"Arthur C Clarke - Cradle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clarke Arthur C)
УEnough, Jefferson,Ф Nick interrupted him. УWe have work to do. ItТs almost noon already and weТre still at least half an hour away from being ready to leave. We donТt even know what Miss Dawson wants to do.Ф
УCarol is fine,Ф she said. She paused for a moment, assessing the two men in front of her. Might as well, Carol thought, nobody is going to suspect anything if IТm with these two. УWell, I told the desk that I wanted to go out to do some swimming and diving. But thatТs only partially true. What I really want to do is go out here (she pulled a folded map out of her beach bag and showed them an area of about ten square miles in the Gulf of Mexico to the north of Key West) and look for whales.Ф
NickТs brow furrowed. Troy peered over CarolТs shoulder at the map. УThere have been numerous irregularities in the behavior of whales in this area lately, including a major beaching at Deer Key this morning,Ф Carol continued. УI want to see if I can find any pattern in their actions. I may need to do some diving so one of you will have to accompany me. I assume that at least one of you is a licensed diver and that your dive gear is onboard?Ф
The two men regarded her with disbelieving stares. Carol felt on the defensive. УReally . . . IТm a reporter.Ф she said as an explanation. УI work for the Miami Herald. I just did a story this morning on the Deer Key beaching.Ф
Troy turned to Nick. УOkay, Professor, I guess we have a live charter here. One who says she wants to look for whales in the Gulf of Mexico. What do you say? Should we accept her money?Ф
Nick shrugged his shoulders indifferently and Troy took it as assent. УAll right, angel,Ф Troy said to Carol, УweТll be ready in half an hour. WeТre both licensed divers if weТre really needed. Our gear is onboard and we can get more for you. Why donТt you pay Julianne at the desk and get your things together.Ф
Troy turned and walked over to the jumbled mess of electronics at the front of the boat. He picked up one of the boxes with its housing partially removed and began toying with it. Nick pulled another beer out of the refrigerator and opened the built-in counters, exposing racks of equipment. Carol did not move. After about twenty seconds Nick noticed that she was still there. УWell,Ф he said in a tone of dismissal, УdidnТt you hear Troy? We wonТt be ready for half an hour.Ф He turned around and walked toward the back of the boat.
Troy looked up from his repair work. He was amused by the friction already developing between Nick and Carol. УIs he always so pleasant?Ф Carol said to Troy, nodding in NickТs direction. She was still smiling but her tone conveyed some irritation. УI have a few pieces of equipment that I want to bring onboard. Can you give me a hand with it?Ф
Thirty minutes later Troy and Carol returned to the Florida Queen. Troy was grinning and whistling УZippity-Do-DahФ as he pulled a cart down the jetty and came to a stop in front of the boat. A partially filled footlocker was resting on the cart. Troy could hardly wait to see NickТs face when he saw CarolТs Уfew pieces of equipment.Ф Troy was excited by the turn of events. He knew that this was no casual afternoon charter. Reporters, even successful ones (and TroyТs street intelligence had quickly informed him that Carol was not just an ordinary reporter), did not have everyday access to the kind of equipment that she was carrying. Already Troy was certain that the whale story was just a cover. But he wasnТt going to say anything just yet; he wanted to wait and see how things developed.
Troy liked this confident young woman. There was not a trace of superiority or prejudice in her manner. And she had a good sense of humor. After they had opened the back of her station wagon and she had showed him the footlocker full of equipment, Troy had demonstrated to Carol that he was fairly sophisticated about electronics. He had recognized immediately the MOI insignia on DaleТs ocean telescope and Troy had even guessed the meaning of the MOI-IPL acronym on the back of the large monitor and data storage system. When he had looked at her for an explanation, Carol had just laughed and said, УSo I need some help finding the whales. What can I say?Ф
Carol and Troy had loaded the gear on the cart and wheeled it through the parking lot. She had been a little dismayed at first by TroyТs recognition of the origin of the equipment and his friendly, probing questions (which she handled adroitly with vague answers Ч she was helped by the fact that Troy wanted mostly to know how the electronics worked and she, in truth, didnТt have the foggiest idea). But as they talked, Carol developed a comfortable feeling about Troy. Her intuitive sense told her that Troy was an ally and could be counted on to be discreet with any important information.
Carol had not, however, planned for a security check inside the Hemingway Marina headquarters. One of the primary selling points of the slips at the new marina had been the almost unparalleled security system offered the boat owners. Every person who went in or out of the marina had to pass through computerized gates adjacent to the headquarters building. A full listing of each individual entrance and exit, including the time of passage through the gate, was printed out each night and retained in the security office files as a precaution in case any suspicious or untoward events were reported.
