“Transient noise from the Los Angeles,” Raja said. “And again. They’re launching a spread of torpedoes.”
“A spread indicates that they’re unsure of their targeting solution,” Hayat said.
He puffed on his cigarette.
“Their solution is vague and they had to shoot two weapons to cover their area of uncertainty. The tactic wastes a torpedo, and neither torpedo is aimed well.”
“It appears the salvo is intended for Chin’s Romeo submarine, sir,” Raja said. “Based upon Chin’s patrol area, the salvo appears well enough placed.”
“But by using the rocket, I forced the Los Angeles to shoot early. I gave Chin a chance to evade. If he recognizes the spread, bisects the incoming torpedoes, and opens range at maximum battery burn, he may survive.”
Raja stared at a sonar display.
“More transients. The Los Angeles just shot at us.”
“Yes,” Hayat said. “Your assessment?”
Raja nudged another young sailor from his dual-stacked graphical interface. Multicolored lighting from the monitor’s tactical scene danced through the smoke of his cigarette and reflected off his relaxed features.
“The Los Angeles has shot well behind us.”
“Yes, Raja,” Hayat said. “I steered us broadside to the American, and their weapon draws safely aft.”
The deck plates shot into Roth’s shins. His fibula burst through the skin, and he fell to the deck, breaking his sacrum and tearing the skin from his wrist.
As the explosion echoed, Roth expected the hull to crack open, but it held. The thunder subsided, darkness enshrouded him, and emergency alarms buzzed in his head.
Roth propped himself up and surveyed the control room. A man moaned, trembled, and passed out. Another lay over a control panel with his head twisted backwards. Blood oozed from a gash on the back of the executive officer’s head.
He recognized the La Jolla’s predicament — crippled by a warhead exploding several hundred yards away. But he had evaded in time to keep his ship intact.
A figure walked toward him, followed by a second carrying a flashlight. He squinted, but the face that examined him looked fuzzy.
“Easy, sir,” the figure said. “You’re hurt bad.”
“Ship status,” Roth said and winced.
“Flooding in the engine room, but they contained it. Only about thirty guys can walk. It’s pretty bad.”
“Engine room… propulsion… evade.”
“They’re trying to get the reactor back up, sir.”
“Take my keys. Override safety. Battle-short the reactor,” Roth said and passed out.
Hayat kept his gaze on tactical monitors.
“You see, Raja, it’s as predicted. The Los Angeles class, the La Jolla specifically, if I believe our acoustic database, is dead in the water. We’ve crippled it.”
A distant explosion reverberated through the hull.
“They’ve hit Chin’s boat, sir,” Raja said.
The Chinese translator moved into Hayat’s view.
“The Commodore is upset that you let another Chinese submarine perish,” the translator said.
Hayat drew on his cigarette.
“Express my regret for the loss, but tell him if he had engaged my services earlier, I could have trained your comrades to survive.”
The translator glared at Hayat.
“Do it, man!” Hayat said.
The translator sneered and turned away.
“This leaves only us and Xiong’s boat to destroy the convoy,” Raja said. “I’ll reload tube one.”
“No, Raja. I am less concerned about the convoy than the American submarine that protects it.”
Hayat pointed, and a sailor placed a new teacup in Hayat’s hands. He sniffed and welcomed its bitter scent.
“You mean to finish the La Jolla,” Raja said.
“American fear is earned by death. Not by near misses. Reload tube one with another Shkval.”
Icy pain greeted Roth as he awoke. He slipped his hand into his pocket and caressed his cross. He prayed for his wife and children, and pain yielded to numbness.
A high-pitched hiss grew louder and surrounded him. Death had come for him. His final thought was that he would be avenged by patriots who shared his ideals.
CHAPTER 5
Platitudes from Bertraud, desperate to keep her attention, had delayed her. As she left the HIV support group, Olivia dialed her phone to contact the eyes and ears of her CIA support team.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Outside the bookstore half a block away, playing tourist with my camera,” Robert, her partner, said.
Olivia unfolded her mental map.
“You’re at La Librarie Centrale then?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Where’d Slate go?”
“We’re following him. He’s at the Wanadoo cyber café. Go check your email. You can make the meeting look accidental. It’s the busiest cyber café in the city.”
“What if he doesn’t go for me?”
“You’re hot, he’s horny, and you’re trained for it.”
Olivia stared at the cobblestones beneath her feet.
“You okay? Say something,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said.
“You’ll have three officers watching you. This’ll work out fine, but not if you keep standing there.”
“Okay, I’m going,” she said.
“I’ll stay two hundred yards behind you.”
Cell phone to her ear, Olivia crossed the street. She walked for five minutes, surveying her surroundings.
“Anyone following me?” she asked. “I noticed three possible trails.”
“I saw four.”
“You’re not counting the old British couple?”
“I did. I got a good image in my camera. The facial match came back pretty quick. He’s a barrister from Devonshire. The woman — his mistress. Lucky for him we’re not private investigators.”
Olivia stepped around a sloppily cleaned pile of dog droppings. The pile made her aware of the faint stench of the city sewers.
“What about the other three?” she asked.
“The two juveniles are local high school students. The middle-aged woman with the Gucci handbags is a tourist from Florence. They’re all just randomly following your path except for one guy, the older guy in the sport coat. I’m still waiting for his data.”
“That older man sticks out,” she said. “Armani blazer and a classy tie.”
“Renard dresses his men well.”
“His men shouldn’t be trailing me,” she said.
“Not you. Slate. Renard trusts Slate, but we’ve seen him trail him before. And any trail on Slate would be interested in new people in his life, like you. Be watchful.”
Her breaths became shallow.
“Doesn’t feel right,” she said.
She realized that she sounded like a coward. No combination of training or acumen beat instincts, she knew, and her instincts told her to turn back.
“I understand you’re hesitant,” he said. “I respect that you’re back in the field after what happened on your last assignment. You’ll be fine.”
She slid her cell phone in her purse and hastened her pace. She wondered if the incident with Marko had made her paranoid. If so, her career was over.
Rollers squealed as a portly man with a bloodstained smock slid a metal cover over a storefront. He pointed to a glazed suckling and barked out instructions to an assistant. The assistant mounted a bicycle and brushed Olivia’s shoulder as he pedaled by her.
“Désolé, mademoiselle,” he said.