Twenty Trillion Leagues Under the Sea Read online

  GOLLANCZ

  LONDON

  They were the first

  That ever burst

  Into that silent sea …

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Crew of the Plongeur

  1 The Sinking of the Plongeur

  2 The Captain’s Last Supper

  3 The Disaster

  4 After The Disaster

  5 The Impossible Depths

  6 The Infinite Ocean

  7 Leaving the Plongeur

  8 The Crack

  9 The Light

  10 An Interview with Captain Cloche

  11 Council of War

  12 The Light Below

  13 Sub Oceanic Sun

  14 Confinement

  15 Court Martial

  16 Sentence

  17 Who’s in Command?

  18 The Demons of the Sea

  19 The Shield of Faith

  20 The Fate of Lebret

  21 The Childranha

  22 The Fathomless Depths

  23 The Hand

  24 Dakkar

  25 The Prodigious Emerald

  26 Shaving the Beard

  27 The Underwater Garden

  28 The Arrival of the Plongeur

  29 The Death of Lebret

  30 The Tetragrammaton

  31 The Jewel

  32 Twenty Trillion Kilometres Under the Sea

  Epilogue

  Also by Adam Roberts from Gollancz

  Copyright

  CREW OF THE PLONGEUR

  Capitaine Adam Cloche

  Lieutenant de vaisseau Pierre Boucher

  Enseigne de vaisseau (de première classe) Jean Billiard-Fanon

  Second-Maître Annick Le Petomain ‘Le Banquier’

  Matelot Alain de Chante

  Matelot Denis Avocat

  Matelot Jean Capot

  Cook Herluin Pannier

  Chief engineer: Eric Castor

  Observer: Alain Lebret. Reporting to the Minister for National Defence, Charles de Gaulle.

  The scientists: Mr Amanpreet Jhutti, Mr Dilraj Ghatwala

  1

  THE SINKING OF THE PLONGEUR

  On the 29th June, 1958, the submarine vessel Plongeur left the French port of Saint-Nazaire under the command of Capitaine de vaisseau Adam Cloche. The following day the Plongeur sank to the bottom of the ocean.

  The submarine had travelled westward beyond the limit formed by the Atlantic continental shelf, and the depth of water at this place is considerably greater than three thousand metres. This can only mean that the submarine was lost with all hands. It is true, as some have pointed out, that the Plongeur’s design parameters – combining a plated-steel inner hull and a state-of-the-art ‘atomic’ propulsion system – enabled it to descend to unusual depths. But ‘deep’ in this context means only a maximum of one thousand metres or so. At three thousand metres the vessel would have been crushed to a mangled twist of metal. Even if the vessel had somehow managed to endure the unspeakable pressures of the profound deep, the sinking craft would, by this stage, have been dropping with such speed that the forward hull would have been cracked and shattered by collision with the rocky seafloor. And what else? Assume, if you choose, that they somehow, miraculously, survived the collision, and the Plongeur had settled onto the floor without shattering, and without being crushed by the abyssal pressures. What then? The melancholy truth is that the crew lacked the wherewithal to repair whatever malfunction in the main ballast tanks had brought about the disaster in the first place, and reascend. They would be condemned to a slow, coffined extinction. Better, perhaps, to be snuffed out in a single mighty crunch!

  The Plongeur was an experimental vessel, powered by a new design of atomic pile, and boasting a number of innovative design features. Its very existence was a national top secret. Accordingly, its melancholy fate went entirely unreported in the French media. As far as the world was concerned, its captain was no-one; its crew nameless.

