“Check the periscope view,” Pacino said. “Make sure we’re venting.”
Cooper had the view trained to directly ahead and rotated the view downward to look at the forward vents. In the view, four geysers of water blasted upward.
“Venting forward,” Cooper announced.
“Now aft,” Pacino said.
The view aft showed multiple firehose streams of water blasting upward on the aft deck.
“Venting aft.”
“Do a surface search,” Pacino directed. “Make sure in all this excitement we haven’t missed a close surface contact.”
“Proceeding to a ten degree down bubble. Depth four zero,” Dankleff reported. “Four five.”
The deck slowly inclined, still rolling and pitching, until the deck got steep in a forward tilt. The mad vibrations of the deck from their flank speed vanished, the deck now smooth.
“Five zero feet. Five five feet.”
“Call ‘sail’s under,’” Pacino said to Cooper.
“Sail’s under.”
“Six zero feet. Six five.”
The waves grew closer to the periscope view.
“Six nine. Seven zero feet.”
Foam blasted up over the periscope display, obscuring the view.
“Scope’s awash,” Cooper said.
A million bubbles were visible on the display as the view plunged into the waves, until the troughs and crests were above them. The bubbles cleared and the waves overhead could be dimly seen in the view until the view became suddenly black and there was nothing to see.
“Scope’s under,” Cooper said. “Lowering number one scope.” He hit a function lever in the command console until an indicator light flashed on the console. “Scope is retracted.”
“Eight five feet. Nine zero. One hundred feet,” Dankleff said.
The deck had gotten steeper. Pacino reached for the safety handhold bar at the command console.
“One three zero feet.”
The rolling and pitching of the deck seemed to get gentler.
“One five zero feet,” Dankleff said. “And steady on depth. Shutting forward vents. Shutting aft vents. And forward and aft main ballast tank vents indicate shut. JOOD, request to obtain a one third trim.”
Cooper raised an eyebrow at Pacino, who nodded.
“Pilot, obtain a one third trim.”
“One third trim, Pilot aye, and all ahead one third, and Maneuvering answers, all ahead one third.”
For fifteen minutes Dankleff operated his console, aided by his copilot, Quartane, flooding some variable ballast tanks with water, pumping some overboard and balancing the boat by transferring water from aft to forward. He had to increase speed back to two thirds at one point, then after more adjustments, slowed back to one third.
“Junior Officer of the Deck,” Dankleff said proudly, “the boat has a satisfactory one third trim.”
“Very well,” Cooper said, then to Pacino, “now what?”
“Take her deep. Five hundred forty-six feet. And chase PIM,” Pacino said. “The entire time you were at four knots, the PIM dot kept going northeast at twenty-eight knots.”
“Pilot,” Cooper barked, “make your depth five four six feet.”
“Five four six feet, aye, and going to a down bubble of fifteen degrees.”
The deck tilted downward again, the rolling and pitching from the surface gone now. The tilted deck was as steady as the floor of an office building.
“Pilot, all ahead flank,” Cooper ordered.
“All ahead flank, Pilot aye, and Maneuvering answers, all ahead flank. Passing two hundred feet.”
The frantic vibrations of the deck returned as the speed indicator rose from four knots to thirty-two, their speed submerged eleven knots faster than they could make on the surface. Pacino walked to the chart table and bit his lip. The PIM dot was far ahead of them now, but traveling slower than they were, at the average transit speed of 28 knots.
“Mr. Navigator,” Pacino said to Lewinsky, “time to catch up to PIM?”
Lewinsky smiled a crooked smile. “Why don’t you get your under-instruction to calculate that?”
“Good idea,” Pacino said. “JOOD, get over here.”
11
“The news is good, the news is bad,” CIA Director Margo Allende said, pouring a black coffee for National Security Advisor Michael Pacino. “In two areas.” She glanced at Deputy Director of Operations Angel Menendez. The briefing room adjacent to the White House Situation Room was smaller, the same length as the Situation Room but narrower, most of it taken up with a long table. Both rooms were fully secure SCIFs, allowing Allende to speak freely.
“What do we have?” Pacino asked, sipping the coffee, the brew hot enough to burn his tongue.
“Good news first. The vice president was able to plant our bug in Vostov’s office during her visit with him after his wife’s funeral.”
“Excellent,” Pacino said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Allende said. “We expected her to sit in a chair at Vostov’s desk, which is how he likes to receive official visitors. It always sounded like a power play to me, like a senior person addressing a subordinate sitting in the seat in front of his big desk. But instead, he took the meeting in a set of club chairs by his massive fireplace. A much more intimate setting, but we think we’ll only harvest a fraction of the intelligence we wanted.”
“Wouldn’t a bug sweep locate that in a day?” Pacino asked.
“New tech,” Menendez said. The deputy director favored colorful Hawaiian shirts under a dark blazer with his habitual dark fedora hat, which he’d placed on the table, which irritated Pacino. U.S. Navy unwritten rules, dating back to the 1700s, strictly prohibited hats on tables — unless the owner of the hat had been to the north pole. On that basis, Pacino had always casually tossed his officers’ cover onto whatever table he’d sat at, since he’d been to the pole twice. But he sincerely doubted Menendez had. The rule had been crafted with the thought in mind that no one in the Navy had been or would ever go to the north pole, and then submariners who’d returned from “ICE-EXs” started tossing caps on tables.
“The Russians might find it in a month,” Allende said. “By then they won’t know who placed it. They could blame the British or French.”
“They always blame us,” Pacino mused. “So the intel will be less, but who knows, maybe Vostov conducts his most sensitive conversations in those club chairs.”
“I guess we’ll see,” Allende said.
“You said there were two areas,” Pacino said.
“Yes. The modified special purpose sub, the Omega II, the Belgorod. We still think it’s headed up north under the icecap. And it’s delayed by at least a week, maybe two.”
“Well, that’s definitely good news,” Pacino said. “That gives us time to get our project submarine up there.” He tried to keep his expression neutral, but he was apprehensive about Anthony being assigned to New Jersey, which would be ordered to get into position to trail the Belgorod and find out what the hell it would be doing. At least this wouldn’t be as dangerous as the Panther mission, he consoled himself.
“Oh, there’s more, Patch,” Menendez said, smiling, seeming pleased with himself. “Belgorod is taking aboard four comfort women. Must be a long mission they’re anticipating.”