The Rhevireon Chronicle: The Ascent of the West Page 3

  Alaaarm! the scream ignited the brackish air in that place, ‘the bastards fired on us,’ freaked out, the man stammered delivering whatever he’d managed, ‘sound conditions worsened, heavyweight torpedo spread traveling at 175, 184, 209, and 206. Starboard, dead astern, port quarter, to undergo the impact in less than 45s. Power the jammers!’

  ‘How is it possible?’ a disillusioned Shteele groused; encumbered by the onus of dictated leadership, he collapsed onto his seat, brought to pieces, in relinquishment, how didn’t he see it coming? He was evinced, like no one else, not of his potential, but his paralysis. But why? In the most challenging of his tasks, he’d contained situations, far demanding, far perilous, than this; was the trial too trying for him this time? Time, they’d run out of it, for any sort of action to be yet taken. It’s over, and when it’s over, they had the scapegoat to be offered.

  ‘Wake up Lance, wake up, is this all you got young man?’ Sir Carl Hannigan yelled at him, urged him once more, just as he used in the old, not so peaceful days.

  ‘It’s a stalemate, an enigma without a rotor machine.’ Shteele exclaimed, dissolving into nullity.

  ‘Techs1.1, 1.4, all racks be opened, countermeasure minefield mesh ejected at once. No jammers.’ Valiantly she cried, ‘the best defense is a good offense, that’s the vanilla rule.’ It was when every soul had drowned into dismal states of the praxis, that she changed her mind, eventually foresaw to intervene. Therese La Margrave, that charismatic figure who prided herself with the unmitigated commitment of the crew, she was the one to have the widest latitude in setting forth the course of events as she felt right, above the commanding officer’s reach. For the time being, her mere presence was galvanizing, and with the grating voice she had their attention was hers, and so they hearkened; her imperative disposition took effect, in Shteele’s mindset invoking rather a sense of salvation;‘Pilot1.2, push it to her limit. 46 knots. It’s all in your hand.’ La Margrave added; the Machiavellian, she who occupied the paramount rank of Commodore within the org; her de facto incontestable captain under the one extraordinary clause; the shoulder board and sleeve insignia on her floral white leather trench coat of a seal pelt’s collar, her fave, had the conventional executive curl and lace, fringes of her venetian blond hair crown braided, bulged from beneath the peaked cap decorated with a spread Slavic dragon, paying homage to her Caucasian heritage, they all made an integral part of her dress code; she also wore an earring, earring with a hanging valknut.

  ‘Techs1.4, aye.’ The fire control technician acknowledged. There were four of them at the countermeasure center; the largest division of the Combat Department, they maintained the armament operating system. ‘Opening starboard racks, the minefield mesh to be ejected.’ Was the report.

  ‘Techs1.1, portside racks opened, laying the mesh, done.’

  ‘Pilot1.2, making turns for 46 knots,’ the helm hit the toggle switch, he rang up the latest bell on the engine order telegraph to left-hand for the Throttleman to answer. ‘Screws at maximal rpm, done.’ He apprised.

  ‘Pilot1.1, change of course, change of depth.’

  ‘Pilot1.1, what degree, what course captain?’

  ‘Comb the tracks. Skew it steep, get us through the needle’s eye!’ his commander stressed out.

  ‘Have you lost your gray matter, captain?’ Shteele exclaimed, tense but stiff-necked Shteele, as though it didn’t matter to him any longer, his code of conduct. ‘Confronting the warhead to where? To the bottom—why even telling this, to the godmother of the Aegis!’

  ‘Trans1.3, the torpedoes traveling at transit 49 kt, broad depth-band seeking, got active lock on us, the impact in about 18s.’The Sonarman reported.

  ‘All compartments, secure from the impact.’ La Margrave ordered, in apparent ignorance but reluctant reconsideration of Lance’s nagging; righteously claiming the headship for herself. ‘The odds aren’t in our favour, we’ve but to forestall or sacrifice it for all.’ She barely clarified matters.

  ‘All compartments, secure from the impact.’ The talker repeated over the headset phone, the craftwide announcing circuit.

  ‘Maneuvering room, aye.’

  ‘Engine room, aye.’

  ‘Power plant, aye.’

  ‘Battle stations, aye.’

  ‘Emergencies center, aye.’

  ‘Steward’s quarters, aye.’

  ‘Command and countermeasure center, aye.’

