“Yes?”
“That torpedo couldn’t have come from a surface ship, not based upon its track.”
“Agreed. And there are no helicopters in the vicinity, either.”
“Well, shit. If Cahill gets himself killed, let it be for a good reason. That’s a submarine-versus-submarine exchange. Now I know where to search for the Shang. I can use active sonar from my drone and nail the son of a bitch.”
“Indeed, my friend! Please, be careful and remember that your primary goal is defending the railgun module. But by all means, avenge our Australian colleagues.”
“The torpedo has acquired countermeasures!” Remy said.
“Our colleagues may have a prayer if the countermeasures work,” Renard said.
“Don’t hold your breath,” Jake said.
“I was trying to be optimistic.”
“The torpedo has penetrated the countermeasures and has reentered terminal homing!” Remy said.
“It’s over, Pierre,” Jake said.
Another rare moment of silence from Renard.
“Torpedo is range-gating!” Remy said.
Jake counted seconds in his head, expecting his new friends to die before he reached double digits.
“Explosion on the bearing of the torpedo!” Remy said.
Awaiting reports of twisting metal and crumpling compartments, Jake seethed and indulged in a moment of frustration with a scream.
“Fuck!”
“Easy, Jake,” Remy said.
“Look, man, I’m sorry,” Jake said. “I’m pissed off! I’m going to tear that fucking Shang in half!”
“No, Jake,” Remy said. “I meant that it wasn’t a kill shot. It was a small explosion. I didn’t hear signs of a hull breach, either.”
“Maybe you just missed it.”
“I never miss anything, not when it’s this important. Wait!”
Remy smiled while he pressed the earpiece into his head.
“What’s going on in that twisted head of yours?” Jake asked.
“I figured out what happened, and you’re going to like it.”
“Just spit it out, man!” Jake said.
“The Rankin wasn’t the target. It was the shooter.”
“How? How can you know that?”
With a businesslike demeanor, Remy turned his head back towards his monitor. The gesture struck Jake as insubordinate until he digested his sonar expert’s final statement.
“I hear limpets.”
CHAPTER 17
“Cahill just gift-wrapped the Shang for you,” Jake said.
“You can’t imagine my relief,” Renard said. “I fault myself for underestimating him, but in my defense, I’ve never seen him in action. I shan’t make this mistake again.”
“He was just smart, Pierre. Nothing heroic. He made a good guess of where the Shang would be to protect the surface ships, and he got there and waited. I shouldn’t have doubted him either.”
“So be it. He’s succeeded. Now we must capitalize on it.”
“After the crew of the Shang realizes they’re still alive and put on clean underwear, they’re going to surface and send divers over the side to pry off the limpets. If I were them, I’d make sure to do that ASAP before getting any closer to the railguns.”
“Perhaps.”
Jake studied his display, considered the height of the railgun module’s radar arrays, and ball-parked the distance-to-horizon calculation.
“The Shang is still over the railgun module’s horizon,” he said. “But when it surfaces, you’ll have it trapped. It can’t send divers over the side and move fast at the same time. You can hit it with good old-fashioned aiming and shooting. One round should be enough to keep it pinned on the surface, but I’d put in four or five for good measure.”
“If the opportunity arises, of course. But it’s quite possible that the Shang surprises you with its reaction. Recall why you created the limpet weapon in the first place.”
Jake had conceived of the weapon as a way to force a submarine to surface and surrender. But a forced surfacing required a nearby platform capable of exploiting the limpets’ noises with a sonar system and a threatening torpedo.
“Shit, Pierre. The crew of the Shang doesn’t know that we have two submarines. They think the Rankin is the Wraith. They think I shot them with a limpet, and they think they’re running away from me.”
“Don’t give them time to think about it. If they gather themselves, they may recognize the limpet weapon as being part of a two-submarine tactic. I recommend that you take matters into your own hands immediately.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Jake raised his chin to Remy.
“Antoine!”
“Yes?”
“Do you have the Shang on both drones and on hull sensors?”
“Yes!”
“Do you have its course and speed nailed down yet?”
“With limpets, it’s academic. Gift-wrapped, as you said. You can fire when ready.”
“Very well, Antoine,” Jake said. “Assign the torpedo in tube one to the Shang.”
While Remy tapped buttons, Jake announced his attentions to the control room.
“Attention everyone!” he said. “I’m going to shoot a slow-kill weapon at the Shang. Immediately after shooting, I’m turning our ship and drones south to defend the module.”
Twisting in his seat, Henri shot Jake a disparaging look.
“You could release the drones now,” he said. “Our adversaries may hear them while you move them.”
“That’s fine,” Jake said. “That’s why I position them far away from our ship.”
“Releasing them would allow you to reload the tubes.”
“I know. But I’m going to hold them until I’m sure that the Shang is out of the picture. Stick with your plan of moving the drones with our ship. Keep them in a constant relative position to us, walking and drifting, just like we reviewed.”
Jake hesitated for a moment of unspoken communication with Henri. After a decade of companionship, he recognized the Frenchman’s body language and could distinguish theoretical questioning from blatant disagreement.
The single episode of blatant disagreement — the time when deferring to his colleague’s judgment had saved their submarine near an isolated Taiwanese island — emblazoned in his memory, Jake needed less than a second to identify Henri’s reluctant but supportive acceptance with keeping the drones.
“Tube one is ready, assigned to the Shang,” Remy said.
“Are you ready with tube one, Henri?” Jake asked.
“Ready!”
“Shoot tube one!”
His ears popped as the flushing whine of the torpedo launch filled the Wraith.
“Tube one, normal launch,” Henri said. “Wire guidance engaged.”
“Very well,” Jake said. “Let’s get moving. All ahead two-thirds.”
“The engine room acknowledges ahead two-thirds,” Henri said.
Jake watched digits on a speed gauge tick through five knots, and when the Wraith reached the velocity for steerageway, he turned.
“Left fifteen-degrees rudder,” he said. “Steer course one-nine-zero.”
Its conning tower creating drag above the vessel’s cylindrical hull, the submarine rolled into the turn, unlike surface ships whose momentum tilted their superstructures outward during maneuvers. The deck tilted left below Jake’s soft-soled shoes.
“Lieutenant Santos!” Jake said.
The seated Philippine officer looked over his shoulder.
“Approach the conn,” Jake said.
The young officer stood and walked in front of the polished railing. Jake leaned forward.