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luminescent particles that spun on the
cold airs, whirling and dancing as they slowly faded to milky green. When it
passed he instinctively looked out of the forward viewing panes, surprised to
see that the ocean itself seemed to light up for miles in every direction with
a strange phosphorescent color. Then the sea erupted in the distance, boiling
up in a wild convulsion of sound and motion. The ship shuddered with the impact
of a strong blast wave, rolling heavily.
    Karpov
gripped the side arms of his chair to steady himself, and everyone on the
bridge braced for further impact, one man thrown from his seat near the helm,
his eyes wide with fear and astonishment. The strident welter of sound
subsided, resolving to an eerie sharp cellophane crackle that hung in the air
like a wave of heavy static electricity. Then there came a low descending
vroom, the sound falling through three octaves as if it had been sucked into a
black hole and devoured.
    Stunned
and amazed, every member of the bridge crew seemed frozen, their faces twisted
into expressions of numbed, painful shock. Then Karpov’s high, sharp voice
broke the silence as he barked out in order.
    “Action
stations! We are under attack!”
     

 
    Chapter
3
     
    Admiral
Volsky was
halfway to his cabin when the ship lurched with the sudden motion, lights in the
gangway winking and dimming. He heard the strange descending sound as he braced
himself against the bulkhead, eyes wide with surprise, yet something deep within
chided him, telling him he should have been more alert. The vague disquiet that
had befuddled him earlier was now a jangling surge of adrenaline. An instant
later every nerve in his body seemed to tingle with warning, as if a thousand
needles had pierced his flesh. The feeling passed quickly, however, and he
steadied himself, turning about at once and heading back toward the command
bridge as fast as his heavy legs would carry him.
    As
he approached the citadel he saw the look on the guard’s face there by the
hatch, registering shock and anxiety. But the instant the man saw the Admiral,
he seemed to straighten with newfound resolve, saluting crisply, an expression
of relief brightening in his eyes.
    Volsky
nodded to the man as he passed through the hatch and into the citadel where he
could hear Karpov shouting at the helmsman to put on speed. Thirty years at sea
told him the ship was already in a sharp turn, as if maneuvering to avoid the
track of an oncoming missile or torpedo.
    “What
is happening?” he shouted, his deep voice loud and commanding.
    “Admiral
on the bridge!” Chief Orlov's voice cut through the bedlam and all eyes turned
to the graying command officer, waiting. The Admiral knew that he must appear
decisive, in control, no matter how bewildered he himself was at the moment. He
tugged sharply on the lower hem of his jacket, adjusting the tilt of his cap as
he strode to the center of the bridge. Karpov slipped out of his chair,
saluting to acknowledge the Admiral's presence, and reported.
    “An
explosion of some kind, sir. Massive!”
    “Aboard
ship?”
    “No,
sir. It seemed to be an undersea detonation, of considerable size. Look at the
ocean! I believe we may be under attack, and I have ordered the ship to take
high-speed evasive maneuvers.”
    At
action stations the primary overhead lighting was dimmed and the bridge was
wreathed in shadow, bathed with red emergency lighting and alight with the glow
of many screens and consoles. Volsky looked out through the forward view panes,
astonished to see the luminescent radiance of the sea all around them, as if
some deep underwater energy source was emanating from the ocean floor. The flat
panel digital screen mounted high on one wall to his left also showed the same
scene, though the image was checkered with interference, the blocks of digital
information disassembling and reassembling as the system worked to tune and
display a clear signal and image. He immediately turned to Grigori