“You’re coming through five by five,” Seagraves said into the red mike.
“Grip and I are going in now. I’ll go first.”
The view out the helmet camera showed Fishman’s view as he looked down in the maw of the hatchway. He stepped down to the first ladder rung inside, climbed down several rungs, then his hands reached out for the ladder. The rungs of the ladder moved by the view until Fishman’s boots landed on the deck, some twenty feet down from the conning tower cockpit.
He did a slow turn through a full circle to show the inside of the boat.
There was almost nothing there.
He looked up at the ladder and ordered Aquatong to wait on the conning tower. “I’m inside the sub,” he said, “and there’s only room for one person in here. I’m standing in a rectangular space barely a meter square and two-and-a-half meters high. The forward wall is a server rack, nothing but computers. In the forward starboard corner there is a video display that seems to be showing the view out of a camera mounted on the forward server rack. To starboard there’s a bulkhead completely taken up with cables and piping. Aft is another server rack. And the port side is like the starboard side, all cables, wires, junction boxes and piping, with a few valves. That’s it.”
Seagraves grabbed his microphone, ready to say something or ask a question, when Fishman’s voice came back, louder this time.
“Oh, that’s not good,” he said. The video screen mounted in the forward starboard corner suddenly came to life, its display showing Fishman’s face, then rewinding slowly to view his face when the camera had seen him best. The screen froze with his face in the video, but with straight lines superimposed on his face, tracing the shape of his face, measuring his cheekbones, nose and eye spacing. “That’s facial recognition for sure,” he said as he vaulted back to the ladder and took the rungs as fast as he could.
“Fuck, hatch is coming shut!” The camera view showed the world spinning as Fishman threw himself out of the upper hatchway onto the deck of the cockpit. He turned his head and the video view showed the hatch almost half shut. Pacino watched as the hatch slowly and smoothly shut all the way.
“Evacuate!” Fishman ordered. “Victor, stay where you are. We’re getting out of here. Sierra, out.”
The helmet cam view winked out. Pacino tried to return the display to the periscope, managing to get it to work on the second try. The SEALs were tossing down equipment bags and rappelling down the conning tower to the sub’s deck. One of the SEALs on the foredeck had inflated a Zodiac rubber boat and outfitted it with a small motor. Within seconds, the equipment and SEALs were embarked and the boat was plowing through the small waves toward Vermont. Pacino kept his view trained to the submarine, noticing in 8x magnification he could see the sub’s periscope optical opening pointed straight at him. Was it possible the submarine had defensive weapons?
“Broach the sail, Mr. Pacino,” Seagraves ordered. “We’ll bring them in through the bridge hatch. XO, go up and meet them.” Quinnivan left the room in a haste.
“Aye, Captain. Pilot, make your depth five zero feet.”
“Five zero feet, Pilot aye. Depth six zero, five five, five zero feet, sir.”
“Very well.” The SEAL boat reached their sail, then became too close to see in the periscope view.
“Approach Officer, bridge trunk upper hatch indicates open.”
“Very well, Pilot,” Pacino said, his periscope view locked onto the narco-sub, which was floating motionless.
“Approach Officer, Sonar,” Albanese called. “I have transients from Master One. Sounds like thumping noises.”
Pacino watched the submarine. Was it getting lower in the water?
“Scuttling charges,” Romanov said. To Pacino, she whispered, “Get a sounding.”
“Nav-ET,” Pacino called, “Mark sounding.”
“Approach Officer,” a young voice said from the aft port corner of control, “Sounding one thousand seventy fathoms.”
“Six thousand feet plus,” Romanov said, her tablet out as she noted the exact latitude and longitude of the target submarine. “A bit too deep to salvage without military equipment.”
On Pacino’s console display, the decks of the sub vanished beneath the waves, only the conning tower still visible, until soon that too vanished.
“Approach Officer, upper bridge access hatch indicates shut.”
Seagraves tapped his gold Annapolis ring on the command console, impatient for word from the SEAL commander. As if on cue, Fishman stepped into the room, wrapped in towels. He looked over at Seagraves.
“Well?”
“You saw what I saw, Captain. Sub was run by some kind of artificial intelligence. With over a billion dollars in cargo, the AI was reluctant to self-destruct until it looked at my face and realized I wasn’t on its list of friendly faces. Then it decided to sink. I’m just lucky it gave me enough time to get out. I wonder if they programmed that as a safety feature in case one of their own guys didn’t get his face recognized properly. So, now, that sub is on its way to Davey Jones’ locker, never to be seen again.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Seagraves said. “I imagine we’ll salvage it to see what was up with its artificial intelligence setup. And to destroy those drugs, of course.”
Fishman shrugged. “In any case, Captain, the mission’s over. I’m going to take a shower.”
“You and your XO please join us in the wardroom once you’re squared away,” Seagraves said.
“Roger,” Fishman said, spinning on his wet heel and heading for his quarters.
Seagraves turned to Pacino. “Mr. Pacino, secure battlestations and station the normal watch section. Take us to patrol depth, course north, ten knots while you wait for the navigator to lay in a course for Andros Island, Bahamas. Once you’re relieved, convene a patrol report party.”
“Aye, Captain,” Pacino said. He picked up the 1MC microphone and clicked it, his voice blasting through the ship. “Secure battlestations, station underway watch section two.” He projected his voice toward the ship control station. “Pilot, make your depth five four six feet, all ahead two thirds, turns for ten knots, steer course north.”
Pacino looked at Romanov, who was leaning over the chart display and plotting a turning point on the approach to the Windward Passage. “What’s a patrol report party?” Pacino asked Romanov.
“We get the control room watchstanders together and get our story straight for the quick reaction situation report and then the top-secret patrol report to the National Security Council and ComSubCom. You’re the junior officer, so lucky you, you get to write the report for all of us to critique.”
Pacino smiled at her. “I am lucky,” he said. “Who else gets to be approach officer on a tactical mission at the tender age of twenty-three?”
Romanov winked at him and clapped his shoulder. “You did well, non-qual. But like the captain said, don’t get cocky.”
Romanov grabbed the 1MC microphone. “Convene the patrol report party in the wardroom,” she said.
What a difference a week made, Pacino thought. A week ago he was a bundle of anxiety and had zero confidence. Today, he was a veteran, swashbuckling pirate. Quite a week, indeed.
11
Lieutenant Commander Romanov was surfaced officer of the deck with Pacino as junior officer of the deck on the short surface run to the AUTEC complex on Andros Island, Bahamas. The sea was a sparkling deep blue, so transparent that the hull of the submarine could be seen below her massive bow wave as she steamed at flank northeast toward the AUTEC piers. A pair of dolphins suddenly burst out of the flow of the sea and arced gracefully over and dived beneath the bow, then jumped out again, the pair playing in the bow wave. For almost two solid minutes, the dolphins swam and jumped joyfully beside them, sometimes on the starboard side, sometimes to port, sometimes one on each side. Romanov looked at Pacino.