eBookFirst Edition (First Edition)
Related collections and offers
Overview
From the Hugo and Nebula award-winning author of the science fiction masterpiece Dune, Frank Herbert's The Dragon in the Sea is a riveting thriller of a submarine crew trapped in the depths of the sea, hunted by one of their own.
In the endless war between East and West, oil has become the ultimate prize. Nuclear-powered subtugs brave enemy waters to tap into hidden oil reserves beneath the East's continental shelf. But the last twenty missions have never returned. Have sleeper agents infiltrated the elite submarine service, or are the crews simply cracking under the pressure?
Psychologist John Ramsay has gone undercover aboard a Hell Diver subtug. His mission is to covertly observe the remainder of the four-man crew—and find the traitor among them. Sabotage and suspicion soon plague the mission, as Ramsay discovers that the stress of fighting a war a mile and a half under the ocean exposes every weakness in a man. Hunted relentlessly by the enemy, the four men find themselves isolated in a claustrophobic undersea prison, struggling for survival against the elements . . . and themselves.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429984980 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2008 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 272 |
| Sales rank: | 990,653 |
| File size: | 232 KB |
About the Author
Frank Herbert is the author of the 1965 science fiction classic, Dune. He passed away in 1986.
Frank Herbert (1920-1986) created the most beloved novel in the annals of science fiction, Dune. He was a man of many facets, of countless passageways that ran through an intricate mind. His magnum opus is a reflection of this, a classic work that stands as one of the most complex, multi-layered novels ever written in any genre. Today the novel is more popular than ever, with new readers continually discovering it and telling their friends to pick up a copy. It has been translated into dozens of languages and has sold almost 20 million copies.
As a child growing up in Washington State, Frank Herbert was curious about everything. He carried around a Boy Scout pack with books in it, and he was always reading. He loved Rover Boys adventures, as well as the stories of H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, and the science fiction of Edgar Rice Burroughs. On his eighth birthday, Frank stood on top of the breakfast table at his family home and announced, "I wanna be a author." His maternal grandfather, John McCarthy, said of the boy, "It's frightening. A kid that small shouldn't be so smart." Young Frank was not unlike Alia in Dune, a person having adult comprehension in a child's body. In grade school he was the acknowledged authority on everything. If his classmates wanted to know the answer to something, such as about sexual functions or how to make a carbide cannon, they would invariably say, "Let's ask Herbert. He'll know."
His curiosity and independent spirit got him into trouble more than once when he was growing up, and caused him difficulties as an adult as well. He did not graduate from college because he refused to take the required courses for a major; he only wanted to study what interested him. For years he had a hard time making a living, bouncing from job to job and from town to town. He was so independent that he refused to write for a particular market; he wrote what he felt like writing. It took him six years of research and writing to complete Dune, and after all that struggle and sacrifice, 23 publishers rejected it in book form before it was finally accepted. He received an advance of only $7,500.
His loving wife of 37 years, Beverly, was the breadwinner much of the time, as an underpaid advertising writer for department stores. Having been divorced from his first wife, Flora Parkinson, Frank Herbert met Beverly Stuart at a University of Washington creative writing class in 1946. At the time, they were the only students in the class who had sold their work for publication. Frank had sold two pulp adventure stories to magazines, one to Esquire and the other to Doc Savage. Beverly had sold a story to Modern Romance magazine. These genres reflected the interests of the two young lovers; he the adventurer, the strong, machismo man, and she the romantic, exceedingly feminine and soft-spoken.
Their marriage would produce two sons, Brian, born in 1947, and Bruce, born in 1951. Frank also had a daughter, Penny, born in 1942 from his first marriage. For more than two decades Frank and Beverly would struggle to make ends meet, and there were many hard times. In order to pay the bills and to allow her husband the freedom he needed in order to create, Beverly gave up her own creative writing career in order to support his. They were in fact a writing team, as he discussed every aspect of his stories with her, and she edited his work. Theirs was a remarkable, though tragic, love story-which Brian would poignantly describe one day in Dreamer of Dune (Tor Books; April 2003). After Beverly passed away, Frank married Theresa Shackelford.
In all, Frank Herbert wrote nearly 30 popular books and collections of short stories, including six novels set in the Dune universe: Dune, Dune Messiah, Children of Dune, God Emperor of Dune, Heretics of Dune, and Chapterhouse: Dune. All were international bestsellers, as were a number of his other science fiction novels, which include The White Plague and The Dosadi Experiment. His major novels included The Dragon in the Sea, Soul Catcher (his only non-science fiction novel), Destination: Void, The Santaroga Barrier, The Green Brain, Hellstorm's Hive, Whipping Star, The Eyes of Heisenberg, The Godmakers, Direct Descent, and The Heaven Makers. He also collaborated with Bill Ransom to write The Jesus Incident, The Lazarus Effect, and The Ascension Factor. Frank Herbert's last published novel, Man of Two Worlds, was a collaboration with his son, Brian.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The blonde WAVE secretary at the reception desk took the speaker cup of a sono-typer away from her mouth, bent over an intercom box.