  In these unlucky circumstances, perhaps it was a blessing that, despite its unusual size – for the Plongeur was one hundred and sixty feet long, and displaced two thousand four hundred tonnes – the vessel was carrying only a small crew. The more the glory for them, the less the loss for France. Captain Adam Cloche was a veteran of the Free French Navy during the Second World War, and a man so much at home in the salt, estranging medium of the sea that even his friends wondered if he had any kind of life at all on land – where else would he die, if not beneath the waves? It was his proper place. Directly under Cloche’s command was Lieutenant Pierre Boucher, younger than his captain by a decade and a half, but an experienced sailor nonetheless. When he had been approached by the French Government to command this experimental submersible boat, Cloche had been permitted to choose any six officers and sailors. He personally approached Jean Billiard-Fanon to serve as Enseigne de vaisseau; and for Second Mate he recruited Annick Le Petomain, known to his friends as ‘Le Banquier’ for his skill at games of chance. Four Ordinary Seamen – Alain de Chante, Denis Avocat, Jean Capot and Herluin Pannier – were in turn recommended by Billiard-Fanon. But his request for a particular chief engineer – a certain Stefan Nevin of Calais, a veteran of the old war – was overruled by the powers that be. The new propulsion mechanism was top secret: for at its heart was an atomic pile, at that time a novelty in submarine power. An engineer with knowledge of such technologies, one Eric Castor, was assigned to the craft. More unusually still, two scientists from the team who had been developing the craft’s new technologies were also to accompany the Plongeur on its maiden voyage. These were: Messieurs Amanpreet Jhutti and Dilraj Ghatwala, Indian nationals both. Cloche did not pretend to be happy about this. Even if (he argued) there were some potential advantage in having the inventors of the experimental technologies on board during the maiden voyage, the benefit was surely offset by the disadvantage of cluttering up the craft with landlubbers – and foreigners to boot. Worst of all, from the captain’s point of view, was the fact the presence on the Plongeur of an official ‘Observer’: Alain Lebret, reporting directly to the Ministry for National Defence. Cloche objected to the presence of these supernumeraries aboard his vessel; but his objections were overruled.

  A crew of only nine was small for so large a craft, but the two-week voyage was expected to do no more than test the vessel’s new technological capacities. And despite the skeleton crew, space was tight aboard the submarine. Although it was large, its engines took up a disproportionate amount of the vessel’s central rear portions. Everything throughout was painted thickly with light blue paint, except for the engine itself which was painted red – it was strange, Cloche thought to himself, that there was no bare metal in the vessel anywhere to be seen. Still, it was certainly a well-appointed craft. Crew all had individual cabins, and a ‘scientific room’ was located fore, in which facilities for experimentation were laid out: a variety of technical accoutrements adorned this space. Most remarkable of all, a broad oval observation window was inset into the hull, and an observation chamber located below and fore of the bridge. When Captain Cloche was first shown round his new command, docked at Saint-Nazaire, he was – however much his imperturbable manner and large beard implied otherwise – especially dismayed to find this feature. ‘It must,’ he pointed out to the team who escorted him, ‘represent a weak spot in the pressure-robustness of the hull! How can it not?’ He was assured that steel plates, specially designed to lock together in an absolute seal, covered the six-foot-wide porthole when it was not being used for scientific observation. ‘I have served in a dozen submarines,’ Cloche said, shaking his head, ‘and commanded three,
and I have never seen anything like it. Is this a warship of the French navy – or is it a lakeside pleasure skiff?’

  ‘May a warship not also have the capacity for observation and scientific enquiry?’ returned the official.

  ‘But – so large a porthole! The structure must be weaker at this place.’

  ‘The tolerances of the Plongeur are far in advance of comparable vessels,’ said the ministerial aide

  ‘In point of fact, the shipyards of—’ began a junior ministerial staffman.

  The ministerial aide coughed loudly, and glowered at his subordinate. ‘There is no need,’ he said, brusquely, ‘to trespass upon the official secrets of the Republic by speaking of specific locations.’

  ‘Was the Plongeur not built here in the shipyards of Saint-Nazaire?’ asked Cloche, amazed.

  That the ministerial aide would not be drawn further on this matter suggested to the captain that the answer to his question was that Saint-Nazaire was not the site of construction. But if not here – then where?

  Of course the Plongeur was top secret. Although two years had passed since the US Navy had included nuclear submarines in its fleet, and despite the fact that, of course, France was a nuclear power, the existence of this advanced prototype of a radically new sort of submarine was closely guarded. It sailed without fanfare or notice, and it vanished into the great deep in the same manner. Nobody save a few senior officials and technicians knew of the Plongeur’s existence; and few amongst that select group mourned its loss.

