Sleeping Giants

  We stopped. The USS Maine tried to go around the Russian sub. We were hoping that having two ships to deal with might make her run. She didn’t. She kept her nose straight at us and flooded her torpedo tubes.

  —What did you do then?

  —Nothing. Our other boat stopped. We waited. Submarines are slow, clumsy things. A lot of what we do is just sit and wait. We’re good at that.

  —You had orders to fire if necessary.

  —I didn’t think it was necessary. And I wasn’t ready to get blown to bits quite yet. We could have taken her down, but not before she fired everything she had at us.

  —How long did you wait?

  —About a day. Like I said, we’re good at waiting. The next morning we received an ELF warning that a Russian corvette was under way. It would get there in less than ninety minutes. We had to act quickly. A corvette is well equipped for antisubmarine warfare and she would no doubt bring the target aboard or tow it away.

  I gave the order to flood and open our torpedo tubes, and we used the Gertrude to tell the USS Maine to do the same. The Russians responded in kind. That’s when things started to get crazy. Our Army guest “suggested” we surface and warn the Russians that we’d destroy the object before we let anyone have it.

  —Did you?

  —No. I had no intention of doing that. There was a corvette coming. She then asked me—ordered me, would be a better choice of words—to actually do it. “Just fire on it!” she said. “Everything you’ve got!”

  My orders were to recover that object, fire at the Russians if need be, not to destroy the very thing we came for. Naturally, I said no. She assured me it wouldn’t be destroyed, but the blast would force the Russian boat to back off, and we’d gain enough time for the cavalry to arrive. I couldn’t even be sure we had boats under way. She called me a fool for arguing with her.

  —How did you respond?

  —“You’re out of order,” I believe was my reply. I told her I would have her removed if she did not desist immediately. Then, and I remember this perfectly because it was the last thing I expected, she raised her voice to make sure everyone in command heard her and said: “I’m assuming command of this ship under the authority given to me by the president of the United States.”

  —Gutsy.

  —You could call it that. I called for security on the double and I asked the Chief of the Boat to place her under arrest. The XO grabbed her by the arm, and then things are a little fuzzy. It was happening so fast. She got the XO in an armlock and slammed his head on a console. Two armed security officers arrived on deck. She round kicked one of them and broke the other one’s nose with her palm before kneeing him and throwing him down. She must have grabbed a sidearm from one of the men because the next thing I knew, she had her arm around my throat and a gun to my temple. She backed us up against the wall to get a full view of the room.

  Four more armed men came through the door. There was a lot of back-and-forth yelling. I could sense my men were losing their calm so I asked everyone to lower their weapons. I had to repeat it a few times, but they eventually complied. I asked her what the next move was. She gave me two choices: I could either fire on the object as she wanted or surface to confirm her orders. I certainly questioned her motives, but there was no doubt in my mind about her resolve. She would blow my head off, I was sure of it. Yet she remained fairly calm under the circumstances and I chose to believe she hadn’t completely lost her mind.

  I told her there was no way I would surface with a corvette only minutes away, but I would fire our torpedoes at the object if the USS Maine kept hers aimed at the Saint Petersburg. Only, I would not do it with a gun to my head. She had to let me go.

  —She believed you?

  —I gave her my word as a Navy officer. I took the gun away from her. The XO punched her unconscious, broke her nose in the process, I think. The men dragged her to the brig.

  —Did you fire?

  —I gave her my word. We shot two torpedoes at the object. Both were direct hits.

  —What happened?

  —Nothing happened. Well, not nothing, but not what you’d expect. When the torpedoes exploded, we braced ourselves for the shock wave that would shortly follow. We were fairly close to the target. The engine went silent, all the lights went out. All we could hear was the metal of the hull shrieking under the pressure. We started to slowly tilt upward and sideways, we all had to grab ahold of something. We hovered like that for about six hours, then we heard something attaching to the hull. They took us out in a rescue sub, a dozen men at a time.