  ‘‘Tis time, HOLD ON—’ the instant these words she uttered, the iron ground holding their feet succumbed to the concussive shock in consecutive fits of heavy tremor, so hard that any perception of gravity was briefly lost, the inner hull appeared to undulate under pressure; lasting for several seconds, the illusion was gone as the discharge waned; but the damage had its toll.

  ‘Call the compartments, what’s their condition?’ unintimidated by the on-going aggression against her wildold femme fatal, Therese La Margrave, went inquiring situation of the men over her own’s.

  ‘All compartments, have the word.’ Hardly reported the talker, grappled with himself reaching for the phone; the annunciator alike the many interactive consoles at the Center, had gotten its share of the blast, with the starboard suffered the most.

  ‘Maneuvering room, no casualties.’

  ‘Engine room, one casualty, being transferred to the Emergencies. Three starboard turbine generators severed, one disabled. We’ve got a serious leak through the joints, the keel ruptured, the indentation under our feet’s allowed no less than 6 metric tons of water into the double hull, we estimate over 8 inches at the bilges so far. Working on pumping this muss out.’

  ‘Power plant, no casualties. The reactor unaffected. Auxiliary cell plant unaffected.’

  ‘Battle stations, two casualties, transferred to the Emergencies.’

  ‘Emergencies center, three casualties, treated for their wounds.’

  ‘Steward’s quarters, no casualties.’

  ‘Command and countermeasure center, no casualties. Trans1.3 set severed, towed array lost, cable torn in action, the baffles uncovered. What do you say Commodore?’

  ‘Here we are, by the skin of our teeth alive still! Even the enigma without a rotor machine could be solved, officer.’ She told Lance, whose head was in most need for the concussion. ‘Hit your position, the rest’s yours.’ Addled by her exonerative handling of his affair, Shteele stayed rooted to the spot.

  ‘Officer of the Deck, you heard your captain.’ Hannigan talked to him; ‘or should you be reminded of the Protocol the hard way as well?’

  ‘No sir.’ Fired he back, full of unprecedented vim; in the end of the day, he was no fool to miss the zipping shot on a silver platter. ‘Trans1.1, what happened?’ Lance Shteele demanded, reinstating himself as the man of responsibility.

  ‘Trans1.1, six torpedoes at 206, 184 intercepted by the mesh, at 209 hit scored starboard through stern, if it weren’t for the rhenium slab! Five grazed the hull but missed. The damn splinters from the minefield, conveyed the greatest damage to the keel, no doubt.’

  ‘Too bad.’ She squeezed onto his shoulder; Lauren, had returned from the emergencies center by herself, her profile had the pallid complexion; she simply assumed back her position, without anyone raising objection; Hannigan queried if she was any better, she didn’t reply. ‘Your sector is 380; towed array lost, compensate for its range. We count on you.’

  ‘See, the alka seltzers softkill would’ve been a waste of effort anyhow, commander! and so that the loopholes plugged, we shall make it the last stand.’ La Margrave declared; superintending their men, Sir Carl Hannigan retreated to her side, having covered tracks to his worries, giving a crack to his knuckles; it’d been a sick session of circuitous hours, ploughing through the briny void, and the bergs devoid of life.

  ‘Pilot1.2, how bad our situation’s?’ Hannigan asked.

  ‘Pilot1.2, progressive loss of buoyancy, negative at 2 degrees starboard. Speed decreased by 7 knots, unless the generators repaired, screw prop
ellers continue to decelerate rapidly.’

  ‘Pilot1.3, fill the ballast tanks, try to retrieve stability.’ Was Hannigan’s late order.

  ‘Pilot1.3, closing the vents, filling the ballast tanks. Angling starboard 2-degree up bubble. Stability partially regained.’ The ballast control platform operator reported.

  ‘Silence on the line, abnormal activity on the pressure gauges, pipe heat exchangers cracked in the engine room.’ Immediately upon receiving the message, the talker reported, ‘high moisture misting action imputed to electrical shorts, battery-powered lighting turned on after a loss of main lighting. Aft hatch agitating badly.’

  ‘Pilot1.1, adjust depth, fairwater planes be tipped 15 degrees up. With a maim engine room, trespassing one’s never-exceed depth is plain suicide, least thing we need’s a hull breach, it’s happening already. Nobody wants his nuts imploded, baked head to toe inside a crushing tin can, do you?’

  ‘Pilot1.1, adjusting depth, fairwater planes 15 degrees up.’ Acknowledged the man. Then Hannigan nodded at the conn.