  It sailed from Saint-Nazaire before dawn. Midmorning, it essayed submerging for the first time. For most of the day of the 29th it performed a set of pre-arranged manoeuvres; testing the underwater and surface fitnesses of the craft. Through the night of the 29th and through the early hours of the 30th June it sailed west-northwest, leaving behind it the coast of northern Spain. Its last transmission was received before dawn on the morning of the 30th: Captain Cloche reported that he was about to take the craft down to its maximum dive depth. In the event the Plongeur passed far below that supposed ‘maximum’. No further transmissions were received.

  2

  THE CAPTAIN’S LAST SUPPER

  Almost as soon as the Plongeur was underway, Captain Cloche requested the presence of both Indian scientists in his cabin. The men entered a little awkwardly, unused to negotiating the confined spaces of the craft.

  ‘Messieurs,’ said Cloche, without further preliminary. ‘There are few situations in which a robust chain-of-command matters as much as it does upon a submarine. We are not presently at war, but nevertheless. At one thousand metres below the surface of the sea, the slightest mistake is death. I trust I need not labour this point.’

  ‘Indeed not, Captain,’ said Amanpreet Jhutti.

  ‘I have studied, as far as my capacity permits me, the operation of the engine that powers this craft. I do not pretend to understand it entirely. I do not need to. As captain, my study must in the first instance be people. I have confidence in my crew. But I will say frankly to you, messieurs, that I do not know you; and I do not know your Monsieur Lebret either. I appreciate that he has been posted here by the direct authority of the minister of National Defence; and I understand that he has been supervising your work …’

  ‘Say, rather, liaising,’ said Jhutti. He spoke French fluently, although with a slight accent.

  The captain was not used to being interrupted. He cleared his throat, thunderously. ‘So he is not, in effect, your superior officer?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Ghatwala.

  ‘I have no disobliging impulses as far as Monsieur Lebret is concerned,’ said the captain. ‘But I do not know him, and cannot pretend to be happy that he has been parachuted into my crew at the last moment. I am prepared to tolerate the presence of you two, messieurs, since this experimental “atomic” drive is clearly beyond the technical capacity of ordinary naval engineers. But I must insist that you operate under my authority at all times. I request an assurance from you, in short, that there shall be no conflict between my orders and those of Monsieur Lebret.’

  ‘We understand, Captain,’ said Jhutti, gravely.

  ‘Good. At any rate, I invite you all to join me for supper, this evening at seven. My lieutenant de vaisseau Monsieur Boucher will also be there. I suppose our Government “observer”, Monsieur Lebret, will also attend.’

  ‘You have no excess of love for your present Government I think, Captain,’ said Jhutti.

  ‘I avoid all political complications,’ said Cloche, with a severe expression. ‘Of whatever stripe. I only wish that political complications would similarly avoid me, and my work. But the presence of Monsieur Lebret suggests that this will not come to pass.’

  ‘If it settles your mind at all, Captain,’ said Jhutti, glancing briefly at his countryman, ‘I do not believe that Lebret is here in a political capacity.’

  ‘You know who his uncle is?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Pierre Lebret, the very same. Through this relative, our “observer” has a personal relationship with the Minister of National Defence, de Gaulle.’

  ‘I do not see—’

  But the captain put up his hand, and shook his heavy head. ‘Until this evening, messieurs.’

  As the scientists turned to leave the cramped cabin, the captain spoke again. ‘Since we have broached the subject of politics,’ he said, ‘you might gratify my curiosity on one subject.’ Messieurs Jhutti and Ghatwala turned back to face him. ‘You are Indian nationals. I commend the advances your nation has made – certain advances in atomic technology. I can see why you might wish to develop these advances aboard a craft of a more advanced Western nation, rather than one of the as-yet rudimentary Indian navy. But I am curious why you brought your technological expertise to my nation? Would not the British Royal Navy have welcomed you enthusiastically?’

