It was Dankleff’s show now, Pacino thought. “Submerge the ship, Pilot, aye!” Dankleff announced, his voice jolly at the prospect of flying the ship into the depths. He selected the 1MC ship-wide announcing circuit and his voice projected throughout the submarine, “Dive! Dive!” He hit a function button on his touch screen and a blaring alarm blasted through the space,
“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.”
“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.
