5
Unknown space-time
(sixteen minutes after crossing the threshold)
Martin released a groan. He brought his hands up to shield his face, protecting his eyes from the blinding glare. He lost his balance and smashed into the wall, nearly breaking his shoulder. Then he collapsed.
“Martin!” Vera screamed. She fell down on him.
Other crewmen shouted.
The pressure on his ears felt as if someone had put them between two big tongs and pressed forcefully. Vera’s impossibly heavy body lay on top of his, squeezing the air out.
Alarming crashes came from the external hull. It was loud enough to overcome the crew’s shouting. Bolts and screws shot into the air and bounced off the metal walls. Klaxons blared.
A picture of a black hole devouring everything in its path appeared in Martin’s mind. Planets, comets, asteroids, and the occasional submarine which happened to find its way into outer space, right into the vicinity of one of the most destructive phenomena in the known universe.
Seconds ago he had floated in weightlessness, but now he found himself unable to move, hard-pressed between the metal floor and Vera.
Martin tried to regain focus. Gradually, his vision returned. Vera groaned; she managed to move. Now that his chest was free, he could take a deep breath.
Turning his head around produced pain in his neck. The bridge was a mess, with smashed equipment and debris scattered everywhere.
The taste of blood in his mouth didn’t help. He tried to bring his incredibly heavy hand up and wipe away the thick liquid. It was almost impossible.
Slowly, Martin managed to tilt his head and scan the control room. Most of the crew members were lying in agony. Some were injured, others were still on their chairs, struggling to remain at their posts. Russian shouting filled the air. New sirens added their uproar to the already noisy atmosphere. A few cracked pipes were bleeding steam.
“Vera, are you okay?” Steve screamed, trying to overcome the ambient volume.
“Does it look like I’m okay?” she cried back.
“Steve,” yelled Martin, “what’s going on?”
“Beats me, dude.” Even Steve, with his infinite optimism, sounded anxious. “Judging by the fact that we’re lying on the floor, and feeling heavier than an oil tanker, I would say gravity has changed. Perhaps it’s the gravitational tidal forces from the singularity.” Steve reverted back to his normal casual voice, as if they were chatting on a sunny day in the local grocery store. “The other option is that we’re accelerating upward. Like the shuttle launch simulator in Cape Kennedy. I would say three to four g.”
“Ouch,” exclaimed Martin. “It feels like twenty, like someone is hammering me on a giant anvil.”
As time passed, Martin noticed that gravity weakened. “Why aren’t we heavy anymore?”
“Oh my god.” Steve seemed to have lost some of his confidence.
“What is it?” Vera asked. She managed to pull herself into a sitting position.
“Captain!” shouted Steve. “What’s the external pressure?”
Captain Satarov shouted in Russian. One of the sailors still manning his station shouted something in return.
Unsecured equipment started to slide toward the front. The Typhoon’s floor turned into a slope.
“The crewman is saying …” Vera translated the Russian words, “that we are 450 meters deep, earlier we were shooting upward, but now we’re sinking.”
Martin was confused. How could they be someplace deep? The only deep in his mind had been deep space.
“He said they’re trying to empty the ballast tanks,” added Vera, “whatever that means. But the submarine is still sinking.”
Four hundred and fifty meters deep? As in deep water? What the hell happened? How much is it in feet? What about the wormhole? Well, it was a very short adventure. Eric’s noble idea of changing history had been botched. Wherever they were, Martin expected this to be their end. Soon.
“Four hundred and seventy meters, still descending.” Vera continued to translate. “One of the sailors said something about shafts near … near something that I couldn’t understand … it was blown open and water is rushing in. They are trying to shut the double doors.”
Steve brought himself to a standing position against one of the metal display screens. The number showed 510 meters, already in the red zone, and the needle continued to climb. “Stop the emergency blow system,” he screamed, facing Captain Satarov. “Dumping precious air into the ballast tanks will do no good. They don’t exist anymore.”
Martin wasn’t a submariner, but he remembered that ballast tanks were crucial for submarines. They were used to control a submarine’s specific weight and whether it would float or submerge.
“Somehow, suddenly, the submarine appears to be in deep water,” Steve tried to explain. “The pressure inside the ballast tanks is zero, as in outer space zero, while the external pressure is 750 psi.” He paused for a second. “Zero inside, fifty times our normal atmospheric pressure outside.” He clapped his hands together. “Get the picture?”
Martin stared at Steve. He must be insane. What was he talking about? How could they be underwater?
