversation with whomever was doing the monitoring out at Meade, he said, “Looks like about an hour. They’ve got an intercept of voice communications between the control tower and the chase planes. The pilots have been told to stand down for an hour.”
Unruh said, “I may stretch out on your table and go to sleep.”
“Don’t scratch it, huh?”
“You’re a lousy host,” Unruh complained.
“You know, Carl, we monitor every damned launch the Soviets make as a matter of routine. What’s so special about this one that the DDI wants to watch?”
“Our assets in place tell us it’s another component package for the
Red
Star
space station.”
“So? They’ve been working on that station for two years. Hell, boss, they’ve been running a regular UPS freight service to it.”
“This one’s got a nuclear package, Jack.”
*
2135 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 9' NORTH, 92° 32' WEST
Dane Brande stood spread-legged on the bridge of the
Gemini
, gripping the brass rail that ran across the width of the forward bulkhead with both hands. The safety glass of the windshield panes was canted forward at the top, and several sections had been cranked open at the bottom. A salt-tasting breeze whispered through the bridge area, rustling the papers clamped in clipboards hanging on the rear bulkhead.
Below him, the short foredecks of the twin hulls rose and fell with the contours of the Caribbean Sea. Brande guessed the seas were running at four feet, long and smooth swells that rolled under
Gemini
without bothering to whitecap. The only wind was that created by the ship’s passage. Identical fans of white spray flared from the twin bows. The water passing through the wide gap between the hulls appeared translucent, but there was nothing to be seen in the depths.
Ahead, for as far as he could see in the darkness, the ocean appeared entirely empty. When they had left Houston just after noon, a tall stand of cumulus had been building in the northwest, but nothing had come of it so far.
“We should be picking up something on radar soon, Dane,” Jim Word said. Word was the captain of the 240-foot research vessel
Gemini
and her sixteen-man-and-woman crew complement. He stood a few paces behind Greg Mason, who was manning the helm station located at the forward center of the bridge, three feet back from the windshield.
“What are we making, Jim?”
“Still at the top end, twenty-six knots.”
Brande went back to staring at the invisible horizon. The stars were clear and cold. A phosphorescent glow below the surface off to starboard suggested a school of fish.
“For someone who’s spent so much time at sea, Chief, you’re not very patient,” Word said.
“I hate waiting rooms.”
The theme song from the
The
Bridge
Over
the
River
Kwai
, whistled through a chipped front tooth, announced the imminent arrival of Maynard Dokey, expectedly called ʻOkey.ʼ He emerged from the curtained hatchway to the radar/sonar room, gripping his omnipresent coffee mug. The mug sported a picture of two whales amorously eyeing each other, communicating in question marks. Okey Dokey was as well known for his personally designed mugs and T-shirts as he was for his expertise with a screwdriver, a computer, and an electronic schematic.
Today’s T-shirt was conservative. No artwork, just the motto,
WANNA SCREW?
Dokey was fond of questions, and many of the women working for Brande’s Marine Visions Unlimited had taken to wearing shirts that screamed,
NO!
in various fonts and styles.
“Ringling Brothers’ train got there ahead of us,” Dokey said.
Brande turned to look at him. “A real circus, huh?”
“Radar shows twelve boats are in the area,” Dokey told him.
“I’ve got ten bucks says eleven of them are only getting in the way.”
“That’s not a bet,” Word said. “That’s your typical moneymaker.”
“How far?” Brande asked.
“Call it nine miles to first contact, Dane.”
“Do you think George Dawson has really got something?” Word asked.
“I hope so,” Brande said. “We need the contract.”
George Dawson, who captained the salvage vessel
Grade
, had called Brande at his San Diego office early that morning. Brande had asked four questions, proposed a percentage, then called Dokey, then called United Airlines for reservations. Fortunately, the
Gemini
was in Houston for service and supply after a three-month surveying stint for the U.S. Naval Oceanographic Office. He had called Jim Word to warn him of their arrival in Houston as he and Dokey left the office for San Diego International Airport.
When the running and anchor lights of a large flotilla of vessels appeared ahead of them, Brande opened the side door and stepped out onto the small starboard bridge wing. Directly behind him, a ladder descended to the main deck. He leaned into the railing and felt the
Gemini
shift slightly as Mason altered course slightly to port. Crew members, male and female, appeared on the narrow side deck from cabin and work areas and moved to the railings to watch their arrival.
The open gridwork on which he stood thrummed with the vibration from the big diesel engines. The vibration died away as they neared the motionless boats and Word ordered the throttles retarded.
It looked like a small community, a village on the plains. Each of the boats in the cluster had its deck lights illuminated, along with a few searchlights, and the whole area had a moonlit quality to it. As the
Gemini
approached at ten knots, Brande saw people moving about on board most of them. There was a wide variety of craft represented: several salvage vessels, an oceangoing tug, and power cruisers of various length. Most of them were aged. He couldn’t miss Curtis Aaron’s
Justica
. It was a thirty-year-old, sixty-foot Hatteras, barely refurbished to seaworthiness. The
Justica
was painted white, with four-foot-high, squared-off black letters painted along each side of its hull:
OCEANS FREE
. The
Justica
was the Atlantic and Caribbean representative of Aaron’s zealous organization. On the Pacific side, it was the
Queen
of
Liberty
.
When they were a quarter-mile away, a vessel near the center of the cluster blinked its anchor light. Mason eased off on the throttles some more and threaded his way through the gaggle of boats toward the broad-beamed salvage boat,
Grade
. It was 160 feet long and, though elderly, in excellent condition. The
Gemini
dwarfed it as she came alongside. Crew members fore and aft suspended fenders over the side to keep the hulls from scraping each other, then grabbed the lines thrown to them. The research vessel was snugged up against the salvage boat.
Captain Word deployed the cycloidal propellers. Under both bows and both sterns of the
Gemini’s
twin hulls, flush panels folded open and the cycloidal propellers — appearing like oversized egg beaters — were extended downward. The propulsion system, modeled after that utilized on the U.S. oceanographic research ship
Knorr
— which was used in discovering the grave of the
Titanic
— made Brandeʼs vessel one of the most stable on the seas. Governed by computer control and driven by linkage to the two diesel engines, the four cycloidal propellers allowed the helmsman to shift the ship forward, backward, sideways, or in rotation in very small increments. Tied into the NavStar Global Positioning Satellite system, the computer could maintain the
Gemini’s
almost-exact position in both calm and heavy seas.