  Turns out they had sent a whole lot of boats after us: several frigates, two destroyers, and a cruiser. They must have been minutes away when it all happened. We could see the Saint Petersburg through the window in the rescue sub—her shadow, actually. There was a lot of bluish light behind her. She was missing part of her tail. A really clean cut, not like an explosion. You’d need a laser or a blowtorch to make a cut that clean. The rescue sub went out to help the Russians. They were lucky. The rear chamber was sealed when their tail was cut off; only two people had died.

  I asked the cruiser crew: “What of the Akula?” They just stared at me blankly. It took several of us to convince them that there was an Akula class submarine at the bottom when we arrived. One thing’s for sure, it wasn’t there anymore. Poof! Like magic. There was no wreckage, no floating debris, no sign it was ever there.

  —What happened to the Army Chief Warrant?

  —Never saw her again. They told me she would be court-martialed. She must have been right. About her orders, I mean.

  —I thought you said she would be…

  —They also made it very clear to me that none of this ever happened. I don’t think they’ll put anyone on trial for something that didn’t happen.

  —Are you always this cynical? You seem to doubt a lot of what you are told.

  —It’s all cockamamie, if you ask me. Military intelligence. They come up with these really far-fetched stories, and just because we don’t ask questions, they think we’re actually buying it. They forget that they’re talking to people who are trained not to ask questions. If it were up to me, I’d rather they just didn’t tell me anything. It’s less insulting than to be lied to.

  —Do you believe I am lying to you?

  —That would be hard. You haven’t told me a single thing. But let’s give it a shot. Can you tell me what it was I fired at? It wasn’t destroyed, just like she said. I saw it hooked to a crane when they brought it aboard, but they had it covered in some black sheeting. I fired two torpedoes at that thing…

  —Let us say for a minute I could provide you with—how shall I put it—an alternate story. I can assure you that you would find it so preposterous that you would leave this room absolutely convinced that you fired your torpedoes at a prototype reactor that was lost at sea. So I will save both of us the time and leave it at that. I can tell you this: what you did mattered.

  —Thank you. I guess that’s all I really wanted to hear. By the way, that Chief Warrant, I’d like to shake hands with her some time. She’s got grit.

  —I will let her know you said hi.

  FILE NO. 161

  INTERVIEW WITH CW3 KARA RESNIK, UNITED STATES ARMY

  Location: Underground Complex, Denver, CO

  —I can’t stand it anymore. I feel like I’m watching him die, every day, all the time. If he’s not unconscious, he’s in agony. No one can stand that much pain all the time. I’m surprised he lasted this long.

  —He can walk, can he not?

  —No! He can’t! You can’t call that walking. You and I are walking. He can barely take a couple steps before his whole body starts shaking. Then he collapses and—to spare us—pretends it doesn’t hurt as much as it does. I’ve had to pick him up from the ground three times today. No one wants to hurt him any more than he already is, so no one says anything.

  —And what would they say if they dared?

  —He just doesn’t have eno
ugh muscle mass left.

  —Is he taking his drugs?

  —Religiously. But his body’s adapting to the muscle-building agent. The doctor says his tolerance will continue to increase.

  —We will find him new medication.

  —You can’t keep pumping him full of experimental drugs. His body’s been through enough already.

  —Would you rather we let him suffer?

  —He doesn’t have to suffer. Take these things out of him and let him rest. He can learn to walk with prosthetics when he’s ready.

  —You do realize that this project would essentially be over if he lost his legs. You would be willing to throw away all the work that he did, that you did, to spare him some pain for a few weeks?

  —It’s not a few weeks. And if the alternative is to watch him die, then yes, I give up. We’re killing him! And it wouldn’t have to be over. We can find a way to make the helmet work for someone else. We can rig the controls so he can maneuver with his arms. There are a hundred things we can do that don’t involve torturing him. This? What we’re doing to him? It’s just wrong.