Materiel entering and leaving the marina was also routinely scrutinized (and logged) by the security chief to prevent the theft of expensive navigation equipment and other electronics. Carol was only mildly irked when, after she paid for the charter, Julianne asked her to fill out a sheet describing the contents of the closed footlocker. But Carol really objected when the summoned security chief, a typical Boston Irish policeman who had retired in the Key West area, Forced her to open the locker to verify the contents. CarolТs objections and TroyТs attempts to help her were to no avail. Rules were rules.
Because the cart would not fit through the door into the adjacent security office, the footlocker was opened in the main clearing room of the marina headquarters. A couple of curious passersby, including one giant, friendly woman about forty named Ellen (Troy knew her from somewhere, probably she was one of the boat owners, Carol thought), came over and watched while Officer OТRourke carefully compared the contents of the locker with the list that Carol had prepared.
Carol was a little rattled as she and Troy pulled the cart down the jetty toward the Florida Queen. She had hoped to attract as little attention as possible and she was now angry with herself for not anticipating the security check. Nick, meanwhile, after performing a few routine preparations on the boat and opening another beer, had become engrossed again in the basketball game. His beloved Harvard was now losing to Tennessee. He did not even hear TroyТs whistling until his crewman and Carol were just a few yards away.
УJesus,Ф Nick turned around, УI thought you had gotten lost . . .Ф His voice trailed off as he saw the cart and the foot-locker. УWhat the fuck is that?Ф
УItТs Miss DawsonТs equipment, Professor,Ф Troy answered with a big grin. He reached into the locker, first picking up a cylinder with a clear glass face, a large flashlight-looking object on a mounting bracket. It was about two feet long and weighed about twelve pounds. УHere, for example, is what she tells me is an ocean telescope. We attach it to the bottom of the boat by this bracket and it takes pictures that are displayed on this here television monitor and also stored on this other device, a recorder of some Ч Ф
УHold it,Ф Nick interrupted Troy imperiously. Nick walked up the gangplank and stared incredulously into the locker. He shook his head and looked from Troy to Carol. УDo I have this right? We are supposed to set up all this shit just to go out into the Gulf for one afternoon to look for whales?Ф He scowled at Troy. УWhere is your head, Jefferson? This stuff is heavy, it will take time to set it up, and itТ s already after noon.
УAnd as for you, sister,Ф Nick continued, turning to Carol, Уtake your toys and your treasure map elsewhere. We know what youТre up to and we have more important things to do.Ф
УAre you through?Ф Carol shouted at Nick as he walked back down the gangplank onto the Florida Queen. He stopped and turned partially around. УLook, you asshole.Ф Carol raged, giving vent to the frustration and anger that had been building inside of her, Уit is certainly your right to deny me the use of your boat. But it is not your right to act like God almighty and treat me or anyone else like shit just because IТm a woman and you feel like pushing somebody around.Ф She stepped toward him. Nick backed up a step in the face of her continued offensive.
УI told you that I want to look for whales and thatТs what I intend to do. What you might think IТm doing is really of no significance to me. As for the important things that you have to do, you havenТt moved from that goddamn basketball game in the last hour, except to get more beer. If youТll just stay out of the way. Troy and I can set all this gear in place in half an hour. And besides,Ф Carol slowed down just a bit, starting to feel a little embarrassed about her outburst, УI have already paid for the charter and you know how hard it is to straighten out these computer credit card accounts.Ф
УOooeee, Professor,Ф Troy grinned wickedly and winked at Carol. УIsnТt she something else?Ф He stopped and became serious. УLook, Nick, we need the money, both of us. And I would be happy to help her. We can take off some of the excess diving gear if itТs necessary to balance the weight.Ф
Nick walked back to the folding chair and the television. He took another drink from his beer and did not turn around to look at Carol and Troy. УAll right,Ф he said, somewhat reluctantly. УGet started. But if weТre not ready to sail by one oТclock itТs no deal.Ф The basketball players swam in front of his eyes. Harvard had tied the game again. But this time he wasnТt watching. He was thinking about CarolТs outburst. I wonder if sheТs right. I wonder if I do think that women are inferior. Or worse.
5
COMMANDER Vernon Winters was trembling when he hung up the phone. He felt as if he had just seen a ghost. He threw his apple core in the wastebasket and reached in his pocket for one of his Pall Malls. Without thinking, he stood up and walked across the room to the large bay window that opened onto the grassy courtyard of the main administration building. Lunch hour had just finished at the U.S. Naval Air Station. The crowds of young men and women heading either toward or away from the cafeteria had died out. A solitary young ensign was sitting on the grass reading a book, his back against a large tree.
