“We’re bridged,” he said. “Go ahead and call him up.”
“Okay. Give me a second.”
Jake tapped keys, and Cahill’s face appeared on the console beside that which held the Frenchman’s visage.
“I heard you did great work, mate. Gutsy stuff.”
“I was just about to update Jake on your work. Granted, you faced only one submarine as opposed to an entire fleet, but you managed to take it with you as a trophy.”
“Right, but you’re making me give it back,” Cahill said. “I was just about to force it to escort me through the minefield.”
“That would have been a battle of wills that I’m relieved you didn’t need to face,” Renard said. “I fear its commanding officer would have resisted you.”
“But we don’t have to worry about that, thanks to Jake.”
“Thanks to Olivia, really, from what I hear,” Jake said.
“Right, mate. How bad does this put us in her debt?”
Renard blew smoke out the side of his mouth.
“Not at all, per my reckoning,” he said. “She knew that she was sending us into a sea with a solitary chokepoint blocking our exit. Though I doubted that the Russians would have the audacity to mine it shut, I considered the option.”
“Without telling us about it,” Jake said.
“Though it happened, it honestly wasn’t a high enough probability in my mind prior to the mission. I had only directional thoughts about it, but grant me credit for having prepared Miss McDonald for the possibility.”
As the room rocked in a deep swell, a rapid knock preceded the door swinging open, and the priest stuck his head in the room.
“Henri says that the Slava turned its cannon towards us. He thinks it’s worth your attention.”
“I’ll be back, guys.”
He darted from the stateroom and slid by the priest in the passageway. When he reached the control room, the mechanic met him on the elevated conning platform at the periscope control panel.
“Andrew tells me you’ve got a concern with a cannon?”
“It’s not quite pointing at us, but it’s close. Would you like to look for yourself? I’ve got the periscope pointed at it.”
“Sure.”
“The Slava’s captain is just flexing his muscle.”
Jake realized that he needed Renard’s guidance. He reached for images on a screen and invoked the Frenchman’s face.
“In case you didn’t hear, the Slava just rotated its cannon about five to ten degrees in front of my bow.”
“You’re sure it’s not pointing at you?”
“It’s close, but not that close. I’m sure. I’m tempted to open an outer door and show that every action brings a reaction.”
“Don’t! You must remain meek.”
“Then someone had better be speaking on my behalf. Who’s talking to the Russians now?”
“One of Miss McDonald’s officers, through a United Nations representative. I can tell you no more about the person’s identity.”
“Can you get him — or her — to deal with this?”
“Yes. A moment please. I must put you and Terry on hold.”
Renard’s screen went dark, and Jake shifted his conversation to his colleague.
“What’s your status?” he asked.
“Just waiting for you and your entourage,” Cahill said. “Tight lipped these mongrels are. I didn’t try to hail me newest friends in the Kilo, but they haven’t made the slightest peep either.”
“How’s your ship and the crew?”
“I had only the one bad injury when I took a shell in me port weapons bay. I just had him picked up in a Turkish helo that Pierre arranged.”
“He’s got clout, doesn’t he?”
“He surely does.”
“What about the Goliath?”
“In addition to the port weapons magazine and the damned dolphins flooding the bridge, they mangled me starboard cannon with a strafing run.”
“If you’d ever figure out how to stop weapons other than by putting your ship in front of them, you’d stop bruising it.”
From the corner of his eye, Jake saw the Slava’s cannon rotate away. Renard then appeared.
“Your problem with the Slava should be handled,” he said.
“It is. No more cannon threat. Thanks.”
“You should also be nearing visual range of Terry.”
“Are you that dot I see coming over the horizon on me radar?”
“Probably,” Jake said.
“When do I let go of me Kilo?”
“After towing lines are made up to the Krivak,” Renard said. “That’s the ship that’s towing it back.”
“I’m really going to do this without talking to any of the Russians?” Cahill asked.
“Count your blessings,” Renard said. “God willing, you’ll suffer nothing but boredom until I meet you in Toulon.”
“Toulon?” Jake asked.
Renard pressed a cigarette into an ashtray.
“You missed much of the dialogue while Terry and I were nervously awaiting your final confrontation with the Russians. As part of staying in hiding while the Russians spin the international story to their desires, you’ll have to stay submerged even after the Bosporus. You’re not going to be able to transit the Suez.”
“I asked him if we could just keep going and pass through Gibraltar,” Cahill said. “But he insisted on stopping in Toulon.”
“I have strong connections there where I can hide both ships under covered wharves while tending to our repairs.”
“Repairs and upgrades,” Cahill said.
“Yes. Upgrades, too. I promised Terry stronger motors. He’ll be pushing thirty-seven knots the next time you deploy.”
Jake felt an urge to ask when that might be, but the exhaustion of the subsiding adrenaline left him uncaring.
“So we’re submerged all the way to Toulon?”
“Indeed. But I will arrange for recreational activities when you get there. I’ll fly in the wives, and we’ll make a vacation of it.”
“What about Terry and the other bachelors?”
“They’ll enjoy the wine and the sun. Don’t you worry, I’ve got one important activity planned that I know you’ll like.”
“What’s that?”
“Team building. We’re climbing Sainte Victoire.”
CHAPTER 24
Oscillating between sullenness and anger, Volkov stood atop the Krasnodar’s conning tower. Enclosed in its bridge, he and his executive officer stood with a conscripted lookout, using their elevated view to verify line handling between the submarine’s crew and the sailors of the Krivak frigate.
A skiff from the surface combatant cut its engines and drifted between the Goliath’s rakish catamaran hulls. A sailor perched on the watercraft’s prow tossed a ball to sailors standing on his rounded bow. After fielding the throw, the handlers pulled the rope attached to the orb up the rounded hull, dragging a nylon line behind it.
Wrapping figure eights around the submarine’s cleat, the sailors readied Volkov’s vessel for towing. A report from the bridge-to-bridge radio reached his executive officer.
“We’re ready, sir.”
“Very well.”
He turned and glared into one of the Goliath’s external cameras, lifted his palms, and shrugged. The executive officer nodded towards the transport ship.
“Are you sure you don’t want to hail him and tell him to wake up and release us?”
“I have orders to avoid radio contact with the commanding officers of both hostile vessels, and I don’t feel like giving him the satisfaction of hearing my voice.”