  —From what Dr. Franklin tells me, we are decades—if not centuries—away from fully understanding the technology behind the helmet. I would also point out that you and Mr. Mitchell—a man in tremendously better shape than Mr. Couture—have worked countless hours in the sphere and were able to make her walk only for a few steps. You cannot seriously suggest that Mr. Couture could control robotic legs with his hands and operate the console with any kind of efficiency. That would be putting his life, and yours, at risk. Mr. Couture is a grown man. Why not let him make his own decisions?

  —No. Of course, he’ll take new drugs if you give him a choice. He’d do anything to get the project back on track.

  —Some would call that dedication. I would hardly call it a problem.

  —It’s not just his body that’s messed up. He’s changed.

  —Is he depressed?

  —No, quite the opposite. He says this ordeal’s made him see things differently. He keeps telling us how much he appreciates every little thing. You should see him with me. He’s kind, he’s…attentive. It scares the hell out of me.

  —It is not uncommon for people to find positive aspects in a negative situation.

  —I get that. I’ve heard it before: “Life’s taught me a great lesson.” “I now realize what the important things in life are.” I even think it’s true sometimes. But this doesn’t feel right. That’s not who he is. I think he’s on the verge of a mental breakdown and he’s finding ways of holding on to his sanity for as long as he can.

  —It is kind of you to worry about your friend but I honestly believe he is making astounding progress, physically and mentally. Speaking of physical progress, how is your nose healing up? Are you still having trouble breathing?

  —It’s kind of me to worry about my friend?…You ought to listen to yourself sometimes. My nose is fine. I still have to breathe through my mouth when I sleep but it’s getting better. They said I’ll need plastic surgery if I want to get rid of the scar. I’m not sure I want to. It’s a shame the helmet doesn’t come down that far, I could have saved a nose job.

  —That was a bold move you made. They could have shot you. They should have shot you. Do you realize how dangerous that was?

  —I know. It’s not like I planned any of it. They were either going to get us all killed or let the Russians take the head. I’ve never been really afraid of dying, but it would feel damn stupid to get so close to the last piece and let it slip away. I tell myself it was a calculated risk, but the truth is I acted on instinct. They just made me mad.

  —An impulsive reaction is to be expected in your case. I am curious as to how you knew the head would not be destroyed?

  —You can call it an educated guess. You know I’ve helped Dr. Franklin run some experiments. I assumed that if a tiny speck of metal could absorb a lot of energy, something that massive could withstand a couple torpedo hits. I know. You’re gonna tell me it wasn’t up to me to take that chance, that I could have ruined everything.

  —I am not going to tell you anything of the sort. I chose you because of who you are. I sent you there for the same reason. Quite frankly, I would have fired myself. I am curious, however, as to how you knew it would disable the submarines. If my understanding is correct, an electromagnetic pulse does not travel underwater, and if it did, a submarine would likely be shielded from it.

  —I thought about that, but an EMP shouldn’t have done anything to my helicopter either. It’s hardened against that. And yet it stopped my engine cold, twice. Whatever this thing shoots out, it’s nasty. If it didn’t work, the shock wave from the explosion might have at least pushed the Russians away.

  —They are still searching for the other Russian submarine.

  —I feel sorry for those people. I didn’t think it would destroy their ship.

  —Obliterate might be a better term. All that is left is a crescent-shaped hollow on the cliffside, and some very confused seamen.

  —Won’t they report what happened when they get back?

  —What could they report? The other submarine was there, and then it was not. Their ships were there, and they know we did not leave with a submarine. What matters is that we recovered the head. Have you attached it yet?

  —No. We haven’t even unwrapped it. Dr. Franklin wants us to try everything we can on the console before we attach the head. If we can see the result on the hologram first, we can avoid accidents when she’s functional.

  —I thought curiosity would have the better of you.

