There in the port forward control room overhead, the number two periscope view showed Master Two, the Sargasso Causeway, with a large bow wave forming. “Observation, Master Two, number one scope, bearing mark,” Quinnivan said, leaning over Varney’s Pos One console. “Range, mark, four divisions in high power, angle on the bow port five. Take a laser range.”
“Now two four zero RPM,” Albanese reported.
The freighter was approaching at full throttle.
“Bearing one six five,” Varney reported from Pos One. “Range thirteen thousand two hundred yards.”
Quinnivan looked over at Pacino, Seagraves and Romanov. “He’s either seen us and is coming to investigate, or perhaps worse, he’s going to steam beside the submarine and escort it out of the area, maybe all the way to Miami. Which would put a damper on our plans with our good friends, the SEALs. If they tried to force Master One to surface in sight of the freighter, the freighter would render aid. And for all we know, start a shoot-out with the SEALs.”
“The freighter has never done this on prior voyages,” Romanov said dejectedly. “He’s always turned around and gone back to port, leaving the narco-sub alone. Why is this different?”
There it was, Pacino thought. The Glitch. Maybe the freighter had seen Vermont’s twin periscopes and grown alarmed, and was either coming to investigate or their procedures had changed, and now the revised base plan had them escorting the narco-sub.
Without conscious thought, Pacino looked at the senior officers and said breathlessly, “Let’s toss a Tomahawk Mod EMP Kakivak cruise missile at the freighter. That’ll shut him down dead in the water without hurting the submarine.”
A Mod EMP Kakivak was a “NNEMP,” a non-nuclear electromagnetic pulse weapon that would fry the electronics and major electrical components of anyone or anything in its blast radius. Pacino had encountered its detailed specifications in the course of this qualification studies. Vermont was loaded out with two of them, despite no one expecting to use them.
For a long moment, Lieutenant Commander Romanov stared at Pacino, then found her voice. “Are you insane? You can’t just launch a warshot cruise missile at a civilian freighter!”
Pacino took in the room. Every eye was on him. Quinnivan looked like he’d just been slapped, his face turning red. Varney, the pos one battlecontrol console operator, looked at Lomax on pos two, then at Eisenhart on pos three. Ganghadharan, at the navigation console, shared a look with both of them. Pacino thought for a moment he heard Lomax murmur to Eisenhart, Jesus, check out the big brass balls of non-qual Pacino.
It was Weapons Officer Spichovich at the weapon control console, the WCC pos one, who broke the moment of silence.
“Captain,” he said, addressing Seagraves, who had put his hand to his chin and stared at the deck, deep in thought, “I have Mod EMP Kakivaks in the number two VPT in tubes eleven and twelve. Recommend spinning up both, sir.”
Quinnivan turned from the periscope display at Varney’s pos one. “Master Two is making way, fast, maybe twelve to fifteen knots, and his angle-on-the-bow is narrowing. We’re on the same bearing from him as Master One, and he’s coming straight toward the both of us. If he aims to escort the Bigfoot out of the area, he’s sighting in her periscope and snorkel mast. Which means he might also be seeing ours. Recommend dipping scopes.”
Romanov hissed at Pacino. “Down scopes!”
Pacino hit the hydraulic control levers to lower both periscopes. “Scopes one and two coming down,” he said to the room.
Seagraves glanced at Romanov and Quinnivan. “Mr. Pacino has a point,” he said, his baritone voice quiet and confident. “An EMP would shut down the freighter. And he’s not going to complain about it to the authorities. And we buy time. None of his radios will work to call for a tow. He’s near enough to shipping lanes he’d eventually be spotted and rescued. Worst thing that can happen is we fry the electronics of an innocent passer-by. Sonar, report all contacts.”
“Captain, the only contacts held by sonar,” Albanese said crisply, “Are Master Two, bearing one-six-zero, distant, and Master One, bearing three five zero, close range.”
“Captain,” Romanov said, her voice uncertain, “that EMP could knock out the Bigfoot. And us.”
“After we launch, we’ll take her deep,” Seagraves said. “If it paralyzes Master One, we’ll deal with that at the time.”
Pacino spoke up. “We could place the detonation a few thousand yards on the other side of Master Two, opening the range to us and Master One, but still close enough to the freighter to shut him down.”
Seagraves spoke to Pacino. “No. At an airburst height of four hundred feet, the damage radius is two thousand yards, more or less, Mr. Pacino. I don’t want to risk launching an EMP, having it go off but being ineffective. When we launch, that warhead is going off directly over his bridge. Straight down his throat. And we’ll be well outside the damage zone. And so will Master One.” Seagraves winked at Romanov. “I can’t bring myself to call him Bigfoot, Officer of the Deck.” He looked back at Pacino. “Approach Officer, drive off west, five knots. You have permission to open the number two VPT door and launch one EMP Kakivak at Master Two, the Sargasso Causeway, with the aim point directly overhead at a detonation altitude of four hundred feet. Immediately after launch, take her deeper in the layer, two hundred feet.”
Pacino acknowledged the captain, then turned toward the command console, the display selected to the same output as the navigation chart plot aft of him, showing the God’s eye view of the sea around him. He looked hard at it, memorizing the image.
“Pilot,” he ordered Dankleff, “Left fifteen degrees rudder, steady course west, all ahead one third, maintain depth six four feet. Weapons Officer, open the number two VPT outer door and make the Mod EMP Kakivak in vertical launch tube twelve ready in all respects for a tactical launch at Master Two, aim point directly overhead Master Two, detonation altitude four hundred feet.”
The flurry of acknowledgements floated in the air of the control room in slow motion. Time seemed to slow down until he realized Quinnivan, Romanov, Seagraves and Spichovich were all staring expectantly at him.
“Firing point procedures,” Pacino said, hoping the litany of commands he’d memorized were correct. “Tube twelve, Mod EMP Kakivak, Master Two.”
“Ship ready,” Romanov reported formally to him.
“Weapon ready!” Spichovich barked.
“Solution ready,” Quinnivan said, a look of uncertainty wrinkling his forehead.
“Shoot on generated solution,” Pacino ordered.
“Set,” Varney said from pos one, sending his final data on the target to Spichovich’s panel, the electronic instructions traveling at the speed of light down to the torpedo room’s master weapons consoles and from there to the aft Virginia Payload Tube’s interface, then to the missile loaded in vertical launch tube twelve.
“Stand-by,” Spichovich said, pulling his panel’s master trigger lever up to the “stand-by” position.
“Shoot!” Pacino ordered.
“Fire!” Spichovich announced, pushing his trigger down to the “fire” position.
Tube 12, the twelfth tube in the aft-most Virginia Payload Tube module forward of the sail, detonated a steam charge under the cruise missile and blew it out of the tube toward the sky, its rocket motor firing as it cleared the sea, the rocket lifting it up to almost half a mile, a slight smoke trail extending backward to the launch point.