America (27 page)

Jake talked for twenty minutes, telling Krautkramer everything he had learned about Cowbell. When Krautkramer ran out of questions, he said, “We can't find hide nor hair of Leon Rothberg, that missing New London simulator expert. We think he's one of the two extra men on that sub.”

“Okay.”

“He was one of the lead engineers programming
America
's holographic simulator. He knows how every system in that sub works and how to operate the weapons' systems. He's up to his eyeballs in debt—he has judgments against him and every credit card company has shut him off.”

“Any family?”

“Single. An ex-girlfriend getting a grand a month in child support. His parents in Michigan that haven't talked to him for months. The last time he was home he hit them up for a five-grand loan.”

“Okay. Who's the other guy?”

Krautkramer took a deep breath and squeezed his nose before he answered that one. “We aren't sure. Rothberg is apparently the only American who knew enough about
America
to be useful who can't be accounted for. Other people are on vacation or sick at home or whatever. One guy who is supposed to be on a fishing trip with his buddies is actually shacked up in Florida with a female co-worker.”

“So the other person isn't an expert on this submarine.”

“Apparently not. In fact, we're looking into the possibility this person isn't American. We're trying to sort out immigration entry information, build a list of possibilities. That's complicated. We're running the computers and talking to huge numbers of people … it's going to take a while. This massive power outage didn't help. The computers at headquarters here in Washington are history. We're using machines in St. Louis and Chicago, but”—he slammed his fist on the desk—“goddamn it, Admiral, it's going to take time. I doubt if we have enough. Those bastards could be shooting more missiles this very minute.”

“Antoine Jouany. Could that last person be someone who works for him?”

“We're trying to determine if that is a possibility.”

“A Russian or German official?”

“Government?”

“Why not?”

“Let's hope not,” Krautkramer said. “They'll be covered too well for us to dig them out without moving heaven and earth.”

“I thought you
were
moving heaven and earth.”

“We can only shovel so fast, Admiral. I'm being fully supported with top priority, but there are lots of rocks to peek under.”

“I understand.”

“I'll put people to work on Cowbell.”

“Let's start with the list of people who had access. There couldn't be more than a couple dozen.”

Krautkramer made a face. “In government, maybe. But you can't manufacture anything these days with only two dozen people. There's a factory somewhere, engineers, executives, assembly workers … Even people with super-clearances who work on black projects have spouses and sweethearts and occasionally talk too much. And everybody uses computers, puts everything on them. Everything! Engineers use computers to design circuits and parts and you name it. E-mail, spreadsheets, contracts, specs—you heard about that fourteen-year-old kid who broke into the Pentagon computer system?”

After the FBI agent left, Jake got out a legal pad and turned it sideways. He sat for several minutes staring into the flame of the candles, then drew a small submarine on the pad. He put the sail well forward, made it long and slender. It looked like a man-made fish.

Or a shark.

*   *   *

The door to the captain's cabin aboard USS
America
opened inward. Vladimir Kolnikov knocked politely, then used the key from his shirt pocket to unlock and open it. Standing well back with his pistol in his hand, he pushed at the door with his foot.

Heydrich was sitting on the bed in his underwear.

“Ah, the jailer.”

“We need to have a little chat,” Kolnikov said, keeping the pistol down by his leg.

“Same thing you said to Steinhoff?”

“That is up to you.”

Kolnikov closed the door behind him and sat in the chair by the small desk so that he was facing Heydrich. He laid the pistol in his lap.

“I confess, I don't understand what you are doing or why you are doing it,” Heydrich said, watching Kolnikov's face. “When this is over, we will need Willi Schlegel's help to permanently disappear. The Americans will be looking for us in every hotel, hut, and whorehouse on this planet. If you think you can hide in some backwater that has no extradition treaty with the United States, you are going to be severely disappointed.”

“I figured, taking these risks, why not maximize the return?”

“So you went looking for business.”

