estimating its length at over five hundred feet, which would either have made it a whale of unprecedented size, a sea monster of some sort, or a submarine. Several of these sightings also reported the ‘creature’ was capable of astonishing speed, others reported that it submerged immediately.
“Finally, the most telling piece of evidence was uncovered on Jan Mayan Island, when a TIA surveillance team, clocked back to the site of the Soviet sub’s disappearance, found an abandoned Spatial Anomaly Displacement Detector. Needless to say, they did not have SADD’s in the 20th century. Temporal Intelligence fed all available data into their computers and, given the available evidence, they have recreated a scenario of the most likely possibility for what occurred in the Arctic on or about October 28, 1993…”
The Arctic Wind howled through the rocks of the barren, ice-encrusted island, making it next to impossible for the men to remain standing upright. They crouched behind an outcropping, huddled close together in their temperature-controlled suits, looking like slick sea lions as the spray glistened on polymer fabric, making droplets on the visors of their formfitting helmets. One man bent low over the Spatial Anomaly Displacement Detector, adjusting the directional and depth scan and watching the screen intently, his eyes locked onto the soft, green- glowing grid coordinate lines that crisscrossed the monitor. A low, deep, resonant voice spoke over the headset inside his helmet.
“Anything yet?”
“Not yet. She’s down there. It’s just a matter of time. You can’t hide something that displaces 28,000 tons from this instrument. All we need to do is-”
A softly glowing red outline in the shape of a submarine suddenly appeared upon the grid screen.
“Got her! Look at that! Isn’t she a beauty?”
“You can admire her at your leisure later,” the voice came back over his headset. “Right now, I’d appreciate having the transition coordinates. I would prefer a more hospitable environment.”
“Coming right up… Captain,” the man said, glancing over his shoulder and grinning behind his faceplate. “Stand by. We’re going down and under!”
There were fourteen men seated in the wardroom of the submarine. They were all young, ranging in age from twenty-two to thirty-five, and dressed in dark-blue, short-sleeved jumpsuits. The temperature inside the submarine was a comfortable, constant 70 degrees and the fluorescent lights were white, for day cycle. At the end of the watch, they would go to red interior light to simulate nighttime. Several of the men were eating snacks; others were drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Valentin Mikhailov watched Aleksander Muraviov’s face intently as the latter frowned down at the pieces of the chessboard, pursing his lips thoughtfully. At twenty-nine, Mikhailov was senior to the younger Muraviov by seven years. He smiled, slightly. Muraviov was going to lose again. Still, he got better every time. He had the makings of an expert player and Mikhailov knew it would not be very long before he would be giving him good matches. He picked up his package of American cigarettes, unfiltered Camels, and lit one up, drawing the smoke in deeply and exhaling it through his nostrils.
“Davaye, davaye, Sasha,” he said, addressing Muraviov by the affectionate diminutive of his first name, “ni kopaisiya.” (Come on, come on, Sasha, don’t dawdle.)
“Zatknise, Mikhailov. Uspakoisya. Ya dumaiyu.” (Shut up, Mikhailov. Calm down. I’m thinking.)
“Sleduistchi budiet mat.” (Next move will be mate.)
“Yob tebyeh, Valentin.” (Fuck you, Valentin.) Muraviov compressed his lips into a tight grimace and shook his head. “Aah, nyet smisla.” (Aah, what’s the use?) He knocked over his king.
“Istcho raz?” said Mikhailov. (One more time?)
Muraviov grinned and began to set up the pieces for a new game. Suddenly, he looked over Mikhailov’s shoulder and his eyes grew wide. “Chiyort vazmi!”
