Jaunt (47 page)

McKean ignored it for the moment, hoping to lead Nicolenko away from it by doubling back over his own tracks. The lieutenant was a little farther away from the warhead, just on the left side of a massive barite column formation, about half-a-meter higher in elevation, all of which could lend favor to McKean being able to get to it first.

“Bragging is not our way,” Nicolenko said finally, after passing another barite tower,

“but it is high time North America regard us as little more than a third world country. Only then would a serious dialogue be spoken between our—”

A shower of sediment and metal debris shocked Nicolenko, forcing him to throw up his gauntlets to block his eyes from the force of the blast. Yelling out, he grabbed his double-bladed axe from his torso belt and activated his RCS thrusters, propelling himself forward.

Bursting forth from his supercavitating bubble, McKean landed on the far end of a small flea jump, grappled the submerged nosecone, and launched himself into the water with a short flare of his hydrazine nozzles.

Landing where the warhead was formerly resting, Nicolenko swung his axe blindly into the raised sediment and dust, unaware that McKean had taken off again.

The mass and size of the warhead threw off McKean’s jump, however, grounding himself into another formation of barite towers. He landed on his back, still grappling the warhead in his left arm, but cradled inside two closely formed columns. Cloaked for a few seconds behind the sediment storm, he opened the nosecone and found the radiation housing. Cupping the pass key, McKean swiped it twice through the microlock, the silt obstructing his view all the way. Finally, the housing opened and he ripped off the foil covering, revealing the QPU.

Gritting his teeth, he commanded the voice response computer to sound the reprogramming EM frequency. While he waited for the computer to finish the signal, McKean saw a single lightbeam cut through the sediment cloak, then felt the horrendous ferocity of an axe blade chop barely miss his left arm. McKean screamed as he kicked at the invisible assailant, his boots only connecting once. A second chop missed his left gauntlet but found his holographic interface and the instrument arrays next to it, ripping them in half and sending an explosion of sparks into the surrounding water.

McKean’s eyes widened as he saw the remnants of his equipment blown away, the only way for him to return to the craft. Without any of his technology, he was stranded in the trench, left to fend off Nicolenko’s repeated attempts to exterminate him.

A third strike was deflected by McKean’s right gauntlet. He grasped the blade and pushed it away, but their combined struggle over it clipped a segment of a barite column, sending it crashing down over McKean’s helmet and chest, cracking his faceplate and pinning him under its weight.

Seconds later, Nicolenko regained control of the axe, allowing the sediment to clear enough for him to see the helpless McKean. Unfortunately, he also saw the warhead trapped with McKean. Putting the axe aside, Nicolenko thought the unthinkable and began to remove the collapsed barite segment to rescue the warhead.

A slow hiss filled McKean‘s ears, along with a crushing tightness in his sinuses and ear canals; decompression! There was no way back now; if he could help Gilmour fulfill their plan by eradicating this bastard, he’d do it. While Nicolenko struggled with removing the barite segment, McKean dropped the pass key and manipulated his fingers around the
Strela
’s Casimir chamber. By touch, he found an emergency arming mechanism he and Constantine had discovered during their experiences with the illegals in Irkutsk and toggled it, sending the warhead into activation mode.

Bearing the increasingly tight pressure, he concentrated long enough to confirm the warhead’s activation, seeing a red flash of light below the crushing weight of the barite segment. McKean didn’t struggle as Nicolenko managed to use his axe to dislodge the segment; he merely smiled and watched the look cross Nicolenko’s face as the lieutenant realized the warhead was now armed, with the fuse set to run out in ten seconds.

Now free from the segment, McKean lashed out with his right gauntlet and found the instrument array on Nicolenko’s chest, using all of the remaining power in the gauntlet to rip off Nicolenko’s jaunt capabilities, taking his Casimir chamber backpack off in a single stroke. Watching the horror eclipse Nicolenko’s face, McKean painfully mouthed “Fuck you!” until the pressure cracked his faceplate entirely, his helmet caving in.