“Not really.” Kolnikov grimaced. “I was approached by a woman. She knew about Blackbeard. Don't ask me how she heard it, because I don't know. I almost died of fright. After she got me calmed down, she introduced me to Schlegel's man. And another person.”

“You jeopardized Schlegel's mission.”

“If we had been arrested before we stole this boat, one suspects that the Americans would have done nothing. Schlegel, the man I knew—all of them would have denied everything and hidden behind a phalanx of lawyers. The CIA would have been grossly embarrassed—there was really little risk. They would have hustled us out of the country and told us to never come back.”

“Schlegel would have killed you.”

“We all have to die and, thankfully, only once. Everything worked out, the men and I will get you to Schlegel's treasure trove in the pink of good health, ready to apply your expensive skills in a cunning and industrious manner for the greater glory of Schlegel and friends. A few days later Herr Schlegel and the people I know will each pay us several million apiece. On that glorious day we shall set forth with wallets bulging to live in the happy ever after. You have been thinking of the happy ever after, haven't you?”

“Something like that, I suppose.”

Wondering if he was going to get there, Kolnikov thought. The fate of his shipmates was of no concern to Heydrich; it would never occur to him.

“Predicting the future is always tricky,” Kolnikov said thoughtfully. “The slightest unknown can destroy the finest calculations. If nothing goes wrong, we will launch Tomahawks on at least one more occasion, perhaps two. There is no double cross. Everyone will share in the proceeds.”

“All these promises—I sincerely hope there is some real money in them.”

“Precisely my point. I recall saying that very thing to Schlegel the last time we met, that evening we ate at the Hotel George V.”

Heydrich yawned. “Willi doesn't like surprises. I think they offend his orderly mind. He is not a man to mislead or leave with a false impression.”

“Fact is I sent Willi a letter above your signature, told him we were going to rob enough ships to either make some serious money or get killed doing it.”

The possibility that Kolnikov had a sense of humor had never before occurred to Heydrich. He said lightly, “Did he write back?”

“No. Apparently he doesn't waste ink on the hired help.”

CHAPTER TEN

When the sun crept over the rim of the sea,
America
was still drifting fifteen hundred feet below the surface of the North Atlantic, dead in the water. Every minute or so, in response to the movement of people inside the hull, water was automatically and silently pumped into or out of the tanks to maintain the boat's trim. Kolnikov knew the pumps were working because lights flickered on and off on the control panel. Still, the way the computers kept the boat level and maintained its depth within inches seemed almost magic. The control room lights were very dim … in fact, Kolnikov concluded, they were off. The only illumination came from the sonar displays, computer screens, and LCD readouts.

Kolnikov studied the computer screen that monitored noise being manufactured within the boat. Every thump and click of metal on metal from the engineering spaces registered here, although the level of noise was far too low for a human ear to detect. Nothing else. He wondered about that oil pump. Why did it fail now? The trim pumps were oh so quiet, with new, well-lubricated bearings. The air circulation fans, the condensers … the boat was like a giant Swiss watch with a million moving parts.

Eck's face appeared green in the reflected light of his screen as he experimented with the Revelation computer. The large display screens on the bulkhead were quite dark, not because the sea was very quiet but because most of the natural noises of the sea had been filtered out. The system was waiting, listening, for a noise that should not be there. Still, an occasional flicker or momentary illumination showed ill-defined, ever-changing, fantastic shapes. They are nothing, Kolnikov decided, nothing at all. Or were they?

“This is an extraordinary system,” Eck said when he realized Kolnikov was watching over his shoulder. “The computer can detect frequencies and wave patterns that are too faint to be presented optically. Ships at hundreds of miles, planes, whales calling for their mates—it's a fantastic piece of gear.”

“Skip the whales. Find me a submarine.”

“They are out here,” Eck said with conviction. “I hear screw noises, gurgles … much too faint and momentary to get a bearing on. But they are real. I hear them.
Revelation hears them.
They are out there.”

