Dragon (7 page)

Jordan always found himself amused by the painful uneasiness that gripped politicians during an impending crisis. No elected official had the seasoned toughness and experience of career men such as the Director of Central Intelligence. And they could never bring themselves to respect or accept the immense power Jordan and his counterparts possessed to control and orchestrate international events.

Jordan nodded to the President, who towered a good head above him, and sat down. Calmly, with what seemed to the others agonizing slowness, he set a large leather accountant’s style briefcase on the floor and spread it open. Then he pulled out a file as a reference.

“Do we have a situation?” the President asked impatiently, using the formal watchword for an imminent threat to the civilian population, such as a nuclear attack.

“Yes, sir, unfortunately we do.”

“What are we looking at’?”

Jordan glanced at the report purely for effect. He’d already memorized the entire thirty pages. “At precisely eleven-fifty-four hours, an explosion of great force took place in the North Pacific, approximately nine hundred kilometers northeast of Midway Island. One of our Pyramider spy satellites recorded the flash and atmospheric disturbance with cameras and recorded the shock wave from clandestine hydrophonic buoys. The data was transmitted directly to the National Security Agency, where it was analyzed. This was followed by readings from seismographic array stations linked to NORAD, who in turn relayed the information to CIA technicians at Langley.”

“And the conclusion?” the President pushed.

“They agreed the explosion was nuclear,” he said calmly. “Nothing else could be that massive.”

Except for Jordan, who seemed as relaxed as if he was watching a soap opera on television, the expressions of the other three men in the Oval Office looked positively grim at the abhorrent thought that was finally thrown out in the open.

“Are we on DEFCOM Alert?” inquired the President, referring to the scale of nuclear readiness.

Jordan nodded. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering NORAD to go immediately to a DEFCOM-Three Alert with standby and staging for DEFCOM-Two, depending on the reaction by the Soviets.”

Nichols stared at Jordan. “Are we airborne?”

“A Casper SR-Ninety recon aircraft took off from Edwards Air Force Base twenty minutes ago to verify and collect additional data.”

“Are we certain the shock wave was caused by a nuclear explosion?” asked the Vice President, a man in his early forties who had spent only six years in Congress before being tapped for the number-two job. The consummate politician, he was out of his depth on intelligence gathering. “It might have been an underwater earthquake or volcanic eruption.”

Jordan shook his head. “The seismographic recordings showed a sharp pulse associated with nuclear detonations. The reflection from an earthquake goes back and forth for a longer length of time. Computer enhancement confirms that fact. We should have a good idea of the energy in kilotons after the Casper collects atmospheric radiation samples.”

“Any guesses?”

“Until all the data is in, the best guess is between ten and twenty kilotons.”

“Enough to level Chicago,” Nichols murmured.

The President was afraid to ask the next question, and he hesitated. “Could… could it have been one of our own nuclear submarines that blew up?”

“The Chief of Naval Operations assures me none of our vessels were within five hundred kilometers of the area.”

“A Russian maybe?”

“No,” Jordan replied. “I’ve notified my USSR counterpart, Nikolai Golanov. He swore all Soviet nuclear surface ships and submarines in the Pacific are accounted for, and quite naturally blamed us for the event. Though I’m one hundred percent sure he and his people know better, they won’t admit they’re in the dark as much as we are.”

“I’m not familiar with the name,” said the Vice President. “Is he KGB?”

“Golanov is the Directorate of Foreign and State Security for the Politburo,” Jordan explained patiently.

“He could be lying,” offered Nichols.

Jordan shot him a hard look. “Nikolai and I go back twenty-six years together. We may have danced and shined, but we never lied to one another.”

“If we aren’t responsible, and neither are the Soviets,” mused the President, his voice gone strangely soft, “then who is?”

“At least ten other nations have the bomb,” said Nichols. “Any one of them could have run a nuclear bomb test.”

“Not likely,” answered Jordan. “You can’t keep the preparations a secret from Global Bloc and Western intelligence gathering. I suspect we’re going to find it was an accident, a nuclear device that was never meant to go off.”

