The Secret of Excalibur (22 page)

“Now, look here. See those marks?” Dobie's pointing.

“Just barely, Cecil. What are they?”

“Hmm. I was rather hoping you'd be able to tell me. But our computer analysis suggests they're either the Canadian Maple Leaf, or possibly the Czechoslovakian Edelweiss. That's all the computer could suggest.” He folds the manila envelope, after he realizes I have no additional suggestions.

“Do the Canadians have submarines, Cecil?” I ask because I really don't know.

“All I can tell you is the Canadians are a branch of our Royal Navy, and that sub down there is not from Canada.”

I wonder what's wrong with their computers. There's a considerable difference between a maple leaf and an Edelweiss, a small flower from the Alps

“Cecil, can you contact your computer analysts from out here?” I want confirmation on some of my theories.

“Certainly, from your satellite phone, but bring your phone here; it's much too noisy by the boats.”

Retrieving my phone, I adjust the antenna to hit the small dish on the boat. As I stride back to the fire-pit, the Admiral steps beside me and accompanies me back. “Okay, Cecil, get your computer geeks on the line.”

Dobie punches fifteen numbers then says, “Commander Dobie, MI6, A1A, open line, and scan for scrambler. All right, Arthur, now what?” he asks with questioning eyes.

“I hope everyone's ready for some of my theories, because I'm not sure I am. Ask them what the odds are for a Russian nuclear sub being equipped with a diesel engine.”

Dobie shoots me a queer look, then speaks into the phone. The phone has a speaker, which Dobie didn't turn off, so we hear the response.

“Sir, eighty percent probability that a Russian nuclear sub can be built with a diesel engine, and a one-hundred percent probability that a diesel engine can be installed on an existing nuclear sub.”

“Cecil, here it is in a nutshell. Ruth and I think the Ptomken, during her shakedown cruise, dumped or ran off her nuclear fuel to make it seem as if she'd sunk in the trench, then ran here to Lake George on diesel engines to hide in the cavern. We think she's been prowling the Lake for years, and has been slowly refueled and rearmed, possibly by smugglers or poachers that come into Lake George from the ocean. Her Captain's waiting for orders to launch her nuclear missiles from sixty miles inside England to start WWIII, so England will be blamed and retaliated against. They slowly restocked her nuclear fuel and arms so they wouldn't draw attention to themselves on your satellite maps. Cecil, would you ask your computer analysts what the probability is for our theory to be correct?”

Dobie pales as he loses his aplomb, visibly shaken. “My God, man, you've got it.” He speaks to one of the analysts for more than five minutes.

“Sir, the computer suggests there's a ninety-nine point nine percent probability your theory is correct. The analysis also considered the satellite photos and the magnetic influx. And the sword sightings over the years might've been a submarine on night patrol.”

Dobie is upset, but not nearly as much as Dr. Tober. He looks over at Ruth with his big, sad eyes, placing his hand on her arm. You can see his dream dying right there in his eyes.

“That's okay, Dr. Tober. We already figured this out,” Ruth says gently, patting his hand.

“Cecil, find the names of the crewmembers on the Ptomken during her shakedown cruise, and whether any of them have been sighted since then.” Dobie's jaw drops a hair before he retains his control, getting back on the phone.

The computer analyst is speaking, but I'm watching Ruth and Tober, so only hear half of what he says. Cocking my head, I raise my eyebrows at Dobie.

“Over the past five years, the Russians have lost three nuclear subs and eight conventional subs. Every man on the conventionally powered subs is listed, and I mean to the man. But strangely, not one crewman's name is listed for the three lost nuclear subs. Do you realize what this means?”

Finally, Dobie is putting all the pieces together, like me. “Yes, Cecil, I do. At least two more Russian nuclear subs could be sitting right off the oceans hiding under magnetic influxes, like this one.”

“My God, there are over one-hundred magnetic influxes on these satellite photos, Mexico, the US, Brazil, and several other countries. Those Russian subs could be damn near anywhere.”

