“Very good. Test your rebreather.”
Jake flipped his night vision atop his head, lifted his mouthpiece to his teeth, and inhaled. He contorted himself to position his forearm under his canister and tap a button on his display indicating that his status was okay.
“I received your ‘status okay’ message,” the commando said. “Prepare to disengage from your parachute on my mark. You will enter the water first.”
Again, Jake tapped his ‘status okay’ button to acknowledge the order. His survival instinct compelled him to look down, but the black seas held no clue to his pending impact’s timing. He trusted his colleague’s guidance.
“You are at ten meters,” the commando said. “Grab your disconnect.”
Behind his ears, Jake interlaced the fingers of his free hand into a master ring.
“Five meters, four, three. Release your parachute. Pull now!”
Jake yanked the ring, freeing the chute. As he accelerated into free fall, he hugged his canister, pressing it against the reserve chute at his stomach. His fins smacked the water, and buoyancy tried to squirt the container from his arms. But he held as he submerged and then shot back to the surface.
When floating, he let the canister go, and it drifted by his head as he released his reserve chute and abandoned it to the swells. He then ripped his face mask from his neck, elevated it, and dumped water from it.
Tightening it to his face, he looked through it at his forearm. He tapped his ‘status okay’ button and waited to read a response from his colleague. Scant seconds passed, and his partner confirmed his safe immersion into the water.
Then came the command at his forearm to swim course three-three-zero.
Jake flipped onto his belly, studied the compass on his forearm display, and began kicking. The rebreather’s air tasted stale as his breathing rate accelerated. As he gained speed, he tapped the ‘three’ button twice, the ‘zero’ button once, and then the ‘acknowledged’ button.
The nylon line connecting him to his swim partner rubbed against his ribs as he alternated kicks. The line to his trailing canister cut into his crotch.
Then came the lurch.
The nylon line snapped and pulled at the hook at his gut. Water flowed diagonally over his body, and he grabbed the nylon to right himself as it dragged him.
He reached for his forearm display and tapped the ‘line engaged’ button. Unwilling to become fodder for the submarine’s propeller, he began climbing hand over hand up the line that dragged him, kicking to assist his movement.
Fear of the submarine, with its hazardous propulsion system and water intake valves, spurred him up the line. Grasping its first hard rubber grapnel signaled that he had climbed ten meters of its length. The distance to the submarine’s snorkel mast remained a mystery as he pushed the grapnel aside and scurried up the moving rope.
Three grapnels later, the rope seemed more rigid. As he progressed forward, stronger water pressure pushing his face mask suggested his presence within the laminar layers flowing around the mast, and an eerie sensation informed him that the entirety of a Malaysian Scorpène-class submarine prowled below him.
His glove found the next grapnel, which offered a rigid rail for him to grab. He traced its shaft with his finger and felt the firm form of the snorkel mast.
The mast protected him from the water flow, and it offered him leverage as he shimmied upward and wrapped his ankles around its cylindrical shape. Having achieved his destination, he unhooked the nylon line from his harness. Feeling his thigh, he touched the hilt, withdrew his knife, and severed the now-needless section of rope that had dragged him.
His knife sheathed, he probed the far side of the mast and verified that the remaining rope held taut and dragged his commando accomplice.
He climbed, and flowing water yielded to a gentle breeze as his head broached. Running his fingers down the line attached to his harness, he pulled the trailing canister towards him. The motion became awkward as he hugged the mast with his right arm and yanked the line with his left to his immobilized right hand, length by length.
As the canister came within reach, a tug at his ankle startled him. Then he felt the Filipino climb up his back. Counting body parts, he felt two legs and one arm probing his body for leverage, and he figured that his accomplice dedicated his final limb to another canister.
He turned his head and saw a hooded head broach behind him in the moonlight. The commando spat his mouthpiece to talk, and Jake did the same.
“I told you I would land us perfectly.”
“You’re a stud,” Jake said.
“Hold my canister.”
Before Jake could respond, the commando wedged the second container under his arm. A knife appeared over his ear and began slicing through masking tape, exposing nozzles and handles.
Jake had planned for success if either man reached the mast, but he welcomed the company and the second canister. Teamwork would simplify the task and double the impact.
“You climb,” Jake said.
“Okay. Hold tight.”
The commando mounted Jake’s back and locked his arms atop his shoulders. He then reached for the exposed mast and placed his knee beside Jake’s neck. With graceful ease, the slim warrior slid up the cylinder and steadied his fins on either side of Jake’s head.
“Canister please!” the commando said.
Jake fumbled with his hugging arm to hold his extinguisher underwater while gaining a firm grasp of the second container. He hoisted it high, and the commando grabbed it.
“I cannot reach,” the commando said.
The weight on Jake’s shoulders lifted, and he looked up to see his accomplice climbing with one arm up the mast. The sick feeling that the submarine’s crew could decide to lower the mast and crush him under its fairing passed through his mind as he scaled higher to offer his partner secure footing.
“I’m high enough,” the commando said. “Come support me.”
Jake inched higher until he felt the fins resting on him again. He contorted his head and watched his partner hold the canister by its handle with his hugging arm. With his free arm, the warrior aimed the nozzle into the induction intake. He then squeezed the handle, and Jake heard the compressed fentanyl-based gas hiss into the submarine’s thirsty intake.
As the hissing died, the commando dropped the expended container into the flowing water, and Jake handed him the other one. Again, incapacitating gases hissed into the submarine, and the warrior dropped the used extinguisher.
Silent steel concealed the crew’s status, but Jake knew that the ventilation system channeled his gases throughout the submarine en route to the hungry diesel engines.
He assumed that nobody below him could reach emergency air in time to remain conscious, but if a handful of men had succeeded, they were likely tucked away in a remote corner of the ship, confused and frightened as their shipmates collapsed.
His accomplice returned to his back and spoke into his ear.
“Would you like to claim our success to the Pilar?”
“Sure.”
The waterproof radio appeared in front of him. He grabbed it, moved it to his lips, and keyed its microphone.
“Home Base, this is Angel Team. Over.”
He welcomed the familiar accent of his French friend and crewmate, Henri Lanier, who waited aboard the Philippine frigate.
“Angel Team, this is Home Base. Go ahead. Over.”
“Home Base, Angel Team. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Angel Team, Home Base. Agreed. What’s your status?”
Jake smirked.
“Home Base, Angel Team. The package is wrapped. Come pick it up. I have a present for you.”
CHAPTER 2