The President looked thoughtful for a moment, and then he asked, “Do we know the nationality of the ships in the blast area?”

“All the details aren’t in yet, but it appears that three vessels were involved, or at least innocent bystanders. A Norwegian passenger-cargo liner, a Japanese auto carrier, and a British oceanographic ship that was conducting a deep-bottom survey.”

“There must have been casualties.”

“Photos from our satellite before and after the event show that all three ships vanished and were presumed sunk during or immediately after the blast. Human survivability is very doubtful. If the fireball and shock wave didn’t get them, the heavy radiation will in a very short time.”

“I take it a rescue mission is planned,” said the Vice President.

“Naval units from Guam and Midway have been ordered to the site.”

The President stared at the carpet steadily, as if seeing something. “I can’t believe the British were secretly conducting a bomb test without notifying us. The Prime Minister would have never gone behind my back.”

“Certainly not the Norwegians,” said the Vice President firmly.

The President’s face made a mystified expression. “Nor the Japanese. There’s no evidence they ever built a nuclear bomb.”

“The device might have been stolen,” suggested Nichols, “and clandestinely transported by the unsuspecting Norwegians or Japanese.”

Jordan shrugged offhandedly. “I don’t think it was stolen. I’m willing to bet a month’s pay an investigation will prove it was deliberately being carried to a scheduled destination.”

“Which was?”

“One of two California ports.”

They all looked at Jordan in cold speculation, the enormity of the whole thing growing in their minds.

“The
Divine Star
was bound from Kobe to Los Angeles with over seven thousand Murmoto automobiles,” Jordan continued. “The
Narvik
, carrying a hundred and thirty passengers and a mixed cargo of Korean shoes, computers, and kitchen appliances, sailed from Pusan for San Francisco.”

The President grinned mildly. “That should put a small dent in the trade deficit.”

“Good God,” muttered the Vice President, shaking his head. “A frightening thought. A foreign ship smuggling a nuclear bomb into the United States.”

“What do you recommend, Ray?” demanded the President.

“We dispatch field teams immediately. Preferably Navy deepsea salvage vessels to survey the sunken ships and learn which ship was transporting the bomb.”

The President and Nichols exchanged knowing glances. Then the President stared at Jordan. “I think Admiral Sandecker and his ocean engineering people at NUMA are better suited for a deep-water operation. I’ll leave it to you, Ray, to brief him.”

“If I may respectfully disagree, Mr. President. We can keep a tighter security lid on the event with the Navy.”

The President gave Jordan a smug look. “I understand your concern. But trust me. The National Underwater and Marine Agency can do the job without a news leak.”

Jordan rose from the couch, professionally annoyed that the President knew something he didn’t. He made a mental note to dig at his first opportunity. “If Dale will alert the admiral, I’ll leave for his office immediately.”

The President extended his hand. “Thank you, Ray. You and your people have done a superb job in so short a time.”

Nichols accompanied Jordan as he left the Oval Office to head for the NUMA Building. As soon as they were in the hallway Nichols asked in a low voice, “Just between you and me and the furniture, who do you think is behind the bomb smuggling?”

Jordan thought for a moment and then replied in an even, disquieting tone. “We’ll know the answer to that within the next twenty-four hours. The big question, the one that scares hell out of me, is why, and for what purpose.

7

T
HE ATMOSPHERE INSIDE
the submersible had become rank and humid. Condensation was dripping from the sides of the sphere, and the carbon dioxide was rising into the lethal range. No one stirred and they seldom spoke, to conserve air. After eleven and a half hours, their life-preserving oxygen supply was nearly gone, and what little electrical power was left in the emergency batteries could not operate the CO, scrubbing unit much longer.

Fear and terror had slowly faded to resignation. Except for every fifteen minutes, when Plunkett switched on the lights to read the life-support systems, they sat quietly in the dark, alone with their thoughts.

Plunkett concentrated on monitoring the instruments, fussing with his equipment, refusing to believe his beloved submersible could refuse to respond to his commands. Salazar sat like a statue, slumped in his chair. He seemed withdrawn and barely conscious. Though he was only minutes away from falling into a final stupor, he could not see prolonging the inevitable. He wanted to die and get it over with.

