Eye by Frank Herbert

  "Reasonably certain?" asked Ramsey.

  "I am reasonably certain no one in this room is a sleeper," growled Belland. "But that's all I am." He turned back to the wall map, pointed to a position in the Barents Sea. "This is the island of Novaya Zemlya. Off the west coast is a narrow shelf. The edge is in about one hundred fathoms. It's steep. We've a well into the flank of that shelf tapping one of the richest oil reservoirs we've ever encountered. The EPs don't even know it's there—yet."

  Dr. Oberhausen put a bony hand on the table, tapped a finger once. "We must make certain Mr. Ramsey understands the morale factor." He turned toward Ramsey. "You understand that it has been impossible to keep our losses completely secret. As a result, morale in the subtugs has dropped off to almost nothing. We need good news."

  Belland said, "Turner, take it from there." The admiral returned to his chair, lowered himself into it like a battle-wagon settling into dry dock.

  Turner focused watery blue eyes on Ramsey, said, "We've screened, screened and rescreened our subtug crews. We've found one that looks good. They're at Garden Glenn Rest Camp now and will be coming out in five weeks. However, they do not have an electronics officer."

  Ramsey thought: Great Grieving Freud! Am I going to be palmed off as a submariner?

  As though he had read Ramsey's thought, Dr. Oberhausen said, "That's where you come in, Ramsey." He nodded to Turner. "Please forgive me, Commander, but we're taking too much time with this."

  Turner shot a glance at Belland, sank back into his chair. “Of course, Doctor."

  Dr. Oberhausen arose, again with that air of vast assurance. "This is my field, anyway. You see, Ramsey, the previous electronics officer suffered a psychotic blow-up at the termination of their last mission. It's the same problem you were working on with the men of the Dolphin. Amplified. The subtugs are smaller, a complement of only four men. The focal symptoms point to a kind of induced paranoia."

  "The captain?" asked Ramsey.

  "Precisely," said Dr. Oberhausen.

  We are now impressing the natives with our mysterious knowledge, thought Ramsey. He said, "I noticed similar conditions in the battle-fatigue syndrome when I was on the Dolphin." He patted the box in front of him. "The captain's emotional variations were reflected in varying degrees all through the ship's personnel."

  "Dr. Oberhausen outlined your work with the men of the Dolphin," said Turner.

  Ramsey nodded. "I'm troubled by one point here. You say this crew rates high. That doesn't check if the captain is a borderline psychotic."

  "Again, that's where you come in," said Dr. Oberhausen. "We were about to beach this captain. But now BattleComp tells us he and his crew have far and away the highest chance of success in this mission to Novaya Zemlya. But only if certain other conditions are present." He paused, tugged at an earlobe.

  Ramsey caught the signal, thought: Ah, there's the bite. Somebody important hasn't agreed to this arrangement and it's vital to Obe that I get on that subtug crew. Who are we playing to? The admiral? No, he'd go himself if Obe said the word. Ramsey's eyes abruptly caught the scowling glare of the commodore on Dr. Oberhausen's left, and at the same moment he noted for the first time the tiny sunburst on the commodore's collar. A presidential aide! That would be the one.

  "One of the other conditions would be that they have secret psychological monitoring," said Ramsey. "How had you planned to link in my remote-control vampire gauge to his pivotal captain without his knowing?"

  "An ingenious solution has been proposed by Admiral Belland," said Dr. Oberhausen. "Security has a new type of detector to combat those spy-beam transmitters. A speaker pellet is surgically imbedded in the neck and tuned to wave scanners which are similarly imbedded beneath the armpits. Microinstrumentation would permit us to include with the speaker the recorders you need."

  Ramsey nodded toward the admiral. "Clever. You'd rig this subtug skipper that way, send me along to keep him in balance."

  "Yes," said Dr. Oberhausen. "However, there has been some objection raised." The sightless eyes seemed to peer down at the commodore on his left. "On the grounds that you have no extended deep-tug combat experience. It's a specialized service."

  The commodore grunted, glared at Ramsey. "We've been at war sixteen years," he said. "How is it you've escaped combat?"

  Old school tie, thought Ramsey. He turned his telemeter box until one flat surface faced the commodore, squinted at the officer over it. When in doubt, fire a broadside.