“Dude, we must gain buoyancy, or we’re doomed.” Steve stared at Satarov. “Can we insert foam into the ruptured tanks?”
The captain’s brown eyes flashed frozen fire. “Foam? Are you stupid? This is submarine, not space vessel. Foam wouldn’t foam at 52 atmospheres. Sit back, stop interfering, and let me do my job!”
“You don’t understand.” Steve waved his hands in front of the captain. “There’s no use pushing air into the MBT. The only way we can float is by losing weight.” He stared at the numbers—570 meters. “Can we dump the ballast lead bars?”
Icicles formed in Satarov’s eyes. “This is a military submarine, not a civilian research vessel.” His facial expression showed terror mixed with temper. He ground his teeth, trying to regain control. “Now, sit back and let me run the ship, or I’ll have you shot!” The deadly cold tone didn’t leave much room for imagination regarding the seriousness of his threats.
“Screw you,” shouted Steve. However, before he completed his sentence, he probably realized that Satarov wasn’t kidding. Steve shrugged, exchanging desperate looks with Martin and Vera.
Satarov shifted his attention back to his crew.
“Six hundred meters,” translated Vera. “That’s a hundred meters deeper than what this sub was designed for. He fears the pressure hulls might be compromised.”
“Say your prayers, dudes, it was nice knowing you.”
Crunching noises came from the external hull, the outcome of the rapid increase in pressure, which Martin clearly felt in his eardrums. The noise was supplemented by cries of wounded sailors and by high-pitched electric pumps, struggling to push water at maximum capacity. Martin tugged at his tweed jacket and licked the blood from the open wound in his mouth. He grabbed a metal pipe attached to the wall. His hand turned white from holding it so tightly. He waited for the ship to implode. “Goodbye, Vera.”
Ignoring him, Vera rushed to check one of the injured sailors. “Hey, Steve. Can you throw me that first aid kit?”
“Sure thing, baby,” Steve smiled, and helped her with the bandage.
The ship’s angle shifted again. The bow moved above the horizon.
Martin’s heart pounded. “What’s going on? Why aren’t we dead?”
The control room trembled with cheering. Smiles appeared on the sailors’ faces.
Vera grabbed Martin with both her hands, and kissed him on his cheek. “We’re going up. We’re going up.”
“What? How?”
“The captain said that diving upwards with light trim tanks should be sufficient to bring us up to the surface.”
“Five hundred and fifty meters.” Satarov couldn’t hide his excitement. “You see Steve, you should always let professional seamen handle their boat.”
Steve turned his head. “You’re so heavy, dude.”
The captain had managed to save them, for now. Martin nodded in agreement. But at what price? Could they survive the day? Assuming that they had found a way to Earth’s waters, what year was it, and what could they do with a broken sub and injured crew?
Martin’s whole body shivered at that thought.
The Typhoon balanced itself in a horizontal position. Nearly horizontal. It still had a slight tilt. Tiny waves slapped the outside deck, casually patting the ice-covered silo doors. Without the ballast tanks, the submarine struggled to stay afloat.
Martin was relieved to see the calm sea on the giant monitor. It looked like water. The sky was blue, with a bright yellow sun that looked just like Earth’s sun. Definitely not the inside of a black hole.
Martin heard a moan. He turned and saw Eric on the floor. He was bleeding from a few cuts, and his leg was twisted at an impossible angle. His hand twitched for a few seconds, and then it stopped. Eric was motionless.
“Eric?” Vera, who was holding the first aid kit, bent over him. “Eric, can you hear me?”
Smashed computers and shattered command consoles were scattered all over the place. Blood painted the floor in abundance. Displays flashed and died. The combat information center was blown apart.
“Captain Satarov,” said Vera, kneeling above Eric, “Eric broke his leg, I’m afraid …”
“First you must stop his bleeding.” Satarov walked over and looked closely at the blood coming out of Eric’s nose. He scratched the back of his head. “His unconsciousness, it can’t be decompression sickness, can it?”
Satarov called one of the medical staff who was treating his injured control room operators. He spoke to him imperatively. The medic saluted. Satarov nodded and then he walked toward Vera. “Eric will be taken to sick bay.”
“Do you know what happened to him?” asked Vera.
Satarov shook his head. He took off his navy captain’s hat and wiped off his forehead with his blood-covered sleeve. Then he clicked a few switches on his command console.
“We have reports of injuries from all compartments,” explained the captain. “Sick bay has declared over capacity. The woman doctor is on her way to treat Eric.”
