Forward of the wardroom, there was a small room for the chief yeoman’s office, adjoining the executive officer’s stateroom, with a pass-through opening that the XO could open so he could talk to the yeoman — his administrative aide — without getting up and leaving his stateroom. Farther forward was the head between the XO’s stateroom and the roomier captain’s cabin. To starboard along the central passageway was officers’ country, the three main staterooms of the department heads and the junior officers who reported to them, with their own narrow passageway leading to their staterooms and the two-hole unisex toilet and shower. Forward of officers’ country and the captain’s sea cabin was the control room. The layout considered that a sudden call to battlestations could empty all the officers into control in seconds without them having to dash up or down the steep staircases.
The captain held court in his stateroom with the XO seated at the aft seat of the pull-out table and navigator on the outboard seat by the door, the captain’s high-backed leather command chair rolled up to the table at the forward end so he could see them both at the same time.
“So, Nav,” Seagraves said, looking down at his coffee cup, then refilling it from a carafe on the table. “What are you going to tell Spichovich when he asks about the written op order? You know you don’t have much of a poker face.”
Romanov frowned, a slight color coming to her cheeks. “I’ll tell him the truth. He’s not cleared for it.”
“How’s that make any sense?” Quinnivan snorted. “He’s cleared high enough to execute the order. How can he not be cleared to read it? You do know his other nickname, right? ‘4-Wall’? Fooker doesn’t just roll around on his little girly bicycle. He plays handball at an almost semi-pro level. He earned the name from beating people using all four walls — and the ceiling and floor too. I’m thinking he won’t buy your bullshit.”
“I’ll tell him it’s a multi-mission operation order and he’s only got the need to know for the first mission.”
Seagraves nodded at Quinnivan. “Sounds credible, XO. Still, there is no written op order. And we only have this one mission assigned.”
“But there is an op order, Captain,” Romanov said quickly. “It’s just not aboard this ship. Or with any of us. For reasons I gather have to do with the very slight chance of us getting caught being naughty and a hostile power going through our paper and electronic business.”
Seagraves nodded approvingly again at Quinnivan, obviously liking what he was hearing.
“And we were briefed by ComSubCom himself.”
Vice Admiral Catardi had personally brought them into his SCIF adjoining his headquarters office inside the Commander Submarine Command complex, their briefing held with him and the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations himself and three of his direct reports.
“So, just like there’s no written contract for a wedding or a marriage, it’s a verbal thing witnessed by, well, witnesses.”
“She makes another good point, XO,” Seagraves said, but Quinnivan still shook his head.
“I don’t know, Captain, I’m not sure I’ve ever sailed into anything remotely like this without orders. The last mission, we had a detailed op order. And the one before that.”
“We have orders. You heard the admiral.”
Seagraves nodded and downed the rest of his coffee and stood. “Well, Nav, it’s showtime. Let’s do this,” he said. He led the way aft down the passageway, the exec following.
The officers stood when the captain entered. He waved them to seats and he and the XO sat down. Navigator Romanov hurried into the room and grabbed a remote control from the table, standing at the large flat panel screen over the supply officer’s head. She clicked the remote and a large screen became filled with a chart of the Caribbean Sea.
Quinnivan spoke up. “Navigator, everyone in here cleared for this briefing?”
“Yes, XO,” she said.
“Go ahead, Nav,” Seagraves said, leaning back in his chair.
Romanov’s pointer hovered over a spot in the sea labeled Colombian Basin. “Good afternoon, officers,” she began. “We’re here,” she said, operating the screen, a red dot flashing at their position, “One hundred and seventy nautical miles north of our arrival at our destination, Point X-Ray, which we should reach early in the mid-watch, zero one hundred local time, Thursday the twelfth.” The dot labeled “X” was north-northeast of a small city on the Colombian coast labeled Santa Marta. “Once at X-Ray, we’ll be commencing a slow speed bow-tie barrier search pattern here, from Point X-Ray due west to Point Yankee, here.” Yankee was north-northwest of Santa Marta. “The width of the bow tie pattern is twenty nautical miles. When the ship reaches Yankee, we’ll turn back east and proceed at bare steerageway back to Point X-Ray.”
“And what are we searching for, exactly?” Spichovich asked, his chair turned so he was directly facing the navigator, his arms crossed, a frown wrinkling his forehead. Pacino glanced at his boss, the weapons officer, whose voice had taken on an unfamiliar edge. In Pacino’s short dealings with his boss, Lieutenant Commander Spichovich had been a complete gentleman, a friendly and sensitive superior, asking Pacino what he could do to speed along Pacino’s qualifications, sitting with Pacino, Eisenhart and the sonar chief, Albanese, as they “turned over” command of the sonar division from Eisenhart to Pacino, the turnover completing last night as Eisenhart, Pacino and Spichovich had visited the captain and XO in the captain’s stateroom to report the turnover. As of last night, Pacino was officially the sonar officer and Eisenhart was officially the communications officer, or “communicator.”
Romanov turned from the screen to address the room. “Gentlemen, welcome to Operation Bigfoot. That’s what we’re searching for. ‘Bigfoot’ because like the monster of myth, everyone has heard about it, but no one has ever actually seen it. Until now.” She clicked the remote and the next slide came up. The wardroom’s officers immediately began talking and pointing.
“Quiet down, everyone. The photograph you’re looking at is from 1916. This is the submarine L-4, a diesel-electric submarine designed by our good friends at Electric Boat, about 90 years before they were acquired by DynaCorp, and built by their shipyard in Quincy, Massachusetts.” Romanov clicked the remote, the next slide showing the L-class submarine in profile and in plan, the drawing showing the interior compartments. Below the schematic diagram, a blur of statistics were displayed.
“Let’s review some things about this submarine — a miraculous ocean-going American submarine — built well over a century ago. 457 tons surfaced, 557 tons submerged. 167 feet length overall. Seventeen-and-a-half feet in beam. Two NELSECO diesels, 1300 horsepower total. Two Electro Dynamic main motors, 800 horsepower total. Two bays of 60-cell batteries. Speed, 14 knots surfaced, ten-and-a-half submerged. Range, 4300 nautical miles surfaced at seven knots, 150 nautical miles submerged at five knots, which, officers, is a submerged endurance of thirty hours. From a boat designed in the year of our Lord nineteen fourteen.”
Spichovich spoke again, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So, Nav, we’re going back in time to fight Diesel Boat Eddie in his 1914 L-class diesel submarine? A World War I diesel sub named,” he coughed sarcastically, “‘Bigfoot’?”