  "Every man we preserve for combat brings victory that much nearer," said Ramsey.

  The commodore's leathery face grew dark.

  "Mr. Ramsey has a special combination of training—psychology and electronics—which have made him too valuable to risk," said Dr. Oberhausen. "He has made only the most essential cruises—such as that with the Dolphin—when that was absolutely required."

  "If he's so valuable, why're we risking him now?" demanded the commodore. "This all seems highly irregular!"

  Admiral Belland sighed, stared at the commodore. "The truth is, Lewis, this new emotional-telemetering equipment which Mr. Ramsey developed can be used by others. However, his inventive talents are the very things which make his services so essential at this time."

  "You may think me rude," said the commodore, "but I'd like to know also why this young man—if he's as good as all that—is still—" he flicked a glance at Ramsey's collar bars— "an ensign."

  Dr. Oberhausen held up a hand, said, "Permit me, my dear Admiral." He turned to the commodore. "It is because there are people who resent the fact that I have been able to keep myself and my top department heads out of uniform. There are those who do not see the necessity for this essential separation. It is regrettable, therefore, that those of my people in the lower echelons, who are required to wear uniforms, sometimes find it difficult to gain advancement no matter how talented they may be."

  The commodore looked as though he were about to explode.

  "By rights," said Dr. Oberhausen, "Mr. Ramsey should be at least a commodore."

  Several fits of coughing broke out simultaneously around the table.

  Ramsey suddenly wished he were anywhere else but under the eyes of this commodore. The latter said, "Very well, my objection is withdrawn." The tone of voice said: I will pass sentence in my own court.

  "I have planned," said Dr. Oberhausen, "upon completion of this mission, to have Mr. Ramsey released from the service and installed as head of a new department devoted to problems of submariners."

  A harsh smile pulled at the corners of the commodore's mouth. "If he lives through it," he said.

  Ramsey swallowed.

  As though he had not heard, Dr. Oberhausen said, "The training will be a problem, but we have five weeks plus the full facilities of BuPsych."

  Belland heaved his bulk from the chair, stepped to one side. "If there are no more questions, gentlemen, I believe we are all satisfied with Mr. Ramsey." He glanced at his wristwatch. "The medics are waiting for him now, and he's going to need every minute of the next five weeks."

  Ramsey got to his feet, took the telemeter box under his arm, a question in his eyes.

  "You're also going to be rigged as a walking detection system," said Belland.

  Dr. Oberhausen appeared to materialize beside Ramsey. "If you'll come with me, please, John." He took Ramsey's arm. "I've had the essential material about Commander Sparrow— he's the captain of this subtug—and the other two crewmen reduced to absolute minimum. We've set aside a special ward at the bureau for you. You're going to be our prize patient for..."

  Ramsey heard Turner speaking behind him. "Dr. Oberhausen called the ensign John. Is he the Long John Ramsey who..

  The rest was blurred as Dr. Oberhausen raised his voice. "It's going to be rough on you, John." They stepped into the outer corridor. "Your wife has been notified." Dr. Oberhausen lowered his voice. "You handled yourself very well in there."

  Ramsey suddenly realized that he was allowing himself to be guid
ed by a blind man. He laughed, found that he had to explain the laughter. "It was the way you handled that brassy commodore," he said.

  "You don't lie at all well," said Dr. Oberhausen. "But I'll let it pass. Now, about the commodore: he's a member of the board which passes upon promotions for BuPsych men."

  Ensign Ramsey abruptly found that laughter had left him.

  Ramsey often referred to his five weeks' training for the subtug mission as "the time I lost twenty pounds."

  They gave him three rooms in the sound wing of Unadilla Naval Hospital: blank white enclosures furnished in rattan and cigarette-scarred mahogany, a functional TV set, equally functional hospital bed on high legs. One room was set up for training: hypnophone, wall diagrams, mock-ups, tapes, films.

  His wife, Janet, a blond nurse, received a weekend schedule for visits: Saturday nights and Sundays. Their children, John junior, age two, and Peggy, age four, were not permitted in the hospital, had to be packed off to their grandmother's at Fort Linton, Mississippi.