“Fine, but we have a ninety-nine point nine percent chance we're sitting right on top of one now, probably the Ptomken. She's hot, armed, and waiting for orders to fire,” I point out.

The Admiral drops to his knees, exclaiming, “God Save the Queen, and free men everywhere.”

Ruth leans out, patting his arm. “Women and children too, Admiral.”

With terror reflected in his brown eyes, the Admiral says, “Sir, whether the unknown nuclear sub is the Ptomken, or a sub like her, she's carrying more firepower than the fighting nations used during WWII. Do you realize that?”

I think sardonically,
no, Admiral, and I'd just as soon not think about it. Shut up.

“Admiral, I'm not a military thinker, but I have a feeling where she's positioned, she won't be able to fire anything but a torpedo. I think she's stationed in a huge natural cavern, right under us, and she'll have to come out on the lake to fire a missile. Cecil, while I'm doing all this speculating, have your men run a Geiger Counter over the fish Ruth and I caught.”

“God yes, man. Of course, mutations from a nuclear contaminant.” He picks up the phone again.

Patting my leg, Ruth says, “My, my, all this from a man who jumps into the dinner.”

“What?” Nichols asks as he slightly moves away from me.

“Uh, nothing, Admiral. Dr. Burns has a strange sense of humor.” I glare at her.

Clearing his throat, Admiral Nichols says, “Ahem, quite.” But he gives me the funny look, not her.

A few minutes later, Cecil says, “You're correct, Arthur. The fish are reading more than eleven times normal radiation for this area. You've just proved there's a nuclear reactor operating in the cavern, and has been for several years. Good show.”

“Except for my satellite phone, Cecil, I'll bet every type of communication device here is being monitored. The next step would be to send a broadband, broadcast message to them. Low powered, so the message can't be picked up at sea by anyone you don't want listening. Let them know they have no way to escape, by lake or sea, and give them a reasonable timespan for a response. And if we don't receive their response by the stated time, the tunnels will be blown, and shortly after that, the cliff face. Then, jam all frequencies, so they can't get a message out or receive one. If you deploy some of your Marines around the place, and especially by the periscope, it may speed up their response time.”
Whew, now I need a beer, square can or not.
Tober stares goggle-eyed at the square can.

“Arthur, you're a genius. Reggie, get one-hundred of your Marines ready to move out.”

Patting Ruth's hand, I say, “No, Cecil, Ruth is the genius. I wouldn't have figured out half of this if it wasn't for her. Thank Dr. Burns.”

She gives me a sweet smile.

Telepathically, I say to her, *And if I wasn't so neglected by the Lady in the first place.* KICK.

Ruth stands, leans over placing her forehead against mine and whispers in her sultry voice, “Read my mind.”

So, I do. Her thoughts are going one-hundred miles-an-hour, too many thoughts all blurred together. But, I'm able to pick out some of them, *Neglected my ass, Arthur. You're spewing so much macho bullshit, why you over–* The rest lost in the haze of her mind. Some thoughts are best left alone.

Cecil is still talking on the phone when Admiral Nichols returns, followed by a group of men. “Commander, we should get word to the PM, don't you think?”

“She's already been notified. We should have a message soon, Admiral. But until then, Arthur can show you where the rock and periscope are located. Set double guards, and inform them to call us if anything moves, or makes a sound. Anything.” He dismisses us with a wave of his hand; he has other matters on his mind. I lead the Admiral and his troops into the trees.

My first trip to the rock took a blink of an eye, but because we're walking, our trip takes twenty minutes. With the boggy ground, and so many people walking the same path, the ground becomes muddier, sucking at our feet, and taking longer to navigate. As we're tromping through the smelly mud, the Admiral introduces me to the Marine's Colonel, a Colonel Ferguson.

“Admiral, Colonel, see that rock?” I point up towards the cliff face. “The periscope, gentlemen.”

