Seven Veils of Wisdom – Bloc One – by P J Searle
Chapter Eleven

The Norwegian-built, Nymphs––a chrome-yellow deep-diving submersible bathyscaphe capable of supporting a crew of three––had a maximum diving-depth of about 36,000 ft. It had earned the world-diving record in the deepest known part of the Earth’s ocean, the Mariana Trench. The Nymphs, along it was its sister craft, Sprite, had been on display at Nordkapp in Norway’s Naval National Undersea Museum, just eight hundred miles from Novaya Zemlya. Both vessels had been kept in A1 serviceable condition and were now pressed into service. The Nymphs consisted of a floatation chamber filled with 20,000 gallons of gasoline for buoyancy, and a separate pressure sphere to hold the crew. This configuration allowed for free dive, rather than the previous bathyspheres, which were lowered to depth and raised by ship’s cable. It was 60ft long, with twin floats and water ballast tanks. The crew occupied the 8ft pressure sphere attached to the underside of the main floatation tank, which provided just enough room for three people. It granted completely independent life support, a closed-circuit rebreather system similar to that used in spacecraft and spacesuits. Oxygen was provided from pressure cylinders, and carbon dioxide was scrubbed from breathed air by being passed through canisters of soda-lime and purifying acid. Fusion-electric generators, feeding micro-battery racks, provided the craft’s power.

For this operation, The Nymphs was to be fitted with the new secondary pressure sphere, manufactured by the Krupp Steel Works of Essen, Germany. It consisted of three finely machined sections. Again, this addition had been ready to be fitted. These embellishments made it possible to rescue and retrieve three additional souls to the surface. –

Forty fathoms below the Kara Sea the Nymphs shone its powerful beams into the icy depths, illuminating the huge A-class submarine lying motionless on the bottom. The closing bathyscaphe made a few graceful manoeuvres lining itself up with the Pegasus’ docking hatch. Inside the cramped vessel, Mills and two smartly uniformed women officers, Crane and Meeker, made ready to dock.

‘There’s the hatch!’ said Mills, peering through the tiny porthole, ‘For my money I’d open the tanks an’ let the Mare rot on the bottom.’

Meeker, a beautiful hard-faced Navy officer, gave a shrug. ‘That bad, aye? As I recall, Pegasus was a stallion.’

‘Yeah?’ said Mills, without looking away from the porthole, ‘Well… I didn’t get no classic education, but I can tell you this boat is a mare – Didn’t you know, all subs are female?’

‘That a fact?’ said Meeker, hardly interested.

‘Yeah. What the fuck do they teach you people now-days at Navy School? All subs go down, get it?’ he laughed. ‘An’ this bitch sucks for Satan!’

‘Hey, y’know a lot of guys go down nowadays?’ said Meeker, laughing, ‘Maybe you knew that already.’

Mills shrugged uncomfortably to himself. ‘Jesus Christ! Why in hell they send me two chute-ass women?’

’Because us, ‘chute-ass women’ are lighter, Sailor. You get two of us for one fat-belly man. Less brawn but twice as much savvy, and we can pull more g’s and depth-pressure; we don’t lose no quarter of our blood’s hydraulicy supporting no limp appendage. And why would a submarine need wings, this tin-can ain’t no rocket ship?’

‘In my case, a third!’ He gave a ‘know what I’m saying?’ raised eyebrow. ’And ‘hydraulicy’ ain’t a goddam word… and they’re retractable stabilizers, not wings. Huge motherfuckers, hence the name. And for your information, I ain’t no sailor, I’m a mariner––you ever see any sails on a submarine, Sailor? An’ this ‘tin-can’ as you call it, would be as happy in space as it is in the world’s deepest waters… happier! Space would be a stroll in the park; space is easy, but us submariners don’t make no fuss about it, not like pussy astronauts.’

The other woman, Crane, similarly hard-nosed but lacking humour, spoke curtly into Mills’ face. ‘When you’ve finished pulling my navigator’s pigtails, Mills, can you get us to the hatch?’

‘Just so as you know, Shipmate…’ said Mills grudgingly turning from the porthole, ‘… I fuckin’ outrank you… both of you… these pips didn’t come with the goddam uniform.’

‘I’m impressed… Sir,’ said Crane, ‘But I’m here to do a job. Let’s get to it.’

‘Just so long as you know, Missy,’ growled Mills as he moved with difficulty to the controls. Meeker laughed. Crane looked away unmoved, to the vacated porthole.

