“Good,” Navarro said. “I assume you see the importance of joint operations between an Australian submarine and the Wraith with Philippine trainees aboard it.”
Renard expected delivery of the first Philippine submarine within two years, and he had agreed with Andrada to train his sailors aboard the Wraith, following a pattern he had established with the Taiwanese on prior operations aboard the Specter. The arrangement allowed his client’s nation to learn how to operate a submarine under his crew’s instruction, and it gave him free labor.
“Of course,” he said. “My concern is the command structure, given the involvement of a second nation’s navy.”
“Our navy commands the operation, just as you planned with President Andrada.”
“That is logical. You’re more familiar with the waters, and the territories and supporting assets are yours.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Navarro said. “I must protect President Andrada from knowledge of the Australian participation. The only people who can know about the inclusion of the Rankin are you, me, and a small population of naval personnel.”
“I see. Plausible denial in the event that this ends poorly.”
“Yes. President Andrada will remain in ignorance of how we tracked the Wraith to its commandeering, and he will likely continue speculating that it was an American submarine.”
“So be it,” Renard said. “What then, would you have me do with the Rankin?”
Navarro looked at the ceiling for inspiration before returning his gaze to the Frenchman.
“Consider it a temporary gift,” he said. “It’s an asset at your disposal as long as you are defending Philippine interests.”
“You are most gracious,” Renard said. “I shall adjust my plan to secretly incorporate the Rankin. There is, however, one issue with which you must assist me.”
“That is?”
“I will require that customized torpedoes from my inventory get loaded aboard the Rankin.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In my campaign in Argentina, I developed a limpet torpedo designed for tracking submarines, creating a better option than simply destroying one’s enemy. I have since created a third option, called the slow-kill torpedo.”
“How did the limpet perform?”
“Splendidly, and more than once. As did the slow-kill in my recent tests. It’s based upon the limpet design.”
“What’s a slow-kill torpedo?”
“Its warhead is divided into twenty-four submunitions like the limpet, but instead of attaching and chirping sonic frequencies, the slow-kill submunitions include small warheads that detonate in a delayed sequence. Depending on the size of the targeted vessel and how many submunitions attach, the ship will slowly sink or perhaps survive in a state varying from crippled to slightly hindered.”
“I don’t see the point.”
Renard swallowed. He had created the limpet as a tactical necessity of tracking a British submarine near Argentina, but he had created the slow-kill weapon as a favor to Jake.
“My commanding officer wanted it. He claims to be growing weary of killing, and I must humor him. He wanted me to create a weapon that would disable a submarine but give time for its occupants to surface the ship and survive.”
“Interesting,” Navarro said. “But is it effective?”
“Yes. It’s completely effective against submarines, given the water pressure at depth, their small sizes, and their small number of watertight compartments. However, the design is less robust against surface combatants.”
“If you say the weapons are effective, I have no choice but to trust you. But will your weapons work with the Rankin?”
“Other than warhead modifications, they remain Italian Black Shark torpedoes, which are designed for global sale. So I expect little problem in integrating them with the Rankin’s tactical systems. You will, however, have to recall the Rankin to Naval Base Cavite to load the weapons. I will have my torpedoes flown in from the Specter’s transport barge.”
“I will see to it,” Navarro said.
“Will you excuse me then, so that I may adjust my plan?”
“Just one more thing.”
“Of course.”
“When you place a submarine at risk per your new planning, Mister Renard, be sure it is the Wraith. None of our adversaries are as humane in their armaments as your commanding officer, and as I strengthen my relations with the Australians, I cannot tolerate the loss of the Rankin.”
CHAPTER 4
Jake Slate smelled grime.
After ventilating the Wraith clean of incapacitating gases, the submarine assumed its decade-old ground-in dirt stench that had survived the most meticulous cleanings. He expected his nose to adjust to the smell, but the visual oddities disoriented him.
As he stood behind the polished railing of the elevated conning platform, he surveyed the control room. Though written in the familiar Latin alphabet, every printed word came from an alien language. Numbers etched onto metal labels and printed onto wire-bound operation manuals appeared normal, but he’d have all remnants of Malaysian ownership replaced with English annotations before the Wraith would feel like home.
The metal casing that housed the consoles and monitors of the Subtics tactical system seemed brighter than that of the Specter, but he doubted his memory. Despite spending months aboard Renard’s other Scorpène-class submarine, the subtle details distinguishing the two vessels escaped him.
Key faces made the Wraith familiar. To his left, before one of six dual-stacked Subtics panels, sat the toad-like figure of his sonar systems expert, Antoine Remy. Like all his ace veterans, Remy had honed his skills in the French Navy prior to recruitment to Pierre Renard’s growing mercenary fleet.
Jake looked to the right and saw a handsome man wearing his mercenary crew’s unofficial uniform of beige slacks with a white dress shirt. Seated in front of panels and gauges that controlled the vessel’s skeletal and cardiovascular systems, the white-haired, sharp-featured Henri Lanier epitomized dignity in stature, appearance, and knowledge of any moving part of a submarine.
Younger French-trained mercenaries, some familiar from the Falkland Islands mission aboard the Specter and some with new faces, filled the room alongside uniformed Philippine sailors. The Asian riders struck Jake as eager and frightened newbies, trying to appear brave during their first dive. He pegged the senior Filipino, a lieutenant commander and former commanding officer of an offshore patrol vessel, to be in his late twenties.
“Lieutenant Commander Flores,” he said. “Approach the conn.”
Stooped beside Henri, learning from the French veteran, the officer craned his neck and gave Jake a quizzical look.
“That means ‘come here’,” Jake said. “Bring Henri with you.”
Henri shot a knowing look that bordered on condescending, as if Jake had offended him by verbalizing his demand. The French mechanical systems expert appeared chafed that Jake forgot that he could predict his commands before they issued from his lips.
If the Frenchmen held a grudge for the faux pas, he buried it by the time he slid by the room’s central navigation table and reached Jake. Flores, however, clenched his jaw to hide his nerves.
“You’ll be fine, Flores,” he said. “We do this all the time.”
“Of course, sir. All of us from my fleet have undergone psychological evaluations and training to become submarine sailors. We’re ready to deal with the stresses.”