Steve stepped over some of the smashed equipment. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he apologized to the captain. “Do you happen to know where we are?”
“All I know is that something happened to the Angela’s power cord.” Satarov shrugged. “The wormhole collapsed. I can only speculate what happened after that.”
They all looked at the sunny day and the calm ocean on the monitor.
“Without any warnings,” continued the captain, “somehow, we were teleported from zero gravity, zero pressure, and extreme low temperature, into a warm ocean at a depth of five hundred meters, instantly displacing forty-six thousand cubic ton of water. I think the Dmitry Donskoy was replaced with water at exactly the same volume.” He paused again, as if gathering his thoughts. “If I had an egg, I would show you what happens when you put sudden fifty atmosphere pressure on it.”
“Five hundred meters below the surface?” Martin couldn’t stop thinking about eggs imploding.
“You should be lucky to be on a Project 941 Akula.” He glanced at Steve. “A weaker Western submarine would have been crushed like an egg.”
“Do you believe,” Martin spoke slowly, “we’re still on Earth?”
The captain shrugged once more. “Ask Eric. He is our wormhole expert.” He turned his head and looked at the unconscious billionaire. Vera cleaned the blood off his face.
Satarov raised his eyebrows and said something in Russian into the intercom. Then he looked back at Martin. “Good news. The air outside is breathable, and the pressure is identical to Earth’s surface.”
Two sailors entered the control room leading Dr. Lin. They went straight to Eric. Dr. Lin checked his pulse. She nodded, and the sailors put him on a stretcher and carried him away.
The trapdoor above Martin opened. He heard the air rushing out. The fresh smell of the sea helped ease his headache.
Another officer approached the captain and handed him a sheet of paper. Satarov frowned as he read the report. He spoke briefly. The officer saluted, and left the bridge.
“I have a preliminary damage report,” explained the captain. His eyes went to the paper in his hand. “It seems that one of the front halls was flooded. Three crew members are missing. The external steel armor plates were slightly damaged, and the ballast tanks were ruptured in a few places. We also sustained some minor damage, blew some bearings and housings, etcetera.” Satarov raised his head. “The good news is that the internal titanium pressure hull is intact, and the reactor should be operational in a few hours.”
“Sounds like we’re in deep shit,” said Steve.
“You should consider yourself very lucky to be on a Russian Typhoon,” Satarov said with a hint of a glitter in his eyes. “Our titanium and steel double hull makes us the toughest submarine on the face of the Earth.” He put down his report and glanced at Steve as he murmured, “I don’t think any American submarine could have survived what we have just gone through. You should thank Eric for choosing a Typhoon.”
Steve’s face paled in anger, his eyes flashing. “I wouldn’t put too much faith in Russian platforms. After all, you dudes lost the Cold War. The only reason Eric contacted you was because Russia is in economic trouble. Bargain hunting is easier when someone’s bankrupt.”
Satarov stiffened. He raised his fist and tightened his lips.
“Hey!” Vera intervened. She stared them both down. “Steve, don’t you have something more important to do?”
Satarov turned his back on Steve, and went to the captain’s station across from his periscope. He clicked on a few buttons. “Broken!” He swore in Russian. Then, once more, he turned again to Steve. “We are lucky to be on a Russian submarine. You see, even though we lost some equipment, we have a concept that not all navies are familiar with. We call it ‘redundancy.’”
Satarov lowered the secondary periscope and scanned the surroundings.
Another message was brought in.
“Um … crap.” Satarov looked at the fresh printout. “The GPS system doesn’t work.”
“That’s a good sign,” explained Steve. “If we managed to travel back in time to 1938 Earth, then we shouldn’t expect to get signals from GPS satellites.” He grinned. “I guess we’re back to traditional navigation methods, such as the sun, the stars, compass, and maps.”
“Don’t forget radar and gyroscopes.” Satarov smiled victoriously.
Martin wished that Steve and Satarov would stop with their power games. They had more important things to worry about. Much more important.
The captain continued with the periscope scan. The image on the monitor showed nothing but an empty sea.
“What’s that?” Steve pointed at the monitor.
“It doesn’t look like something from the 1930s,” Satarov said. “Damn. The experiment didn’t work.”
Martin wondered what the captain was talking about.
“Let me see,” Steve said.
Satarov gave the periscope to Steve. Steve didn’t let go of the periscope for a long minute.
