Pacino thought. “How many Shkvals do we have?”
“Only two,” Ahmadi said.
“Boozy, take the UGST out of tube five and load five with the second Shkval,” Pacino ordered.
“You sure, boss?”
“Yeah. Worst case, if things get hot, we can use the Shkvals to make off-hull noise, a mini-blue-out diversion, and get the hell out of town.”
“Sure. It’ll take a while and make some noise,” Varney said. “We have to move the entire room’s load-out. The second one is buried deep on the bottom of the starboard side. I need to get Dankleff’s permission.”
“Check out the second Shkval before you load it. If that sonofabitch is leaking peroxide, I want to jettison it. And check out the tube six Shkval also. A single drop of leaking peroxide, I want that damned thing on the sea bottom, not us.”
“I’ll have a report up to you on the conn when you get on watch.”
“Thanks, Boozy. Captain Ahmadi, can you come with me for a minute?”
Pacino took Ahmadi aside. “I’m worried about the air banks,” Pacino said. “Do you use high pressure air for torpedo-firing?”
“No, Mr. Patch. The firing mechanisms are electrical with pumps and a seawater tank that auto-compensates.”
“But emergency blowing to surface the boat requires a full air bank. How much air do we have in the banks after the emergency surface we did?”
“Let’s go see,” Ahmadi said.
“Let’s stop for coffee,” Pacino said. “I’m exhausted.”
“As am I.” They paused in the wardroom and Pacino brewed the pot under instruction from Ahmadi. The Iranian was not allowed to touch cooking paraphernalia for fear of poisoning the invading boarding party, despite his cooperation with the mission so far. When the pot was full, Pacino poured for himself and Ahmadi, then a third cup for Albanese.
They climbed the ladder to the upper level, Pacino handing the coffee to the grateful sonarman, then walked forward to The Million Valve Manifold. Pacino glanced up at the yellow masking tape he’d put on the valves for the blow system, one marked FWD EMBT BLOW, the other AFT EMBT BLOW, the EMBT for emergency main ballast tank, the term used in the U.S. Navy.
He and Ahmadi walked forward into the command post, waving at Dankleff. Ahmadi stopped at the starboard side pos two console. The panel’s gauges and switches had all been relabeled in English with masking tape and black marker. Ahmadi pointed up at four large air pressure gauges, the two on the left labeled FWD AIR BANK, one adding the word PORT, the other adding the word STBD. The two on the right had been labeled AFT AIR BANK, port and starboard. And they all read close to zero.
“They’re all depleted,” Ahmadi said. “Empty.”
Pacino turned to Dankleff, who had risen out of the command seat and stretched, yawning.
“U-Boat, we have to charge the air banks.”
“You’re worried about being able to emergency surface,” Dankleff said. “But using the air compressor’s going to make some major noise.”
“We’re noisy already going eighteen knots on the reactor,” Pacino said. “We’re going to have to go up to periscope depth and put up the induction mast and light off the air compressors until the banks are full. Captain Ahmadi, how long to charge all four banks?”
Ahmadi considered. “Twenty to thirty minutes. Maybe less depending on atmospheric conditions on the surface.”
“I hate to make that much noise for that long,” Dankleff said, frowning. “That, along with all the noise you and Boozy are making moving weapons around, for fuck’s sake. And if you rise above the thermal layer, you’re bringing the reactor into the narrow sound channel topside. Along with the banging and clanking air compressors. We could easily be detected by aircraft or surface warships. It’s a hell of a risk, Patch.”
Pacino shook his head. “It has to be done, U-Boat. We have to prepare for the worst. That’s why I’m getting the torpedo room ready.”
“Yeah, Boozy phoned me for permission to move weapons and tube-load a second Shkval. He told me your famous naval saying.” U-Boat stood at mock attention and unzipped the top of his coveralls, put his hand inside the opening, raising his chin in an imitation of Napoleon and said in a pretentious and melodramatic British accent, ‘If die I must on this mission, die I shall with an empty torpedo room.’”
“You know what, U-Boat?” Pacino said, trying to keep a straight face.
“What, Lipstick?”
“Go fuck yourself. And when you’re done with that, get this bucket of bolts the hell up to periscope depth and raise and drain the goddamned induction mast.”
Dankleff saluted sloppily. “Yes, sir, Mr. Assistant Officer-in-Charge, sir!”
CIA Director Margo Allende put two cups of strong black coffee on the table and sat down next to National Security Advisor Michael Pacino. Pacino looked up at her gratefully.
“How long has it been since you slept?” Allende asked softly.
“Not much since Camp David. And then none since the message came in from Panther.”
Allende nodded sympathetically. “Listen. My house is way out near Langley, but I own a crash pad, a little stone townhouse not far from here, for nights like this. You say the word, I’ll whisk you to my guest room and you can get a few hours of sleep, just ten minutes away from the White House and fifteen from the Pentagon. Crisp, clean sheets and a nice fluffy comforter. You’ll sleep like a baby.”
“No, but thank you, Margo.” Pacino said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. His tie was at half-mast and his once-upon-a-time starched white shirt’s sleeves were rolled up, his suit jacket across the room, draped across an empty chair. “I want to be here in case there’s any update.” He looked at Allende, a bit startled to find her big blue eyes fixed on him. She quickly looked down to her pad computer, but there had been something in her eyes. She knew something she wasn’t telling him, he thought. “So. Is there an update?”
Allende clicked on the large flatpanel screen opposite their chairs. A view of the globe from space appeared, driven by Allende’s pad computer. She zoomed in so that the Arabian Sea was shown in screen center. She tapped her screen, and two closely-spaced red dots began flashing, close to the Indian coastline, near Surat and the Indian Gulf of Khambht, the latitude line showing them at north twenty degrees, thirty minutes.
“These are the periscopes of the two Russian Yasen-M-class submarines that were dispatched to chase after Panther,” she said. “We’re fortunate that both transponders are still working. They tend to go offline after a few weeks. I guess we haven’t designed them with sufficient robustness to withstand the seawater and the pressure changes. And the temperature swings from the icy cold Barents Sea to the near boiling Arabian Sea. But both are still online.”
Pacino looked at Allende. “You know where the Panther is. Margo, you have to tell me. Read me into the program, whatever Operation Blue Hardhat’s equivalent is for the Iranian Navy that could allow you to know where Panther is now. For God’s sake, I think I have a need to know.”
“I can’t do that without Carlucci’s signoff, and he’s sleeping until zero seven hundred, with strict instructions not to wake him unless there are weapons released.”