“Are you okay?” Renard asked.
“I’m fine.”
He gulped more water, and the waitress brought Renard a coffee. The Frenchman sniffed it, reminding Jake of a predator evaluating the worthiness of its prey.
“Do I have my usual crew?” he asked.
“Yes, and then some,” Renard said. “There is new eager talent from our old friends who sold me the vessel.”
“Have they forgiven me?”
“Excuse me?”
“Have they forgiven me? I walked out on them in Taiwan.”
“There is nothing to forgive. They understood, even before you came back to lead them to victory. They are quite aware that your gift for naval tactics comes with your demons. They accept the demons because your charm brings them home alive.”
“I trust them, too,” Jake said. “We’ve been through enough together.”
“Indeed. Setting aside that half the people aboard are my personal friends, I also wouldn’t risk my life’s investment on a dysfunctional crew. The trust among the key players is sound.”
“Fine,” Jake said. “Do I need to worry about the commanders of the other vessels?”
“Hardly. Not that I know or trust them, but their roles in this engagement are simple and well within their capabilities. There is a briefing after lunch at the submarine squadron headquarters where you will have a chance to meet them.”
The waitress brought bread, and Jake broke off a section. He popped a piece in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. The grains absorbed stomach acids and settled his stomach.
“Our trials with the new weapon went well,” Renard said.
Jake pondered the ability of a super-cavitating torpedo, capable of two-hundred knots of speed. Navies had been experimenting with the technology for decades, and the weapon had reached its time.
“Cool.”
“Excellent performance. Acoustics, electronics, propulsion — all as promised and hoped,” Renard said. “We fired at a surfaced target, but it will operate equally well for a submerged target.”
“Good to know.”
“Henri can walk you through the operation, but you will have to use your judgment and — dare I say, your artistry — to know when to use the weapon or when to stick with a conventional torpedo. A conventional weapon still has much better acoustic detection, wire guidance control, and steering capability.”
“And stealth,” Jake said. “Your target won’t hear a conventional torpedo coming until it’s too late, but they’ll hear the new one.”
“Indeed.”
Jake devoured a piece of bread, washing it down with water.
“Any changes to the ship’s operational parameters?”
“None,” Renard said. “It behaves the same as when you last commanded it. I had the hull cleaned of barnacles prior to shipment, just to keep it streamlined for that precious extra half knot of speed.”
“Good call.”
“It has a new name, too, now that it’s mine.”
“Do tell.”
“Le Spectre.”
“The Specter? Like a ghost. Cool.”
“I thought about naming after my children, or even myself, but that’s too egotistical, even for me. I went with something more creative and inspirational.”
The waitress brought the burgers, and Jake devoured half of his meal before saying another word.
“You seem to have lost interest in talking,” Renard said.
“Yeah. Sorry, Pierre. I’m just not running at full speed today. I need to give my mind a break before we go to the brief.”
“Very well, my friend. I shall not say another word.”
Jake downed his food and slipped into a minor food coma while waiting for the Frenchman to finish.
Jake found the windowless briefing room austere, appropriate for a military environment. Air ducts that looked older than him pumped cool air through concrete walls, and metal chairs covered a faded aqua carpet.
As a liquid crystal display showed an overhead view of shapes that represented submarines moving around the waters east of Argentina, Jake sniffed the air. He smelled body odor, musk, and cologne.
Beyond the unnecessary effort to effuse a masculine odor — or the lack of concern to avoid it — the Argentine submarine commander seated in front of him bothered him. The upward and cocked head angle hinted at arrogance, and when he had met the man prior to the brief, his body carriage suggested haughtiness.
Jake questioned if the man rejected his presence, despite the undeniable need for the Specter’s world-class abilities, or if the man habitually expected those he met to feel belittled.
He wiped negative thoughts from his mind and did his best to understand the Spanish words describing his upcoming mission. Fluent in French, Jake had been learning Spanish rapidly, but he digested less than half the words. As the Argentine general standing by the screen stopped speaking, the junior officer beside him repeated the meaning in English.
“The purpose of this mission is to instill fear and caution in the minds of the British submarine commanders,” he said. “Once we have demonstrated the ability to engage British submarines, they will by necessity alter their patrol tactics. This will be to our favor, as it will lessen their attention upon harassing and engaging our surface vessels, which will enjoy more freedom to lay mines and control the skies around the Malvinas.”
Jake knew everything about the mission and he expected that the briefing would serve as a confirmation that the Argentines saw it the same way. The Argentine admiral spoke again, followed by his translator.
“The Argentine Type Seventeen Hundred-class submarine Santa Cruz will deploy to the northern operations area,” he said. “Likewise, the San Juan will deploy to the southern operations area. The mercenary submarine Specter will deploy to the east, in the Malvinas operations area. The assumption is that one British Astute-class submarine will be on patrol and will detect either the Santa Cruz or the San Juan.”
Jake recalled the intelligence reports from Renard. The assumption made sense, given that the British kept one submarine on patrol around the Falkland Islands.
The translator conveyed the admiral’s next lines.
“It is critical that the Specter deploys undetected. The Specter must remain concealed from British discovery until weapons are released.”
Jake leaned to his right and glanced at the man beside him. Short with a wide head and thick nose, Antoine Remy, his ace sonar operator, reminded him of a toad. He whispered in French.
“You’ve run self-listening diagnostics on the ship?” he asked.
“Yes,” Remy said. “We are quiet as a mouse. Even slightly quieter than we were in Taiwan in the broadband noise spectrum, thanks to Pierre getting our hull cleaned.”
The musky commanding officer in front of him stirred and shot a condemning glance over his shoulder. Jake suppressed the urge to apologize for whispering in a foreign language and instead let his rudeness linger as an insult.
The translator again echoed the admiral’s words.
“Each Argentine submarine will spend two days conducting simulated attacks on passing merchant vessels as training exercises. This will attract the interest of the British submarine. Then, six hours apart, each Argentine submarine will transit toward the Malvinas operation areas. We won’t know if a British submarine is trailing either of our submarines, but we will assume that one is.”
Jake shifted to his left and saw a handsome man wearing his mercenary crew’s slacks and dress shirt uniform. He considered the white-haired, sharp-featured Henri Lanier as a reserved version of Renard with an uptick in dignity and impeccable penchant for dress. Jake whispered in French.