Orlov said.
“That will present recovery problems, I suspect,” Oberstev said.
“Indeed,” the admiral told the group. “Our submarines cannot, of course, dive that deeply. The ocean bottom is extremely rugged, possibly preventing our ever locating the wreckage. At present, the only deep-diving submersible we have in the Pacific is at Vladivostok, undergoing repair.”
“We should have let the Americans help us,” Dmitri Oberstev said.
“I agree,” General Druzhinin, an air force deputy commander in chief and commander of the Rocket Forces, Oberstev’s superior, said.
“Never!” Yevgeni said.
Pod-Palcovnik Janos Sodur grinned his agreement. His teeth were stained yellow from his smoking.
The President said, “The Americans referred to the nuclear reactor as Topaz Four.”
Oberstev did not doubt it. Secrecy was the plaything of a bygone era.
“It is as I said!” Sodur claimed. “Their agents are everywhere! Our complacency will lead to our downfall. Only by increasing our vigilance…”
He dribbled off into blessed silence under the stares of a dozen superiors.
The President let the silence linger as he looked around the room, studying each face.
Finally, he said, “Admiral Orlov, do we have submarines in the area?”
Orlov closed his eyes for a moment. “Within forty hours of transit time, I believe.”
“Order them to begin the search. Determine the status of the submersible at Vladivostok. If it cannot be made available immediately, arrange transportation for any other that is available, no matter its location.”
Oberstev thought that Orlov intended to make some kind of protest, then thought better of it. He left the room, shouldering his way through the throng of decision-makers.
“There is another course of action, if I might suggest it,” Janos Sodur said.
“And that is?”
“Leave it there. We need not tell anyone. What will it hurt?”
Oberstev cleared his throat. He thought that his voice might have squeaked a bit when he said, “That course of action is not open to us.”
“Why not, General?” Yevgeni asked.
“This nuclear reactor, Topaz Four, is unlike those that preceded it. I imagine that the automatic controls may have failed upon impact.”
“Meaning?” the President asked.
“Meaning that it will almost certainly achieve a supercritical state.”
“Supercritical state? What supercritical state?”
“The core will eventually become hot enough, then go into meltdown.”
*
0645 HOURS LOCAL, WASHINGTON, DC
Avery Hampstead waited in the basement corridor outside the Situation Room.
He waited with a dozen other people, many of them in uniform, and all of them under the careful scrutiny of two resplendent and mean-looking marines. Because of some unspoken sense of dire national concerns, or maybe because of the stern countenance of the marines, no one in the hallway spoke to another. In fact, they barely looked at each other. They seemed embarrassed to be there. Or uncertain of which of them had the greatest stature.
After he had been there an hour, someone somewhere had made a decision about courtesy, and the White House-duty marines wheeled a stack of orange plastic chairs into the corridor and distributed them.
Hampstead had smiled his appreciation for a gunnery sergeant and collapsed on his chair. He was dressed in his own uniform, a dark gray wool suit, pinstriped with silver. His black shoes gleamed with paste and elbow polish. His shirt was so white, it looked boiled. The muted gray and maroon stripes of his tie befitted his party — Republican — and his position — undersecretary of commerce.
Though he was presentable, Hampstead had no illusions about his image. He was not handsome in the Hampsteads of Philadelphia family tradition. His face was elongated, and he had oversized ears, with great, dangling lobes. His square-cut, large teeth put William F. Buckley to shame, in a perverse way. He kept his dark hair cut short, though he would really
“That will present recovery problems, I suspect,” Oberstev said.
“Indeed,” the admiral told the group. “Our submarines cannot, of course, dive that deeply. The ocean bottom is extremely rugged, possibly preventing our ever locating the wreckage. At present, the only deep-diving submersible we have in the Pacific is at Vladivostok, undergoing repair.”
“We should have let the Americans help us,” Dmitri Oberstev said.
“I agree,” General Druzhinin, an air force deputy commander in chief and commander of the Rocket Forces, Oberstev’s superior, said.
“Never!” Yevgeni said.
Pod-Palcovnik Janos Sodur grinned his agreement. His teeth were stained yellow from his smoking.
The President said, “The Americans referred to the nuclear reactor as Topaz Four.”
Oberstev did not doubt it. Secrecy was the plaything of a bygone era.
“It is as I said!” Sodur claimed. “Their agents are everywhere! Our complacency will lead to our downfall. Only by increasing our vigilance…”
He dribbled off into blessed silence under the stares of a dozen superiors.
The President let the silence linger as he looked around the room, studying each face.
Finally, he said, “Admiral Orlov, do we have submarines in the area?”
Orlov closed his eyes for a moment. “Within forty hours of transit time, I believe.”
“Order them to begin the search. Determine the status of the submersible at Vladivostok. If it cannot be made available immediately, arrange transportation for any other that is available, no matter its location.”
Oberstev thought that Orlov intended to make some kind of protest, then thought better of it. He left the room, shouldering his way through the throng of decision-makers.
“There is another course of action, if I might suggest it,” Janos Sodur said.
“And that is?”
“Leave it there. We need not tell anyone. What will it hurt?”
Oberstev cleared his throat. He thought that his voice might have squeaked a bit when he said, “That course of action is not open to us.”
“Why not, General?” Yevgeni asked.
“This nuclear reactor, Topaz Four, is unlike those that preceded it. I imagine that the automatic controls may have failed upon impact.”
“Meaning?” the President asked.
“Meaning that it will almost certainly achieve a supercritical state.”
“Supercritical state? What supercritical state?”
“The core will eventually become hot enough, then go into meltdown.”
*
0645 HOURS LOCAL, WASHINGTON, DC
Avery Hampstead waited in the basement corridor outside the Situation Room.
He waited with a dozen other people, many of them in uniform, and all of them under the careful scrutiny of two resplendent and mean-looking marines. Because of some unspoken sense of dire national concerns, or maybe because of the stern countenance of the marines, no one in the hallway spoke to another. In fact, they barely looked at each other. They seemed embarrassed to be there. Or uncertain of which of them had the greatest stature.
After he had been there an hour, someone somewhere had made a decision about courtesy, and the White House-duty marines wheeled a stack of orange plastic chairs into the corridor and distributed them.
Hampstead had smiled his appreciation for a gunnery sergeant and collapsed on his chair. He was dressed in his own uniform, a dark gray wool suit, pinstriped with silver. His black shoes gleamed with paste and elbow polish. His shirt was so white, it looked boiled. The muted gray and maroon stripes of his tie befitted his party — Republican — and his position — undersecretary of commerce.
Though he was presentable, Hampstead had no illusions about his image. He was not handsome in the Hampsteads of Philadelphia family tradition. His face was elongated, and he had oversized ears, with great, dangling lobes. His square-cut, large teeth put William F. Buckley to shame, in a perverse way. He kept his dark hair cut short, though he would really
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