The Admiral's looking around, and I have to admit, if you don't know where the periscope is located, it's difficult to spot.

The Colonel touches his arm, pointing. “Sir, there, can you see it? It's pointed directly at us now. They already know we're here.” He steps to the side and deploys his men with military precision and common sense. “Double guards to cover from here to there, and the rest to set up camp in the trees, far enough back so the scope can only see the edge of our camp.” The man is good at his job.

The Admiral and I are getting ready to leave, when he issues a command in his overbearing, whiney tone, “Colonel, if you see any movement, or someone tries to contact you, I want to be notified immediately. Understand?”

The Admiral's laying it on a little heavy for a person who didn't do much but stand around. Hell, in two minutes, the Colonel already did more work than the Admiral probably did in a year. I suppose military groups are the same all over the world.
Russia too?
I fervently hope so.

As we tromp back through the muck, his radio sounds off. “Coast units to Admiral Nichols.”

“Nichols here, report coast units.”

“Sir, divers are back and report two, repeat, two cave openings, with grates. They both have the same plastic plants and nylon coverings. We have sub-chasers and Corvettes in place for each entrance. We are awaiting orders, sir.”

With a self-satisfied look, he replies, “Admiral Nichols to coast units, wait for further orders. If you see or hear anything, report to me immediately. I repeat immediately. Understand?”

“Aye sir, we report to you immediately. Coast units out.”

“Well, Merlin, now we'll see what these blighters think of a real navy. Er what?”

“Uh yes, sir.”
Why am I wishing Colonel Ferguson was in charge of the Navy?

When we arrive back at camp, Dobie's still on the phone. I'm glad he's paying the bill. Ruth glides to me and whispers. “We may have a problem here, Arthur,” then strolls off.

“Arthur, the PM is forbidding any aggressive action against the sub. Seems the Russian Ambassador's presence has been requested, and now, we're not allowed to communicate with the sub until we're contacted by her,” Dobie explains with a scowl, face red with anger.

Looking over at Ruth, I think,
maybe she's right
.
If the politicians become involved, they'll talk the sub right out of here and back to Russia
. But that's not good enough for us, not by a long shot.

“She'll contact us over the phone, Commander?” I ask Dobie.

“Yes, of course.” He holds up the phone like I'm a dumbass and didn't notice it in his hand.

“Good. We already sent the sub our message?” He looks at me with a puzzled look before he nods. “Then no one heard the exchange between you and the PM, Cecil?”

“I presume so. Now, I'll have to rescind my message to the sub, Arthur.”

“And you've jammed all the other radio frequencies?” Another puzzled nod. “Good, then you won't need to rescind your message. If no one but you and the PM knows about her orders, then they still think you're going to enforce the time limit you gave them, right?”

“Well, of course, but I have orders from the PM.” He's looking at me, but he's more concerned with the Admiral's opinion. His eyes keep shifting to where the Admiral is standing, listening and watching.

“Look, Cecil. They have to be sweating right now. They can't get any messages out, and they probably know about the ships covering the grates, and they can certainly see our troops. Now, how much time did you give them?”
Come on, Dobie
, I think, holding my breath,
stop acting like a bureaucrat, just for a minute
.

“Uh, eleven tonight, ten hours from now. Any acts of aggression on their part will immediately set off the explosions. In fact, I have to recall the divers; they're mining the grates as we speak. Blasting the grates won't do much damage, but to the Captain of the sub, it'll sound as if we blew up the whole cavern.” I can see the wheels slowly turning behind his eyes. He's finally coming around. And it only took one tiny, little mental push. “Uh, we have radar and sonar scanning at all three grates, but so far, we haven't received any usable readings. The magnetic influx is too strong to penetrate.” He looks pale and worn out already. Going against orders must be difficult for him.

Sitting, I grab another square can of beer. Strange, but they've stayed cold for a long time, though they're not in the cooler.

