Dominic Conlon - Silent Warpath

‘Do you need a hand?’

Louis shook his head. He knew this phase was only the beginning. There would be at least two more weeks of trials before they could all head home and the return trip would probably take another week again. With a groan he pushed himself away from the rail towards the companionway.

When he was first shown around the ship he was told that the hull had computer controlled stabilisers that could keep her deck rock steady in all weathers. At least that was what the Steward claimed. Louis had begun to hope he might manage to avoid seasickness. He solemnly promised himself he would never set foot on a ship again after this voyage.

During the tour he was shown the bridge, equipped with the latest navigational radar and communications technology. The steward went into detail about how the project had installed two of the latest and most powerful diesel engines. When Louis queried the rust and dilapidation to the exterior of the ship, the steward gave him a knowing look. ‘She may look like a rusty old tub to you and me, but that’s what the security services wanted — no-one would guess 15 million dollars were spent on her refit.’

How wrong could I be about the stabilisers Louis moaned under his breath. He clutched at every available handhold on his way to Operations. The room consisted of two large holds knocked together to make a cavernous space with a balcony running round the outside at the upper level. As Louis pushed open the safety door, the volume of noise from the thirty engineers working below rose to a dull roar.

He looked down at the hive of activity. Technicians shouted across the racks of equipment and tension was almost palpable as everyone worked frantically to get their systems ready. Maintenance engineers were still connecting power cables to equipment and running tests. Louis noticed the quietest group in the far corner. The computer and weapons specialists from DARPA were huddled around their screens, oblivious to the clamour around them. The armament for Cetus was developed by the team from the American Defence Advanced Research Projects Agency. They had worked for two years to create a sonic cannon, capable of sending out powerful sound waves under water.

At that moment the Mosquito began to climb out of a particularly deep trough and Louis gripped the guard rail tightly. He watched as a monitor slid gracefully along a table top and smashed on the floor. The noise was lost in the sheer hubbub being generated elsewhere within the room. Reluctantly Louis started down the steps and walked unsteadily to his computer bay. Along the way he scowled at the gibes and gestures from colleagues. Apart from feeling lousy he had had to put up with taunts and jokes since the sea-sickness began and his patience had run out long ago. Now he was too weak, tired and ill to feel angry.

When he reached his desk Louis’ eyes were drawn to the central monitor that was counting down the remaining time in big digital figures. At that precise moment the clock showed one hour and 52 minutes remaining.

The launch had been postponed twice. The first time they had attempted to put the cargo overboard, data came through about a rerouted eastern European satellite which was about to over-fly their position. It would pass some 200 miles west of their current location but the top brass had decided on caution and cancelled the launch. The second time rough sea conditions from a lingering weather depression had proved to be too dangerous. Now the swell was subsiding and the skies were free from orbital spies. A green light on Louis’ console showed that the Operations Director had given the signal to proceed.

Louis began to pull up a number of check lists on the main computer. He had to oversee all the communications and computer links with the cargo above; each system had to be checked and doubled checked before launch. As he worked his feelings of sickness and misery began to disappear.

For the next ninety minutes Louis concentrated on the job in hand. Towards the end he became vaguely aware that the winds had abated outside. When all his programs had run their checks and little green confirmation lights showed against each, Louis turned and gave the thumbs up sign to the Launch Manager on the next desk. The manager then began the task of instructing the crew top sides. Lifting a hundred metric tons of tungsten, steel and carbon-fibre into the choppy waters of the southern Atlantic in winter was a manoeuvre they had practised several times before.

Although they were in international waters some two hundred miles east of the coast of Suriname they were well away from major commercial shipping routes. Even so a Boeing 747 AWAC flew constantly overhead, monitoring all movements around and above the Mosquito.

Tod Frazier sat two rows away in the communications bay in constant contact with the aircraft. A high gain radar unit mounted on the bridge fed into Todd’s computer screens. On Louis’ signal he entered the clearance code. Louis now had a twenty minute launch window.

Cables on the upper deck began to creak with the strain as the massive load was hoisted from its cradle. Slowly the crane hauled it above the deck and swung it out over the side. Men on board kept it steady with hawsers at the front and rear.

When everyone was ready the operator lowered the cargo cautiously into the water with the tarpaulin still in place. Cables creaked again with the reduction in strain as it entered the sea, found buoyancy, and eventually rode low in the water. The shroud caught a gust of wind and ballooned out above the massive bulk underneath, still hiding it from view. Divers jumped into the water from two attendant boats and freed all but one of the communications cables. The tarpaulin was untied and drifted away. Already the cargo was beneath the waves, it’s outline obscured in the swell.

In the Operations room Louis adjusted the remote controls to move it a safe distance from the Mosquito . On one of the monitors Louis watched the relative depth and horizon. Figures at the bottom of the screen displayed its depth, speed and direction. Some technicians who had completed their tasks drifted over to stare curiously at the real-time display. Louis continued with the task of uploading the final software packages to the on-board computers. Nearly all of the module transfers went smoothly, denoted by little green ‘traffic lights’ on his monitor.

Abruptly one transfer appeared to hang and it’s orange light refused to turn green. Louis pulled the relevant manual and flipped through it furiously, looking for the appropriate troubleshooting section. He started to follow the suggested procedure to track the fault, all the time keeping an eye on the launch window timer as it counted down remorselessly. He had just over 6 minutes to complete the upload or the launch would have to be aborted again.

Five minutes ticked away while Louis checked circuits but the light stubbornly refused to change from amber. Louis reached for the abort switch. The Launch manager looked concerned — if Louis delayed any longer he would jeopardise the project. He flipped up the safety cover on the switch. One, two… As if the system knew what he was about to do, the light changed colour to show a healthy green.

Louis stared. He’d not made any change to fix the problem — all his efforts were focused on finding where the fault lay. Perhaps it was just a one-off he thought. The remaining transfer went well and the last green light lit up.

Apart from that one blip Louis was happy that everything had gone well. Turning around he looked to the Launch Manager for permission to move to the final phase. The manager indicated agreement and Louis clicked the button which would confirm the mission plan into the computer memory of the submerged vessel. Louis watched the console tensely for the next two minutes as on board computers double-checked the loaded modules and registered them on the system. The green light for phase two appeared and Louis smiled for the first time in a fortnight. All thought of sea sickness vanished as he spoke into the intercom.