“Eight zero feet, sir.”
The waves were getting farther away up above. Pacino trained the view downward from the waves to try to see the hull of the target submarine. Blurry in the blue haze, he could barely make out a black shape. It was bigger than he expected. He could see the bow and the conning tower, but the sub extended into the haze farther aft.
“Nine zero feet, sir.”
“Very well.” Pacino could see other shapes. The commandos who’d locked out and left the Vermont were visible, two of them forward of Bigfoot’s conning tower, no sign of the other two.
“One hundred feet, sir.”
“Approach officer, energize the sail’s under-ice lights,” Seagraves ordered, staring at the display for the number one scope.
“Pilot, turn on the sail’s under-ice lights,” Pacino called.
“Sail’s under-ice lights coming on,” Dankleff said. “Under-ice lamps are lit, sir.”
“Very well.”
The view out the periscope sharpened slightly as the sail’s lights came on, the units designed to allow approach to the underside of the polar ice if they were in the arctic maneuvering under a pressure ridge or preparing to vertical surface.
“Let’s fade back, Approach Officer,” Seagraves ordered. “See if we can get a better look at the screw-fouling effort, and be positioned if one of the SEALs falls off the target’s hull.”
“Pilot, drop two turns,” Pacino ordered.
“Drop two turns, aye, and Maneuvering answers, dropping two turns, present RPM two eight turns.”
“Very well.”
The target slowly rolled past them, now crystal clear in the periscope view in low power. Pacino could make out the detail of the conning tower, saw the two SEALs forward, then the black hull passed slowly by until Pacino could see two SEALs near the aft rudder, with a package — no, two packages — that slowly started expanding. Unfurling. Almost like an underwater parachute, a blooming surface, silk or canvas or some modern polymer with nano-fibers, expanded, flapped slowly in the water flow, then spiraled downward aft of the rudder, the motion of the target submarine and the vortex of the screw pulling the packages downward and inward, until the strange objects were no longer visible. No doubt, they were wrapped hard around the Bigfoot’s screw.
“Master One’s screw is fouled,” Pacino said to Seagraves.
“Get ready to slow and stop,” Romanov said. “You may need momentary reverse turns, but stay close to him.”
“Coordinator, Sonar,” Albanese said, his voice unmistakably happy, “Master One turn count dropping, and Master One’s screw is stopped, turn count zero.”
“Pilot, all stop, prepare to hover,” Pacino ordered.
“All stop, prepare to hover, Pilot, aye, and Maneuvering answers, all stop.”
Quinnivan turned and grinned over at Pacino, Romanov and Seagraves. “We got the fooker,” he said quietly.
The target was slowing too fast. Vermont was starting to pass him, still too fast.
“Pilot, all back one third.” Pacino took a breath. “Mark speed one knot.”
“All back one third, Maneuvering answers, mark speed one knot.”
Pacino waited tensely as the target came back toward them. Being submerged with a backing bell ordered was not a comfortable situation, he knew.
“Speed, one knot,” Dankleff called.
“Pilot, all stop. Commence hovering at present depth.”
“All stop, aye, sir, Maneuvering answers all stop, commencing hovering, depth one hundred feet.”
“Coordinator, Sonar, transients from Master One. Sounds like blowing noises. Believe he’s surfacing.”
“Take us up to PD,” Seagraves ordered Pacino, “and adjust position to be abreast of Master One.”
“Pilot, make your depth six four feet,” Pacino called.
“Rising to six four feet, Pilot aye, depth nine zero. Eight five.”
“Belay reports,” Pacino said, staring at the periscope display. The view was getting too distant.
“Pilot, all ahead one third, turns for two.”
“Ahead one third, turns for two knots, aye, and Maneuvering answers, all ahead one third, turns for two. Depth seven five.”
Pacino waited until the hull of the target was drawing nearer. If he called it right, he could slow Vermont to coast to a halt right beside the Bigfoot. “All stop,” he said, guessing this would be enough thrust to get them beside the target. “Hover at present depth.”
The periscope view grew foamy and blurry as the optics penetrated the waves, then slowly cleared, the bright blue sky above, the deep blue of the ocean below, the waves rolling by slowly, the crests perhaps a foot or a foot-and-a-half tall.
“Six five feet. Six four. Hovering at six four feet, sir,” Dankleff reported.
Pacino trained the scope slightly aft. The target submarine, its hull a dark, glossy black, had stopped, its conning tower moving slightly as the ship rolled in the slight swells. He could make out two figures, hugging tight to the conning tower. The tower was smooth, with no handholds or ladder rungs or openings. The SEALs had wrapped cable around the conning tower to use to be able to hold on to the submarine. Pacino could see two of their thruster units hanging suspended from the cable, and one small equipment bag. The SEALs waited, crouched down low.
Pacino trained his view upward to the top of the conning tower, wondering if the sub’s access hatch was at the top. The snorkel mast and periscope were still extended. Pacino zoomed in to look at the target’s periscope mast. As he’d expected, the sloping glass of the optic opening was pointed right at him.
“He can see us,” Pacino said to Seagraves and Romanov. “There’s nothing happening.”
For two long minutes, the control room crew froze, all of them except the pilot and copilot staring at the periscope displays, waiting for a hatch to open on the sub’s deck or conning tower, waiting for a crewman or multiple crewmen to emerge to troubleshoot the fouled screw, but nothing happened.
“That’s odd,” Quinnivan said.
“Glitch number two,” Romanov said, staring at the command console’s display.
“We have a contingency for this?” Pacino asked Romanov.
She shrugged. “SEALs do. They’ll try to break in. Either an external hatch-opening mechanism or a salvage connection. If that doesn’t look possible, we’ll have to pass over a diamond-plasma cutting rig so they can torch their way in.”
Seagraves frowned. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he said. “They may have a plan in case of being caught or detained.”
Romanov shot the captain a look. “Like the North Korean sub a few years ago,” she said slowly.
“Exactly. Approach Officer, surface the ship.”
“Surface, aye, sir. Pilot, vertical surface!”
“Vertical surface, Pilot, aye.” A blasting alarm boomed through control, the OOOO-GAAAH of the diving alarm. The 1MC shipwide announcing circuit blasted out Dankleff’s voice. “Surface! Surface! Surface!” The diving alarm sounded again, but by that time Dankleff had blown forward and aft main ballast and the periscope view rose higher. Pacino looked downward as their own hull emerged from the waves.
“Prepare to place the low-pressure blower on all main ballast tanks,” Dankleff’s voice crackled again on the 1MC. “Approach Officer, raising the snorkel mast.”