"Ensign Ramsey is here, sir," she said.
She leaned back, stared up at the redheaded officer beside her desk. His collar bore the zigzag of electronics specialist over the initials BP — Bureau of Psychology. He was a tall man, round-faced, with the soft appearance of overweight. Freckles spotted his pinkish face, giving him the look of a grown-up Tom Sawyer.
"The admiral's usually a little slow answering," said the receptionist.
Ramsey nodded, looked at the door beyond her. Gold lettering on a heavy oak panel: CONFERENCE ROOM — Sec. I. Security One. Above the clatter of office sounds, he could hear the tooth-tingling hum of a detection scrambler.
Through his mind passed the self-questionings he could never avoid, the doubts that had made him a psychologist: If they have a rough job for me, can I do it? What would happen if I turned it down?
"You can rest that here on the desk," said the receptionist. She pointed to a black wooden box, about a foot on a side, which Ramsey carried under his left arm.
"It's not heavy," he said. "Maybe the admiral didn't hear you the first time. Could you try again?"
"He heard me," she said. "He's busy with a haggle of braid." She nodded toward the box. "Is that what they're waiting for?"
Ramsey grinned. "Why couldn't they be waiting for me?"
She sniffed. "Enough braid in there to founder a subtug. They should be waiting for an ensign. There's a war on, mister. You're just the errand boy."
A wave of resentment swept over Ramsey. You insolent bitch, he thought. I'll bet you don't date anything less than a full commander. He wanted to say something biting, but the words wouldn't come.
The receptionist returned the sono-typer cup to her mouth, went back to her typing.
I've been an ensign so long I'll even take lip from a WAVE yeoman, he thought. He turned his back on her, fell to musing. What do they want with me? Could it be that trick on the Dolphin? No. Obe would have said. This might be important, though. It could be my big chance.
He heard the receptionist behind him take a sheet of paper from her machine, replace it.
If I got a big assignment and came back a hero, she'd be the kind who'd try to beat Janet's time with me. The world's full of'em.
Why do they want me in Sec. I?
Obe had just said to bring the telemetering equipment for the remote-control vampire gauge and show up on the Sec. I doorstep at 1400. Nothing more. Ramsey glanced at his wrist watch. A minute to go.
"Ensign Ramsey?" A masculine voice sounded behind him. Ramsey whirled. The conference-room door stood open. A gray-haired line captain leaned out, hand on door. Beyond the captain, Ramsey glimpsed a long table strewn with papers, maps, pencils, overflowing ash trays. Around the table sat uniformed men in heavy chairs, almost like fixtures. A cloud of blue tobacco smoke hung over the scene.
"I'm Ensign Ramsey."
The captain glanced at the box under Ramsey's arm, stepped aside. "Will you come in, please?" Ramsey skirted the reception desk, entered the room. The captain closed the door, indicated a chair at the foot of the table. "Sit there, please."
Where's the boss? Ramsey wondered. His gaze darted over the room; then he saw Obe: a hollow-cheeked little civilian, straggly goatee, thin bird features, seated between two burly commodores like a prisoner under guard. The little civilian's radiation-blinded eyes stared straight ahead. The mound of a radar bat-eye box atop one shoulder gave him a curious unbalanced appearance.
Ramsey sat down in the chair indicated, allowed himself an inward chuckle at the thought of the two commodores guarding Dr. Richmond Oberhausen, director of BuPsych. Obe could reduce them to quivering jelly with ten words.
The captain who had admitted Ramsey took a chair well down the table. Ramsey moved his black box to his lap, noted eyes following the movement.
Obe has briefed them on my little invention, he thought.
The hum of the detection scrambler was strong in the room. It made Ramsey's teeth ache. He closed his eyes momentarily, blanked off the pain, opened his eyes, stared back at the men examining him. He recognized several of the faces.
Very high braid.
Directly opposite at the other end of the table sat Admiral Belland, ComSec, the high mogul of Security, a steely-eyed giant with hook nose, thin slit of a mouth.
He looks like a pirate, thought Ramsey.
Admiral Belland cleared his throat in a hoarse rumble, said, "This is the ensign we've been discussing, gentlemen."
Ramsey's eyebrows went up a notch. He looked to Dr. Oberhausen's impassive face. The BuPsych chief appeared to be waiting.
"You know this ensign's Security rating," said Belland. "It's presumed we can talk freely in front of him. Would any of you care to ask him —"
"Excuse me, please," Dr. Oberhausen arose from between the two commodores with a slow, self-assured movement. "I have not acquainted Mr. Ramsey with any of the particulars of this meeting. In view of the assignment we have in mind, it would appear more humane if we did not treat him like a piece of dry goods." The sightless eyes turned toward Belland. "Eh, Admiral?"
