"Charles Stross - Missile Gap" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

and booming but fundamentally unlikely to stick to the flight surfaces and build up weight until it flips the ship
over. тАЬI think weтАЩre going toтАУтАЭ
A white and ghostly wall comes into view in the distance, hammering towards the bridge windows like a
runaway freight train. GagarinтАЩs stomach lurches. тАЬPull up, pull up!тАЭ The first and second pilots are struggling
with the hydraulically boosted controls as the KorolevтАЩs nose pitches up almost ten degrees, right out of
ground effect. тАЬCome on!тАЭ
They make it.
The iceberg slams out of the darkness of the storm and the sea like the edge of the world; fifty meters high
and as massive as mountains, it has lodged against the aperture between the radiator fins. Billions of tons of
pack-ice has stopped dead in the water, creaking and groaning with the strain as it butts up against the
infinite. The Korolev skids over the leading edge of the iceberg, her keel barely clearing it by ten meters, and
continues to climb laboriously into the darkening sky. The blazing eyes of her reactors burn slick scars into
the ice below. Then theyтАЩre into the open water beyond the radiator fins, and although the sea below them is
an expanse of whiteness they are also clear of icy mountains.
тАЬShut down engines three through fourteen,тАЭ Gagarin orders once he regains enough control to keep the
shakes out of his voice. тАЬTake us back down to thirty meters, lieutenant. Meteorology, whatтАЩs our situation
like?тАЭ
тАЬArctic or worse, comrade general.тАЭ The meteorologist, a hatchet-faced woman from Minsk, shakes her head.
тАЬAir temperature outside is thirty below, pressure is high.тАЭ The rain and hail has vanished along with the
radiators and the clear seasтАУand the light, for it is now fading towards nightfall.
тАЬHah. Misha, what do you think?тАЭ
тАЬI think weтАЩve found our way into the freezer, sir. Permission to put the towed array back up?тАЭ
Gagarin squints into the darkness. тАЬLieutenant, keep us at two hundred steady. Misha, yes, get the towed
array back out again. We need to see where weтАЩre going.тАЭ
The next three hours are simultaneously boring and fraught. ItтАЩs darker and colder than a Moscow apartment
in winter during a power cut; the sea below is ice from horizon to horizon, cracking and groaning and
splintering in a vast expanding V-shape behind the KorolevтАЩs pressure wake. The spectral ruins of the Milky
Way galaxy stretch overhead, reddened and stirred by alien influences. Misha supervises the relaunch of the
towed array, then hands over to Major Suvurov before stiffly standing and going below to the unquiet bunk
room. Gagarin sticks to a quarter-hourly routine of reports, making sure that he knows what everyone is
doing. Bridge crew come and go for their regular station changes. It is routine, and deadly with it. Then:
тАЬSir, I have a return. Permission to report?тАЭ
тАЬGo ahead.тАЭ Gagarin nods to the navigator. тАЬWhere?тАЭ
тАЬBearing zeroтАУitтАЩs horizon to horizonтАУthereтАЩs a crest rising up to ten meters above the surface. Looks like
landfall, range one sixty and closing. Uh, thereтАЩs a gap and a more distant landfall at thirty-five degrees, peak
rising to two hundred meters.тАЭ
тАЬThatтАЩs some cliff.тАЭ Gagarin frowns. He feels drained, his brain hazy with the effort of making continual
decisions after six hours in the hot seat and more than two days of this thumping roaring progression. He
glances round. тАЬMajor? Please summon Colonel Gorodin. Helm, come about to zero thirty five. WeтАЩll take a
look at the gap and see if itтАЩs a natural inlet. If this is a continental mass we might as well take a look before
we press on for home.тАЭ
For the next hour they drive onwards into the night, bleeding off speed and painting in the gaps in the radar
map of the coastline. ItтАЩs a bleak frontier, inhumanly cold, with a high interior plateau. There are indeed two
headlands, promontories jutting into the coast from either side of a broad, deep bay. Hills rise from one of the
promontories and across the bay. Something about it strikes Gagarin as strangely familiar, if only he could
place it. Another echo of Earth? But itтАЩs too cold by far, a deep Antarctic chill. And heтАЩs not familiar with the
coastline of Zemlya, the myriad inlets off the northeast passage, where the submarines cruise on eternal
vigilant patrols to defend the frontier of the Rodina.
A thin predawn light stains the icy hilltops gray as the Korolev cruises slowly between the headlandsтАУseveral
kilometers apartтАУand into the wide open bay beyond. Gagarin raises his binoculars and scans the distant