  —Well, it would have had the better of me. I would’ve put that thing on the minute we got back. At least we’d know if it works, right? Then out of nowhere, Vincent was back to his old self for a few seconds. He said: “One of those buttons could be a self-destruct.” It was nice to catch a glimpse of him again. His eyes, they haven’t been the same since the accident, but he looked at me like he used to for a moment. Of course, I didn’t have anything smart to say after that. We all agreed to work on the console while Vincent gets better.

  We didn’t find a self-destruct, but we did find the command to disassemble her. There is a small button on the top left of the console, if you press it long enough, she lays down on her stomach, arms along her sides, and all the parts disconnect from one another, at least they do on the hologram. There’s a hatch on top of the sphere for us to get out, since the sphere will stay level, but I don’t know how we’ll be able to reach it.

  —Have you discovered any weaponry?

  —Not yet, but it could be weeks before we try every sequence on the console, and some of the controls seem to have no effect on the hologram. These could be your weapons.

  —My weapons?

  —You know what I mean…All we can see right now is what makes her move. If there’s a button that makes her eyes shoot little turquoise lightning bolts, we won’t know until we can do it for real. We’ll have to figure out these things once she’s assembled if Vincent recovers enough strength.

  —You mean when he recovers his strength.

  —Sure, that’s what I meant. Promise me you won’t push him.

  —You make it sound as if I could control him in some way. I cannot force him to do anything he does not want to.

  —You sorta can, that’s the thing. He listens to you. Don’t ask me why. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why he’d trust you of all people, but he does. Don’t abuse that trust.

  —You and I both know that Mr. Couture puts more faith in your opinion and that of Dr. Franklin than he will ever put in anything I have to say. To suggest otherwise is simply preposterous.

  —No, he trusts us…he trusts me for just about everything, but he knows how much I care about him, and Dr. Franklin too. He knows we’ll always have his interests at heart. I guess, in some weird way, he trusts your…objectivity more.

  —Do you believe I have lost my objectivity?

  —Lost it? No. I don
’t think you really had any to begin with. I don’t see how anyone can come into this and remain objective. Dr. Franklin is a scientist. If anyone can remain detached it should be her, but she’s not a robot, she’s curious, she’s proud. She can’t help but be blinded to certain things because of what motivates her. The same thing is true for me, and it’s blatantly true for you. You have your own agenda and you’re willing to go the distance for it. I’m not saying you’re in this for your own personal gain—I think, in many ways, your motivation might actually be less selfish than everyone else’s—but that doesn’t make you any less biased. The only difference between me and you, when it comes to Vincent, is that you really don’t care what happens to him if he can’t do this. That’s not objectivity.

  —I can accept, and even understand, that you might question my motives. I find it more difficult not to respond when my integrity is questioned. Have I ever lied to you?

  —A thousand times, I’m sure. Just don’t lie to him, that’s all I’m asking.

  —I suppose I should be offended. Has it ever occurred to you to ask Mr. Couture if he believes I have misled him in any way? He is an incredibly intelligent young man, more so than either you or I could ever aspire to be.

  —Come on. Be honest for one second. If he said: “No, I don’t wanna do this anymore,” you wouldn’t try to force him to continue, manipulate him, blackmail him, threaten him in some way?

  —Who is being manipulative now? There are two possible answers to this question: one that you would not believe, and one that would make me a cruel and evil figure. So I can either appear cruel and dishonest, or honest but still cruel and evil. You have formulated a question for which the best possible answer is to admit than I am a dangerous manipulative blackmailer. You will forgive me if I do not give you the pleasure of answering it.

  Fortunately for me, your question is entirely speculative, as Mr. Couture has expressed on several occasions, and to the both of us, his strong desire to help with this project in any way that he can. If, at some point in the future, his disposition changes and he wishes to remove himself from this enterprise, then you will have the only answer that really matters and we will know if I am everything you portray me to be. In the meantime, I hope you will not presume to know more about the needs and wants of Mr. Couture than he does, and that you will honor and respect the wishes of the man you claim to love.