Inside the Pegasus, Walden frantically laboured in the rocket silo, resetting the innards of missile number two. At the other end of the vessel, through air-lock after air-lock, Falstaff and Rees were working on the internal docking hatch. A few sparks of molten metal scattered across the deck from Falstaff’s acetylene torch. He stopped and turned out the flame, then took out his neck chip. As he spoke into it Crane’s face appeared. ‘Okay… if I cut any more we’ll be out there with you. A small charge should blow it clear. Give us five minutes to go back and seal off.’

In the Nymphs, Crane pinched her eyes closed and spoke into her hand. ‘We haven’t got five minutes Captain; we’re docking now. The moment you hear us, blow the hatch and start to equalise the atmosphere. If the controls don’t respond, cut them off.’

Falstaff took a deep breath, ‘Crane, isn’t it? Well, Crane, this is my boat. If I say five, that means I need five. Just stay calm.’

‘I’m always calm, Captain. You take your five minutes, but I’m coming in now.’ She opened her eyes and turned to Mills, ‘Start to dock.’ Mills rolled his eyes at her, she turned away and continued speaking into her hand, ‘I have direct orders from the Pentagon, Captain Falstaff. – Out.’ Mills shrugged and started the manoeuvre.

Meeker pinched her eyes shut and spoke softly into her hand. ‘Walden, do you read me?’ S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

In the rocket silo, Walden, still working on one of the missiles, reacted. ‘Yeah. Can you see? It’s like playing space invaders, quick as I close one down another goes active.’ He grudged a smile. ‘One mother won’t respond at all, I’ve virtually dismantled the guts of it but it’s still got this wild hair up its ass. I’m gonna wrap a monkey-wrench around its goddam nose-cone, directly.’

Meeker smiled, ‘Yep! That might just about do it. But if it’s okay with you, Walden, I’d like to try my way first. If I can’t shut it down, maybe then I’ll take your advice. Now, leave the silo and join your captain, we’re taking you topside. – Out.’

Walden breathed a sigh of relief, stopped what he was doing and began to make his way back through the hatches.

‘Okay Mills, blow the hatch.’ Crane spoke mechanically, without emotion. Mills hesitated. ‘Goddamn it man, blow it now, that’s a direct Pentagon order.’ Mills reluctantly started the procedure.

Falstaff and Rees left the docking bay and closed themselves off in the operations room. ‘Crane!!!’ yelled Falstaff into his neck chip, ‘I got a man midway – he needs time! Do you read me?’

‘There is no time, Captain.’ Crane’s monotone voice answered. ‘Every second we wait is a second nearer Armageddon. I’m coming in! Walden, if you can hear me, shut yourself off wherever you are… now!’ Walden ran desperately to reach the compartment hatch. In the submersible, Crane’s hand hovered over the control. Walden just about made the hatch and was about to close off. Crane’s voice raised a decibel. ‘Throw the goddam switch, Mills. Do it now!’

Four red lights flashed on the control panel, then they flicked to green. Mills pressed the final switch. A violent shudder as the hatch blew… just halfway off. The recoil channelled back, ripping the submersible off the docking bay and sending it tumbling wildly out of control. Inside the stricken Nymphs, Crane offered an unyielding face. Mills tumbled towards her, knocking Meeker to the decking. He looked up at the hatch as air audibly jetted out. There was a moment of calm, then the hatch seal ruptured and the entire craft imploded.

On the Pegasus, water gushed in from the half-blown hatch. Walden fought with the hydraulic shift to close it off. He couldn’t, the pressure was too great. He conceded defeat and waded back the way he’d come. Reaching the hatch in the next bay he tried to close it off. This was also jammed, and water was gushing into the bay. Looking around he realised he was in the armoury. He fumbled for his keys then broke out a heavy machine-gun from the weapon stow. Ramming the butt of the gun up against the hatch he then selected a solid target, a huge plans chest. Holding the weapon loosely in his hands he fired off a couple of rounds. The recoil moved the hatch slightly. The water was now jetting in. He leaned his full weight against the hatch and, holding the butt against it, fired ten more rounds in quick succession. The door moved an inch. He fired the rest of the clip, virtually disintegrated the plans-chest. He replaced the clip and fired it off. With nothing left of the chest to absorb the bullets, fragments ricocheted around him, one hitting him in the arm. Then mercifully the hatch closed. He quickly sealed and secured it. Only then did he give a thought to his wound. He put his bloody forearm up to his mouth he bit out the bullet fragment. Then sucked and spat it out with a mouthful of blood into the knee-deep water. He pinched his eyes and a virtual directory rolled out in front of him. It stopped at ‘Medical’. It rolled again, and stopped at ‘Gunshot wound’ – rolled again and stopped at ‘Superficial’ – rolled again and stopped at ‘Flesh wound’. Following the directory notes, he took a field dressing from the first-aid cupboard and made a clumsy job of wrapping it around the wound, then gave himself the prescribed shot. Medication finished he put his hand back over his eyes.

