“Officer of the Deck, Sonar, no.” Albanese said. “Master One bears zero four five. Signal-to-noise ratio is steady.”
Pacino nodded. The tug sounds were constant, so they were at the right engine order to match the speed of the tugs and the BUFF, the Omega being towed out at eight knots. Pacino waited impatiently for the turn point.
“Mark the turn to zero nine zero,” Lewinsky said. “Three thousand yards on this course.”
The navigator guided them through two more turns until they were headed north. The chart showed that they were almost clear of the coastline and that the fjord was fading behind them.
“They should be cutting the tugs loose any time now,” Seagraves said.
But for another fifteen minutes, the tugs continued towing the Omega northward out to sea, until finally Albanese reported, “Master One’s tugboats have shut down.”
“Pilot,” Pacino called, “all stop, hover at present depth.”
“All stop and hover at two hundred feet, Pilot aye, and Maneuvering answers, all stop.”
After five minutes, Albanese spoke again. “Tugs have restarted, bearings diverging from Master One. Tugs are heading back to the barn.”
“Very well, Sonar,” Pacino said.
The sounds of the tug screws and engines came close again, passed overhead, then faded astern.
“Master One startup,” Albanese called. “Master One is making way on two seven-bladed screws.”
“Turn count, Sonar?” Pacino asked.
Albanese listened and manipulated his panel. “Master One is making six zero RPM, both screws.”
“Captain, do you want a TMA maneuver?” Pacino asked. TMA was target motion analysis, a way to get a contact’s range by using passive sonar and parallax geometry by driving the ship back and forth across the line-of-sight to the contact. It was slow and would take at least twelve minutes for an accurate range determination. They couldn’t hit the target with an active sonar pulse or it would give away that they were following him, and it would be risky to raise the periscope and use a laser rangefinder, since the Omega’s crew might detect the laser. One of the prime directives of the submarine force was,
“No time, OOD. Just speed up to eight knots and follow him. We’ll keep an eye on his signal-to-noise ratio.”
“Aye, Captain. Pilot, all ahead two thirds,” Pacino ordered. He checked the bulkhead chronometer. For a long ten minutes, they followed the Omega as he cruised slowly on the surface.
“OOD, Sonar, Master One’s turn count is increasing. He’s speeding up. I have two one zero turns.” Albanese turned to look at Seagraves. “He’s bugging out, Captain.”
“Take it up to full, OOD,” Seagraves said to Pacino.
“Pilot, all ahead full.” He looked at Seagraves. “So, no underhull, Captain?”
“Not at this speed, Mr. Pacino. He may be headed to a rendezvous point with his deep-diver sub. Let’s see what he does.”
“Aye, sir. At least he’s loud on the surface, Captain. Signal-to-noise looks good.”
“Don’t jinx it, Mr. Pacino,” Seagraves said, smiling at Pacino.
“Good news, Mr. President,” Tonya Pasternak said to Dmitri Vostov. “The terrorist attack seems to have created sympathy with the people. Your poll numbers are still growing, now up eight percent since the disaster.”
“What’s our lead?” he asked, downing the last of the morning’s tea.
“About four points, sir.”
“I want to see the raw data,” Vostov said.
“It’s on your desk, sir, let me look.” Pasternak stood from the chair in front of Vostov’s massive mahogany desk and stood beside his chair, looking through the files she’d placed there that morning, but it was buried in what seemed fifty other files.
“While you do that, I’m going to the restroom,” Vostov said. He cursed mentally. It seemed like his bladder got smaller every day. It was down to an endurance of three hours now. It was at the point that he had to visit the men’s room just before his official workday began at eight am, then make sure he made another visit before eleven o’clock, or he’d suffer through the pre-lunch meetings. He stood and left Pasternak to rifle through the paperwork on his desk. Vostov hated computers and wouldn’t use one himself. He left that to Pasternak. He’d rather read a printout than a glowing computer screen. Pasternak had once chuckled that his love of paper and hatred of screens was a characteristic of people his age.
Vostov made his way to the large side door of the office suite that opened into an ornate bathroom. He stepped up to the urinal and unzipped, shutting his eyes and allowing himself a moment to think about his four-point lead going into the election. What was it, forty-eight days away? Could he maintain that lead, or open it up even further?
