The transport ship’s builders had removed the aft battery cells from each hull to provide buoyancy while connecting the forward cells in series to maintain proper voltage. With two men operating each plant under a pair of roving supervisors, the MESMA team comprised the largest unit of Cahill’s crew.
The hiss of steam filled the section, and he felt heat waft over him. With his jumpsuit unzipped and flopped over his waist, a technician Cahill had recruited from a civilian power plant exposed a sweat-marked tee-shirt. He was examining gauges on a control station as his partner, an Australian Navy recruit, climbed up from the lower deck and joined him.
“Running like a champion,” he said. “It’s a temperamental system, but I can keep it running, even all out when you need it.”
“I know you can, mate. That’s what I pay you for.”
Twenty-five meters and two MESMA plants later, Cahill pulled an industrial-strength paper towel from a roll on a bench and ran it across his face. The fabric became moist, and he dropped it into a waste bin bolted against a rail. He bid farewell to his third MESMA team and ducked through another watertight door.
Above, wide air ducts fed a large gas turbine engine — a fixture he found bizarre on a submerged vessel. Loud and inefficient at the low powers of a submarine battery’s charge rate, the engine better served surface ships to enable their great speeds. For the hybrid Goliath, a gas turbine in each hull allowed direct feeding of the ship’s motors for rapidity while surfaced, and the MESMA units combined with the undersized battery cells provided the undersea propulsion.
“How are we doing?” Cahill asked.
A man in coveralls seated before a control panel turned, looked up, and then nodded towards the electric motor at the tapering cylindrical stern.
“Fine, Terry. It’s running quiet and reliable. This Scorpène-type engine room is a quality design.”
Cahill glanced aft and saw the top of the electric motor, which the Taiwanese builders had sunk into a custom recess for the Goliath. The motor drove the starboard shaft, which stretched below his view through the tapered keel and through the stern bearing at the ship’s tail. He then opened a hatch above him that Renard had retrofitted onto the engine room’s angled slope, reached upward to handles, and pulled himself through.
Closing the hatch, he noticed the quietness of the weapons bay. He climbed a ladder and entered his ship’s aft space.
The railgun was unimposing, deceptive in its lethality. With its barrel aiming forward, the weapon system impressed Cahill with its compact size. The greatest mass rose behind the breach to absorb recoil, and as he walked deeper into the bay, he stood on his tiptoes to reach the top of the cannon.
The small space below the gun and above the engine room held its rounds, but with electricity providing their muzzle speed and their kinetic energy making them lethal without warheads, numerous rounds fit within their tight packing.
Although he disliked reliance on moving parts, the electric motor-powered hatch above him and the hydraulic lift which raised the railgun through it had proven reliable in trials. But he demanded that a man be stationed in each bay to manually jack up the weapons or clear jammed rounds if needed.
“What are you doing, Terry?”
He looked to the smallish man who reclined in a cot reading a book under a recessed curve in the hull.
“Just admiring me ship, specifically the railgun. I needed to see it, just in case we need it against these Chinese mongrels.”
“There’s nothing else like it,” the man said. “I never thought I’d be submerging on a surface ship, or tending to railguns on a submarine. I’m still not sure what we are.”
“We’re an armed transport ship,” Cahill said.
“It’s still weird, though I don’t mind it for the pay.”
“I consider meself lucky that Renard thought of building it. Look at what we’re doing now.”
A light source flashed by one of the polycarbonate windows that offered a thin panoramic view around the top of the bay. He recognized it as some form of biological life, ignored it, and continued his speech.
“If Renard hadn’t designed a high-speed transport, the Specter wouldn’t be able to reach Korea from Taiwan in time to be of any use. And if we couldn’t submerge, we’d be fighting off Chinese ships that outgun us. No, mate. This ship isn’t weird. It’s bloody brilliant.”
A sound-powered phone chirped by the man’s head. He reached, tore it from its cradle, and lifted it to his cheek.
“Starboard weapons bay,” he said.
He extended the phone.
“It’s for you.”
Cahill stepped forward and took the handset.
“Captain,” he said.
“Terry, it’s the bridge,” Walker said. “We’ve got important news from Renard. It’s not much data, given how low the bandwidth is on our submerged communications wire.”
“I understand the bandwidth constraints. No need to defend yourself if the news seems cryptic. What did he say?”
“He said the Chinese warships have stopped.”
“Well, that’s good. Did he say anything else?”
“Yes.”
“Spit it out.”
“Helicopters,” Walker said.
“Helicopters? Nothing else?”
“No. I’m afraid not. Not with the limited bandwidth. It was a four-word message. Chinese warships stopped. Then a hyphen. Then the word helicopters.”
A sinking feeling filled Cahill’s stomach.
“Helicopters,” he said. “That one word says enough.”
“The Chinese have sent helicopters after us?”
“That’s right,” Cahill said. “Man battle stations.”
CHAPTER 6
Cahill stood on the Goliath’s domed bridge.
“We’ll maintain course and speed,” he said.
“You don’t want to reconsider surfacing?” Walker asked.
“No.”
His executive officer squinted and frowned, his quizzical look casting shadows over his eyes.
“There’s no other way to shoot down helicopters.”
“I understand,” Cahill said. “But we’re not going to shoot them down. We’re going to avoid them.”
“If we surface, turn east, and sprint, we can test their flight range. If they pursue us, we’d have plenty of time to shoot them out of the sky before they could reach torpedo launch range.”
Cahill appreciated his executive officer’s spunk, and he allowed the debate.
“True,” he said, “but that would delay our arrival. Every minute of delay is an extra minute the North Koreans may stumble upon our clients’ survivors.”
“You’d risk driving underneath the helicopters to save time?”
“Yes.”
“Is this normal courage for submarine officers, or are you just one of the gutsiest?”
“Hard to say, mate. You’ll have to trust me.”
“Well then, what’s your strategy? Just drive straight and hope we don’t get discovered?”
Cahill pondered the answer and realized he was ignoring an important parameter.
“More or less,” he said. “But you’ve given me an idea.”
He tapped his screen to contact the Specter, and Henri’s French accent rose from the loudspeaker.
“Yes, Terry?”
“Can you launch a bathythermograph?”
“Ah, yes. I see. It would be an interesting activity. You hope to discover an acoustic layer.”
“I do, but that didn’t answer the question.”
“Of course. The unit would clear the hydraulic supports from the countermeasure launcher, but what portions of the Goliath it might hit on the way down is a matter of speculation.”