“Looks like a modern speedboat.” He turned his head. “Vera, I genuinely believe your employer has made a fatal error. We are still on twenty-first century Earth. Look at this boat …”
The scorching sun seared from the cloudless sky above. Martin brought his hand to his forehead to protect his eyes. The crippled Typhoon slowly closed the distance to the mysterious racing boat.
The hatch beside him opened. Vera climbed out and joined Martin and Captain Second Rank Alexander Mokotoff at the top of the sail. Traces of blood still covered her clothes, but she no longer carried the first aid kit. “I need some fresh air.”
Captain Satarov had already briefed the American guests. The submarine wasn’t in good shape. Only one of the seven-blade fixed-pitch propellers was still running. The steering planes had to compensate for the lost momentum. Moreover, the reactor was not yet on-line, and they were forced to use diesel and batteries.
Below, ten Russian Spetsnaz, armed with their sinister-looking AK-47s, stood on the still-icy deck overlooking the frozen missile silos. One of them aimed his assault rifle at the helpless race boat.
The submarine’s engine was shut off as it came close to its drifting target. Although the outside temperature was tropical, the speedboat, like the Typhoon, was covered with ice. Martin wondered if that was a coincidence.
Two of the Spetsnaz threw grappling hooks, bringing the boat alongside the submarine. Another Spetsnaz boarded the dead speeder. He shouted in Russian to his comrades, pointing at the canopy. Martin brought up his binoculars. Weird-looking solid foam filled the canopy.
“They found two men inside,” translated Vera. “One of them may still be alive.”
More Spetsnaz climbed down to the boat, carrying ice axes. They started to dig through the foam.
Even though the Spetsnaz were working hard digging in, Martin noticed they never laid down their guns. He shivered.
“Let’s go inside.” Vera sounded tired.
He nodded.
Martin and Vera entered the hatch and climbed down the sail. They exited the control room and walked toward the briefing room. Since the medical bay had a limited capacity to accommodate the large number of injured crewmen, the briefing room was converted into an improvised recovery room.
They met Dr. Lin and Eric. Eric was sitting in a compact wheelchair marked with the Sobol Foundation’s logo. His right leg was wrapped with white bandages. The wrinkles crisscrossing Eric’s white face had grown deeper.
“How do you feel?” Martin asked Eric.
Eric slowly raised his head, his face showing an agonized expression. He stared at Martin with glassy eyes and said nothing.
“What’s wrong with him?” Martin asked Dr. Lin.
Lin lowered her head and shook it.
Eric’s pale hand touched Dr. Lin, and he whispered something.
“You sure?” Dr. Lin looked at Eric.
He nodded, almost unnoticeably.
Something was wrong with Eric. Something was definitely wrong.
Vera knelt next to Eric, holding his wrinkled hand.
Martin watched Vera and then he switched his gaze to Dr. Lin.
The doctor moved her fingers across a pad attached to the wheelchair. “Very well.” She released a deep breath and looked at Eric for a long moment. Her gaze filled with compassion.
Eric looked up at Dr. Lin, and nodded.
“Mr. Sobol is my patient.” She spoke with a strong Chinese accent. “I have been treating him for four years.”
Vera sniffled and then she wiped her nose. She held Eric’s hand tightly.
Martin came closer. He wondered what he should do to comfort Vera and show his sympathy to Eric.
“Mr. Sobol had a stage four brain cancer,” Dr. Lin said flatly. “A terminal tumor, multiple extensions. He had less than a point five percent chance to survive. I treated him with my experimental, ah, procedure.”
Martin shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Since he had met Dr. Lin aboard Eric’s jet, he knew Eric had some sort of a medical condition. He thought it was an age-related disease. He never suspected brain cancer.
Vera mourned, hugging his wheelchair.
Martin scratched the back of his head. “Dr. Lin, did you just say ‘had’?” He wondered whether he heard her right, or if her word choice was a mistake derived from Dr. Lin’s poor command of the English language.
Dr. Lin nodded. “Eric no longer has cancer. Treatment going well … in that respect.”
Vera’s head lifted. Her wet red eyes stared at the doctor.
Two Russian sailors, carrying a third, entered the briefing room. After saying a few words in their language, they nodded toward Dr. Lin. She nodded back, and they helped their wounded comrade to an empty stretcher. Martin watched them leave before he gave his attention back to Dr. Lin.
“What is your specialization, Doctor?”
“Rejuvenation.”
Vera wiped tears that appeared at the corner of her eyes.
Dr. Lin took a long moment staring at Eric. She hesitated. “Do you know what telomeres are?”