Commander Winters lit his nonfilter cigarette and inhaled deeply. He expelled the smoke with a rush and quickly took another breath. УHey, Indiana,Ф the voice had said two minutes before, Уthis is Randy. Remember me?Ф As if he could ever forget that nasal baritone. And then, without waiting for an answer, the voice had materialized into an earnest face on the video monitor. Admiral Randolph Hilliard was sitting behind his desk in a large Pentagon office. УGood,Ф he continued, Уnow we can see each other.Ф
Hilliard had paused for a moment and then leaned forward toward the camera. УI was glad to hear that Duckett put you in charge of this Panther business. It could be nasty. We must find out what happened, quickly and with no publicity. Both the secretary and I are counting on you.Ф
What had he said in response to the admiral? Commander Winters couldnТt remember, but he assumed that it must have been all right. And he did remember the last few words, when Admiral Hilliard had said that he would call back for an update after the meeting on Friday afternoon. Winters had not heard that voice for almost eight years but the recognition was instantaneous. And the memories that flooded forth were just a few milliseconds behind.
The commander took another drag from his cigarette and turned away from the window. He walked slowly across the room. His eyes slid across but did not see the lovely, soft print of the Renoir painting, УDeux Jeunes Filles au Piano,Ф that was the most prominent object on his office wall. It was his favorite painting. His wife and son had given him the special large reproduction for his fortieth birthday; usually several times a week he would stand in front of it and admire the beautiful composition. But two graceful young girls working on their afternoon piano lessons were not the order for the day.
Vernon Winters sat back down at his desk and buried his face in his hands. Here if comes again, he thought, I canТt hold it back now, not after seeing Randy and hearing that voice. He looked around and then stubbed out the cigarette in the large ashtray on his desk. For a few moments he played aimlessly with the two small framed photographs on his desk (one was a portrait of a pale twelve-year-old boy together with a plain woman in her early forties; the other was a cast photo from the Key West Players production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, dated March 1993, in which Winters was dressed in a summer business suit). At length the commander put the photographs aside, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and succumbed to the powerful pull of his memory. A curtain in his mind parted and he was transported to a clear, warm night almost eight years before, in early April of 1986. The first sound that he heard was the excited nasal voice of Lieutenant Randolph Hilliard.
УPsst, Indiana, wake up. How can you be asleep? ItТs Randy. WeТve got to talk. IТm so excited I could shit.Ф Vernon Winters had only fallen asleep himself about an hour before. He unconsciously looked at his watch. Almost two oТclock. His friend stood next to his bunk, grinning from ear to ear. УOnly three more hours and we attack. Finally weТre going to blast that A-rab lunatic and terrorist supporter to heaven with Allah. Shit, big buddy, this is our moment. This is what we worked our whole life for.Ф
Winters shook his head and began to come out of a deep sleep. It took him a moment to remember that he was onboard the USS Nimitz off the coast of Libya. The first action of his military career was about to occur. УLook, Randy,Ф Winters had said eventually (on that night almost eight years ago) УshouldnТt we be sleeping? What if the Libyans attack us tomorrow? WeТll have to be alert.Ф
УShit no,Ф said his friend and fellow officer, helping him to sit up and handing him a cigarette, Уthose geeks will never attack someone who can fight. TheyТre terrorists. They only know how to fight unarmed people. The only one of them that has any guts is that Colonel Gaddafi and heТs nutty as a fruitcake. After we blow him to kingdom come, the battle will be over. Besides, I have enough adrenaline flowing that I could stay awake for thirty-six hours with no sweat.Ф
Winters felt the nicotine coursing through his body. It reawakened the eager anticipation that he had finally conquered when he had fallen asleep an hour earlier. Randy was talking a blue streak. УI canТt believe how goddamn lucky we are. For six years I have been wondering how an officer can stand out, distinguish himself, you know, in peacetime. Now here we are. Some loonie plants a bomb in a club in Berlin and we just happen to be on duty in the Med. Talk about being in the right place at the right time. Shit. Think how many other midshipmen from our class would give their right nut to be here instead of us. Tomorrow we kill that crazy man and weТre on our way to captain, maybe even admiral, in five to eight years.Ф
Winters reacted negatively to his friendТs suggestion that one of the benefits of the strike against Gaddafi would be an acceleration in their personal advancement. But he said nothing. He was already deep in his own private thoughts. He too was excited and he didnТt fully understand why. The excitement was similar to the way he had felt before the state quarterfinals in basketball in high school. But Lieutenant Winters couldnТt help wondering how much the excitement would be leavened by fear if they were preparing to engage in a real battle.
