“What is it?” Seagraves demanded.
“I’ve got a turn count,” Albanese said, “bearing to Master One at zero-four-zero, making three zero RPM and he’s got a sound problem, Captain, a bearing rub or a ding on his screw, we’re hearing it every revolution.” Albanese spun around from his triple-screened master sonar console. “We’ll be able to track him when he’s on his batteries with this, sir.”
Quinnivan, Seagraves and Romanov crowded the command console, surrounding Pacino and the periscope display.
“He won’t be able to fix that underway,” Quinnivan said, one hand over his boom mike, a crooked grin on his face.
“It’s like a lottery win, Skipper,” Romanov said, smiling. For an instant Pacino stared at her, her usually frowning, dour face erupting into a shining beauty when she smiled.
“Let’s get ready to trail him,” Seagraves commanded.
“Coordinator, Sonar, Master One is making transients.”
“What is it, Sonar,” Quinnivan barked, turning from the command console.
“Could be, wait … wait, yes, we have a diesel engine startup at zero-four-one, bearing to Master One.”
“Take it up to PD, Approach Officer,” Seagraves said, leaning close to the periscope display.
“Periscope depth, aye, Captain. Pilot, vertical rise to six eight feet!”
“Better make it six four,” Romanov said. “We’re not sweating periscope exposure. We don’t even know if Master One has a periscope himself — yet. And the freighter isn’t a threat any longer. It’s not like he’s going to radio his coast guard people to report his illicit drug boat’s being followed.”
“Pilot, make your depth six four feet!”
“Six four, Pilot, aye, depth eight zero. Seven five. Seven zero.”
The periscope display showed the undersides of the waves approaching. This view seemed bizarre to Pacino. The underside of the water surface was an oddly shimmering silver, like looking through the reverse side of a mirror. A wrinkly mirror. Some waves admitted slight glimpses of blue sky and white clouds above. At the pilot’s call of seventy feet, a wave trough approached and for just a split second the periscope view became foamy and blurry.
“Scope’s breaking,” Pacino called.
“Seven zero feet, sir, coming up.”
“You’re sluggish, Pilot, get us up,” Pacino said, more out of instinct or perhaps unconscious imitation of the officers on Piranha than his own intention.
“Six nine feet, sir.”
The periscope view went through two cycles of foam splashing over the view, then cleared, the view blurry from the unit being wet, but it dried rapidly and the view became crystal clear.
“Scope’s clear,” Pacino said.
“Six seven, six six, six five feet, sir, and six four feet.”
“Very well, Pilot.”
“Pos One, do a surface safety sweep,” Quinnivan ordered Lieutenant Varney at the pos one master console of the BYG-1 battlecontrol system. The periscope view of unit two rotated quickly on the display mounted in the port forward corner of the room, the intention to identify any close contacts missed by sonar that posed a danger of collision. The blur of motion showed only the freighter, Master Two. After the sweep, the view zeroed in on the freighter. On its rusty stern, the Panamanian flag flew over block white letters spelling MV SARGASSO CAUSEWAY.
“Approach Officer, we have a name for Master Two,” Quinnivan said. “The motor vessel Sargasso Causeway bears one-six-five, range, three divisions in low power, angle-on-the-bow port sixty.”
“Get a laser range,” Romanov ordered Pacino. “Odds are the freighter won’t know what it is even if he sees it.”
“Coordinator, get a laser range on Master Two,” Pacino said to Quinnivan, who acknowledged quickly and repeated it to Varney on pos one.
“Range twelve thousand five hundred yards,” Lieutenant Varney, the pos one operator, reported. The freighter was six nautical miles away. At this range, the Vermont’s periscopes would be as good as invisible.
“Coordinator, Sonar, Transients, Master Two,” Albanese said. “He may be rigging in the hull doors.”
Pacino looked up at the number one scope’s display. Interesting, he thought. Sargasso Causeway. It was as if the owners of the freighter were consciously or unconsciously revealing their intention to smuggle. He returned his concentration to his periscope display, trained to the bearing of the target, Master One, the L-class, the Bigfoot. For a moment he wondered what the owners called it. A number? The name of a wife or sweetheart?
There, he thought, a slight wake boiling up from a pole extending vertically several feet over the wave crests — no, two poles. He must have a periscope in addition to his snorkel mast.
“I have Master One on visual,” Pacino said. “Showing extensions of two masts.” He zoomed as far in as the unit could magnify. In 96x, the view bounced slightly despite gyro-stabilization and post image computer processing, and it was blurry, but still, that higher mast unmistakably resembled the old-fashioned attack periscopes of the diesel submarines of fifty years before. The other mast had a wider cylinder on top of it, which must have been the head valve for the snorkel, which should shut if the mast suffered a wave rolling on top of it, preventing the induction piping to the diesel suction from pulling in water and damaging the diesel — and flooding the submarine. No doubt, this submarine was as sophisticated as Navigator Romanov had promised. Pacino watched his display. He could see smoke boiling out of the ocean slightly behind the Bigfoot’s masts. Exhaust fumes. Evidently, they didn’t use low-smoke diesel fuel.
Pacino took the magnification down to 8x to see if he could still detect the masts, and he could make them out, the rooster tail of the motion and smoke trail making it easier.
“Coordinator, Sonar, turn count, Master One, four zero RPM on one four-bladed screw. He’s headed out of town.”
“Get in trail,” Romanov ordered.
“Pilot, all ahead one third, turns for three knots, steer course three five zero.”
“All ahead one third, turns for three, steer three five zero, Pilot aye, and Maneuvering answers, one third, turns for three knots.”
For the next ten minutes Pacino concentrated on falling in behind the L-class target, close enough he could make out the periscope and snorkel mast at 8x magnification but far enough away that Master One probably wouldn’t see his own periscopes. Pacino wondered what Bigfoot would do if he did see the scopes. Probably secure snorkeling and go deep on batteries and try to evade — at least that’s what Pacino would do if it were his call. He added RPM a few turns at a time to close in the range, then dropped revolutions off as he seemed too close, all the while coached by Romanov. For those ten minutes, Pacino felt a triumph, that this mission was going well. Soon the freighter would be distant and over the horizon behind them and the mission of the SEALs could begin. And then the bad news came in.
“Coordinator, Sonar, loud transients have stopped from Master Two, but I now have a turn count on Master Two and he’s making one two zero RPM on two three-bladed screws. Master Two is speeding up and turning, bearing one-six-eight. Coordinator, Master Two is getting louder. I believe Master Two is steaming toward us.”
Quinnivan grabbed Varney’s shoulder. “Pos One, turn the scope to Master Two to the south!”