‘Captain! – Rees! – Anyone! Answer fuck you! – Someone!’ A low resolution of the word ‘marjoram’ appeared in front of his eyes. ‘Shit!’ he said it in despair, then turned and waded back towards the rocket silo.

The Pentagon War Room, normally a somber place, was in uproar. President Caxton called for order.

‘Gentlemen, ladies… gentlemen! Please, quiet! QUIET!’ After a few moments they came to a grudging order. Caxton continued. ‘Yes, the Chinese have gone ballistic – sorry, bad choice of words. Anyway, I told them the TV slur was the result of Free Press, but they want an immediate apology on behalf of all the Arab nations. I also told them it was hypothetical; that all possible scenarios were considered and voiced, but they won’t have it–’ He was again interrupted with boos and jeers. He continued over them. ‘They insist on an on-air climb-down. We can only assume they are not suffering the same communication loss as ourselves. Which in itself, in theory, eliminates them.’

‘The hell it does!’ A tough-looking senator, Joseph Shatner, stood and forced his words over Caxton’s. ‘This is their work, the Russians. That Godless alliance with the Chinese is their lever. They couldn’t push their commie crap down our throats legit, so they sneak it in the back door!’ This outburst was met with angry shouts.

‘Shame!’ – ‘Sit down!’

‘No, I will not sit down,’ yelled Shatner over the din, ‘Them ditching communism for capitalism was sham, I said it back then and I say it now, the commie bear was only hibernating – now it’s awake and ravenous fuckin’ hungry. After them sucking up the Chinks, they are now both outside the tent pissing in, and inside pissing out, and you just opened the flap and undid their goddamn fly, and holding the dicks between your teeth!’

More shouts of ‘Rubbish!’ – ‘Shame!’ More boos and hisses.

Shatner raised his hand like a raving evangelist, ’They’re not just pissing in the tent; they’re pissing all over us! And you bunch of Canadian pinkos, arm-in-arm with the fag British, are standing jabbering with your goddam mouths gaping open. You’re swallowing their piss like you swallowed fifty years of their so-called ‘capitalism’ crap! I say we dump on them NOW! Let slip the dogs of war while we still can; good old American kick-ass!’ He sat down and folded his arms as absolute uproar ensued.

Caxton was forced to raise his voice over it. ‘Joe, you’ve been peddling them sour apples for two decades, don’t you think they’ve ripened and gone just a little rotten? Christ, we own half the damn country, and the other half is still in hock.’

Shatner looked around for support. Finding none, he continued nonetheless. ‘That is exactly my point! They dump communism, supposedly, for capitalism then we rebuild their goddam country for them, investing billions, trillions! Then they make war and the slate is cleaned; it’s not about isms, it’s about dominion! … the hive mentality! And they’ll win too! You gutless appeasers will make sure of that.’

‘That is ludicrous!’ said Caxton, ‘America has never shirked a fight, and we won’t shirk this. But now we must–’

‘We no longer got the belly for a fight,’ yelled Shatner, ‘We’ve gone soft. All that our forefathers fought for; they built that New Jerusalem here in the United States, read Blake, he understood; America was to be the New Jerusalem! And you’re just going to hand it over to some yellow, squint-eyed, Kike, commie Nigger!’

Total pell-mell broke out as senators from both sides of the room shouted their condemnation of Shatner’s outburst. Caxton used his microphone for the first time to speak above the din.

‘You are out of order, Sir! Every person in this room and on this planet would say so! Your vindictive, racist remarks will not be tolerated… you will leave this war room… NOW!’

‘The hell I will!’ yelled Shatner. ’I say what I like under the 2018, Archaic-insult amendment. And let me further point out, Mister President, you ‘tolerate’ me because I have forty-five per cent of the people behind me – this is them speaking, and next time–’

’There won’t be any ‘next time’ if we don’t sort this. And if you used such language outside this war room you would be arrested – insult amendment and forty-five percent of the vote, or not. I go on air in ten minutes and I will give that apology.’

‘The hell you will!’ screamed Shatner. He made to lunge forward as if he would actually manhandle the President, his face a mask of hatred. Three troopers grabbed him and held him.

Caxton had not flinched. ‘Yes, I, will!’ he said with a determined growl, then calmed and directed his words to all. ‘This will buy us time... and in that time I want every possible contingent in the Pacific and Indian Oceans, and the South China Sea armed and ready for all-out retaliation!’

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