With the red LED flashing down to the end, Nicolenko pounded the RCS thrusters on his waist, rocketing himself up as the
Strela
warhead went to zero. Thrust upward by his RCS thrusters, Nicolenko evaded the initial burst of neutronic radiation, but couldn’t escape the force of the detonation below him.

A white sphere soon dilated in a rapidly expanding wave of concussive force, rendering all matter within its grip into energized quanta. The sphere rose steadily, gorging itself on the increasingly abundant matter in its path, creating a brightening wall of flame. The preceding concussion wave obliterated the sediment seafloor and obstructing barite towers, carving out a massive hole tens of meters in diameter before its larger sibling could devour the meal.

Fifteen seconds after detonation, the blast yield reached its zenith, towering over the remaining seafloor, but still dwarfed by the massive, collapsed ridge to the northeast. Lightning arced from the remaining standing structures to the center of the blast sphere, birthing an ungodly storm.

Ten seconds past that, the concussion wave reached its peak, and grown to capacity, rebounded. The supervacuum imploded violently, sending all the matter that survived the initial neutronic blast back to its center of origin in an angry gale.

Tossed upwards to several hundred meters at nearly beyond human survival limits, Nicolenko floundered, only to be pushed back to the seafloor by the onrushing current of ocean water, tossed about like so much flotsam. His helmet lamp still functioning, he watched seawater stream by him while he was slammed down at several kilometers per hour, his only saving grace being his hazard suit. Nicolenko flew about the roiling waves of turmoil, his view quickly encompassed by the charging debris and detritus encircling the undersea twister.

After several moments of sheer terror, Nicolenko’s body gradually settled back towards the blast zone, even while the northeastern ridges collapsed and crumbled in the eerily bright fountain of light. Looking down, he saw a tremendous bowl carved into the trench floor, all that remained of millions of tonnes of matter. He descended next to a smoking pustule, landing with a thud onto the molten seafloor. Weakened, he crawled up the tall concavity, reaching the cratertop after an hour’s effort of repeated landslides and bursting magma channels. Rising over the top, he climbed out and landed face first into a bed of smoking and charred sediment. Extending a gauntlet forward, he began the long journey to the crash site.

He had taken the Americans’ best shot, and survived.

“Six has just detonated!” the petty officer shouted to Kuyneyov from his station. On the holographic screen, a red circle flashed, accompanied by a text box giving the yield, its coordinates and time of detonation.

“What?” Kuyneyov said, rising from his seat. “Where’s Nicolenko?!”

“Lieutenant Nicolenko has not responded to our hails, Captain,” a communications ensign answered, standing at his station with headphones in hand. “Perhaps he left to investigate its destination, sir.”

The captain shook his head, remaining mute. Looking over his bridge crew, he pointed his finger to the firing room’s liaison, a crewman seated to Kuyneyov’s left. “This is all your doing.”

“Should I try to hail again, Captain?” the ensign asked.

“Attempt to triangulate his position on the trench floor. Contact
Deputatsky
, and ask to advise.”

“Triangulation may take some time, Captain,” the ensign warned. “Neutronic radiation will cloud our sensors very well.”

“Understood, Ensign. Do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kuyneyov took his seat again, and rubbed his chin. If Nicolenko wasn’t going to answer his hails, then he wasn’t going to be missed, politics be damned. If St. Petersburg wanted to blow up their trench, by god, they’d get it. And he’d be rid of that political officer. Sacrifices must sometimes be made for the greater good, Kuyneyov reminded himself.

Gilmour and the Sherpa fell to the bottom of the core, its massive facets chiming angrily at the violence bombarding its undersea haven. Steadying himself, Gilmour managed to rise up during the onslaught, bracing his gauntlets against the crystalline wall.