“Cecil, if our radar and sonar can't penetrate the cave, then their same equipment shouldn't be able to penetrate out. They're probably using every type of listening device they have available, maybe external devices, positioned on top of the hills. You should have the Marines and the Coast units use glasses and try to find anything that doesn't look like a rock.”

Gray-faced, he looks over at the Admiral, but asks me, “Then what?”

“We further isolate them by destroying whatever devices they have up there.” Sounds pretty simple to me, but seems to be complicated for them, plenty of wrinkles.

“Uh, and the PM's order?” He's still looking at Nichols.

“You won't be taking direct action against the sub, per se, just destroying an illegal military installation that's setup on your shores, and as such, should be nullified.”

“Quite right, Merlin, make it a war of nerves,” Nichols acknowledges with a grin, starting to see my side.

Dobie rises, handing the phone to Ruth, then paces as he talks. “Yes, we'll be following the PM's order to the letter, and still adhering to our coastal policy. Yes, Arthur, I think you've got it. Admiral, contact your troops and have them begin to search for installations up on the cliffs.”

The Admiral strides off a few steps and begins talking into his small radio. Cecil looks pleased with himself, like the cat that ate the canary.
Is that from my suggestion, or the fact he found a way to justify his decisions in front of the Admiral?
Bureaucrats!

Rustling another can of beer from the cardboard container, I sit by Ruth. I notice Tober has a can of beer too. He's not drinking the beer, doesn't even have the can open, just holding the can and studying it closely.

“Uh, Dr. Tober, the square cans were a little joke I was playing on Dr. Burns. Here, sir, use a glass.” He takes the glass, but still never opens his can. I pop the tab on mine, though.

Several minutes later, the Coast units start reporting in. They found seven installations on the seaside, some with dishes, some with antenna setups, all painted black. The Marines take longer to report, and they found five installations on the lakeside.

“Admiral, can they effectively destroy the installations with small-arms fire without bringing the whole hill down on top of the sub?” I ask, pouring beer into my glass.

He does a double take, noticing the square can I'm pouring from. “Why, of course, Merlin.” Into his radio he gives terse orders. “Coast units, Captain Peters, using small cannon, destroy all targets. Colonel Ferguson, have your men destroy all targets using recoilless rifles, but do not destroy the periscope, I repeat, not the scope.”

Several Marines push Colly's boat out of the sand back into the water. Tober gathers the maps, then boards Colly's boat. He's returning to Relman, at the Lodge, so they can begin searching for the other two missing nuclear subs that could be hiding in the other magnetic influxes. We watch Colly zoom off, leaving a wake, but we're unable to hear his boat over the throbbing motors from the Corvettes. Then, a new sound calls to us.

Even though the cannons are already firing over the hills, because of the distance, we hear the recoilless rifles first. The soft POOFS from the top of the hills indicate they're hitting their marks.

“Coast units, all targets destroyed Admiral, cannon secured, sir.”

“Roger, Peters, stand by.”

“Admiral, Ferguson here, sir. All targets destroyed. The scope is swiveling around to verify each target, and is now returning to us, sir.”

Leaning to the Admiral, I pull his hand with the radio in towards me. “Colonel Ferguson, when the scope is directly facing you, salute it.” Nichols gives me a strange look, then slowly a grin spreads across his craggy face.

“Aye sir, saluted as ordered, sir.”

“Stand by, Colonel,” Nichols says. He's not upset I used his radio. “Mr. Merlin, for a nonmilitary man, I hope I never have to go up against you.”

Dobie flashes a pained expression. “I already tried that, Reggie. Not pleasant.”

“Cecil, it seems all they have left for surveillance is the scope. As far as we know anyway, nothing is ever for certain, is it?” I ask, rising to get another beer.

Ruth touches me in passing, saying, “Arthur, wait for a moment on that beer,” and heads for our tent.

Now what?
I wonder, but here she comes, with two bottles and Styrofoam cups.