  ‘Maneuvering room, shift to the back-up turbine generators.’ Shteele mouthed and gestured, the sweat on his forehead he wiped off, not anymore had he the desperate tone to his tongue.

  ‘Maneuvering, answer bells on the back-up turbine generators.’

  ‘Command and countermeasure, back-up generators powered.’

  ‘Pilot1.2, why don’t you bell our Throttleman, give it a try and regain her sprint, push it by 6. If no signs of recovery, sustain the standard 39 NMPH.’

  ‘Pilot1.2, making turns for 46 knots, speeding up by 2, 4—it’s working, she’s getting it going, standard achieved at 45 NMPH.’

  ‘Trans1.1, make a rapid search.’

  ‘Trans1.1, making rapid search. Wait.’ Lauren notified, proceeding to the sweep, she then reported anticipatively, ‘three contacts, bearing 083, 174, 303. No trace to the fourth. Range, 6500 to 8500 yards worth of distance. Given what we know, the mesh must’ve checked their progress, diffused the squadron; but it sounds, they’re ping-illuminating each other bringing about that former pattern so quick, quick enough to carry on the fan foray. Where further ought we to take it on the lam? It’s a vicious cycle.’

  ‘It is what it is, my Lauren. This isn’t forever. And so let it be then.’ Muttered an exhausted Hannigan, though it was a zestful exhaustion, bread of the elbow grease. He turned at the gyro regulators, the minute division within the Combat Department. ‘Gyro1.1, internal navigation subsystem be reset, calculate gyro angle. Angle solution be fed to midship battle stations. In case of acoustic homing failure.’

  ‘Gyro1.1, sending data to midship stations.’ The gyro regulator acknowledged.

  ‘Trans1.1, acquisition range, course, and speed of targets at 083, 174, 303, be sent to midship battle stations.’ Shteele set forth.

  ‘Trans1.1, loading data across midship battle stations.’ Lauren acknowledged.

  ‘You said they got lock on us, huh! in this optic, the law of talion be our settlement, to hell with settlement, till our fuze ram down their stinking gullets.’ Hannigan inveighed with arrant virulence of speech, folded his arms against his chest, and waited to assess the blitz process.

  ‘AYWAS, DUWA, TRAYAS, CATWARAS, SWAS, SAPTA, and NAWA battle stations,’ Shteele declared, ‘triple 23-inch tubes be loaded, heat them up, upload your data, and flood the torpedo tubes.’ Forthwith, the talker delivered the message, and the machinist mates set to the loading of fuze and steel.

  ‘Pilot1.1, 1.2, when the moment comes, pull that lazy crazy Ivan.’ Shteele made the notorious command.

  To which the helmsmen thundered; Achtung! Jormungand. The moment had already come. As they depressed the twin lever steering, the bronze dual screws swung into high gear, redoubling their torque to thrust output, throbbing a quivering bawl down her inner pressure hull. Hull of the wildold femme of the seas, the hybrid nuclear-hydrogen fuel cell powered fast-attack submarine, the Jormungandr. Therese La Margrave’s babe.

  ‘Battle station, AYWAS shoot, DUA shoot, TRAYAS shoot, CATWARAS shoot, SWAS shoot, SAPTA shoot, NAWA shoot.’ The crazy Ivan they pulled, and synchronous to the sharp U-turn hard, the active seeker torpedoes were fired, at one consecutive spread; the extensive discharge sent the Jormungandr off course a bit.

  ‘Trans1.1, target bearing 092 hit scored, target 166 hit scored, target 308 near miss.’ Lauren carried out the detailed report, motivated by thrill of the action twined with her own sensibility, terror of information.

  ‘Aft battle stations, stand by. SWAS reload, SAPTA reload, NAWA reload, all fire.’ La Margrave exclaimed, her voice tinged with choleric fluster. The hunger for instant sweeping victory.

  The last phase of heavy torpedoes was shot. And there was no recoil, only high tension through swollen veins; the awaiting for Lauren’s verifying report.

  ‘Trans1.1’ she apprised, and they crossed fingers. ‘Target bearing 319, to the abysm. What had transpired out of thin air, evanesced into the nihility dross once again.’ Said she, imparting no sense of solace to those around her, somehow.’

  ‘God knows, Lauren!’ expressed he with choked relief, Shteele saw to flirt in the aftermath flaunting his extrospective-ness, ‘the gravity of my need for a slug or two right now. Here’s to the dark before every inglorious sun rise, Saké anyone?’

