The rigged-for-ultraquiet control room was lit by dim red lights and the green glow from the BSY-1 battlecontrol attack center on the starboard side, the sonar stacks on the port side and the array of flatpanels at the pilot and copilot ship control station. Short Hull Cooper stood at the starboard side of the command console and handed Pacino a headset. Forward of the command console, Executive Officer Quinnivan stood, looking over the attack center consoles. To Pacino’s left, between the command console and the navigation plot, Captain Seagraves paced between the sonar consoles and the attack center. He saw Pacino and gave him a slight nod. Lieutenant Varney, the off-going officer of the deck, approached and stood between the command console and the captain, facing Pacino.
“Master One, the Omega,” Varney said to Pacino, “bears one eight zero and is proceeding north toward our position. Sonar thinks it’s being towed by two tugs and thinks its screws are shut down.”
“Range to the BUFF?” Pacino asked, looking down at the navigation display that was selected on the command console.
“Mr. Pacino,” Quinnivan said over his shoulder. “Refer to the contact as Master One, if you don’t mind.”
“Sorry, XO,” Pacino muttered, rubbing his eyes, still feeling half asleep. The dream had left him like a vapor blown away by the wind, but he remembered screaming out about the status of the propulsion plant before Styxx woke him.
“Fifteen hundred yards, give or take,” Varney said. “We don’t have a good TMA solution on him, but the channel is only so big, so the contact’s bearing and time since the turn led to that estimated range.”
“Maneuvering’s status?”
“Reactor’s in nat circ, normal full-power lineup,” Varney said. “Answering bells on both propulsion turbine generators. Main motor is warm.”
“Ship status?”
“Hovering at two hundred feet. Both thrusters rigged out to allow us to point south to the contact.”
“Our intentions?”
“Let the Omega drive toward us and pass overhead,” Varney said. “Once it’s out a few hundred yards, put on turns to follow it out of the fjord. Once the tugs are clear, we’ll get her sound signature.”
“Are there plans to do an underhull?” Pacino asked.
“Captain will decide in a few minutes.”
“Weapon status?”
“Tubes one and two powered up, outer doors open. Just waiting for us to send them target information. So, you got the picture?”
“I’ve got it. I relieve you, sir,” Pacino replied.
“I stand relieved,” Varney said, then looked at the captain. “Sir, I’ve been properly relieved as officer of the deck by Mr. Pacino.” He stepped over to the Pos Two seat at the attack center and climbed into its seat, his battlestations assignment to determine the magical package of information about the Omega, her range, course, and speed, the data called
Pacino looked at Captain Seagraves and reported, “Captain, I’ve relieved Mr. Varney as officer of the deck.” He looked at Quinnivan, whose battle station was firecontrol coordinator, or just coordinator. “Coordinator, are battlestations manned?”
Quinnivan spun to look at Pacino and bowed. “Officer of the Deck, battlestations are manned.”
The sounds came through the hull then, the pulsing whoosh of the tugboat screws and the thrumming of their powerful engines, the noise building up in intensity, getting closer every second. Pacino waited with the battlestations control room crew, holding his breath. The noise reached its peak, moving from dead ahead to directly overhead as the tugs and the colossal submarine sailed over them and continued northward in the channel, now beginning to fade astern.
“Pilot,” Pacino said to Dankleff in the ship control station, “take charge of your thrusters and rotate the ship to heading north.”
Dankleff acknowledged, reporting a few seconds later, “Officer of the Deck, ship’s heading is zero zero zero.”
“Pilot, rig in both thrusters. All ahead one third, maintain depth two hundred.”
Dankleff acknowledged again. The sounds of the tug screws and engines were diminishing ahead of them.
“Kick up your speed, OOD,” Seagraves said. “He’s fading.”
“Aye, sir. Pilot, all ahead two thirds.”
“Master One is drifting right,” Senior Chief Sonarman Albanese reported from the number one sonar stack. “He’s turning.”
“Nav?” Pacino asked, looking at Lewinsky, who stood at the navigation plot.
“One hundred yards to the turn point, OOD,” he said. “New course, zero four five.”
“Very well,” Pacino said, zooming into his chart display to show the northeast portion of the channel.
“Mark the turn to course zero four five,” Lewinsky said.
“Pilot, right full rudder, steady course zero four five.”
“Eighteen hundred yards on this course, OOD,” Lewinsky said. “Next course will be zero nine zero.”
“Very well, Nav,” Pacino said. “Sonar, any sign of Master One using her own screws?”
