Simon Hawke - The Nautilus Sanction

“What am Ito expect?” said Verne. “How will it feel? Mon Dieu, I should have rested more. I am not well. My nerves… I am dizzy and my stomach-”

Abruptly, he retched.

Aghast, he stared at the mess he had made upon the cabin floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How disgraceful!” he said. “How terribly embarrassing! I am so very sorry, my friends-”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” said Finn. “It’s one of those aftereffects Drakov warned you about. It happens even to seasoned veterans of time travel. You’ll be feeling better shortly.”

Verne stared at him. “You mean… that was it? It is over?”

“That was it,” said Finn.

“But… but nothing happened!”

“You mean you didn’t notice anything happen,” Lucas said. “It would have been much more dramatic if you had been wearing an individual warp disc and clocked from one location to another, but since it was the submarine that made transition and we are inside the submarine, you haven’t noticed anything change. And, in that sense, nothing has.”

“Can’t a man get a bit of sleep around here?” Land said, turning over in his bunk.

“Ned!” said Verne. “I cannot believe it! You slept through it!”

“Slept through what?” said Land.

“We have traveled through time, Ned!”

Land grimaced. “Yes, from the moment before to this one. Stop talking nonsense.”

“How do you feel, Ned?” said Lucas, glancing at his cards.

“My stomach aches from that miserable food we’re served on board,” said Land. “No doubt I’ve been poisoned by squid preserves or seaweed spinach.”

Finn chuckled. “Go back to sleep, Ned.”

There was a knock at their door and Sasha entered. “The captain desires your presence in the control room,” he said. “There is something he wishes you to see.”

Drakov stood at the periscope. He took his face away from it and looked at them as they came in. There was a grim expression on his face.

“We have arrived in the year 1739,” he said, “in time to witness a sea battle.”

“We’re going to surface?” Land said.

“No, Mr. Land. However, you will be able to see through here.” Drakov indicated the periscope. “If you are familiar with your history, you will know that England is involved in a war with Spain. We are at present in the Caribbean and above us a Spanish ship is being attacked by an English privateer. Would you care to see this sterling example of humanity at its worst?”

They took turns looking through the periscope. The two ships, oblivious of the submarine’s presence close beneath the surface, were drifting closer and closer, exchanging cannon fire. The smaller ship, the English privateer, was coming up on the Spaniard’s stern so as to prevent a broadside. The English captain was moving in at a slight angle from the rear, his cannoneers blazing away at the masts of the Spanish ship. As Verne looked through the periscope, he saw one of the masts shot away, the debris falling to the deck of the crippled Spanish ship. He called out to the others what was happening, then let Andre take a turn.”Has the Spaniard struck his colors?” Drakov asked.

“No,” said Andre.

“Then it will be bloody,” Drakov said. “They will continue to pound away at each other until they are close enough for the British seamen to swarm over the bulwarks of the Spaniard. They will do each other in with muskets, pistols, cutlasses and knives, the decks running red with blood until one or the other prevails. And for what? What will have been won? This war will spread through Europe and become the War of the Austrian Succession. Then, in a few short years, the Seven Years War, followed by the War of American Independence, then the French Revolution, then Napoleon. It never ends. It never ends.”

Drakov picked up a phone.

“Tubes forward,” he said. “Prepare to fire two mark fifty torpedos. This is no drill. Repeat, this is no drill.”

“Drakov, don’t!” said Lucas, stepping forward, but instantly he was grabbed from behind by the burly von Kampf.

Verne stared at Drakov. “Why?” he said.

Drakov had a slightly glazed look in his eyes. “If they want war, then I shall give them war,” he said. “Sound general quarters.”

The alarm for battle stations came on throughout the ship. “Tubes are flooded, Captain. The outer doors are open.”

“Feed your range and bearing to the torpedo room, Chief,” said Drakov.

“Drakov,” said Finn. “What’s the point?”

Drakov did not respond.

“Set!” said the chief.

“Fire one,” said Drakov.

The chief punched the firing button, keeping his gaze on the indicator lights. The torpedo left the flooded tube under its own power.

“First torpedo under way, Captain.”

“Fire two,” said Drakov. His gaze was unfocused. Verne stood at the periscope. They all waited tensely. “Directly on target, sir,” the chief said.

Verne gasped as both ships exploded in geysers of flame and debris.

“Direct hits!” the chief said.

Drakov walked out of the control room.

“Captain?” the chief said.

Drakov paused in the hatchway. “Oh,” he said, sounding faintly puzzled. “Secure from general quarters.”

They suited up in the wardroom. There was no need to use escape hatches to get out of the sub when they could simply clock down to the ocean floor directly below. On the floor of the wardroom, Benedetto had placed a programmed R-30 warp disc. It would generate a field large enough to enable anyone standing within a thirty-foot circumference of it to be teleported to the wreck of the La Floridana. Everything had been cleared away and they stood ready in their bright orange diving suits and weighted boots. The packs containing the oxygen-manufacturing hemosponge apparatus were attached to their backs. Crewmen helped them on with their diving helmets. The helmets made them look as if they were spacemen. Wide faceplaces curved around the front and built-in lights were set into the helmet crowns. The party would consist of twenty divers. A number of the divers carried spearguns, several others carried various tools. All save Lucas, Finn, Andre, Land and Verne were equipped with underwater pistols which fired needle darts by compressed air.

Verne was nervous. “What will happen if I become ill again?” he said, sweat beading on his forehead. “If I should become ill inside my helmet…”

“Possible,” said Drakov, “but unlikely, Mr. Verne. The effects are nowhere near as strong with a short teleportation as with a temporal transition. However, in the event you do become ill, it will be necessary for you to return to the Nautilus. I think you will be quite safe. You haven’t eaten anything since transition, have you?”

Verne shook his head.

“Was that a yes or a no?” said Drakov, coming close to look inside Verne’s faceplate.

“No,” said Verne.

“Good. Then if you all are ready, we will proceed.”

Drakov crouched down and activated the warp disc. It began to glow faintly around its perimeter, then the glow brightened quickly and they were standing on the ocean floor.

Verne reached out and grabbed Drakov’s arm.

“Nothing to be frightened of,” said Drakov. “Can you hear me?”

“Y-yes,” said Verne, softly. He swallowed hard. “I–I am not certain I can move, Captain.”

Drakov’s chuckle sounded in their helmets. “It’s simple, Mr. Verne. You put one foot in front of the other. Come.” “Mother of God,” whispered Land. He bent backward slightly, looking up at the Nautilus, which hovered above them like a giant whale.

“Beautiful, is it not?” said Drakov. “I never cease to marvel at it. A tranquil, deep-blue stillness. The water filters out the warm colors at this depth. Only the cool blue remains.” He swept his arm out, indicating submerged reefs. “Coral. The tiny architects of the sea. Slaving away for centuries, building their magnificent castles. Next to their graceful spires, even the grandeur of Mad Ludwig’s castle in Bavaria pales into insignificance.”