Belland leaned forward. "Certainly, Doctor. I was just coming to that."
The admiral's voice carried a tone somewhere between fear and deference.
Ramsey thought: Obe is running this meeting pretty much as he wants, and without these birds being certain they're outmaneuvered. Now, he probably wants me to pick up a cue and help him apply the clincher.
Dr. Oberhausen sank back into his chair with a stiff, stick-like gesture. A punctuation.
Belland's chair rasped on the floor. He got to his feet, went to the side wall at his left, indicated a north-polar projection map. "Ensign Ramsey, we've lost twenty subtugs in these waters over the past twenty weeks," he said. He turned to Ramsey altogether like a schoolteacher about to propound a problem. "You're familiar with our pressing need for oil?"
Familiar? Ramsey restrained a wry smile. Through his mind sped the almost interminable list of regulations on oil conservation: inspections, issuance forms, special classes, awards for innovations. He nodded.
The admiral's bass rumble continued: "For almost two years now we've been getting extra oil from reservoirs under the marginal seas of the Eastern Powers' continental shelf." His left hand made a vague gesture over the map.
Ramsey's eyes widened. Then the rumors were true: the sub services were pirating enemy oil!
"We developed an underwater drilling technique working from converted subtugs," said Belland. "A high-speed, low-friction pump and a new type of plastic barge complete the general picture."
The admiral's mouth spread into what he probably imagined as a disarming grin. It succeeded only in making him appear even more piratical. "The boys call the barge a slug, and the pump is a mosquito."
Dutiful chuckles sounded through the room. Ramsey smiled at the forced response, noted that Dr. Oberhausen maintained his reputation as Old Stone Face.
Admiral Belland said, "A slug will carry almost one hundred million barrels of oil. The EPs know they're losing oil. They know how, but they can't always be sure of where or when. We're outfoxing them." The admiral's voice grew louder. "Our detection system is superior. Our silencer planes —"
Dr. Oberhausen's brittle voice interrupted him. "Everything we have is superior except our ability to keep them from sinking us."
The admiral scowled.
Ramsey picked up his cue, entered the breach. "What was the casualty percentage on those twenty subtugs we lost, sir?"
An owl-faced captain near Belland said dryly, "Of the last twenty missions, we lost all twenty."
"One hundred percent," said Dr. Oberhausen. The sightless eyes seemed to look across the room at a beet-faced lieutenant commander. "Commander Turner, would you show Mr. Ramsey the gadget your boys found?"
The lieutenant commander pushed a black cylinder about the size of a lead pencil down the table. Hands carried the object along until it reached Ramsey. He studied it.
"Mr. Ramsey's work, of course, involves electronics," said Dr. Oberhausen. "He's a specialist with the instruments used for detecting traumatic memories."
Ramsey caught this cue, also. He was the omniscient BuPsych electronics expert. The Man Who Knows Your Innermost Thoughts. Ergo: You don't have Innermost Thoughts in this man's presence. With an ostentatious gesture, Ramsey put his black box onto the table. He placed the cylinder beside it, managing to convey the impression that he had plumbed the mysteries of the device and found them, somehow, inferior.
What the devil is that thing? he wondered.
"You've probably recognized that as a tight-beam broadcaster," said Belland.
Ramsey glanced at the featureless surface of the black cylinder. What would these people do if I claimed X-ray vision? he asked himself. Obe must have hypnotized them.
Belland transferred his tone of deference-fear to Ramsey. "The EPs have been getting those things aboard our subtugs. We think there's a delayed-action device which turns them on at sea. Unfortunately, we've been unable thus far to dismantle one without exploding the antitamper charge."
Ramsey looked at Dr. Oberhausen, back to Belland, implying without words: "Well, if they'd turn these problems over to BuPsych ..."
The admiral rallied some of his Pride of Department, said, "Turner believes he has it solved, however."
Ramsey looked at the beet-faced lieutenant commander. And you'll be a rear-rank swabby if you fail, he thought. The lieutenant commander tried to make himself inconspicuous.
The commodore to Dr. Oberhausen's right said, "Enemy agents aboard the tugs could be turning them on."
Dr. Oberhausen said, "To make a long story short, these devices have been leading the enemy to our secret wells."
"The real trouble," said Belland, "is that we're shot through with sleepers — people the EPs planted years ago — long before the war — with orders to wait for the right moment. People in the damnedest places." He scowled. "Why, my driver —" He fell silent, turned the scowl on Ramsey. "We're reasonably certain you're not a sleeper."
"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 battlewagon 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 blowup 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 border-line psychotic."
"Again, that's where you come in," said Dr. Oberhausen. "We were about to beach this captain. But now Battle-Comp 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 ear lobe.
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 this 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. Micro-instrumentation 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 deeptug 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, started 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."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Dragon in the Sea"
by .
Copyright © 1956 Herbert Properties, LLC.
Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
