“Agreed.”
Bare drywall and a construction tarp serving as a wall revealed the sailors’ premature use of the building, but Jake’s Franco-Philippine crew and that of the Rankin seemed comfortable. After half an hour of segregation between the disparate populations, beer’s influence brought the men together and loosened their tongues. He overheard exaggerated stories of deep dives, equipment breakages followed by heroic marathon maintenance, and — from his French veterans — torpedo evasions.
Cahill drew his attention to the table where they sat with Renard and Navarro.
“I think you’re going to win it, mate.”
Jake slurped his third diet cola dry.
“Win what?” he asked.
“That wager you had with Pierre. That you couldn’t make it an hour off your submarine before starting your first coldie. You’re going to make it, but you’ve got some catching up to do.”
Glancing at his phone, Jake noticed that he had given the naltrexone fifty-five minutes to work its way into his brain cells. He nodded at the club’s owner, who balanced a half dozen brimming glasses of amber fluid between his chest and fingers in a cloud of cigarette smoke over a table of thirsty sailors.
“By the time that overworked guy can bring me a beer, I will have won,” he said.
He didn’t feel comfortable yet with the Australian, but the commander’s demeanor had softened with alcohol.
“Congratulations, Jake,” Renard said. “Your first round is on me.”
“All the rounds are on you.”
“Precisely. Consider it a gentleman’s wager.”
When his beer arrived, Jake gulped half of it. As the fluid mixed with the cola in his stomach, he belched and watched Navarro adjust his jacket lapels as he stood.
“Gentlemen,” the chief said, “If I attempt to keep pace with drinking sailors, I will regret it tomorrow. I must excuse myself.”
As Jake stood with the others to shake hands at Navarro’s departure, he flagged down the waiter for his next drink. He returned to his seat and finished his first beer as his second arrived. Just as he thought that Cahill may turn out to be an okay guy, he opened his mouth to confirm it.
“Half of me wishes I could blow a few Chinese ships out of the water. Those mongrels are going to take over the entire Pacific Ocean if we don’t stop them.”
“You’ll have your chance,” Jake said. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty to share. Tactical brief is tomorrow, right?”
Cahill looked to Renard.
“Jake,” Renard said. “We should discuss the rules of engagement.”
“No shit, Pierre. No offense to our new friend here, but you still haven’t told me how an Australian submarine helps us.”
Cahill’s cold glance shifted to Jake, but he remained silent.
“Commander Cahill is under strict orders from the Australian admiralty to avoid engagement with Chinese military assets. You can imagine the implications if he were to enter in a hostile exchange with them.”
“Yeah, I can,” Jake said. “But so what? You can’t change the world without blowing people up.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, mate, but I have me orders. I’m here to provide you intel. Nothing more.”
Jake gulped half his beer. An extra submarine worth of sensors and ears could aid his quest, but a single mistake by the Australian could ruin the mission and get him killed.
“What’s your take on this, Pierre?” he asked.
Renard flicked ashes into a tray.
“I’ll keep your submarines separated to prevent the accidental discovery of one from compromising the other. And with Jake having the only authority to launch, there will be no interference of weapons.”
“Good,” Jake said.
“I’ve already heard most of it,” Cahill said. “And I don’t like it either. Paring up isn’t right for submarine warfare, but Renard’s done a fine job planning for us, given that we have to.”
“I’m sure,” Jake said. “He always does. What about using the slow-kill torpedoes?”
“Renard already asked me about it. It’s still potentially lethal, and that means me orders prevent me from using it. And what would you do if I asked you to put another mercenary’s homemade weapons in one of your tubes?”
Jake reflected on the worst potential disasters of an unproven torpedo — accidental detonation in the tube and mistakes of guidance sending the weapon back at him.
“Fair enough,” he said. “I wouldn’t take them. But what about an acoustic limpet torpedo?”
“The design you based your slow-kill on?”
“Yeah. I’ve already proven the design in the field, so to speak.”
“So to speak,” Cahill said. “Argentina.”
“I gave him a summary of our operations history,” Renard said. “He needed to know that our status as a mercenary fleet is more a benefit than a detraction. Though our team is small, most of our sailors have seen real combat.”
“I can’t argue with your success,” Cahill said. “But it’s still a lot to deal with, partnering with mercenaries. None of me boys are sure about this, but I must admit they’re all excited about tracking real Chinese targets. And so am I.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve said about wanting to be here,” Jake said.
Cahill tipped back his beer.
“Let’s say I am. Let’s say I really believe in this mission.”
Jake slammed his beer and waved down the waiter for more.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s say you want to be here. What does that mean?”
“Right,” Cahill said. “Let’s say I want to see the Philippines stand up to China. Let’s say I want the experience of tracking Chinese targets. Let’s say I’m honored to command the submarine that was chosen for the first joint exercise with a Philippine submarine crew, even if it’s only a partial crew training on a mercenary vessel freshly stolen from Malaysia. What of it?”
“I would say that you’re pissed off that you’re not allowed to fire weapons.”
The stone of the Australian’s face melted with a smile that yielded to an alcohol-fueled staccato laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Jake asked.
“All the shit I’ve been through just to get here undetected, snorkeling God knows how many times and crawling at slow speed so nobody would hear me. All the shit I’m going to put up with following orders from a mercenary. And all the Chinese shit that’s going to be within launch range of me submarine, and all you can think that’s pissing me off is that I don’t get to shoot!”
“Well, when you put it that way, I guess it’s funny. But not that funny.”
The waiter plopped full glasses in front of the submarine commanders, and the Australian took a deep gulp.
“Didn’t mean to offend you,” Jake said.
“No offense taken, mate. There’s just a little problem with your observation.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Cahill focused his eyes on the infinite distance.
“The problem is,” he said, “you’re bloody well right.”
CHAPTER 8
“You’re making the right decision,” Jake said.
From the pier, he watched the overhead crane dangle the green cylinder over Cahill’s submarine as Australian sailors reached and steadied its descent into the Rankin.
“I shot a couple exercise weapons when I was deployed,” Cahill said. “Plus I had a spare weapons rack. So I’ve got room in me torpedo room for three limpets. May as well take them.”
“Limpets don’t kill,” Jake said. “But they sure as hell scare the piss out of whoever you shoot at, and it keeps them away once you tag them.”
“You’re sure I can use them like any other torpedo?”