He considered ordering Virginia to stop and surface — part of the test of her under-ice capabilities— but decided to put that off for a while. A moment later, the sunlight overhead was eclipsed by gray shadow once more. He returned the camera to its forward-looking position.
Time passed in dark seclusion, the silence broken only by the gentle hum of electronics. "Captain? Request permission to enter the Conn."
He turned his chair aft. "Sure, COB. Come on in."
Senior Chief Bollinger came closer. "A word, Captain?"
"Of course. What's up?"
The COB leaned close, speaking quietly. "Nothing major, Captain. But some of the men are wondering about the Blue Nose ritual. Are we still going to have one? Or are we canning it for this voyage?"
Garrett smiled. Over the centuries, a number of navigational crossings had become time-honored rites of passage, markers for the men who sailed the seas… and beneath them. Crossing the equator was one, a ceremony bestowing the Order of the Shellback on any officer or man who'd not made the passage before. Crossing the international date line was another, bestowing the Order of the Golden Dragon.
A third was reserved for sailors who first crossed the Arctic Circle, granting the Order of the Blue Nose in a hazing ceremony similar to the others. Virginia had crossed the Arctic Circle while traveling north through the Davis Strait five days ago, just before they'd reached the pack ice limit. At that time, Garrett had ordered Bollinger to hold off on the festivities. Virginia was coming up on a tricky bit of pathfinding, moving under the ice and through the narrows of Lancaster Sound and the Barrow Strait. Ceremony could be deferred, he'd decided, until they were in the unrestricted depths of the Beaufort and Chukchi Seas.
"Is old Neptune getting antsy?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know about antsy, Captain," Bollinger replied with a grin. "Pissed, maybe. We are trespassing in his domain, you know."
"Just a second. Mr. DeKalb?"
"Yes, Captain!"
"Estimated time to arrival at the IDL?"
A blue line projected itself ahead of the green circle marking Virginia's position, extending southwest. The scale changed, pulling back to reveal the north coast of Alaska.
"Sir, that would be when we approach the Bering Strait. At our current speed, that's forty hours."
"Very well." He looked at Bollinger and cocked an eyebrow. "COB, I suggest that we do two ceremonies in one. Give 'em the Golden Dragon and the Blue Nose, all in one big party."
Bollinger's grin grew wider. "That'll be a hell of a party, Captain."
"It should be. The men have done a good job, so far. A very good job. They deserve it."
"Right you are, Captain. Would… lessee. Sunday night be okay?"
"Absolutely, COB."
"Thank you, sir. I'll make the necessary arrangements with his Oceanic Majesty."
"You do that."
"And of course Davy Jones'll have to put in an appearance Saturday night."
"Arrange it with the chiefs on the boat. Keep me informed."
"Conn, Sonar."
Bollinger patted the arm of Garrett's chair. "Talk to you later, sir. Thanks."
"Right, COB. Sonar, Conn. Go ahead."
"Conn, we have a pressure ridge coming up, bearing approximately two-three-zero through two-eight-zero, range five thousand."
Occasionally, drifting masses of pack ice collided, creating walls of ice extending deep below the usual ceiling depth, a kind of upside-down mountain range that posed a real hazard for submarines that weren't watching where they were going.
"Sonar, Conn, roger that," Garrett replied. "Where's the ceiling?"
"Conn, Sonar. Ceiling now fourteen meters above the mast… and dropping."
Garrett called up the new data to see for himself. Virginia's under-ice sonar was constantly pinging the underside of the ice cap, letting them know how much overhead clearance they had. Fourteen meters dropped to twelve as he watched.
There was plenty of room beneath Virginia's keel.
"Sonar, Conn. Estimate depth of the pressure ridge."
"Conn, Sonar. It's hard to say, sir… butI'd guess ten meters, maybe fifteen." Sonar was less than precise when it came to variables such as depth. A narrow angle between separate sonar returns was notoriously difficult to read. Besides, echolocation could be confused by thermal layers in the sea or by backscattering echoes off the ice or the bottom.
"Stay on it, Sonar. I need facts, not guesses."
"Sonar, aye."
"Diving Officer, make depth six hundred feet."
"Make depth six-zero-zero feet, aye, sir," the diving officer, Lieutenant Falk, said. "Planesman, set bow planes for fifteen degrees down bubble. Make depth six-zero-zero feet."
"Fifteen degrees down bubble, aye, sir. Make depth six-zero-zero feet, aye aye."
As the first class on the diving plane station pushed his joystick forward, the deck tilted gently forward. The murk on the main screen darkened until it showed a background of pitch blackness, relieved only by the illuminated specks of drifting crud which now, more than ever, took on the appearance of tiny stars streaming past the camera.
"Come up fifteen degrees," Falk ordered. "Zero degrees on the bubble."
"Coming up fifteen degrees," the planesman reported. The deck leveled off. "Zero degrees on the bubble. Depth six-zero-zero feet."
"Depth six hundred feet, Captain," Falk repeated.
"Very well." The down-thrust grasp of the pressure ridge slid harmlessly past, far overhead. The main screen still showed nothing but shadows and whirling specks of organic debris illuminated by Virginia's exterior lights.
A quiet trip, Garrett thought. Let's hope it stays that way.
"Our bearing is now two-nine-zero degrees," the helmsman reported. "As ordered, sir."
"Sonar reports depth below keel at twenty-five meters," the diving officer added.
"Very well. Gently, now, Lieutenant Daulat," ul Haq told him. "Put us on the bottom."
"Yes, sir." Daulat studied the gauges and readouts on his board. "Planesman! Five degrees down bubble… Depth below keel now… eighteen meters… "
"Captain!" Noor Khalili was furious. "Why are we stopping now?"
No, ul Haq decided, turning to study the man, it wasn't anger that drove him. It was a restless, roiling impatience, a mental pacing that reminded ul Haq of a caged jungle cat.
"You should know, my Taliban friend. It is time for prayer."
"Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate, makes allowances for the faithful when they are engaged in holy jihad," the Afghan replied. "If we had stopped for prayer five times a day when the American devils came for us in Tora Bora—"
"But this is not Tora Bora," ul Haq said. "And the Americans are not coming for us." Not yet, at any rate, he reminded himself.
With a soft, grating crunch of steel on coral sand, the Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen settled gently onto the bottom, coming to rest with a slight heel to starboard.
Ul Haq picked up the microphone hanging on the periscope mount. "Attention, attention, this is the Captain. Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen is now at rest on the bottom. Face the bow, and you face holy Mecca."
A moment later, the voice of Shuhadaa's imam sounded over the intercom, intoning the ancient, wavering call summoning the faithful to prayer.
"This is insanity," Khalili said. "We are within a kilometer of our first target!"
"A good time to ask Allah's help, then." His prayer rug was already on the deck at his feet. Facing the bow, ul Haq kneeled, composing himself. "I suggest that you join us. For the sake of the crew, if not for yourself."