  Janet, wearing a one-piece red dress, came storming into the sitting room of Ramsey's suite on their first Saturday night. She kissed him, said, "I knew it!"

  "Knew what?"

  "That sooner or later the Navy and that awful Obe would be regulating our sex life."

  Ramsey, aware that everything he said and did in the hospital was being monitored, tried to shush her.

  "Oh, I know they're listening," she said. She threw herself onto the rattan couch, crossed her legs, lighted a cigarette, which she puffed furiously. "That Obe gives me the creeping creeps," she said.

  "That's because you let him," said Ramsey.

  "And because that's the effect he wants to give," she countered.

  “Well... yes" admitted Ramsey.

  Janet jumped to her feet, threw herself into his arms. “Oh, I'm being a fool. They said I wasn't to upset you.''

  He kissed her, rumpled her hair. “I'm not upset.''

  “I told them I couldn't upset you if I tried.'' She pushed away from him. “Darling, what is it this time? Something dangerous? It isn't another one of those horrible submarines?''

  “I'm going to be working with some oilmen" he said.

  She smiled. “Oh, that doesn't sound bad at all. Will you be drilling a well?''

  “The well's already drilled" he said. “We're going to see about increasing production."

  Janet kissed his chin. “Old efficiency expert."

  "Let's go to dinner," he said. "How're the kids?"

  They went out, arm in arm, chatting about the children.

  Ramsey's weekday routine began at 0500 when the nurse entered with his wake-up shot to rouse him from the hyp- nophone drugs. High-protein breakfast. More shots. Blood test.

  "This is going to hurt a little."

  "Owooooooch! Whatta-y-mean a little? Next time warn me!"

  “Don't be a big baby."

  Diagrams. Floor plans of Hell Driver Class subtugs.

  They turned him over to a large subtug expert from Security. Clinton Reed. Bald as an egg. Thin eyes, thin nose, thin mouth, thick skin. Sense of duty as solid as his neck. Absolutely no sense of humor.

  "This is important, Ramsey. You have to be able to go anywhere on this vessel, man any control blindfolded. We'll have a mock-up for you in a couple of days. But first you have to get a picture of it in your mind. Try flashing these plans and then we'll test your memory."

  "Okay. I've finished the general layout. Try me."

  “Where's the pile room?"

  "Ask me something hard."

  “Answer the question."

  "Oh, all right. It's forward in the bulb nose; first thirty-two feet."

  "Why?"

  "Because of the teardrop shape of this class, and for balance. The nose gives the most room for shielding."

  "How thick is the radiation wall behind the pile room?"

  "I missed that."

  "Twelve feet. Remember it. Twelve feet."

  "Well, I can tell you what it's made of: hafnium, lead, graphite, and poroucene."

  "What's on the aft face of the radiation wall?"

  "Direct-reading gauges for the reactor. Repeaters are in the control room, forward bulkhead to the right of the first-level catwalk. Then there are lockers for 9BG suits, tool lockers, doors to the tunnels leading into the pile room."

  "You're getting it. How many tunnels into the pile room?"

  "Four. Two top; two bottom. Not to be entered for more than twelve minutes at a time unless wearing an ABG suit."

  "Fine. What's the rated horsepower?"

  "Two hundred and seventy-three thousand, reduced to about two hundred and sixty thousand by the silencer planes behind the screw."

  "Excellent! How long is the engine room?"

  "Uh...nope. That one's gone, too."

  "Look, Ramsey, these are important. You have to remember these distances. You have to get a feeling for them. What if you don't have any lights?"

  "Okay. Okay. How long is the damned thing?"

  "Twenty-two feet. It fills the whole midship section. The four electric engines are set two to a level with the gearbox for the drive below center aft."

  "Gotcha. Here, let me take a flash of the aft section. Okay. Now try me."

  "How many catwalks in the engine room and where located?"

  "Look. I just flashed the aft section."

  "How many catwalks and—"

  "Okaaaa. Let's see: one center of the control desk going forward. One off center into machine stores on the second level below. One called A level into top stores. Same for bottom level: called B level. Short bridging catwalks from A and B levels to the engines and oxy tanks. And one very short to the conning-tower-retracted which lifts into a section of steps when the tower is extended."