  ‘Perhaps they would,’ said Jhutti, drily.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Captain,’ said Jhutti, again giving his compatriot a brief, queer look. ‘You are, perhaps, aware of the reputation of Pierre Loti?’

  ‘Loti? The sailor? Of course!’

  ‘He was a celebrated naval officer,’ agreed Jhutti. ‘But also a writer of genius. Fifty years ago he published a book called L’Inde sans les Anglais – India without the English. Reading that book as a young man had – shall we say, a profound influence upon me.’

  ‘Fifty years ago!’ said the captain. He sniffed. ‘Very well. I do not wish to initiate a political discussion. I care only for loyalty.’

  ‘Loyalty,’ said Jhutti, ‘is a political word.’

  But Cloche had turned his face away, pretending to busy himself with his log book. The men left the cabin.

  The day was spent in simple manoeuvres; dives to a hundred feet or so, and resurfacings. Surfacing is more of a problem for submarines than many people realise; or to be precise, the problem is in surfacing too rapidly, for too eager a buoyancy can propel a submarine salmon-like into the air, to crash back down again. In such a circumstance the blow places unhealthy strains upon the superstructure, and can disarrange the pattern of hull plates, which in turn can provoke catastrophe when the vessel resubmerges. Indeed, after the loss of the Plongeur, the official enquiry specifically considered whether initial manoeuvres had caused any such flaw to appear in the skin or ballast tanks of the craft. But there was no evidence of anything out of the ordinary; and the last two messages received from Captain Cloche reported his perfect satisfaction with both the ongoing exercises and the health of his vessel.

  Eventually the day’s exercises were completed. Since the seas were calm – and since it is difficult for even the most sophisticated submarine to maintain horizontal trim whilst underwater – the Plongeur surfaced for the night. Tables were laid for the evening meal. The captain’s nook, compact as a wall-set table in an underground café, was crowded. Cloche himself was there, of course; as well as Boucher, and the taciturn engineer Castor, and the two scientists Jhutti and G
hatwala. In addition, the government ‘officer’ Lebret was present. Matelot Pannier served the food.

  ‘Eat as much as you can,’ said Pannier, stacking empty soup bowls along his left arm whilst distributing the plates for the next course with his right. ‘The torpedo racks are stuffed with grub.’

  ‘With what, Monsieur Pannier?’ asked the captain.

  ‘Food, sir.’

  ‘I gave no such order! Are you sure?’

  ‘As eggs,’ confirmed the cook.

  ‘And you signed off on this?’ gloomed Cloche, bunching his brows. ‘Without my authority?’

  The cook opened his eyes very wide, and wiped his chin with his white apron. But before he could answer, Monsieur Lebret spoke up.

  ‘The space would otherwise be empty,’ he said. ‘Since we had no brief to carry weapons on a test mission, I authorised the arsenal spaces to be filled with extra supplies.’

  The captain’s face drew upon itself in contained fury. ‘We will be at sea a mere two weeks, Monsieur,’ he observed. ‘Our complement of supplies will be more than sufficient.’

  ‘It seemed to me, Captain,’ said Lebret, affably, ‘that useful ballast – such as tins and bottles – must be preferable to useless lumber.’

  All eyes were on the captain. Everybody knew that this was a matter not of commissioning extra supplies, but rather of circumventing the authority of the captain. Perhaps Lebret hoped to sell this surplus requisitioned food through the black market upon the return to port.

  ‘I am entitled,’ Cloche said, in a soft voice, ‘to know what is happening on my boat, M’sieur.’

  Lebret met the captain’s gaze without flinching. He was a man in his early forties, with a round, almost childlike face and a wispy beard like the hairs of a coconut sprouting from his chin and cheeks. But there was something olive-pit-hard about his eyes. ‘Naturally,’ he replied.

  ‘It may be the case,’ the captain said, his ire increasing incrementally with each word. ‘That you are unfamiliar with the way things are ordered upon a vessel of the French navy. Permit me to inform you: the captain’s authority is absolute, and must be consulted in every question, no matter how trivial. Do you understand this principle? More importantly do you accept it?’