Rear Admiral Silver was sitting on the bench of the Chinook, looking out at the shoreline some two hundred feet below. They had not spotted any wreckage or remains. If anything had drifted ashore, he suspected the collapse of the ice shelf had dispersed or buried it.
Two hundred feet, Silver thought. That did not seem very far. The D or its remains were probably not even that deep. Yet right now it felt so distant.
Captain Puckett turned and shouted into the cabin. Though the cockpit was only ten feet away, and the door was open, the loud beat of the rotors made conversation extremely difficult.
“Rear Admiral, sir, the major would like to speak with you.”
Silver walked over, leaving his blanket on the bench. He stepped around Lieutenant Houston, who was still working on Dr. Albertson. Though she was breathing on her own, she was not conscious. Ensign Warren was lying beside her, staring up. He seemed relaxed, or maybe just exhausted. Or both. He’d performed like a hero trying to keep Angela from drowning.
Silver reached the cockpit and Captain Puckett gave him a spare headset. The rear admiral slipped it on and adjusted the microphone.
“Yes, Major?”
“Sir, we’ve found both submarines.”
“How is the smaller one?”
“From what we can see, it appears to be intact, though the forward section is entirely buried.”
“Can you free it?”
“We’re going to try, sir.”
“And if not? What are your orders?”
“Sir, if the submarine cannot be refloated, we’re supposed to destroy it,” Bryan told him.
Silver had suspected that. He had feared it. Yet when he heard it, his insides liquefied.
“But, sir, there may be a problem with those orders,” Bryan went on.
“What kind of problem?” Silver asked, his voice cracking.
“Your submarine is lying directly on top of what’s left of the Chinese submarine. The center section of their submarine appears to be intact. The crew could be alive there. If we destroy our ship, the explosion will take the Chinese submarine with it. Their recovery team will know exactly what happened. The United States government will have a great deal to answer for.”
That was true, especially since they couldn’t blame it on the D. The submarine did not carry torpedoes. Nothing on board would leave the scoring marks or blast pattern of an explosion, especially one that had been caused externally rather than internally.
“There’s something else, sir,” Bryan said. “The forward escape hatch of the Chinese submarine is partially exposed. If we can free the American sub, does it possess a rescue capacity?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you can explain something, sir. We’re nearly at your submarine. It’s lying at a slight angle and I’m seeing what look like hatches—”
“They aren’t,” Silver said.
Major Bryan did not immediately respond. The silence was damning. But there was the absolution of orders. When your emotions told you to do one thing, your brain forced you to do another. The brain of Stone Silver, of every commander, was plugged into the Pentagon, into centuries of tradition that regarded national security as more important than life. Silver would not be the one to change that.
“Do the orders stand, sir?” Bryan asked.
If Silver contacted NORDSS, Grantham would take it to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs would take it to the president with the recommendation that they destroy the D and risk the diplomatic fallout. Silver could hear the arguments now. “The accident was a result of Chinese aggression.” China would reply, “The United States had no business conducting a military exercise in the region.” The United States would insist, “It wasn’t a military exercise, it was a Smithsonian research expedition.” China would ask, “Then why did you blow up the submarine?” They would be told, “We were trying to free it.”
The president would not change the order.
“If you exhaust all salvage opportunities, your orders remain as issued,” Silver replied. They must.
“I will let you know what we find, sir.” Bryan’s voice was hard and formal.
“Thank you.”
“Bryan, out.”
Silver took a long, tremulous breath. He returned the headset to the pilot and went back to the bench, though he didn’t remember doing any of it. He did not feel pride or honor in doing his job. There was only the image Major Bryan had sketched for him of the living tombs.
Silver had not prayed since his wife was near death, and then it was as much a thanksgiving for having known her. This was different. He did not feel like praying. He felt like beating the walls of the chopper.
What stopped him was hope. The hope that Major Bryan and his team might be able to free the D. If not, the guilt and sadness was really academic.
There would be nothing they could do for the crew in any case.
Toward the western end of their circuit, past the section of the coastline that had collapsed, Captain Puckett noticed a few planks and twisted metal slats from the Abby knocking against the shore. He asked the rear admiral if he wanted to go down to collect them. Silver said he did not. He wanted the Chinese rescue ships to find the wreckage. He wanted them to know their submarine had struck a science vessel here, not a military ship.
A deception till the end.
It was necessary, Silver reminded himself.
But the question of what else was “necessary” and what was “habit” began to bother him more than a little. Major Bryan was a naval officer, yet Silver didn’t know what kind of security clearance he had. The rear admiral had never even heard of this team, L.A.S.E.R. For all he knew this was some wild Russian scam. A team trained to speak English, a bogus RAF Chinook—
No. That is exhaustion talking.
Or was it? Silver didn’t know. No one did. Which was why there were rules, however unpleasant they might be. If he didn’t like them, if Bryan didn’t like them, they should have chosen a career other than the military.
Perhaps, when this miserable business was done, they would.
In the meantime, he asked Captain Puckett to hand him a set of headphones so he could monitor what was happening below.