His jumpsuit unzipped and flopped over his waist, Claude LaFontaine exposed a sweat-marked tee-shirt. He was examining gauges on a control station as a Taiwanese sailor, also in a tee-shirt, climbed up from the lower deck and joined him. LaFontaine turned to Jake.
“Bonjour!” he said. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Jake said. “What’s up?”
Jake nodded at a tank he recognized as the ethanol storage tank.
“No problem there,” LaFontaine said. “And no problems below, either.”
Jake looked below and felt a chill as he noticed he stood over a cryogenically cooled tank of liquid oxygen and a seawater condenser.
“Any problems at all?” he asked.
“Not if Pierre keeps us at a steady speed,” LaFontaine said. “It’s the transient response to power changes that trip this thing offline. The gases discarded from the combustion chamber, now keeping that at the right mix is a delicate balance. It requires constant vigil.”
“Reminds me of the evaporator we used on the Colorado,” Jake said. “If you didn’t balance the steam and water flows, the thing tripped offline.”
“If you say so,” LaFontaine said. “Just make sure Pierre remembers to order more ethanol and oxygen for our refueling. These are a lot harder to find than diesel fuel. I don’t want him forgetting, or else we’ll have to snorkel once in theater with that Hamza, and that would be bad, given that they have a MESMA system just like ours.”
The winding groan of an underpowered turbo-generator filled the room. The Taiwanese sailor beside LaFontaine scurried away but returned in a matter of minutes as the generator fell back into its fifty-hertz harmony.
Jake wanted to know if the problem had been with the electronic governor or with the steam supply, but a distant voice filled with excitement distracted him.
He waved goodbye to LaFontaine and made it two steps when the voice caught his attention again. A frightening creature appeared before him.
Incandescent lighting gave Olivia’s makeup-free face a yellow-ivory glow. The vessels surrounding her pupils resembled roadmaps, and she held her eyes as open as possible as if inviting him to navigate by them. Frayed tufts of red hair exploded from under her ball cap.
“Slow down,” Jake said. “You’re babbling.”
She grabbed his arm and mumbled a story of horror and excitement. Jake caught only pieces of it, but he followed her to the wardroom.
“Come on!” she said as she yanked him.
At least she ducked when she turned, he thought. She’s learning.
In the wardroom, Renard and Wu enjoyed another game of cribbage, and the smug look on the Frenchman indicated he was earning revenge.
Jake sat while Olivia paced in the small space.
“I just figured it out,” she said.
She shook her hands as if trying to rid her fingers of the tremble he had felt in them.
No one needed to ask what she had figured out, but Renard prompted her as she struggled for a beginning point.
“Where’s he going?” he asked.
“The Stennis,” she said.
“That’s suicide,” Renard said. “You’ve discovered something that suggests his willingness for jihad?”
She inhaled deeply and let out a breath.
“Damned right I did,” she said. “He’s dying.”
CHAPTER 30
Renard considered the conversation to be one of his life’s most important. He had sent Lieutenant Wu to exchange places with Ye to listen to Olivia’s evidence.
“Why did Khan not mention this?” he asked.
“He didn’t know,” she said. “Hayat was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in New York. He was attending the wedding of a colleague he’d met at Harvard, but flight records and medical records show that he headed right to the hospital after landing. He was complaining of severe nausea and stomach pains. A day later, he gets the test results back.”
“Pancreatic cancer?” Renard asked, his confidence in Olivia growing.
“One of the worst,” she said. “Very painful. Six months to a year to live.”
“This is information we never would have had without your presence,” Renard said. “And your analyses thus far have been superb. I commend you.”
“I owe one to Gerry Rickets,” she said.
“But I must dig into this deeper,” Renard said. “One man, a commanding officer especially, wields tremendous power over his people. But to dupe them all into a suicidal mission? That would take a combination of charisma and influence that even I do not possess.”
Jake stared sideways at him.
“What?” Renard asked. “I convinced you to steal a Trident missile submarine.”
Jake shook his head as Olivia continued.
“I looked into the crew manifest,” she said. “Standard bunch except for the executive officer, Faisel Raja. He was born and raised in Baluchistan, another province with deep ties to Harkat-ul-Mujahideen. His parents were rich enough to get him decent schooling, and he made it into the Pakistani Naval Academy. Problem is, there’s an easy tie between him and HUM. He never went out of his way to hide it.”
“And that’s detrimental to a Pakistani officer’s career?” Jake asked.
“Yes. A big reform almost ten years ago. They turned the whole military secular. Bad news for Faisel Raja, who started getting poor fitness reports and looked like he’d be drummed out before making lieutenant commander. Then, all of a sudden, a month after Hayat reconciles with his big brother the HUM cleric, Raja’s promoted and selected as Hayat’s new exec.”
“Apparently the HUM holds influence with the military,” Renard said.
“Through the United Action Forum party, probably,” she said. “Maybe not enough influence to make flag officers, but definitely enough to make a lieutenant commander.”
Renard inhaled the sweet taste of tobacco and contemplated his decision.
“We have much to arrange with Keelung and Karachi,” he said. “Fuel, an extended lease agreement, perhaps additional provisions.”
Ye nodded.
“The provisions and fuel can be arranged, I’m certain,” he said. “But I cannot predict the lease.”
“I’m confident Li and Khan will agree,” Renard said. “My decision is made. If anyone wishes to countermand me, now is the time. If not, we will ascend to periscope depth immediately, contact Keelung, and make the arrangements. We will intercept the Hamza en route to Pearl Harbor.”
Jake felt deflated after three weeks and no sign of the Hamza. Life aboard the Hai Lang had returned to the submarining norm — excruciatingly mundane.
He reached toward the ship’s control panel and tapped Henri on the shoulder.
“How much left on the battery?” he asked.
“Thirty-nine percent,” Henri said. “I wish I could say as much for the fuel.”
“I know,” Jake said. “We’re going to have to break for our fuel rendezvous soon. Pierre wants us to turn south tonight, and I don’t blame him. If we miss that refueling tanker, we’re stuck out here.”
Jake felt the air pressure behind him drop. He turned and noticed two Taiwanese sailors holding their breath and staring at Antoine Remy. The French sonar technician clasped his headset and reminded Jake of a toad covering its ears.
Remy stared with big eyes, and Jake knew he had found something.
The Hamza, he thought.