Stacy conjured up fantasies of her childhood, pretending she was in another place, another time. Her past flew by in fleeting images. Playing baseball in the street with her brothers, riding her new bicycle Christmas Day, going to her first high school prom with a boy she didn’t like but who was the only one who asked her. She could almost hear the strains of the music in the hotel ballroom. She forgot the name of the group, but she remembered the songs. “We May Never Pass This Way Again” from Seals and Crofts was her favorite. She had closed her eyes and imagined she’d been dancing with Robert Redford.

She cocked her head as if listening. Something was out of place. The song she heard in her mind wasn’t from the mid-1970s. It sounded more like an old jazz tune than rock.

She came awake, opened her eyes, seeing only the blackness. “They’re playing the wrong music,” she mumbled.

Plunkett flicked on the lights. “What was that?”

Even Salazar looked up uncomprehendingly and muttered, “She’s hallucinating.”

“They’re supposed to be playing ‘We May Never Pass This Way Again,’ but it’s something else.”

Plunkett looked at Stacy, his face soft with compassion and sorrow. “Yes, I hear it too.”

“No, no,” she objected. “Not the same. The song is different.”

“Whatever you say,” said Salazar, panting. His lungs ached from trying to wrest what oxygen he could from the foul air. He grabbed Plunkett by the arm. “For God’s sake, man. Close down the systems and end it. Can’t you see she’s suffering? We’re all suffering.”

Plunkett’s chest was hurting too. He well knew it was useless to prolong the torment, but he couldn’t brush aside the primitive urge to cling on to life to the last breath. “We’ll see it through,” he said heavily. “Maybe another sub was airlifted to the
Invincible
.”

Salazar stared at him with glazed eyes and a mind that was hanging on to a thin thread of reality. “You’re crazy. There isn’t another deep-water craft within seven thousand kilometers. And even if one was brought in, and the
Invincible
was still afloat, they’d need another eight hours to launch and rendezvous.”

“I can’t argue with you. None of us wants to spend eternity in a lost crypt in deep ocean. But I won’t give up hope.”

“Crazy,” Salazar repeated. He leaned forward in his seat and shook his head from side to side as if clearing the growing pain. He looked as though he was aging a year with each passing minute.

“Can’t you hear it?” Stacy uttered in a low croaking voice. “They’re coming closer.”

“She’s crazy too,” Salazar rasped.

Plunkett held up his hand. “Quiet! I hear it too. There is something out there.”

There was no reply from Salazar. He was too far gone to think or speak coherently. An agonizing band was tightening around his lungs. The desire for air overpowered all his thoughts save one, he sat there and wished death to come quickly.

Stacy and Plunkett both stared into the darkness beyond the sphere. A weird rat-tailed creature swam into the dim light coming from inside
Old Gert
. It had no eyes, but it made a circuit of the sphere, maintaining a distance of two centimeters before it went on about its business in the depths.

Suddenly the water shimmered. Something was stirring in the distance, something monstrous. Then a strange bluish halo grew out of the blackness, accompanied by voices singing words too garbled by the water to comprehend.

Stacy stared entranced, while Plunkett’s skin crawled on the back of his neck. It had to be some horror from the supernatural, he thought. A monster created by his oxygen-starved brain. There was no way the approaching thing could be real. The image of an alien from another world crossed his mind again. Tense and fearful, he waited until it came nearer, planning on using the final charge of the emergency battery to switch on the outside lights. A terror from the deep or not, he realized it would be the last thing he’d ever see on earth.

Stacy crawled to the side of the sphere until her nose was pressed against its interior. A chorus of voices echoed in her ears. “I told you,” she said in a strained whisper. “I told you I heard singing. Listen.”

Plunkett could just make out the words now, very faint and distant. He thought he must be going mad. He tried to tell himself that the lack of breathable air was playing tricks on his eyes and ears. But the blue light was becoming brighter and he recognized the song.

Oh, what a time I had with Minnie the Mermaid