“Umm,” Kolnikov said. He too thought the American submarines were in these waters hunting
America,
and perhaps also British and French boats, but he didn't choose to discuss it with Eck. Eck, on the other hand, was not reticent. “I thank my stars,” the German continued, “I am not out there in this sea in one of those noisy old East German boats with this thing hunting me. God, it gives me chills just thinking of it!”

Kolnikov was idly watching the compass and monitoring the opening and closing of trim valves when Georgi Turchak came into the control room. He took Kolnikov aside and spoke very softly so that Eck wouldn't hear. “It's the bearings in that pump. It's in a tight space and difficult to work on.”

“So…”

“It's a bigger job than I thought. Three or four more hours, at least. We must drain the oil from the housing and rig a hoist to handle the pieces when we break it apart. And if we screw up the gaskets, we're out of luck: The spare parts inventories don't show any aboard.”

“So what happens if we can't get it back together?”

“We are out of luck. The pump forces oil into the main bearings. Without it—” He left the sentence unfinished.

“Can we limp along as is?”

Turchak nodded. “If you are willing to tolerate the noise. And we proceed slowly.”

“An oil circulation pump…” Kolnikov tilted the stool and put his feet up on the tactical presentation. He studied his shoes.

“The men are worried,” Turchak said. “They know the thing will make noise. They talked of little else while we worked.”

“What do you think?” Kolnikov asked and eyed his friend.

“We have done all we can, Vladimir Ivanovich. You must weigh the risks and decide how to proceed.”

“I must decide?”

“You.” Turchak sat heavily in the chair in front of the helm controls. “My wife is dead, I haven't talked to my son in years—hell, I don't know where he is, and I guarantee you he doesn't know or care where I am. We are expendable, you, me, all of us. No one cares whether we live or die, whether we go back to France or Russia or wherever.” He jerked his head toward the rear of the boat. “Those men back there helping me. They have no one. Oh, they want money, a chance at life. But they have nothing in this world. So you decide. Is the risk worth it?”

“What have we got to lose, eh?”

“Only our lives.”

“And they are worth precisely nothing.”

“Nothing at all,” Turchak said heavily.

“Okay,” said Vladimir Kolnikov. “Let's crack the pump housing, replace the bearings. Try not to screw up the gaskets. If we can get it all back together more or less the way the shipyard had it, we'll get under way. Slowly.”

“What if we can't?”

“You are a good submariner, Georgi Alexandrovich. Do the best you can and we'll all live with it.”

“And then?”

“And then,” Kolnikov said, trying to sound optimistic, “we will get under way and motor merrily toward the programmed launch point. If the tactical display is correct, we are only twenty-three miles southwest of it. We will head for it at five knots. Begin a gentle ascent so we get as little hull popping as possible as the pressure comes off. We will poke our masts up, get a GPS update, shoot, then run like hell.”

“It will be broad daylight. Midday.”

“That's right.”

“The Americans will be all over us.”

“We will go deep. I think this boat might take two thousand feet. We will find out, eh? That's below the depth any
Los Angeles
–class boat can reach. With a smidgen of good fortune, there will be some kind of thermal or salinity incongruity below a thousand feet. We will run awhile, clear the area, then go dead in the water and drift. They won't expect that. Deep and dead silent, we will be devilishly difficult to find. We'll drift for days if necessary. We'll outwait them. We've got plenty of time. The Americans will get impatient and eventually leave.”

“Drifting…” said Turchak, thinking about it.

“I've been watching the compass. The boat has turned about eighty degrees in the last two hours as we drifted. The trim pumps have had no trouble controlling our pitch attitude, and they are brand-new, dead quiet. If necessary, we could use the screw a little to give the planes some bite. A knot of way at the most, I think.” He thought about it a moment, then added, “I have never seen a boat so quiet. I can hear my heart pounding. Drifting like this, we almost cease to exist.”