“That one was worse,” the Sherpa said, feeling the immense pain the core endured.

Gilmour glanced at his HUD chrono. “It’s been about seventy minutes since the initial detonation. This is probably the tertiary bowshocks hitting the craft...I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be around the mousehole right now. I hope McKean got out of the way.”

A few seconds later, the shocks passed, allowing the core to settle down.

“I’ve thought about this lesson some more,” Gilmour said, helping the Sherpa to his feet. “What have past civilizations done, when confronted with this dilemma?” he asked, referring to the question of the core.

“There is an inherent balance between those who wish to exploit a neutron core for their own purposes, and those who would wish nothing more than to never see a core again. Judging by your actions, I believe you’re in the latter category.”

“That’s an understatement. I’ve seen enough people killed in this operation.”

The Sherpa nodded. “A core has never been utilized for anything other than exploration, mostly the exploration of the soul through the settlement of the stars. The beings who constructed this craft would never intend to decide in matters such as this balance. But as I have come to know their ways, they would most assuredly want this balance be decided for the greater good.”

Gilmour raised his eyebrows. “I can live with that.”

“Than it is up to you to decide that the greater good is served. It is your duty, if you do indeed serve the greater good, to put an end to this.”

“I understand...but why wasn’t I allowed to leave with McKean?”

“Normal human means of settling conflicts will not do,” he explained, raising a finger. “The core is the source of this conflict, the core must be the means to its end.”

Gilmour threw up his hands. “But how do I do that?”

The Sherpa smiled. “You have already started the path, as have your enemies. Neither of you have realized it yet.”

Gilmour looked down, searching his mind and his heart. He remembered the day Doctor de Lis had tracked him and his colleagues down at the IIA; his initial mistrust of de Lis’ scientists. Gilmour thought of the many aspects of the Temporal Retrieve Project he was privy to; day-to-day preparations; the hard, long hours he and the others had put in lending their expertise; their investigation of HADRON, Lionel Roget; how they had been instrumental in retrieving the jewels; stopping Nicolenko from furthering the Confederation’s plans as best he could; and the ultimate utilization of the jewels in the operation, this time traveling that had resulted in their greatest victories and saddest despairs.

And now, the whole reason he and McKean were in the trench at all, the reprogramming of the
Strela
s...the
Strela
s....

With surprising self-realization, Gilmour locked eyes with the Sherpa. “You,” he pointed to the simple man, “you told us the jewels were a part of this core, just pieces of this sphere. Would the core,” he paused, hesitating to find the correct solution, “have the exact properties of the jewels?”

The Sherpa’s face remained blank, revealing nothing to the agent. “You know in your heart the answer.”

Gilmour pounded his right fist into his left gauntlet, almost allowing a smile to creep onto his face...it was all coming together, all beginning to make sense. “Keanie, let’s hope you did it right....”

Tapping his interface, Gilmour accessed his EM transceiver and scanned the QPU

frequencies of the
Strela
warheads, hoping McKean had successfully performed the job he promised he would. A chirp sounded from all five remaining warheads, signaling a positive.

“He did! I hope he got out of there before it went off....”

The Sherpa said nothing, instead averting his eyes to the core’s many facets.

“I’m going to try and get him on vox, tell him to get the hell back before those things go off.” Gilmour activated his voxlink and said, “Neil! Can you read me?” He paused, then spoke again, “McKean, talk to me if you’re in range...McKean....”

The agent blinked, then turned his head to the Sherpa. “He’s gone, isn’t he?

Did...did he detonate the warhead?”

“The core,” he began, “felt an abrupt change in the foreign object’s descent, most likely falling off course. There was no detonation signal given from the origin point.”

“Then he detonated it on accident.”

The Sherpa swiveled on his feet to face Gilmour. “The core also detected a facet of itself at the origin point...a different facet from the one your colleague utilized.”

Gilmour’s jaw quickly tightened. “And this facet...where is it now?”