“So everyone agreed,” Pacino said, tapping his pencil on the line on the chart, “the best route out of here is to hug the India coastline. We proceed southeast, and from there, as we depart the Arabian Sea and in-chop the Indian Ocean, turn due south to Antarctica. We stay as far away from the great circle route back to AUTEC as possible. That way we avoid any opposition force lying in wait for us, such as here, in the Mozambique Channel. Or the south shores of Africa. And off the coast of India, the shipping traffic is heavy. It’ll hide us.”
Lieutenant Dieter Dankleff, officer in charge, leaned far over the chart. “I still say we’ll be going hundreds of miles farther than the great circle route. We’ll burn fuel and go through our food. How long is the total transit time by doing this?”
“A hundred days, give or take,” Pacino said. “But I have an idea that can get it done in three weeks.”
“No,” Lieutenant Muhammad Varney, the Panther’s operations officer, said. “I know what you’re thinking. There’s no way we’re doing that.”
“What?” Dankleff asked.
“Lipstick here wants to start the goddamned fast reactor, then take us up to flank speed. He thinks we can squeeze thirty knots out of this pig. That’s assuming we don’t melt the reactor down, break open the hull or, you know, explode.”
“Explode?” Dankleff said, smirking. “Exploding would be somewhat non-optimal.”
“I spent some time with Captain Ahmadi,” Pacino said. “He’s no fan of the Russian technician, Abakumov, but even Ahmadi thinks the Russian can start the UBK-500 safely and bring it into the power range.”
“UBK-500? You know the model number of the fast reactor?”
“Ahmadi told me all about it. He was translating the Iranian version of the tech manual. First chapter of the operating instructions, anyway. ‘Normal startup.’”
“Okay,” Dankleff said, his voice taking on a commanding tone. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to keep going at six knots to optimize battery endurance, snorkeling at night to charge batteries. And right after Gory Goreliki whips us up some dinner, we’re going to talk more about this fast reactor.”
“I’ll get with Abakumov about this so he can prepare,” Pacino said.
Dankleff smiled. “I’m beginning to like the idea of getting home in a couple weeks instead of three months.”
Varney shook his head. “I’m beginning to fear the idea of hitting the ocean bottom in a day when that reactor blows.”
“Don’t be a pessimist, Boozy,” Pacino said.
“Now, boys, be nice,” Dankleff said. Pacino watched him and Varney leave the navigation space. Dankleff had a spring in his step while Varney slouched out of the room.
He hoped like hell he was right about all this.
After the pasta and meat sauce meal that Gory Goreliki served, Pacino spread out a large-area chart of the Arabian Sea on the wardroom table. Pacino had drawn their course in pencil. He took dividers and walked them down the track, scribbling in a notebook he’d found, then sat back and frowned at the chart.
After an hour, Ahmadi and Dankleff joined him. Varney was in the central command post, manning the evening watch. Standing in the far corner of the room was Grip Aquatong, strapped with a Mark 6, his Sig Sauer 1911 .45 pistol and two K-Bar combat knives, one strapped to each thigh, and a long stiletto knife strapped to his forearm, his gaze fixed on Ahmadi. Ahmadi and the Russian reactor engineer were monitored at all times by one of the SEALs.
Pacino had his head in his hands.
“What’s the matter, Lipstick?” Dankleff asked.
“Something’s bothering me, U-Boat,” Pacino said. “The Indian coast idea seemed like a good idea when we first thought of it, but now it seems too obvious. An opposition force would be looking for us to escape either by the great circle route on the African east coast or to hug the Indian or Saudi peninsula coastline.”
“Say that’s true. What do you propose?”
Pacino took a pencil and marked a south-southwest track starting from their present position.
“A big zig-zag. We head this way to the equator, then turn southwest toward Madagascar, running south of the island, then actually southeastward, here, southeast to our original course that circled Antarctica. It’s random enough that we can hide in the Indian Ocean. No one looking at the possible escape routes from the Arabian Sea is going to nail it.”
Dankleff picked up a phone and dialed the central command post.
“Varney.”
“New plan. Change course to one nine zero.”
“That’ll take us away from the Indian coastline.”
“I know,” Dankleff said. “Someone walked on Lipstick’s watery grave. Just do it.”
“Aye aye, OIC,” Varney said and hung up.
“Happy now?”
“No,” Pacino said. “Our number two problem. Fuel. Captain Ahmadi, were you loaded out full with diesel oil on departure?”
“Yes, Mr. Patch. One hundred percent. Twenty thousand gallons.”
“Your range on full tanks?”
“About four thousand nautical miles. Give or take. Sprinting above battery optimization speed makes the diesel go faster.”
Pacino looked up at Dankleff. “So for the sake of argument, let’s say we don’t use the reactor. We’ll run out of gas about here.” He pointed to the chart. “Southern tip of Madagascar. Unless we fill it up, we’ll be adrift with no fuel. To add in some margin of safety, I’d get to the northeast coast of Madagascar. With our tank range, we’ll need four refills to make it to AUTEC. This hairbrained plan for us to rendezvous with rustbucket tramp steamers with bunkers full of diesel is a loser, U-Boat. There’s no way this scheme to refuel submerged can work, and even if it did, we are totally vulnerable for hours while that goes down. And refueling surfaced is even worse. And we do survive this, we’ll have to do it four more times, U-Boat. Eventually, they’ll catch us. Eventually, we’re going down.”
Dankleff went to the credenza and made a boiling hot cup of Arabian coffee. “I’ll say one thing for you Iranians,” he said to Ahmadi. “Your coffee is goddamned rocket fuel.” He sat at the table by Pacino, looking at the chart. “We’re not used to thinking like this,” he said. “Being nuclear-powered means never having to say you’re out of gas.”
“But we are nuclear-powered, U-Boat,” Pacino said.
“Your first reason to start that beast, to get home sooner, was a good one. But this reason is much more compelling.”
“Look, the longer we’re out here, the longer an opposition force has to find us. And, U-Boat, they probably have shoot-on-detection orders. If we get snapped up, we’re dead men.”
Dankleff nodded. “If I were the Russians, that’s what I’d do.”
“We need to crank up the fast reactor first. Then The Whale needs to figure out the sonar system, and K-Squared has to make the firecontrol system work. And Gory has to configure our secure VHF, UHF and EHF to talk to the CommStar. And we need to figure out the torpedoes and launching mechanisms.”
“I can help with all that,” Ahmadi said. “I’d just as soon not get shot down by a Russian Yasen-M-class.”
Something dark blew into Pacino’s soul. “Why did you mention a Yasen-M?”
A voice from the door said in Russian-accented English, “We were sending two of them.”
Pacino looked up to see the Russian reactor engineer, Alexie Abakumov, standing in blue ship-issued coveralls with a white lab jacket over it, as if the lab coat made him appear more scientific. He was a big man, not fat but solid, almost six feet tall, his full head of dirty blonde hair touching the door sill. He had a straight nose, blue eyes, thin lips, and shallow cheeks that looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week, maybe more. He moved into the room and took a seat opposite Pacino. Commander Fishman shadowed him into the wardroom, his Mark 6 unholstered.