“Sir?” he asked. “This is a significant change.”
The sun was rising through the bridge windows of the Bainbridge. Stephenson squinted as Commander Richard Pastor’s backlit face took on an expression he had never seen. He thought that Pastor was pouting.
“Yeah, XO,” Pastor said. “I know.”
“Do you want me to take care of it? Come up with a new patrol pattern?”
“No, XO, I’ll take care of it. You’ve been up all night. Get some sleep.”
Pastor turned his back and waved his hand. Stephenson took the hint and left the bridge. He climbed to the radio room and found Senior Chief Wilson chatting with a sailor wearing a blue and gray camouflage uniform.
“Senior Chief?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Wilson said. “What can I do for you?”
“Did the captain just get a personal message?”
“Yes, sir. From squadron, about fifteen minutes ago. Whatever it was, he took it hard.”
“How so?”
“He was upset when he read it. His eyes got big, he turned red, and he was shaking mad. Worse than I’ve ever seen him.”
“I noticed he was shaken on the bridge.”
“I hate to say it, sir, but his fiancée is a dangerous heartbreaker. If I know her like I think I do, she did something to him, and that’s what’s under his skin.”
“Good to know, Senior Chief,” Stephenson said. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
As he walked to his stateroom, Stephenson let his responsibilities to the crew and the captain slip from his shoulders. He felt the fatigue of sleeplessness and of having tended to the Bainbridge throughout the night while Pastor slept.
He slid under crisp sheets and questioned the significance of the last patrol order to avoid a new allied submarine operation at the southern edge of the Bainbridge’s patrol boundary. Accepting that Pastor would update the Bainbridge’s direction away from the operation, Stephenson fell into a deep sleep.
Renard wondered if his fellow passengers felt his level of anxiety, but he read nothing in the faces of the SEALs. He watched Gomez moving between the silent seated statues of the minisub’s other occupants and tap the shoulder of the vessel’s pilots. The SEAL exchanged inaudible words with the sailors and then crouched, walked, and knelt before him.
“The Georgia has good track on the Leviathan,” Gomez said. “But it’s not gnat’s ass tight. We’re supposedly five hundred yards behind them, if you trust that there’s no slop in the tracking.”
“There’s always slop in the tracking,” Renard said, “unless you use active sonar. And even then you find that there is still slop.”
“We have an active sonar system designed for fine tuning our approach to targets. It’s not designed for listening. We can only use it as a range finder, and it’s only good at short range.”
“I imagine.”
“We essentially rely upon cameras and active sonar to guide us in to targets.”
“You have external lights and cameras?”
“Yes, with limited range,” Gomez said. “Usually good for the last ten yards. My concern is getting from here to camera range with our active sonar. It’s high-frequency, short-range, but I want to be sure they don’t hear us.”
“When transmitting active, you run the risk of being heard,” he said. “That cannot be helped. You mitigate this by using minimal power settings and quick transmission bursts. It is also advantageous that it’s a high-frequency system.”
“We have some leeway in selecting frequencies.”
Renard wiggled in his seat, attempting to find comfort in his vest. He looked at the Israeli systems expert seated beside him.
“Do you know the Leviathan’s fathometer frequency?”
“Yes,” Marom said. “Thirty-five kilohertz is the center frequency.”
“Can you transmit at that frequency?” Renard asked.
“Yes,” Gomez said.
“Then,” Renard said, “I suggest we transmit like the Leviathan’s fathometer in its default mode. If they should happen to hear us and be paying attention, then they’ll have no reason to believe we’re anything beyond a scattered echo of their own hardware.”
Thirty minutes later, Gomez was scowling at Renard.
“The Georgia just updated their solution to the Leviathan,” he said. “It’s tighter, and we’re repositioning now. Hopefully this unplanned goose chase will end now.”
“I understand that the Georgia is constrained in maneuvering by the need to retain our command wire, but that solution should be accurate now,” Renard said.
From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the two sailors seated in front press his finger against a monitor and turn his head. Gomez sprang across the cramped compartment and bent over the sailor’s shoulder.
For seconds that passed with lethargy, Renard held his breath, twisted himself in his seat, and watched. As his lungs began to burn, he saw Gomez’ profile and noticed that a smile had melted his scowl. The Leviathan lurked directly below.
During the descent to the Israeli submarine, Renard craned his neck to peek around Gomez and the minisub’s operators at the monitor showing its illuminated deck.
He felt the Israeli expert stir beside him.
“I don’t suppose you can see anything?” Marom asked.
“Hardly anything. But I think we’re close.”
Renard dug his palms into his seat as the minisub lurched and heeled.
“It’s okay,” Gomez said. “The Leviathan is coming shallow. We’re just getting out of the way.”
“Is this a concern?” Renard asked.
“This will actually make our life easier.”
“How so?” Renard asked.
“If they’re going to snorkel depth, they’ll probably stay there for a bit,” Gomez. “No drastic changes in depth. We’ll mount them and infiltrate while they’re up.”
The minisub’s motions were imperceptible as its pilots maneuvered it over the back of the shallow Leviathan. At ten knots, Renard expected a drastic thump, but he heard and felt nothing as the vessel settled on a slight incline on the Israeli submarine’s back.
“We’re on,” Gomez said. “Draining the mating skirt.”
A pilot flipped a switch, and a motor by Gomez’ knee whirred. Gomez reached and illuminated halogen lamps aimed at the minisub’s hatch, and he motioned to one of his SEALs. Renard cringed as Gomez’ man flipped the circle of metal back over its hinges and exposed the aqua green paint of the Leviathan’s back.
Gomez and Smith grabbed handles and guided the laser cutter downward on its hydraulic arm. When its axial tip passed through the hatch and stopped against the submarine beneath it, the SEALs unfolded tripod arms and braced the instrument against the minisub’s deck.
“Cutting!” Gomez said.
He depressed a button on the device, and Renard saw a laser cutting an arc around the tip. He looked away from the brightness, heard air swooshing through the growing metallic incision, and felt his ears pop as the minisub and Leviathan equalized air pressure.
“Energize magnets!” Gomez said.
Renard heard thumps echo from both ends of the minisub as it bolstered its connection to the Leviathan. As the SEALs crouched behind Gomez in preparation to greet the inner world of the Leviathan, Renard felt thankful for being seated at a distance from the hole.