Lieutenant Pacino walked up to Albanese’s stack. “Can I listen?” Pacino asked the sonar chief. Albanese handed him a headset without taking his eyes away from the complex screen displays. Pacino handed his tactical headset to Cooper and put on the sonar headset. The sonar pulses from Master One’s under-ice sonar were loud in his ears, but there was more than just the high and low frequency pulses now. A faint sound began in the bass register and slowly ramped up to a high-pitched shriek, then descended suddenly to the lower note. “You’ve got a new sonar signal on that under-ice sonar,” Pacino said.
Albanese nodded. “They turn that on every few minutes with no repeating pattern. Seems to be activated randomly.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Probably a three-dimensional sonar enhancement of what’s in front of them.”
“Damn,” Pacino said. “I’d like to stand a watch at their under-ice console. What’s that?” The indications showed a pulse unlike the others, at a different frequency, pinging for a shorter time and happening only once.
“That’s their secure bottom-sounder. Fathometer. They’ve been steady at thirty RPM,” Albanese said. “No trouble so far and they haven’t had to change course more than five degrees this entire watch.”
“Icepack is at minimum,” Pacino said. As if answering his comment, a groaning shriek came through the hull as the ice shifted overhead. He glanced at Cooper, but the junior officer of the deck had stepped over to the command console. Pacino looked up at the periscope display flatpanel in the forward overhead, which still showed the heat blooms from the Omega’s reactor compartment and engineroom. He became aware of Lieutenant Vevera standing next to him. Without a word, Pacino handed him the sonar headset and put his own tactical headset back on. After listening for a minute, Vevera handed the sonar headset to his oncoming junior officer of the deck, Long Hull Cooper.
At the command console, the periscope view was trained on the Omega. Vevera joined him. “You think the laser range finder would work underwater?” he asked Pacino.
“No way. You’d probably break it,” Pacino said.
“You think the BUFF has an optronic scope like ours? If he does, and he’s running infrared, he might see us.”
“Doubt it. The intel on the Belgorod shows it with conventional optical units. The old fashioned kind.”
Vevera smiled. “I always think of U-Boat captains spinning their officer caps backward as they peer through the scope.”
“It was kind of cool using an old-fashioned optical scope. Panther had one. It’s actually tough to go back to just looking at a damned TV screen.”
“I can imagine. So, what do you have for us?” Vevera asked.
Pacino gave him the briefing on what had gone on for the previous six hours.
“When will the message be onboard?” Vevera asked.
“About an hour after midrats,” Pacino said. “Captain and XO will probably convene an op-brief in the wardroom soon after.”
“I can’t wait to see what the brass has to say,” Vevera said. “Pretty strange to think we can’t talk back to them.”
“Yeah,” Pacino said. “You ready to relieve me?”
“I relieve you as officer of the deck, sir,” Vevera said formally.
“I stand relieved,” Pacino said, then announced to the room, “Lieutenant Vevera has the deck and the conn.” He looked at Short Hull Cooper. “JOOD relief?”
Short Hull nodded. “I’ve been relieved by Mr. Cooper.”
“Awesome. What’s for midrats, Squirt Gun?”
Vevera smiled. “Pizza,” he said, rubbing his belly.
“It don’t get no better than this,” Pacino said. “Have a good watch.”
Pacino and Cooper walked aft to the wardroom. The captain was in his command chair seat with XO Quinnivan on his right side. The navigator, weapons officer and engineer were there, munching on pizza.
Pacino walked near the captain, came to attention, and said, “Captain, I’ve been properly relieved of the deck and the conn by Mr. Vevera. Master One still bears zero four five and is operating his under-ice sonar. We have strong contact on him on broadband and narrowband, and on the optronic unit in IR. Message traffic on the VLF loops should be received by zero one thirty.”
“Very well, Mr. Pacino,” Seagraves said seriously. “I have to say, you’re doing a barely adequate job up there.”
Pacino smiled. “Why, thank you, sir.” He sat in his seat and took the platter from Styxx and took a slice of pizza, famished for hot food after a day of cold cuts and peanut butter.
The central command post of the Belgorod was whisper quiet except for the pinging and groaning from the under-ice sonar and the occasional sound of the ice shifting overhead. Senior Watch Officer Captain Third Rank Svetka Maksimov, the navigator, was seated at the command console in the captain’s seat, the far left seat of the three-seat console where the senior officers of the submarine would guide the actions of the submarine during tactical action stations. During normal under-ice steaming, a department head like Maksimov would be stationed as senior watch officer, her duties mostly supervising the actions of the watch officer, who on this watch was Communications Officer Captain Lieutenant Vilen Shvets. Shvets took the far starboard seat of the command console, but he would often walk around the room or sit at the attack center console. Also stationed was the under-ice sonar operator, which on this watch was Sonar Officer Senior Lieutenant Valerina Palinkova.
On the forward starboard ship control console, two senior enlisted men, the boatswains, manned the panel that controlled the movement of the ship — its ballast systems, the operation of the bow planes and stern planes and rudder, and the engine order telegraph that communicated the ordered speed to the reactor control room watchstanders aft.
On the starboard side of the command console, the attack center console was a long row of four operator stations, each with three display screens with a tabletop with a keyboard and trackball. The attack center was manned by a senior enlisted firecontrol technician. The attack center was designed to program and fire weapons at targets based on information coming from the sonar and sensor consoles.
Forward in the room, on the centerline, was the under-ice sonar, a large one-person console with three display screens and a joystick, with its displays projected to the large flatpanel screens mounted on the bulkhead on either side of the console. The display showed a three-dimensional look at the ice ahead. So far, other than a few deep pressure ridges, the ice overhead had been well-behaved.
“Ice thickness overhead?” Maksimov called to the under-ice operator, Palinkova.
“Eleven meters, madam, and steady,” Palinkova replied.
“Sounding?” What was the depth below them to the bottom, Maksimov wanted to know.
“Four hundred seventy meters, madam.”
Maksimov decided to stretch her legs and got up to go to the navigation plot table on the aft port side of the room. She saw their position in the center of the display, a bright red dot in a field of blue. Their past path was lit up in a dimmer red, their intended course ahead plotted in bright blue. Maksimov put two fingers on the display and shrank the view, the scale of the plot changing to show a greater area of the sea around them. She continued to adjust the scale until the entire Arctic Ocean was shown on the plot, the blue intended course continuing northeast, then passing south of the pole and continuing in a great circle route to the Bering Strait. She took a deep breath. This transit was going to take months at this speed. What the hell were the bosses thinking, sending them this way into the Pacific, and the all the way around North America and South America to reach the American east coast? There had to be some logic to this, she thought. But whatever it was, the bosses were keeping quiet about it.