Vera shook her head.
“That’s a DNA compo-nent,” said Dr. Lin. “A special region at the end of each chromosome. Each time a cell divides, the telomere’s length is halved. Basically, it’s a mechanism that limits the number of times a cell can divide. The human body,” continued the doctor, “also has an enzyme called telomerase. His job is to extend these telomeres. Okay?”
Martin adjusted his tweed jacket. Whenever someone started to talk about internal organs, it made him flinch in discomfort. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He just hoped Dr. Lin wouldn’t bring up the subject of blood.
“The difference between, eh, normal cells and cancerous cells is that cancerous cells can divide without control. In my research, me tried to fight cancer by turning off the telomerase.”
“So,” Vera said, “you basically disabled the tumor’s ability to grow indefinitely, right?”
“Very good.” Dr. Lin smiled. “However, reality is much more complex. Most cancerous cells don’t have telomeres. Regular cancer cells would have to be destroyed by traditional treatments such as chemotherapy or surgery. My process is limited only to cancerous stem cells—the main reason for secondary growth. Okay?”
Vera nodded and wiped away her tears. “Does it mean Eric is cured?”
Dr. Lin stared at the metal floor and slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry. Mr. Sobol is cured from cancer. That is correct. But not from the side effects.”
A shiver engulfed Martin’s body.
“Telomerase evolved for a reason.” Dr. Lin lowered her head and stared at the floor. “Without a mechanism to extend telomeres, Eric’s cells can only divide a limited amount of times.”
“What does it mean in plain English?” The wetness in Vera’s eyes intensified their reddish color.
“Back in Hong Kong, I was working on a special rejuvenation treatment. Without it, Eric’s cells won’t be able to divide.” Dr. Lin avoided eye contact when she spoke; her eyes were still fixed on the floor. “If I can’t replicate my lab, Eric will die within two or three years.”
“Replicate?” asked Vera.
“I brought some equipment. Maybe I can set up a new lab someplace; maybe I could control the pro—”
They heard steps. Captain Satarov walked in through the open door, accompanied by two armed Spetsnaz, holding a cuffed fourth person. The person’s eyes darted in all directions; his nose and upper lip were bleeding. He didn’t offer any resistance to his captors.
Eric raised his head to look directly at Martin. His clenched lips gave a hint of the pain he was in. “I can’t talk now.” He struggled with each word. “Dr. Lin gave me a shot. I will feel better in five minutes. All I need is a little rest.”
The prisoner was offered a chair.
The guy’s hair was dark and scattered. In addition to his nosebleed, his exposed wet skin was covered with bruises, vomit, and traces of dried blood. What was left of his torn clothes looked like rags. The two aimed assault rifles didn’t seem to inspire confidence in his eyes.
Dr. Lin searched through her purse. She pulled out a small first aid kit and handed the guy a small gauze bandage.
“Señor, why did you bring me here?” The prisoner spoke with a South American accent that Martin couldn’t pinpoint. “I done nothing wrong. Me and my amigo are innocent tourists. We were just fishing here. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“That’s a relief,” whispered Eric to Martin. “The first alien we meet on the other side of the wormhole is a human being who speaks English.” He released a deep breath, and carefully scratched his bandages.
Vera hushed Eric and looked at the prisoner. “What is your name?” She spoke in a slow relaxed voice.
The prisoner leaned backward. With both handcuffed hands, he applied the gauze bandage to his nose. “My name is Fidel.”
“Fidel? That’s an odd name.”
“Fidel Alberto Gonzalez. I’m just a tourist from Colombia. I hired a boat in Nassau, and I just …”
Vera touched Fidel’s shoulder, trying to calm him down. “What’s the date now?”
“A date?” Fidel looked at her. “What do you mean by date? You have a date? A romantic date? I don’t understand.”
Martin assumed Vera wanted to find out if the experiment was successful, if they had managed to travel back in time.
“When were you born?” she asked.
“Born? Ha, si, 1978, I had a birthday last week, but I don’t …”
Even though Eric was in dire shape, he attempted to stand up using his wheel chair to support his body weight. His legs shook like Spanish maracas, and he sank back to his chair. “Were you really born in 1978? Are you sure?” he exclaimed. “Tell me, is it not 1938?”
“What? 1938? No, no, no, amigo. Look, I have a Rolex watch that my good friend Alvaro gave me for my birthday. It shows the time and the date. Here, look.”
