“I have a question,” the weapons officer, Spichovich said, from his position at the weapons control console, the aft end of the consoles of the AN/BYG-1 battlecontrol system. “What if Master One doesn’t use his diesels? What if we’re wrong about him needing to charge batteries and he leaves the freighter on batteries and his main motor and goes quieter than a hole in the ocean?”
Pacino looked at Romanov. As the brand-new sonar officer, Pacino had spoken briefly to Chief Albanese, who was not optimistic he could track a diesel sub on batteries. All the exercises we did with NATO diesel boats, he’d explained, maybe one time in three we could track them, but most of the time they vanish like ghosts. A diesel boat on batteries? All you have are transient noises and maybe a slight thrum from his main propulsion motor. Otherwise, those bastards are invisible.
Romanov spoke up. “He’ll be going slow enough on batteries that we can keep up with him with periscopes raised,” she said. “If sonar has trouble tracking him, we’ll be able to see his snorkel mast. Odds are he will be below five knots, perhaps only going three to conserve battery power. His max submerged speed is just over seven knots and we can sail with a periscope deployed up to ten knots before it risks getting snapped off in the slipstream. Anyone else?”
The control room was pin-drop silent.
“Be watching for The Glitch,” Romanov said quietly in his free ear. She’d explained that The Glitch was that first thing that went wrong on an operation, something that would take it off the battle plan. And once off-plan, they would all be improvising. The most likely glitch was that the Bigfoot wouldn’t snorkel on his diesels but would slip away from the launching freighter quietly on batteries, and in the worst case, vanished into the noise of the ocean and got away from them. Which would lead to mission failure.
“Coordinator, Sonar,” Albanese’s voice came over the headset. “Master Two zig, turn count going down. Master Two is stopping.”
“Very well,” Pacino said. “Pilot, all stop and prepare to hover.”
“All stop, Pilot aye,” Dankleff replied, “and Maneuvering answers, all stop, preparing to hover, sir.”
“Pilot, mark speed one knot.”
“Mark speed one knot, Pilot, aye, speed two knots.” A second later, Dankleff announced, “Speed one knot, sir.”
“Pilot,” Pacino ordered, “engage the hovering system and hover at present depth.”
“Hover at present depth, Pilot, aye, and commencing hovering, depth one two zero feet, sir.”
This was it, Pacino thought. He looked down at his right hand. It was trembling. Pacino gripped the command console safety handrail, hoping no one noticed.
In the lockout trunk, Lieutenant junior grade Grip Aquatong tightened the strap of his full-face helmet and adjusted the tactical camera on top of the helmet. His integrated helmet included the air from his rebreather and communications interface, with a small heads-up display on the upper portion of his visor screen. He looked over at similarly clad Commander Tiny Tim Fishman, who nodded and gave him a thumbs-up sign.
To the port side, Senior Chief Scooter Tucker-Santos was readying the four Mark 17 Mod 2 propulsion units, small devices resembling a scuba tank but that had a powerful battery, a shrouded propulsor and motorcycle handlebars protruding aft of the propulsor. On the starboard side, Petty Officer First Class Swan Oneida was breaking out their weapons, multiple Mark 6 Mod 1 electrical shock directional weapons, each one able to fire enough current and voltage at a person to kill him if dialed up high enough, the unit functioning something like a civilian Taser, but far more powerful with a much longer range, but which also worked underwater.
Oneida had assembled four M4A1 carbines, fully automatic 5.56 mm rifles, each encased in a waterproof casing that with one click on one of several quick-release buttons would disconnect the casing and drop it to the deck. Oneida passed out the Mark 6 tactical directional shock units and the encapsulated M4A1s while Tucker-Santos equipped each man with a Mark 17 propulsion unit.
“Nothing to do now but wait for the word to flood down and open the upper hatch,” Fishman said to the men. “Go over your assignments to yourselves. What’s the rule, Grip?”
Aquatong answered up, belting out, “Fucking up is not an option, boss!”
“That’s right, gentlemen.”
This was always the worst part of any mission, Fishman thought, the interminable wait for the action to start. There was no doubt, if one hoped to succeed in the military, he’d be well advised to get good at the art of waiting.
Perfect, Pacino thought, as he looked at the display of the optronics of periscope number one. The high-definition image was a blurry blue of the Caribbean Sea, but visible at a high angle overhead was the underside of the freighter.
“Coordinator, Sonar,” Chief Albanese said, “loud transients from Master Two.”
The freighter would be opening his hull doors any minute.
“You’re too close,” Romanov coached quietly. “Take us down.”
“Pilot, make your depth two hundred feet.”
“Two hundred feet, Pilot, aye, and descending to two hundred feet, sir.”
The image in the screen lost focus but was still visible in the sea, the light having faded some with the depth.
“Two hundred feet, sir,” Dankleff announced.
“Very well, Pilot.”
“Coordinator, Sonar, very loud transients from Master Two.”
He was either opening his hold doors or getting ready to, Pacino thought. Pacino strained to look at the periscope image.
“Coordinator, Sonar, transients continue.”
They all waited for what seemed an eternity, until Albanese announced, “Master Two has gone quiet.”
“Listen for a turn count,” Quinnivan ordered Albanese.
Seagraves shot a look at Romanov and gestured with his thumb — unmistakably ordering, get us up.
“Let’s get closer,” Romanov said. “To hell with the freighter’s divers, we can’t lose this target.”
“Pilot, make your depth one hundred feet,” Pacino called. Dankleff acknowledged, but for Pacino, the only thing that existed in the world was the image on his periscope display screen. He zoomed the view closer until he could see it in the blue haze of the ocean. Discernable in the distance was the underside of a ship with cargo bay doors dropped open, bright lights from floodlights inside the hull shining on a large metal claw device coming slowly deeper in the water, the claw holding a shape. The claw exactly resembled the claw named “Clementine” used in Glomar Explorer’s Project Azorian / Project Jennifer to pull that sunken Soviet “Golf” submarine, K-129, off the sea bottom decades before. This, Pacino thought, had to be the disadvantage of declassifying military secrets. God alone knew how bad actors would use information developed by the military and intelligence community. The black blur in the claw had to be the L-class narco-sub. Bigfoot. In the flesh.
“Coordinator, Sonar, slight transients again. Mechanical in nature. Scraping noises.”
“Listen up for a main motor startup,” Quinnivan advised over Albanese’s shoulder.
Pacino waited, hearing his heart beating thunderously in his chest, his pulse throbbing in his neck.
“Transients stop and we’ve got something, something rotating very slowly, believe it’s a turn count,” Albanese announced, one hand over his right ear as if that would help him hear better. “Oh, out-fucking-standing,” Albanese said, half to himself, his voice sounding oddly happy.