2034: A Novel of the Next World War(48)

Not long after this exchange, Farshad had been standing on the bridge of the Rezkiy when the watch spotted a school of sharks off the ship’s port side. Kolchak had been manning that watch and he took an uncanny interest in the sharks, even adjusting their ship’s course to follow them for several minutes. “Perfect,” said Kolchak as he stared at their thrashing dorsal fins. As if sensing Farshad’s confusion, he explained himself. “Those sharks are heading in the direction of the 10G undersea cables. They’re attracted to the electromagnetic energy. Those cables connect to the United States, and sharks have been known to chew through them. Their presence will give us deniability.”

Destroying a few of the undersea cables would send a powerful message to the Americans, slowing internet across the country by as much as 60 percent, or so Farshad had been told by Kolchak. This might be enough to de-escalate the crisis, to bring everyone to their senses. When it came to acting pragmatically, which was to say acting in their national interests, it seemed to Farshad that only his country—and perhaps the Russians—were capable of clear thinking. The Russians, like them, knew that any scenario that weakened the Americans was advantageous. In fact, a de-escalation of the current crisis wasn’t really in the Iranian or Russian interest.

Disruption was in their interest.

Chaos.

A change in the world order.

The sharks disappeared beneath the waves, and for the remaining hours of the day the Rezkiy and its sister ships idled over the 10G cables. The mood on the ship turned businesslike. Farshad lingered on the bridge, where Kolchak and the captain kept a vigil, the two speaking exclusively in Russian, while Kolchak took the occasional break to explain the situation to Farshad.

“We’ll circle around this area here,” Kolchak said, pushing a yellowing fingernail at their navigation computer’s interface. “The Pyotr Velikiy has a tethered submersible aboard that is going to place an explosive cutting charge on the cables.”

“How large is the charge?” asked Farshad.

The captain brought his eyes out of his binoculars. From over his shoulder, he glanced at them warily.

“Just enough to do the job,” said Kolchak.

The captain made a face, and then a transmission came over the radio in Russian. Kolchak snatched the receiver and promptly replied while the captain dipped his eyes back into his binoculars and continued to scan the open sea. The Pyotr Velikiy was recovering its submersible, the charge having been set. Planted on the horizon was the Kuznetsov, its decks crowded with aircraft. Kolchak continued to check his watch, the second hand making its steady orbit around the dial as they waited.

More minutes passed in silence.

Then an explosion, a geyser fountaining upward from the seabed. Followed by a shock. And a sound, like a clap. The entire ship rattled. The water splashed back onto the surface of the ocean. Another radio transmission came into the bridge. The voice was excited, congratulatory. The captain answered the call in the same congratulatory manner. The only person on the bridge who didn’t seem pleased by the result was Farshad, who was confused. Grasping Kolchak by the elbow, he said, “That must’ve destroyed more than one or two cables.”

The smile vanished from Kolchak’s face. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” answered Farshad. He could feel the old familiar rage brimming up from the center of his chest, into his limbs. He felt duped. “That explosion must have destroyed every cable.”

“And so what if it did?” answered Kolchak. “A de-escalation between Beijing and Washington hardly benefits us. It doesn’t benefit your nation either. Let’s sow a little chaos into this crisis. Let’s see what happens then. The result will be advantageous, for both of our countries. Who knows, then we might—” Before Kolchak could finish the thought, the ship’s collision alarm sounded.

Orders were rapidly shouted across the bridge—a new heading, a new speed (“Reverse right rudder, full ahead left!”), a reflexive set of impact-avoidance measures—while both Kolchak and Farshad scanned off the bow. At first, Farshad couldn’t see the obstacle that threatened collision. There was no ship. No iceberg. No large object that assured catastrophe. There was only clear sky. And a mist of seawater that still lingered in the air after the explosion.

It was the mist that concealed the obstacle.

Sharks, dozens of them, an entire school, bobbing upward like so many apples in a barrel, their white bellies presented to the sun. The evasive maneuvers continued. Farshad could do nothing; a sailor in name only, he couldn’t help the crew avoid the collision. The Rezkiy plowed through the field of dead fish, their bodies hitting the thin hull, reminding Farshad of the ice floes that had so often kept him awake at night—dong, dong, dong. Then a far sharper noise combined with this hollow thudding, a noise like a fistful of metal spoons tossed down a garbage disposal; the shark carcasses were passing through the twin propellers of the Rezkiy.

Farshad followed Kolchak out to the bridge wing. They turned to the stern of the ship to assess the damage. The seawater mist still lingered in the air. The sunlight passed through it, casting off brilliant rainbows—blues, yellows, oranges, reds.

So much red.

Farshad realized the red wasn’t only in the air; it was also in the water. The slightly damaged Rezkiy set a new course, leaving a wide swath of blood in its wake.



* * *