Europa Strike(140)

Jeff pulled himself onto the narrow, thinly padded couch of the Manta and pressed up against the starboard port, peering forward. There was nothing to see but the endless, blue-gray fog of drifting particles in Europa’s cold and sulfur-laden ocean. The endless, wailing lament of the Singer filled the Manta, and the minds of those aboard.

Hastings and Carver were there, sharing driver’s duty in the Manta. Shigeru Ishiwara was there as well, as observer, as scientist, as civilian alien contact expert, if that was required within the next few minutes.

There had been a hurried debate with both the civilian scientists and his staff after Zhao’s call had been replayed for them all, fifteen hours ago. Opinion had been mixed. Vasaliev was all for blocking Xiang’s attempt to contact the Singer for almost exactly the same reason Zhao had stated—one man alone could not be allowed to represent all of humanity. Ishiwara had agreed, but because the CWS contact initiative might be blocked by Xiang’s efforts and anti-CWS propaganda. Lieutenant Pope, Kaminski, and his other senior personnel all thought that Zhao was most likely to get himself killed, and that their best course of action lay in staying well clear.

Jeff had considered both sides of the argument, then given orders to prepare Manta One for another voyage. He had to stop Xiang, if there was any way to do so. Zhao had claimed that no further attacks on the Marine base were planned. No one was sure how far he could be trusted, but it sounded as though the Chinese were as baffled by the phenomenon beneath their feet as the Americans.

The trouble was that Zhao was a lot closer to the Singer’s location than Ice Station Zebra. The Manta was launched within half an hour of the final decision being made, but it was a ten-hour journey to the Singer’s location. By the time the Manta was under way, another radio consultation with Zhao told them that Xiang had the Xiaoyu submersible, the Little Fish, clear of the crashed lander, had verified that it was undamaged, and was using tractors and APCs that had escaped the Marine raid to drag the vessel across the ice toward the crater half a kilometer away.

It was a race, and a close one, but one that Xiang would almost certainly win.

The sonar contact Hastings had just picked up, however, might be his vessel. “Close with him!”

“Roger that.” The Manta’s nose dipped lower, and the winged submarine dove toward blackness. They were at a depth of fifty-three kilometers, with a pressure of almost 720 kilograms pressing down on every square centimeter of hull, and going deeper with every passing minute.

He thought he could make out a faint, blue haze against the night absolute below. They were nearly on top of the Singer’s position now. They ought to be seeing that strange glow by now.

Yes. Second by second, the blue glow intensified. Even from twenty kilometers up, the glowing structure seemed to take up an enormous amount of space. From here, the pattern, all in pale blue light, was roughly circular, though with odd crinklings and chaotic crenulations along its borders.

“Range eight kilometers,” Hastings said. “He’s slower than us, but he’s going to get there first.”

“Are we close enough to open a radio link?”

“Not sure. There’s a lot of interference from our friend down there, but I can try.”

Radio worked underwater only imperfectly at best, and then only at longer wavelengths. Zhao had told them the frequency Xiang should be using, however, the Chinese equivalent of a command channel for use between submarines. “General Xiang,” Jeff called. “General Xiang Qiman. This is Major Jeffrey Warhurst, U.S. Marines. Please reply, over.”

There was no answer. The Manta continued plunging through mounting pressures toward the blue light.