Devil's Gate

“Go,” Paul said.

This time, as the playback went through, Paul was sure of what he was hearing. He didn’t know what it meant, but it wasn’t his imagination.

He pointed to the other frequency spike. “Can you eliminate all other background noise and just play this? And can you enhance it?” “Mr. Trout,” the petty officer said, “the government makes sure we have the best equipment in the world. I can make it play the ‘Star-Spangled Banner,’ if you want.” Paul laughed. “Just make this sound wave louder,” he said, “and stretch it out a bit.” This time, as the playback came, it sounded a little like a moped speeding toward him on an empty city street. No other noise, no urgent shouts of inbound torpedoes, just a whiny vibration that grew slightly louder and then lowered its pitch, not once but twice. As if it had passed them and was turning away.

“Is that what I think it is?” Paul asked.

The petty officer played the tape one more time and nodded.

“Compression,” he said. “The initial sound is compressed to high frequency because the source is coming toward the Grouper, and on the last three seconds of tape the sound is stretched out to lower frequency because the source is moving away from the Grouper.” “Like a train whistle,” Paul said, “or a car passing you on the street. The vehicle is still making the same sound, but your perception is different. So it can’t be the torpedoes.” “Nope,” the petty officer said. “It’s definitely a vehicle. From the sound of it, I’d say it’s two vehicles.” Paul nodded; that’s what he was thinking. “But why didn’t we hear them before?” “All the distortion,” Collier said. “And the torpedoes. In fact, the signature is being picked up in almost the same frequency bands as the torpedoes.” “What does that mean?”

“To me, Mr. Trout, that means you were attacked by something small and fast. Submarines making high rpms with small propellers, much like a torpedo.” “Not one big submarine but two small ones,” Paul said. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he guessed it would bring the mother ship theory back into play. At the very least, they were making progress.

Collier ran it one last time just to be sure. The sound was only audible for a couple of seconds in real time before the noise of the torpedoes drowned it out.

Collier took his headset off. “I’ll inform the captain. And we’ll do some more work on this.” “You want me to stick around?” Paul asked.

“I think you have some work of your own to do, Mr. Trout.” He nodded upward as if to suggest Paul go topside.

“Right,” Paul said. He put his headset down, got up, and made his way through the bulkhead door.

Two minutes later he stepped out onto the Truxton’s aft deck.

Sunshine, fresh air, and the sound of thumping helicopter blades greeted him. A stone gray SH-60B Seahawk was descending toward the helipad with a payload suspended beneath it.

He found Gamay watching it and moved up beside her.

“I think we’ve found something,” he shouted over the noise.

She didn’t respond except to acknowledge that he was there.

“I think we’ve isolated the acoustics of the sub that attacked us,” he explained. “It was actually two subs.” “Good,” she said, sounding anything but excited.

“I thought you’d be happy,” he said. “We don’t have to listen to the tape anymore. Why are you so upset?” She looked at him and then nodded toward the helicopter. “What’s that doing here?” Paul looked over. The payload beneath the helicopter was being lowered to the deck in a cradle. It was now close enough that Paul could make out what it was: a small submersible. Attached to the rear of the sub was a package of mechanical equipment and a human-shaped figure made of metal. Rapunzel.

“Dirk sent it over,” Paul said.

“You knew about this?”

“He told me this morning,” Paul said. “It’s only a contingency. Just in case we need it.” Gamay said nothing. She just shook her head angrily, glared at him for a second, and then pushed past him and went back inside the ship.

47

Sierra Leone, July 5

IN HIS EXECUTIVE PALACE, with its marble floors, Djemma Garand sat with Alexander Cochrane. Cochrane had spent the night reviewing the options arrived at by the ad hoc scientific guests.

“Essentially,” Cochrane said, “they’ve all come up with the same solution. I see minor differences, no more.”

Cochrane looked tired. His usual petulance had been replaced by a sense of exhaustion and perhaps fear.

“And your evaluation of their solutions?” Djemma asked, eager to get to the point.

“The fact that they all came to it independently tells me it’s probably correct. I see nothing wrong with their calculations.”

“And the implementation?” Djemma asked.

“In essence, we can use the particle accelerator as it stands now,” Cochrane said. “We just have to generate a heavier charged particle to fire through it. It’s like trading out a twenty-two shell and replacing it with a forty-five. Everything else is the same. The particles will move a little slower, not enough to affect the operation, but they’ll hit with three times the power.” He put his notes down. “It’s rather simple, actually.”

“Pity you didn’t think of it months ago,” Djemma said, the words sliding off his tongue with open disdain.

“This is theoretical work,” Cochrane said. “Not my field.”

“Yes,” Djemma said. “After all, you are just a mechanic.”

The intercom on Djemma’s phone buzzed. “Mr. President,” his secretary said, “a guest has arrived to speak with you. The American ambassador.”

“Excellent,” Djemma said. “Send him in.”

Cochrane stood. “I need twenty-four hours to make the changes.”

“Then I suggest you get to it,” Djemma said. He pointed to a back door. “Leave that way.”

Cochrane obliged, moving quickly out the back as the front door to Djemma’s office opened and the American ambassador came in. Normally, Djemma would meet such a man halfway across the floor, but he remained in his seat, beckoning the ambassador to sit across from him in the spot Cochrane had just vacated.

“President Garand,” the ambassador said in an easy Texas drawl, “I’m sure you know the sad business I’m here to ask you about.”

“Whatever do mean, Mr. Ambassador?” Djemma said. “We are celebrating our Fourth of July. A day late, perhaps.”

The ambassador managed a forced smile but shook his head. “What you’re calling independence is nothing but naked aggression, theft, and the violation of international law. To be honest with you, I can’t recall such a brazen act.”

“Then you must be a poor student of history,” Djemma said. “In 1950, under the threat of nationalizing all of Standard Oil’s assets, the Saudi royal family took half the oil in Arabia. That oil has been worth three and a half trillion dollars over the last sixty years. In 2001, Hugo Chavez of Venezuela did virtually the same thing. In 1972, Chile nationalized its copper mines under Salvador Allende. In 1973, India nationalized its entire coal industry. In 1959, Fidel Castro took Havana, waiting patiently until the Havana Hilton was complete so he could use it as the Communist Party’s headquarters. He seized all foreign assets and has never relinquished them. Do you not recall any of these events, Mr. Ambassador?”

The ambassador took a deep breath. “Of course I recall them, but this is different.”