“They surrendered,” Smith said. “The ship has not been swept for other hijackers yet.”
“Have them sweep from aft to forward and meet up with the team in the torpedo room,” Gomez said. “Have our interpreter enter the Leviathan and question the prisoners while you guard them.”
Smith moved away, and the Israeli systems expert stepped into his place.
“Let me try this,” Marom said.
He held a communications manual in one hand while adjusting a transmission power knob with the other.
“I believe we were in a low-power emissions control mode,” he said. “Try it now.”
“Georgia, this is Leviathan. Over,” Gomez said.
“Leviathan, this is Georgia. We hear you. Over.”
“Georgia, Leviathan, give me the Israeli systems experts. Over.”
“Leviathan, Georgia, they’re here. Over.”
Renard watched Marom prop the communications manual on a console and withdraw the torpedo manual from under his arm. He cradled the manual in his palm and pressed his thumb into a page with drawings of a torpedo closing on a target while he held the microphone in his other hand.
He exchanged rapid words in Hebrew with his countrymen on the Georgia. One man, the apparent torpedo expert, dominated the conversation.
“He says that forty-eight knots is the torpedo’s absolute speed, but with the zigzag, it’s best modeled at forty-five knots,” Marom said.
Renard darted to a tactical console and adjusted his estimate of the Bainbridge’s fate.
“Yes,” he said. “Now ask him about terminal homing.”
Marom exchanged words in Hebrew.
“It will accelerate to terminal homing speed only upon successful return of its active seeker against the hull. In that case, the homing speed is sixty-five knots, and it is in a direct line. There’s a final dive maneuver below the keel, and detonation occurs via the keel’s disruption of a magnetic influence field.”
“Is this zigzag from wake edge to wake edge or across a single edge of the wake?”
Marom again exchanged words with his countryman on the Georgia and lowered the microphone.
“A single edge,” Marom said. “In our case, it would be the Bainbridge’s starboard edge.”
“Then if Jake gets there too soon,” Renard said, “he will drift too far into the spreading wake, and the torpedo will pass him by.”
“That’s correct,” Marom said.
“Damn!” Renard said. “I must speak to him.”
Jake snapped his life jacket buckles.
“Who isn’t topside yet?” he asked.
“Just you, Claude, and me,” Henri said.
“Head to the propulsion controls for Claude,” Jake said. “I’ll stay here and tell you when to cut the engines. Then you exit from the after hatch and jump.”
Henri departed, leaving Jake alone in the operations room of the doomed Scorpène-class submarine.
A familiar voice rang from a loudspeaker.
“Jake, it’s Pierre. I must speak to you.”
Jake reached upward and unclipped a microphone. He extended its pigtail cord and dragged it to the periscope. He placed his eye to the optics and saw the bow of the Bainbridge looming large in a scripted game of chicken.
“Pierre, it’s Jake. Good to hear your voice, but I’m kind of busy now.”
“Jake, you’ll have to cut your engines soon or you’ll overshoot the edge of the wake. The torpedo is a wake edge homing weapon. If you cut your engines after you pass the destroyer, you’ll drift too far from the wake edge.”
“Shit,” Jake said. “This has to be tight.”
“It will be,” Renard said. “We have a precise solution on the weapon, and we know its characteristics. The destroyer also has a precise solution on you, and we know your deceleration characteristics.”
“When do I cut my engines?” Jake asked.
“At eleven hundred yards from the destroyer.”
“Does the destroyer know this?”
“Ask them. Have them coordinate. Good luck and remember to jump, my friend.”
“Destroyer, this is French submarine, come in. Over.”
“French submarine, this is the destroyer. I heard your conversation and understand. I’ll inform you when you’re eleven hundred yards from me. Over.”
“Destroyer, this is French submarine. Remember to look out for my men in the water.”
“French submarine, destroyer, consider it done. Out.”
Jake counted down time in his mind while watching the Bainbridge approach through the periscope. White water washed over the destroyer’s bow wake.
He teased his mind by trying to calculate eleven hundred yards from the destroyer’s mast height and the trigonometry of the periscope cross hatches. Then he realized that no submariner needed to approach this close to a surface ship and awaited his queue.
“French submarine, destroyer. Mark eleven hundred yards. Cut your engines. Over.”
“Destroyer, French submarine,” Jake said. “Cutting engines. Out.”
Jake reached for the communication circuit and flipped a switch to send his voice throughout the Mercer.
“Henri,” he said. “Answer all stop and abandon ship.”
The Mercer’s rhythmic trembling ceased, and Henri’s voice rang from the circuit.
“Answering all stop,” he said. “I’ll see you topside.”
Jake marched forward to an open hatch and climbed into the sunlight. Wind whipped his cheeks as he took in the gravity of the wounded destroyer.
Its bridge seemed like a face blown off with the ship’s self-made wind fanning the flames of unspent missile fuel. Jake noted that the bow pointed upward, indicating flooding in a low-riding stern, and the ship listed to its starboard side.
He turned and trotted by the Mercer’s conning tower and saw his small crew topside. He closed in on Antoine Remy and Claude LaFontaine.
“Jump. Now!” he said.
“We were to wait until passing the destroyer,” Remy said, yelling over the Mercer’s self-made wind.
“Plan changed. The screw is stopped. Jump!”
Remy stepped away, ran three steps, and leapt into the swells. LaFontaine followed.
Jake walked aft, sweeping his arm and inciting men to join their colleagues in the water. He noted that Henri policed them, smacking a few hesitant stragglers in the back.
Near the stern, Jake stood with Henri. He glanced over his shoulder at the destroyer he estimated to be four hundred yards away.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Jake,” Henri said. “I can’t swim.”
Jake placed his hand on Henri’s shoulder and looked into his eyes.
“I understand,” he said.
While Henri struggled for courage and a response, Jake slipped his hand to his elbow, lowered his weight, and stepped between the Frenchman’s legs. He yanked his arm and pulled Henri’s torso over his shoulders.
Jake stood with Henri draped like a doll across his neck, and staggered toward the water. He leaned and leapt, and he heard Henri spitting curses as gravity drew them into the swells.
Cool water enveloped him, and Jake released Henri. Swimming to the surface, he turned and kicked toward the silvery hair bobbing above the orange vest. He extended his arms, grabbed Henri, and kicked behind him.
He pulled to Henri’s backside and drew his arm across the Frenchman’s chest. Leaning back, he drew Henri over him and held him. Jake craned his neck for breath as he held Henri steady.