Satarov took the wristwatch and held it close to a light bulb. “That’s not a Rolex. It’s a cheap fake.” The captain looked at Eric, and sighed. “But he does have a point. It doesn’t look like something from 1938.”
“What? Fake?” Fidel looked surprised. He swore in Spanish and spat on the floor. The only word Martin could comprehend was “Alvaro.”
Finally, Fidel calmed down. “Where is my partner, the other man in the boat?”
Martin looked at the Spetsnaz. They nodded, and one of them whispered something to Vera.
Vera shrugged. “I’m afraid he’s dead. I’m sorry.”
“Poor bastard. I’m so sad.” Fidel shook his head, as if forcing himself to make an expression of a grief for a lost friend.
“Can you tell me what happened to your boat?” asked Vera.
“I told you, we were fishing. Then the storm came and threw us up in the air.”
Fidel paused, staring desperately at the ceiling. “And … and I fainted. It was a terrible storm. The next thing I remember is being revived by these nice hombres … and …” Suddenly Fidel’s eyes brightened. A smile appeared on his face, “Thank you so much, amigos, thank you so much for saving my life.”
Vera’s face remained expressionless; she spoke coldly. “Why did you go fishing? I’m sure you knew about the hurricane.”
Fidel turned white. “Si …, hmmm, I don’t know. I told Alvaro, hmm, my boss this is madness, but he insisted.”
Vera pierced him with her gaze. “You don’t know why you chose to go fishing in a deadly tempest, or you don’t know why Alvaro insisted?”
“Todo a la derecha, I already told you.” He started to mumble. “My English, no good. I was on a vacation. That’s all, I swear.” He crossed his hands over his chest. “Didn’t know about hurricane.”
Vera’s total lack of inflection lashed at Fidel, “Señor Gonzalez. We are on a delicate mission. We will have to keep you with us until we know what’s going on.”
“Captain.” Eric, who had been sitting quietly in his wheelchair, turned to Satarov. “I think I can use that drink now. The one you offered earlier.”
The captain nodded. He gave his crewman an order in Russian. They saluted, and took Fidel with them.
“Let me go,” Fidel yelled, “I’ve done nothing …”
One of the Spetsnaz cocked his AK-47. Apparently, it was sufficient to change Fidel’s attitude and make him walk with them peacefully.
Satarov took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “An excellent idea. I could definitely use some vodka myself. We should have a meeting in half an hour. That will give us more time find some radio frequencies and gather more information on our whereabouts.”
“You will not be drinking alcohol today, Mr. Sobol,” said Dr. Lin. “Doctor’s orders.”
Eric looked at her coldly for few seconds. “Party pooper,” he snapped.
“Vladimir,” said Eric, “you’re right, my friend. When we meet again, I’m sure you’ll have some good news.”
Satarov nodded, turned back, and followed his men out.
“What do you think about Fidel?” Eric asked Vera.
“There is something strange about that fellow. I don’t know what it is. One thing is for certain, he is not from 1938.”
Captain Vladimir Satarov glanced at his first officer, Alexander Mokotoff. He must not let his crew see that he was scared like shit. He had to lead by example, to show his men that they were safe, that he had regained control of the situation. He scanned the Typhoon’s control room. “Secure the speedboat, get ready to set sail,” he barked. “Captain Second Rank, what about my reactors?”
A buzz drew Satarov’s attention. His eyes fell on a blinking red LED on his command panel.
“Captain,” shouted the sailor who manned the radar, “we have detected a bogey.”
All eyes turned to the radarman. “It appears to be a large destroyer, maybe even a light cruiser. It’s heading our way, bearing 270.”
“What’s the ETA, Sergeant?”
“Fifteen to twenty minutes, sir. They’re doing twelve knots.”
Satarov sank back to his seat. They were running on batteries, barely afloat, and unable to submerge. Many of their combat systems were off-line. He swore as he turned on the silent alarm. Once again, the bright yellow lights were replaced by dim red.
“Battle stations,” announced Satarov into his mike. He then looked at his first officer. “Alex, I need my reactors ASAP.”
“We can be ready in two minutes, Captain. But I recommend against it. The damage report is not complete. From what I can tell, the bearing seal may be broken. One engine is impaired, and we haven’t finished estimating the damage we sustained during the front hatch break.”
Satarov stood up. “Very well, Captain Second Rank. Call Eric …” He froze in mid-sentence when the picture of Eric in a wheelchair surfaced. “Ignore that. Call the historian, Professor Richter and, um, bring Vera too. We may need a translator.”