“Gentleman, as long as we have to wait, we might as well be civilized about it. Cognac? Brandy?”

The Admiral lightly claps. “Bravo, Doctor, cognac please.”

She pours some cognac into a cup, handing it to the Admiral. “Sorry, sir, for the Styrofoam cups, but we must make some concessions here.”

“Quite, Doctor, this is a solemn occasion,” Nichols declares before he sips his Cognac.

I wonder what he thinks the occasion is,
a couple hundred sailors possibly being buried under the cliffs?

Seven pm rolls on by as we sit around quietly, waiting. Ruth is sitting on the ground at my feet, her head back against my legs.

Metal. Alive. Not moving.

Yes, there it is, close by. It's not trying to pull away from me, but feels weaker than before, yet closer.

Gone.

I must've flinched, because Ruth turns towards me, looking up at me with a question in her jade eyes. I give a reassuring smile and scratch her head; she winks and turns back around. There isn't anything to comment on anyway.

We're listening to the chatter between the boats as they do their routine reporting of position and watch changes. The phone suddenly beeps. Commander Dobie jumps to answer it, the rest of us just jump.

“Yes, ma'am … no, ma'am … certainly, ma'am … yes, ma'am … uh, thank you, ma'am … yes, I will, ma'am.” As he hangs up, Dobie looks worn-out and relieved. Because he turned off the phone's speaker, we could only hear his side of the conversation.

“Lady and Gentlemen, the Russians categorically deny any knowledge of the missing nuclear subs. They adamantly contend the Ptomken sank years ago, with all hands. They even offered to send a ship to help us remove whatever is down in the cavern.

“The PM is madder than a wet hen, and if the Russians won't admit the sub is theirs, then we'll just have to go in and capture the damn thing for the whole world to see. She said the Russians are acting very nervous and for us to expect extreme resistance, and possibly a fight on our hands. She granted me Carte Blanche, and ordered me to use any power I deemed necessary to bring that damn sub out in one piece. Even if we have to bury it under the mountain, then dig it out later. 'Don't let the submarine escape.' That's what the Lady said.” He looks proud to have all that power, but I'm sure he's used to wielding it.

Nichols says, “Perfect, now we wait and see whether the Russian Captain wants to surrender, or be buried under several million tons of rock for Mother Russia. I wonder whether our lads would surrender, if faced with the same position.”

I glance at him, saying, “Admiral, few men wouldn't, if given the choice. Now, it depends on the sub's commander, whether he's a fanatic. He's the only one who knows what his orders really are on this mission. So, we just wait.”

“Quite right, Merlin, as usual.” He holds his cup out, and Ruth refills it.

Ten thirty pm. No one's talking, just radio static and waves lapping along the shoreline and against our boat. More brandy for me. Dobie's forehead and upper lip have sweat popping out, and Nichols is chewing on his cup and messing with his mustache. Ruth's jittery, fidgeting with her necklace. I can't blame them; my stomach's churning from all the pent-up tension.

Ten forty-five. Colonel Ferguson reports a deep, humming vibration, apparently radiating from the whole cliff face where he is stationed, but no discernible movements.

Ten fifty-nine.

“Okay, Cecil, it's time to play one of our bluff cards now.”

Dobie's already ordering Nichols to have the divers blow the mines on the two seaside grates, but to leave the one by us alone. Very slightly, we feel the blast tremors, then hear the blasts echo out in the seawall break by the river.

Eleven-ten. Nothing.

Why haven't we heard from the Russian Captain by now? What's he waiting for? Is he willing to sacrifice his crew for Mother Russia? I
nervously wipe the sweat from my forehead. The thought of being buried under tons of rock is making my stomach roll worse than before.

“Okay, Reggie, blow the grate,” Dobie orders with authority.

We not only hear and feel this thunderous blast; we're also heaved upward from the groundswell, almost tipping us over in our chairs. Holding our ears, we duck, trying to avoid the water, mud, sand and pieces of plastic plants raining on us.