  "Good. You see, you can do this if you set your mind to it. Now tell me how the four staterooms are placed."

  "Staterooms yet."

  "Stop dodging the question."

  "Wise guy! Let's see: captain is top level starboard behind the electronics shack. First officer portside behind the recreation room-sick bay. Engineering officer starboard below the captain's quarters and behind the machine shop. Electronics officer portside below the first officer and aft of galley stores. That's the place for me. Gonna cut me a private door into galley stores."

  "Where's the galley?"

  "That one I can answer. It's far port, top level, entered through the wardroom. Selector controls for the prepackaged meals are against the bulkhead separating galley and wardroom. The galley-wardroom unit is between control deck and rec room."

  "What's behind the staterooms?"

  "Machinery of the Palmer induction drive."

  "Why an induction drive?"

  "Because at the dive limit for Hell Divers, there can be no weak points in the hull, therefore no shaft through the hull."

  "You're getting the drive on the hypnophone tonight. Every man blindfolded. There'll be a model for you to work on day after tomorrow."

  "Oh, goody!"

  "What's the pressure hull limit for Hell Divers?"

  "Three thousand and ten pounds to the square inch or seven thousand feet."

  "Stick to your first answer. Pressure varies with different water conditions. You'd be okay at seventy-one hundred feet in one place, dead at sixty-nine hundred another. Learn to depend on your static pressure gauge. Now let's go to the atmosphere composition. What's a vampire gauge?"

  "A little device worn on your wrist during deep dives. Needle goes into your vein, tells you if your C02 diffusion is fast enough so you won't crock out. It also tattles on nitrogen."

  "What's minimum diffusion?"

  "When you get below .200 on C02 you get the jeebies. If your blood C02 count goes to four percent you're in trouble. With nitrogen it's different. The subtug atmosphere is supposed to be entirely cleared of it. A small quantity of helium is substituted."

  "How do you get by with the high atmospheric pressure?"

  "Ae
robic carbonic anhydrase is fed into the atmosphere by the ventilator system. This speeds up the C02 loading and unloading of the blood, prevents gas bubbles forming."

  "You're good on that. Did you know it before?"

  "My emotional telemeter is just a glorified vampire gauge."

  "Oh, sure. Now, why is the electronics officer so important?"

  "Contact with the exterior control motors is by coded wave pulse. If the E-system breaks down when a subtug is submerged, it stays submerged."

  "Right. Now, let's go through the plans again."

  "Not again!"

  "Start with the reactor room. In detail."

  "Slave driver!"

  The nightly hypnophone sessions flooded Ramsey's mind with the new knowledge: pressure hull, resonating hull, tank hull... pressure compensating system... header box... reactor controls... search and sounding... diving plane controls... valve controls... pile check-off... sonoran automatic-navigation board... atmosphere controls... automatic timelog, Mark IX ... gyro controls... tow controls... plastic barge, oil, components of... needle torpedoes, external racking system... torpedo homing systems... scrambler systems... systems... systems... systems

  There were times when Ramsey's head felt filled to the bursting point.

  Dr. Oberhausen appeared in Ramsey's quarters on the fourth day of training. The doctor's unpressed clothes gave him the appearance of a bedraggled robin. He came in quietly, sat down beside Ramsey, who was seated in a viewerscope-sequence training hook-up.

  Ramsey pulled the fitted faceplate away from his eyes, turned to Dr. Oberhausen. "Ah, the chief of the inquisition."

  "You are comfortable, Johnny?" The sightless eyes seemed to stare through him.

  "No."

  "Good. You are not supposed to be comfortable." The doctor's chair creaked as he shifted his weight. "I have come about the man Garcia who is engineering officer of this crew."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  Qualifications: navigator—superior; gunnery officer—superior; medical officer (advanced first aid and pressure syndrome)—excellent; general submarine competence—superior.

  Ramsey turned to the other folder.

  Lieutenant Commander Leslie (none) Bonnett. Age thirty-eight. Picture of a heavy-bodied man (just under six feet) with brown wavy hair (artificial wave?), aquiline nose, overhanging eyebrows, the look of a brooding hawk.