Jake recognized the gas attack’s success as the Malaysian warship sank, slipping deeper into the oceanic abyss with undisturbed grace. A meter above him, the smooth fairing, designed to create a flush seal with the submarine when retracted, slid closer to his head as he and his partner crawled up the sinking induction mast.
“The frigate isn’t going to get here before we go under,” he said.
“I agree. It’s still seventy minutes away.”
The creepy concept of riding a sinking submarine spooked him.
“Do we have enough air?” he asked. “I mean, if the helicopter doesn’t find us before we go under?”
“No,” the commando said. “But the helicopter is close.”
“How close?”
Sprinkling droplets, the commando’s forearm broke the surface, and he glanced at the display.
“Ten nautical miles.”
“We should be okay,” Jake said.
Silent patience rewarded him with the chop of helicopter blades. With the incapacitated submarine crew, the aircraft had no need to stay high to separate its noise from the water, and the looming chopper became a hovering hurricane.
Violent wind and spray hit Jake’s mask, and he welcomed his accomplice’s skill in the hostile environment.
“Hold tight!” the commando said.
He hooked a rope to Jake’s harness, bit his mouthpiece, and swam. Before Jake could assess the sanity of his partner’s tethered swim in the tempest, he felt the commando’s rope pulling at his chest, signaling his return swim to the mast.
A fresh canister from the helicopter under his arm, the commando appeared next to Jake and wrapped his free arm around the mast.
“Knife please!”
Jake reached to his thigh and obliged. The commando took the blade and sliced it through masking tape, revealing the handle and nozzle. After returning the weapon to Jake, he balanced the handle in his hand and discharged the canister into the intake. He then released the extinguisher to the seas and pulled a floating line to drag another one to him.
The commando discharged the next container, tossed it aside, and wiggled closer to Jake. He screamed in his ear over the whipped air.
“That should take care of any man who escaped the original gassing or who may have regained consciousness.”
Jake leaned into his partner’s hooded ear.
“No man regained consciousness,” he said. “Not unless he’s superhuman or a freak of nature.”
“Must be prepared for superhuman freaks.”
“Good point.”
Jake tilted his head and nodded towards the head valve.
“When that thing hits the water, it’s going to sense wetness and shut. It’ll open again if it rises. We’ll probably hear it cycle a few times on the way down.”
On cue, the ocean obliged his prophecy, and a series of waves dragged the diesel intake into the water. Jake held his breath, trusting that he’d rise again, and the valve clinked shut above him.
Swells swept the inlet upward, and air rushed back into the submarine. The diesel engines’ subtle, sound-insulated rumble remained audible through Jake’s gloves.
“Perfect timing,” he said. “This thing’s going under, and the diesels will die soon.”
“I agree.”
The commando raised a radio to his mouth and yelled commands in a language foreign to Jake.
“I just ordered the helicopter to drop the buoy.”
Jake felt the tug at his belt as his accomplice checked their connection, turned, and kicked away.
The ocean dragged him under, and he popped his rebreather’s mouthpiece between his teeth. He needed several breaths as the head valve labored to rise again.
Surfaced, he removed his mouthpiece and gulped fresh air before the water reclaimed him. Inhaling from his rebreather, he heard the valve shut and felt the rumbling recede as the diesels died. He glanced at his display to note the time as the submarine’s battery cells bore the strain of propelling the submarine.
In a darkness reverberating with the penetrating thump of chopper blades, Jake felt his partner tugging at the line joining them. With a probing glove, the commando tapped his arm and returned to his side.
A bright light cast a conical beam into the aqua, outlining the snorkel mast’s silvery form. The commando pushed the light into Jake’s hand and then worked in the newfound illumination.
Pinching the smooth steel between his knees, the commando wrapped a nylon line around the mast and secured it with a hitch knot.
He then made eye contact through his mask and pointed upward. Jake nodded.
The commando departed again, kicking out of sight. When he returned, Jake noticed a steel line hooked to him. His accomplice removed the buddy line between the swimmers and replaced it with the hook from his own harness. He then whipped his finger in a circle, awaiting Jake’s confirmation.
Jake nodded, and the commando swam to the surface before slipping into the trailing blackness.
Then the line yanked Jake upward. He released the mast that had represented safety from the ocean’s abandoning vastness, squeezed the flashlight under his arm, and grabbed the steadying steel cable with both hands.
The helicopter’s belly grew larger, and hands reached from the cabin to drag him inside. He turned to watch the scene below.
An orange pulsating light cut the blackness that concealed a buoy tied to the sinking submarine. As the aircraft maneuvered to pluck his partner from the water, Jake addressed the familiar jumpmaster.
“How long now until the Pilar can get here?”
“Thirty minutes. Maybe sooner. Look.”
The man pointed, and Jake stared out a window at darkness. Remembering his night vision, he lowered his facemask, flipped down his goggles, and saw the light green image of the frigate.
He did the math aloud.
“Best I can guess, that submarine’s sinking one meter every ten minutes,” he said. “The bottom grates will be almost thirty meters deep when the divers get to them.”
“The dive team is ready. They will move quickly.”
“Okay,” Jake said. “Let’s get my buddy and get back to the ship.”
Hoisted by the winch, his accomplice reached the cabin. The door closed, tennis shoes replaced swim fins, and Jake thanked his partner, who retained the unreadable smirk that accompanied a commando’s confidence. Through the window, the pulsating light shrank as the helicopter climbed and accelerated towards the frigate.
In calmer seas, the landing proved simpler than the takeoff, and Jake stepped onto the steady fantail. A junior officer greeted him and showed him the dive team.
Two men in wetsuits stood beside tanks that Jake suspected contained pressurized oxygen, nitrogen, and helium. An air compressor rested on the nonskid surface next to a long length of coiled rubber hose.
“They look ready,” Jake said. “Take me to the captain.”
The young officer escorted him to the bridge, where the deck plates and bulkheads smelled old, like the training vessels he had tinkered with as a midshipman at the Naval Academy.
The commanding officer stood beside the helm, and through the front windows, Jake saw that he pointed the bow towards the flashing orange beacon.
“I don’t know why I doubted you,” the commander said.
“No offense taken. I surprise myself sometimes, and this took a little luck.”
“Really? How so?”
“No, not really,” Jake said. “I was just trying to be modest.”
“It doesn’t become you.”
“You’re right, but I need to at least make the effort. Nobody likes an arrogant jackass.”
“Apparently, you have accomplished enough notable feats to warrant being arrogant.”
Jake shot him a sideways glance.
“I didn’t know that you’d seen my dossier.”
“I’ve never seen your dossier,” the commander said. “But the intelligence that allowed you to find that submarine is proof that you’ve impressed many people. Such knowledge requires resources that money alone can’t buy.”