Disordered from the weapons’ methodical inventorying arrangement, a lone, opened rectangular crate stood out and caught the colonel’s attention. “I suppose that’s a Stinger?”
“It is, sir. We were getting it ready when we were attacked.”
“Yes. I learned quickly that a flooding problem can make one’s day stressful. How many Stingers did you find?”
“Twenty-four missiles and two launchers. I don’t think we’ll run out.”
“No, we won’t. Stage four missiles by the hatch and have all the soldiers know where they are.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And make sure there’s always a soldier in MESMA two who can grab a Stinger and head topside every time we surface.”
“Every time. I see.”
The colonel calculated the numbers underlying his survival. “If we stay submerged, the submarines will keep pace with us, and that’s unacceptable. I never planned for them to react so quickly, and I blame myself for underestimating Renard. I won’t do it again.”
“Our guys are warriors. If you give me thirty seconds of warning each time you surface, I’ll have two guys get a Stinger up there and ready to launch within ten seconds of you saying ‘go’.”
“Do I really have to say ‘go’?”
“Something like that. How else would they know it’s safe to open the hatch?”
“Right. I’ll say something more obvious.”
“How about ‘Stingers topside’?”
“That’s fine. Stingers topside.”
The colonel weighed a risky move. “Get a team ready now.”
“For training, or for real?”
“For real.”
“Then I’ll send myself up with a Stinger.”
“I can’t afford to lose you.”
“You sound like you know there’s a helicopter above us.”
“There is. Even with these accursed limpet parasites, our sonar operator can hear it. It’s following us off our port beam, like it’s waiting to shoot our port engine room.”
“Then let me go up.”
Needing to play God, the colonel did. “You’re not our best Stinger operator.”
“I’ve trained on it.”
“Everyone’s trained on it. I want the best man to go up and send the message that needs to be sent.”
Fighting what seemed a battle between bravado, self-respect, and utilitarianism, the bulldog offered a cold stare. “It should be me, sir.”
“You know the man I want. Get him.”
The sergeant marched away, and the colonel pulled a sound-powered phone from its cradle. “Control room, MESMA two. Come in.”
The commander’s voice reverberated from its reflection off equipment in the control center en route to an overhead microphone. “This is the control room. Go ahead MESMA two.”
“I’m stationing a man below the port hatch with a Stinger missile. I’ll want you to surface to allow him to take down the helicopter. Once that’s done, I’ll want you to shift propulsion to the port gas turbine.”
After a silent processing of risk, the commander responded. “If your man fails?”
“Then you submerge immediately. You’ll have to be on the bridge to watch this in real time.”
“Actually, I don’t. I found access to the camera system with lights that illuminate our hull underwater. Remember that this ship was built for loading and unloading cargo submarines underwater.”
“Would that also allow you to watch the helicopter?”
“Yes, there are cameras mounted atop the weapons bays.”
Sighing through his nostrils, the colonel wanted to accuse the officer of cowardice for avoiding the exposed bridge. But he conceded the man’s safer tactics were sound. “Agreed, then. If you see him fail, submerge immediately.”
“When should I surface?”
“I’ll tell you. Contact the engine room first and make sure they’re ready to use the gas turbine.”
The bulldog reentered the compartment with a young soldier behind him. Wearing a mask of bravado, the youngster projected a commando’s air of invincibility. “I hear you need some ass kicking.”
“You heard correctly. You know what you’re up against?”
“A Westland Super Lynx, Mark One-Twenty. Omani Air Force. Two twenty-millimeter cannons. It’s capable of carrying eight anti-tank missiles, but it’s a coin toss if it’s got the launchers attached on such short notice.”
“Impressive. You know what you’re facing. But do you know why the men shooting at you will do so with resolve?”
The warrior shrugged. “Because we insulted their nation by stealing this ship from their capital city?”
“That’s part of it. But would you like to know the real reason these men will stare down your Stinger missile and shoot back with true aim to kill you?”
After swallowing, the youngster mustered a courageous tone. “Yes, sir. I would.”
“I’ve studied Pierre Renard’s history. I know him, and I know his tactics. He’s offered each man in that helicopter crew one hundred thousand Euro for each man on this ship that they kill.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Can’t I? Based upon his history, he’s already paying out a quarter million Euro to each member of the last helicopter’s crew for taking away our starboard engine room.”
The warrior’s voice weakened. “A quarter million each? How can you be so sure of the amount?”
“He’s consistent. He’s methodical. He repeats what’s worked in the past. And the worst of it is, he has a deep sense of guilt, and he compensates for it by giving a full one million Euro to each widow he creates. That does a lot for a man’s courage.”
After absorbing the danger, the young man furrowed his brow while steeling his nerves. “Then let me make some rich widows.”
“I commend your fighting spirit.”
The sergeant stepped forward and continued towards the weapons stores. “I’ll rerun the diagnostics on these and have them ready.”
The colonel raised his palm. “You’ll ‘rerun’ them, will you? Would you rerun them if it were you going up?”
The bulldog lowered his gaze.
“Then bring both launchers over here.”
With the young commando’s aid, the bulldog carried two loaded Stinger systems under the hatch.
The colonel clarified the tactics. “You’ll go up the ladder, open the hatch, and climb until your shoulders are high enough to hold the launcher. Then we’ll lift it to you, and you’ll do your duty. If you need a second shot, drop the first launcher and we’ll hand you the other. Don’t worry about us getting out of the way.”
With the youngster standing below the exit, the colonel lifted the phone receiver to his cheek. “Control room, MESMA two, come in.”
The submarine commander’s voice issued from the speaker. “This is the control room. Go ahead MESMA two.”
“Are you ready to surface and shift propulsion to the port gas turbine?”
“I’m ready. I’m watching the hatch on video, too, and I’ll be looking for the helicopter with our rear cameras.”
“Let me know immediately over the loudspeaker when we’re surfaced so I can send up the missile launcher.”
“I will announce it immediately.”
“Very well. Surface the ship.”
Seconds passed like days until the announcement rang from the speakers, and then time accelerated into a compressed crunch.
In a blur, the young warrior pushed open the hatch, and a circle of starlit darkness appeared. The commando’s silhouette engulfed a third of the twinkling, and the colonel grasped the weapon and heaved it up. Metal pelted metal in a brief staccato chirping, and then rocket exhaust burned the blackness.
The youngster’s limp frame fell, and the colonel caught him while his bulldog darted up the ladder, dragged down the missile launcher, and then sealed the hole.