Captain First Rank Boris Novikov put his ten fingers on the keyboard of command console position one. Voronezh had driven up to the Novosibirsk, both of them deep at two hundred meters keel depth to avoid the noise of the shallow layer with all its merchant shipping this close to the Indian Coast. The MGK-600 sonar’s Bolshoi-Feniks submarine-to-submarine telegraphy system was lined up, with the bow sphere preparing to transmit an active focused high-frequency series of pulses in the direction of the Novosibirsk, the system’s pulses reminding Novikov of a barcode, each letter taking up a half second of rapid pulses. It was so high-frequency and transmitted with such low power levels that outside of five shiplengths, it was virtually undetectable, the system half a century in the making.
Novikov typed:
0520 Moscow Time: K579 requests K573 come to periscope depth and establish secure videolink with K579.
It took a moment for Novosibirsk to respond.
0522 Moscow Time: K573 acknowledges and agrees.
“Watch Officer,” Novikov ordered the navigator, Captain Third Rank Leonid Lukashenko, “take us to periscope depth.”
“No stern clearance?”
“No stern clearance. If you maneuver, you could hit the Novosibirsk. Just be vigilant for shapes or shadows near the surface.”
“Madam First,” Lukashenko said to First Officer Anastasia Isakova, “Please darken the command post.” Lukashenko was wearing red wrap-around glasses to keep his eyes night-adjusted. By local time, it was still early in the morning. The lights in the room clicked off, the room illuminated only by the wash of light from the control consoles. Lukashenko pulled off his red glasses and pocketed them. “Boatswain! Make your depth twenty-one meters, ten-degree angle maximum, engine stop, report speed seven knots.”
The boatswain at the starboard forward console responded, acknowledging the orders. The deck inclined in what seemed a steep angle despite keeping it to only ten degrees, the captain grabbing his teacup.
“Seven knots, depth two hundred and fifty meters, sir.”
“Engine ahead slow, turns for four knots.” Lukashenko stepped to the portside number two periscope pole and reached into the overhead for a circular ring set into the overhead, the hydraulic controls for raising the periscope. He rotated it counterclockwise and the unit thumped with hydraulics. “Raising number two scope,” he called to the silent room. The optics module came slowly out of the deck. Lukashenko stooped and put his eye to the cold rubber eyepiece and pulled the control grips down to their horizontal unstowed position.
“Two hundred meters, sir, angle at up ten.”
“Very well.” Lukashenko clicked the right grip control for rotation assist, and the scope turned slowly clockwise, the optics on low power. With the right grip he dialed the angle of view upward, but so far it was dark. He continued his slow circles.
“One fifty meters, sir.”
“Very well,” Lukashenko said. Above, on the surface, it would be dark, but there should be some moonlight, he thought, and just there, to the right, there was a shimmering faint beam of light penetrating down to the deep.
“Fifty meters.”
They were hanging up, the boat coming up too slowly. “Boatswain, engine ahead two thirds, turns for seven knots, increase your angle to up fifteen.”
“Two thirds, seven knots, up ten. Forty meters. Up twelve.”
Lukashenko made several quick sweeps looking upward. With no stern clearance maneuver, they were tempting fate, especially in the crowded seaways here, but there was apparently nothing overhead.
“Thirty-five meters, thirty. Twenty-eight meters. Twenty-seven.”
“Ease your angle,” Lukashenko ordered, his voice muffled by the periscope optic module. The front of his coveralls were starting to soak through with sweat, the large optics module almost too warm to touch from all the electronics coursing through it. Up above, through the inky blackness of the water, the moonlight’s shimmer grew stronger and the undersides of the waves came into view, looking wrinkled and silvery from below, a mirrored surface from a fever dream.
“Twenty-five.”
The view approached the waves and then dissolved into foam and a million bubbles.
“Periscope is broaching.”
“Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two. Twenty-one meters, sir.”
Finally the foam cleared and Lukashenko found himself in a different universe, here where there was the sky above, puffy clouds surrounding the first quarter moon, waves below. To the right of the ship’s travel, were the running lights of a large container ship. “Periscope is dry.” Lukashenko rotated the periscope through four complete circles, making sure no one other than the container ship was close, but they were alone in the sea. “No close contacts, one distant at three kilometers, container ship.”
“Watch Officer,” Novikov ordered the navigator, “turn your watch over to Engineer Montorov and get the communications officer to the wardroom to set up the videolink. Assemble the first officer and weapons officer in the wardroom for the link. I’ll be down in a moment.”
Lukashenko felt a tap on his shoulder and a voice at his ear. “Morning, Luke.” It was his friend, the chief engineer, Yevgeny Montorov, who must have been called to the central command post by the captain. Lukashenko turned the periscope straight ahead.
“Low power, on the horizon,” he said to Montorov.
“Do you know what’s going on?” Montorov whispered, taking the periscope.
“Videolink with the Novosibirsk,” Lukashenko said. “Maybe they have news — a detect, maybe.”
“I relieve you, sir,” Montorov said.
“I stand relieved,” Lukashenko replied. “In the command post,” he announced loudly, “Captain Second Rank Montorov has the conn.”
Lukashenko hurried to the wardroom, where Captain Lieutenant Maksimilian Kovalyov was establishing the secure link, but the screen was filled with snow. Kovalyov reached for the phone in the corner and made a call. “Central, wardroom, I need the multifrequency high-gain antenna. Periscope feed is not sufficient.” A distant thump sounded in the room. Hydraulics, Lukashenko thought, raising the MFHG antenna.
The weapons officer, Captain Lieutenant Pyotr Alexandrov, stepped into the room, yawning behind his fist, putting his cup on the table and pulling out his pad computer. Then First Officer Anastasia Isakova entered, finding the tea service and pouring for herself, taking a seat on the long edge of the table opposite the screen mounted on the outboard side. Captain Novikov came in and sat in the center seat directly opposite the screen. Isakova sat to his right. Lukashenko took the seat on the captain’s left, with Alexandrov seated to Isakova’s right. Lukashenko took out his pad computer and flipped through several screens, waiting for it to be updated by any incoming intelligence being fed from the high gain multifrequency antenna.
The screen’s snow cleared and a sharp, high-definition image appeared. On the screen were the senior officers of the Novosibirsk. Lukashenko had never met them before, but he knew Captain Novikov and the Novosibirsk commander, Orlov, had a long history together, none of it positive.
“Hello again, Captain Orlov,” Novikov said, his voice controlled, almost a monotone.
“Captain Novikov,” Orlov replied formally, perhaps coldly. “These are my senior officers,” he continued. “First Officer Ivan Vlasenko.” Vlasenko nodded at the camera. “Navigator Misha Dobryvnik. And Weapons Officer Irina Trusov.”