  And while they clapped hands in solidarity, their Commodore remained stolid,‘what do you think, commander?’ she asked.

  ‘My account is,’ somebody else ventured offering, some unorthodox personality, who at intervals put forth malapropos remarks drenched in solecism, of especially improbable adjectives filled with anomaly; Maximilian the Haidan lieutenant commander within the org. the Alaska Native, sporting a bleached curtains haircut, a holstered Luger Parabellum 1908, a plain tunic, and pair of hessian boots, with wax-esters-rich toothed whale oil polished; which the Haidan understandably preferred over the standard train oil, since the latter was rarest, peculiar to human consumption notably when hydrogenated, that’s downright a no-good boots polisher; and sticking his nose in matters didn’t concern him, Max theorized,‘The squadron’d been after us, say for a long while; classic rudeltaktiks, stalking us while scarcely maintaining a comfortable distance running undetected, by our unthinkably sensitive ears of providence, oh well! Who said the shrimp was erstwhile left behind? Turns out the least of our concerns was a trifle bigger. And there’s a one folk whose stealth matches what we got, and whose evasive maneuvering badder than a lobster’s. Home’s folk, the pariah genius.’

  ‘Commander,’ La Margrave turned around, ‘manage a report of our encounter, it never gets more interesting without research paper included, ought to be finished, by the time we take it homeward.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Hannigan returned.

  ‘Antikythera was the beginning, and the Pactum, is the end; that will divulge the decline of my kind. Mr. Maximilian.’ Gnarled La Margrave, casting looks suspicion-ridden, on Lauren Rossuan.

  ‘Maneuvering,’ Lance Shteele, mouthed one more time, ‘switch to fuel cell mode. Answer bells on main turbine generators.’ The talker belled that.

  ‘Pilot1.2, make turns for an rpm decrease, standard at 35 knots.’ The co-pilot belled that.

  ‘Pilot1.1, ease your rudder, effect all preparations for surfacing.’ The helm reported to the order.

  ‘Pilot1.3, secure ventilation. pump trim tanks dry. Shut the ballast vents to neutral buoyancy. Surface.’

  ‘Pilot1.3, ventilation secured, trim tanks pumped dry, ballast vents shut to positive buoyancy. We’re surfacing.’

  Not long after the ballast operator reported, the Jormungandr’s towering sail chopped the solid pack ice up, in a forward motion she cut cross the polynya-tiled waters of the GIUK gap, the turbulence flow she left behind was voluminous.

  ‘Lookouts to the bridge.’

  II

  THE CAB 744

  March the 25.

  At the crack of dawn, the thread of falling snow had petered out into
droplets of dew, faint lines of light dissipated throughout the room. Hoyden raised the window shutter, another overcast day, inspired dubious optimism in her, she who less than often revelled sunny ones!

  5:50 a.m., damp spread havoc on the bathroom walls; her bleary eyes had flecks of hazel ripple smouldering beneath her bristling brows, and caught by her sultry reflection against glass of the cabinet above the sink, Hoyden carried out her oral hygiene. At the other end of the same room, Dusk tapered his head temples into an ivy league, as the hair clipper changed pitch.

  Later on, with his socks on, towed his only pair of shoes from under the bed, and a Bowie knife.

  ‘The big glacial or what! What a piss.’ Hoyden heard someone beefing, passersby discontent with the hard weather condition. She put on her leather gloves, Dusk stooped onto one of the cars parked along the curb line, coughed and spit, tightened the faux fur trimmed hood of his parka around his neck, getting a bit lukewarm, they walked down the narrow sidewalk. The first peak hour had just hit, the dump truck racing against time, applied salt on the sebaceous hoar. And it’d been a steady scamper, until they spotted one, on tap.

  Dusk blew a wolf-whistle hailing the express, what they used to call a taxicab; it took a u-turn before it’d haul up inches by their feet; these express cabs were distinguished by a chequered pattern fimbriated on a load of orange paint. And there they got in, the cab No 744.

  The scuzzy smile he routinely threw at the face of every new customer, unveiled the metal foil, his gold tooth, in direct contradiction to that pegleg, the man behind the wheel wore a freaking pegleg! Hoyden had the twitching sentiment telling her, she didn’t know why, this person was the prognostication of suffering.

  ‘Well, well,’drawled he,‘look at who we’ve gotten here, the Lamassu building, bingo?!’sort of lending self-proclaimed credence to his assumption, as he glimpsed through the rear view at them.