For almost a week they had been getting ready for the strike. It was normal Navy business to go through the preparations for combat and then have them called off, usually about a day ahead of the planned encounter. But this time it had been different from the beginning. Hilliard and Winters had quickly recognized that there was a seriousness in the senior officers that had never been there before. None of the usual horsing around and nonsense had been tolerated in the tedious and boring checks of the planes, the missiles, and the guns. The Nimitz was preparing for war. And then yesterday, the normal time for such a drill to be called off, the captain had gathered all the officers together and told them that he had received the order to attack at dawn. WintersТ heart had skipped a beat as the commanding officer had briefed them on the full scope of the American action against Libya
WintersТ last assignment, just after evening mess, had been to go over the bombing targets with the pilots one more time. Two separate planes were being sent to bomb the residence where Gaddafi was supposedly sleeping. One of the two chosen pilots was outwardly ecstatic; he realized that he had been given the prime target of the raid. The other pilot, Lieutenant Gibson from Oregon, was quiet but thorough in his preparations. He kept looking at the map with Winters and going over the Libyan gun emplacements. Gibson also complained that his mouth was dry and drank several glasses of water.
УShit, Indiana, you know whatТs bothering me? Those flyboys will be in the battle and weТll be stuck here with no role unless the crazy A-rabs decide to attack. How can we get into the fight? Wait. I just had a thought.Ф Lieutenant Hilliard was still talking nonstop. It was after three oТclock and they had already gone over everything associated with the attack at least twice. Winters was feeling lifeless and enervated from lack of sleep but the astonishing Hilliard continued to exude exuberance.
УWhat a great idea,Ф Randy continued. talking to himself. УBut we can do it. You briefed the pilots tonight, didnТt you, so you know whoТs going after what targets?Ф Vernon nodded his head. УThen thatТs it. WeТll tape a personal Сscrew youТ to the side of the missile thatТs going to get Gaddafi. That way part of us will go into battle.Ф
Vernon did not have the energy to dissuade Randy from his crazy plan. As the time for the attack drew closer, Lieutenants Winters and Hilliard went into the hangar on the Nimitz and found the airplane assigned to Lieutenant Gibson (Winters never knew why, but he immediately assumed it would be Gibson who would score a missile on the Gaddafi enclave). Laughingly, Randy explained to the fresh ensign on watch what he and Vernon were going to try to do. It took them almost half an hour to locate the right plane and then identify the missile that would be the first to be launched against the Gaddafi household.
The two lieutenants argued for almost ten minutes about the message they were going to write on the paper that would be taped on the missile. Winters wanted something deep, almost philosophical, like УSuch is the just end to the tyranny of terrorism. УHilliard argued persuasively that WintersТ concept was too obscure. At length a tired Lieutenant Winters assented to the visceral communication written by his friend. УDIE, MOTHERFUCKER,Ф was the message the two lieutenants inscribed on the side of the missile.
Winters returned to his bunk exhausted. Tired and still a little unsettled by the magnitude of the coming dayТs events, he pulled out his personal Bible to read a few verses. There was no comfort in the good book for the Presbyterian from Indiana. He tried praying, generic prayers at first and then more specific, as had been his custom during critical moments in his life. He asked for the Lord to guard his wife and son and to be with him in this moment of travail. And then, quickly and without thinking, Lieutenant Vernon Winters asked God to rain down terror in the form of the missile with the taped message on Colonel Gaddafi and all his family.
Eight years later, sitting in his office at the U.S. Naval Air Station in Key West, Commander Winters would remember that prayer and cringe inside. Even then, in 1986, just after he finished the prayer, he had felt weird and disoriented, almost as if he had somehow committed a blasphemy and displeased the Lord. A brief hour of sleep that followed was torturous, full of dreams of hideous gargoyles and vampires. He watched the planes leave the carrier the next morning at dawn in a dreamlike trance. His mouth had a bitter metal taste when he mechanically shook GibsonТs hand and wished him luck.
For all those years Winters had wished that he could have rescinded that prayer. He was convinced that God had permitted that particular missile carried by Gibson to take the life of GaddafiТs infant daughter just to teach Winters a personal lesson. On that day, he thought as he sat in his office on a Thursday in March 1994, I committed sacrilege and violated Your trust. I overstepped my bound and lost my privileged position in Your sanctuary. I have asked for forgiveness many times since then but it has not been forthcoming. How much longer must I wait?
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