Simon Hawke - The Nautilus Sanction

“Did he even try?” said Andre.

Drakov fixed her with a piercing glare. “I told you once before, Miss Cross. Whatever else I may be, I am not a barbarian. I could, for example, easily have destroyed the lifeboats from the Abraham Lincoln, yet I did not. Your Commander Farrgut will live to be an admiral. I regret the loss of life, but they brought it on themselves.”

“What about the Scotia?” Land said. “Or do you regard that as an impertinent question?”

“The Scotia was a munitions ship,” said Drakov. “She was carrying supplies of war. Sending her to the bottom was an humanitarian act.”

Verne started to speak, then thought better of it. Land’s reply was cut off by Lucas, who reached out and squeezed his upper arm in warning.

“Do we at least get to find out why you took this sub before you kill us?” Lucas asked.

“I did not say I would kill you, only that I could,” said Drakov. “You see, I am giving you more consideration than you would have given me. There are other choices. I could compel your obedience in the same way I have the Soviet sailors’. I would prefer not to have to do that. Fate has delivered you into my hands and until I know the reason, I will not act hastily. If you will agree to be bound by the conventions of prisoners of war, I will allow you the run of the ship so long as you do not interfere with me or with my crew. The first hostile act by any one of you will instantly result in the death of all. Your signal implants will be removed and you will surrender your warp discs to me, of course.”

“And if we don’t accept those terms?” said Lucas.

“I should think them to be very reasonable, all things considered,” Drakov said. “If you find you cannot accept them, you are free to clock out. Having gone to so much trouble to find me, I can see where you might be reluctant to do so until you have at least deduced my plans. Also, you would be forced to leave Mr. Land and Mr. Verne behind. Mr. Land I could certainly do without, but I would be loathe to deprive myself of Mr. Verne’s company. That leaves you with three other choices. Death, re-education, or being left locked in this cabin until I decide what else to do with you. So, which is it to be?”

“How do you know you can trust us?” said Delaney.

“You, Mr. Delaney, I know I cannot trust. However, you are vastly outnumbered and unarmed. Moreover, you will all be responsible for each other’s lives. I do not regard you as a threat, merely as a potential for annoyance.”

“All right,” said Lucas. “We’ll accept your terms.”

“Good,” said Drakov. “You will give Sasha your warp discs, please. Mess will be served in the wardroom in one hour. I would be pleased if you would join me.” With a curt nod of his head, he departed.

“Merde,” said Land. “I understand none of this. What’s this about your being adversaries? How do you know this man?”

Lucas sighed. “Ned, you’re going to think you’ve fallen into a nest of raving lunatics after you’ve heard my explanation, but there’s no way around it. You’re going to have to know exactly what this is all about if we’re going to get out of this, so here goes. Brace yourself…”

Land wouldn’t have any of it. If he was unwilling to accept Verne’s theory that a gigantic narwhal could exist, he wasn’t about to listen to any nonsense about time travel. He was not a scientist. He wasn’t even literate. Unlike Verne, he couldn’t look about him and realize the brilliant feat of engineering that was a nuclear submarine could not possibly have been accomplished in the 19th century. If an Englishman and an Austrian could devise a self-propelled torpedo, why then it made perfect sense to him that Drakov could construct a submarine. Lucas tried explaining to him gradually and patiently, with Land listening attentively at first, then scowling and squirming in his chair, then interrupting angrily to demand Lucas stop treating him like a fool and tell him the truth and finally threatening to bust his skull. Exasperated, Lucas was about to try another tack when Finn put a hand on his shoulder and took over.

“All right, Ned, we’ll tell you the truth. It’s clear you’re nobody’s fool. The fact is, Drakov was a brilliant scientist, a professor on the faculty of Miskatonic University, where Lucas and I were teaching courses in Creative Apathy and Rubber Physics. Andre, here, was a graduate student at Miskatonic at the time, taking her degree in Electronic Onanism. Drakov managed to convince the university officials he could prove a theory first advanced by the eminent acrocephalic, Dr. Nicholas Gambrinous, namely, that interlocutory foreplay, properly applied, could achieve a state of labial penetration of normally recalcitrant subjects. To this end, he was awarded financial backing in the form of a grant and he proceeded to set up his laboratory, staffed with young graduate assistant; eager to help in his experiments. Lucas, Andre and myself were working on a competitive project, and we were able to convince the university its funds would be better spent in supporting our research, instead. Drakov lost the funding for his project and left the university, vowing to revenge himself upon us. And there you have it.”

Verne sat staring at Finn, stunned into speechlessness. Land grunted, then looked at Lucas and said, “Now why couldn’t you say so in the first place? That makes a lot more sense than that other nonsense you were spouting.”

“It does?” said Lucas.

“Just because I never went to a fancy university, don’t think I’m a fool,” he said.

“Of course not,” Lucas said.

Verne made a whimpering sound.

“You all right, Jules?” Land said, concerned.

“Oh, yes, quite, quite,” Verne said, not daring to look him in the face. He cleared his throat several times. “I must have caught a bit of a chill, that’s all.”

They were escorted to the wardroom at the appointed time and entered to find most of the crew, save those on duty, already sitting down to dinner. Neither Verne nor Land had any reference for the scene they were confronted with, but for Lucas, Finn and Andre, it was not at all what they expected. On one level, there was an atmosphere of order to the mess. The men sat at their tables, dining in a reasonably quiet manner, enjoying the food provided by the huge stores of a nuclear submarine. Yet, on the surface, an element of the surreal had intruded. The bulkheads of the wardroom were obscured almost entirely by fabulous Chinese and Persian tapestries and the tables were set with fine china and real silver on ornate cloths. Wine was in evidence, as well as vodka, beer, rum and even mulled ale. Chamber music filled the wardroom.

As for the crew, the, spartan Soviet military veneer had slipped considerably. Beards and moustaches were in evidence, some quite elaborate. Hair was longer. A few of the men wore earrings. Many of the jumpsuits bore marks of individual ornamentation; gold brooches and jeweled clasps, silver pins and hammered bracelets, emerald and ruby necklaces of inestimable worth worn over the shoulders as aguillettes. Some of the men had their sleeves rolled up or cut off entirely, exposing intricate tattoos, blazing with color. It was a bizarre combination of a medieval feast and a pirates’ mess. The only element lacking was a cadre of buxom serving wenches.

They were conducted to the captain’s table and Drakov rose to greet them. Four men were seated at the table with him and they rose to their feet as well.

“Gentlemen, and lady, please be seated,” Drakov said, indicating the places set for them. He had changed his jacket for a 17th-century British naval admiral’s coat, festooned with gold braid, heavy gold epaulets upon the shoulders. Lace showed at his throat and cuffs. “Allow me to introduce you to my senior officers.”