Two men dressed head-to-toe in weird-looking, shiny suits materialized in the wardroom out of thin air. In the split-second instant of shocked hesitation by the members of the submarine’s crew, both of them twisted something in their hands and gently lobbed two slender tubes onto the floor. There was a hissing noise. Mikhailov shot out of his chair, but didn’t even take two steps before his eyes rolled up and he collapsed. It took only a matter of seconds. All fourteen men were unconscious. At that same moment, the exact scene was replayed when one man materialized in the submarine’s control room, another in the engine room and one in the crew’s quarters. The invisible gas spread rapidly throughout the sub. There was never any chance of giving an alarm. The five men moved rapidly through the boat, already familiar with its layout. They released more gas, just to be safe, making certain that each member of the submarine’s crew was incapacitated. In less than five minutes, they controlled the boat.
“All right,” said their leader, over the comcircuit in their helmets. “Nicely done. Now let’s get that equipment on board.”
When Forrester had finished, one of the soldiers raised her hand.
“Sergeant Chan,” said Forrester.
She stood as she was called on. “Sir, assuming a small strike force of some sort actually did manage to overpower the crew of a Soviet submarine, how would they plan to operate it? Wouldn’t it require highly specialized training of the sort no longer offered in present time?”
Forrester nodded. “An excellent point, Sergeant Chan. We have two possible answers to that one. One, it is not beyond the realm of possibility for this to have been a long-range plan on the part of the hijackers. With access to warp discs, they could easily have clocked back to Minus Time, to the 20th century, and enlisted in the United States Navy, for example. The Navy had a nuclear-powered submarine training school in Idaho Falls and they might have obtained the necessary knowledge in that manner. However, that would have been doing it the hard way. If we are to presuppose an extremely organized, highly skilled group, then it makes more sense to assume at least one of their number was a therapist trained in re-education procedures. Getting their hands on the necessary equipment would have been child’s play after what they’ve already accomplished. Once they had overpowered the submarine’s crew, they could then condition them at their leisure to follow orders unquestioningly. Given the mentality of the Soviet military, that would not have been terribly difficult to do. The predisposition for unquestioning obedience would already have been there.”
Another soldier raised his hand. “Lieutenant Bryant?” said Forrester.
“Is there any indication of the purpose behind this act?” said Bryant.
“As of right now, no,” said Forrester. “There has been no contact, no demand for ransom, nothing. Temporal Intelligence believes the group is putting the sub through its paces, giving it a shakedown cruise while they familiarize themselves with its capabilities.”
Lucas raised his hand. “Major Priest,” said Forrester. “Just what are it’s capabilities, sir?” he said.
“The Soviet Typhoon-class subs were capable of sustained underwater cruising speeds in excess of sixty knots. Their titanium double hulls rendered magnetic detection virtually impossible and they were extremely quiet- running. They carried a full complement of ordnance, ranging from standoff missiles with a reported range of about 125 kilometers to cruise missiles, so-called “smart” missiles capable of being fired from the submarine’s torpedo tubes and flying as low as ten feet above the water, thereby defeating radar. They also carried a full range of torpedoes, from homing and wake-following to antisubmarine and conventional type. Last but not least, they were equipped with twenty ballistic missiles, capable of being launched from silos via hatches in the deck. These were of the MIRV type, or Multiple Independently Targeted Reentry Vehicle, with as many as fourteen or fifteen warheads on one missile, aimed at different targets hundreds of miles apart. These were launched when the missile reached the top of its trajectory, from the nose cone. This method was facilitated by use of an inertial guidance system. Measuring devices known as accelerometers recorded movement in every direction aboard the submarine and sent signals to the missile computers, which translated those signals into the sub’s exact position at any given time. Consequently, there was never any need to aim the missiles. If an order for launch was received, it would take only moments, if not seconds, to go through the procedure necessary to fire the missiles. One such MIRV missile could be fired every minute. No input into the ballistic computers was needed. The missiles would already know where they had to go.”
Finn expelled the breath he had been holding in a soft whoosh. He raised his hand. “Delaney?” said Forrester. “How deep could these things go, sir?”
“The Typhoon sub could dive to a depth of over four thousand feet,” said Forrester. “However, that is a conservative figure. We don’t know what the crush depth of the Soviet subs was and there’s every reason to believe
