Cahill trusted his boss’ judgment, but he wondered if informing his CIA link had caused more harm than good. “I don’t mean to be rude, but did she bother to help us?”
“She’ll give us some surveillance, and she was able to accelerate a transiting American destroyer out of harm’s way ahead of the Goliath. She also convinced the American fleet’s admiral to divert an Indian frigate from entering our flagship’s weapons range.”
“She did that without raising suspicions?”
The Frenchman waved his fingers. “She has tricks to request modest course changes. She can claim knowledge of Chinese spy satellite coverage, for example.”
“Okay, then. I’m glad you made the call.”
“But the Bandar Abbas limit remains.”
“A line is drawn, then.”
“Indeed. I suggest we outline our reaction plan immediately. The clock works against us.”
CHAPTER 7
The colonel scolded his submarine commander. “I shouldn’t have let you talk me into remaining surfaced.”
“We were going to take damage either way. It would have been worse with the bomblet torpedoes.”
“You may be right, but let’s not argue the past. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“I’d rather have you vent your frustrations than see them overwhelm you at the wrong moment.”
“Good point. Are you ready?”
“Go ahead.”
He grabbed a latch and opened the door to the damaged MESMA plant. The wailing grew louder, and he realized he’d adapted to ignoring the limpets’ whining.
After stepping into the compartment, the colonel closed the door behind the commander and faced the spray. A handful of high holes spat liquid onto the propulsion plant’s piping. Thin sheets cascaded down the heat exchanger, rolled over pumps and panels, and formed a placid pool in the bilge. “How bad is this?”
“With shoring, we could slow the influx and run the plant. But it should remain our last priority.”
“We may need every knot we can get.”
The commander shrugged. “Maybe, but we can bring this plant online last.”
“Shouldn’t we do something about this now?”
“Maybe. Hold on.”
Raising his arm as a shield against droplets, the commander stepped into the salty rain and then disappeared behind the electric generator. Following bursts of metallic banging, he appeared with a waterproofed bag over his shoulder.
After a return trot through the rain, the commander dropped the sack to the deck. He unfurled it, opening an array of twine, mallets, rubber matting, cutting tools, and wooden blocks. Kneeling, he grabbed conical wedges and a rubber hammer and then stood. “You’re strong. I’ll get on your shoulders.”
“How’d you know where to find all this?”
“It seemed like a proper place for a damage control locker.”
“I’m wiser than I thought for having recruited you.”
The commander scoffed. “Don’t flatter either of us. Not while we’re fighting for our lives.”
The colonel nodded at his companion’s hands. “That’s all we need?”
“I’ll plug some holes, and that should be enough for the pumps to get ahead of it.”
“So be it.”
The colonel turned and squatted, and his companion felt like a feather mounting his back. He stepped into the droplets and steadied himself against the twisting torque of his partner’s hammering. As wooden plugs filled holes, the spraying pattern widened but the steadier streams disappeared.
The commander yelled from the colonel’s shoulders. “Okay! That’s good!”
“That’s it? It sounds worse than before.”
“It’s like a garden hose when you block it with your thumb. It looks more violent, but the flow is less.”
Escaping the seawater shower, the colonel lowered his haunches to lighten his load, and then he reached for an elevated door. He turned athwartships towards the tunnel that connected the halves of his stolen bounty. Reaching through the circular doorway, he hoisted his torso into the cramped space and began crawling.
The commander’s voice rang with a tinny tone in the tunnel. “I’ll stay on this side, then?”
“Get back to the control room and keep us going as fast as our propulsion limits allow. I’ll return when I can.”
At first, crawling through the confines bothered the colonel. Difficult to clean, the intra-hull tunnel smelled stale, and the air tasted thick. But as he approached the midpoint between the hulls, distance muffled the grating chirp of the magnetic parasites.
At the deepest point in the tunnel, he considered the crawlspace that confined him an elongated coffin filled with damp, thick air that tasted dusty.
Bowing his head to avoid the air-intake cross-connect, he watched his symmetric shadows stretch under the thin grating that served as a floor. His regulated breathing echoed off the bilge, where condensation reflected light from the twin rows of LED bulbs that ran beside the crossing air duct.
Hastening his movement beside hydraulic lines that fed an oversized block of metal, he craned his neck and watched steel arms move outward through grease-coated holes into an invisible nook that shaped the hydrodynamic rear of the ship and housed the rocker that swung the stern planes.
Scrunching his shoulders, he slipped past the planes’ controller and forced himself onward to a door that gave way to the heat and hissing of the port hull’s MESMA plant six.
As his head emerged into humidity, he twisted and grabbed a bar. He pulled his shoulders through the portal and then reached for a higher bar. With his waist freed, he walked his heels out and pushed his buttocks free. He drove his haunches backwards, making space for his legs and feet to back into the compartment and transfer his weight to rungs mounted below the door.
He stood and gathered his bearings.
Within the ethanol-liquid-oxygen propulsion MESMA plant, the hiss of steam rang, and soothing heat wafted over him, but a new grouping of limpets howled.
“Accursed sirens.”
He found the sixth air-independent propulsion plant humming but void of occupants, and he marched to MESMA plant four. As he stepped into the space, he saw three men stepping out its far, forward door. Making eye contact with the last, his bulldog, he gestured to him and met him in the room’s center. “Is this plant bearing load?”
“Yes, sir. We just got it up and running and coordinated a speed increase with the control room.”
“What’s our new speed?”
“We’re making turns for nine knots on MESMA plants four and six, but we’re moving at six point three knots using just the port engine room’s propeller.”
“Understood. I assume you sent the men to get working on MESMA two now?”
“Of course.”
“They can do it without you, right?”
“Sure. They have a handle on it now.”
“Good. Show me the Stinger missiles.”
The sergeant marched ahead and ducked through a frame into the port hull’s forward propulsion plant. Trailing him, the colonel stepped through the dogged-open door and saw men obeying the instructions of the MESMA expert in bringing up the equipment.
After giving quick congratulations about succeeding with the power generation, he ushered the bulldog into the next compartment. There, he found an open space that paralleled the starboard side’s galley and mess. The quiet compartment had dining tables, housed spare parts, and served as the recreational space for the Goliath’s proper crew.
Hundreds of spare railgun rounds covered the free spaces between pieces of exercise equipment. Some crates formed short walls around a treadmill, and others concealed the lower half of a Bowflex machine.