The sergeant grabbed the phone and screamed to the control room to submerge.
Silence.
Then the commander’s urgent order rang from the loudspeakers. “Medic, lay to MESMA plant two. Medic, lay to MESMA plant two.”
With a history of coolness under pressure, the sergeant remained calm. “We were already submerging before I called the control room. I’ll grant that our submarine commander was paying attention and quick to act.”
The colonel feared he’d lost a man. “What happened?”
“He couldn’t get off a good shot. The bastards were ready for him and shot fast, and they had flares to draw away the missile.”
“Damn.”
The colonel looked into the terrified eyes of the bleeding warrior, who faced death.
Kneeling, the bulldog compressed the entry wound above the man’s left lung and urged the colonel to press the wound he feared gave entry into the right lung.
“Am I going to die?”
The sergeant was convincing. “No, lad. We’ve got the best medic in the world. He’s on his way.”
As death teased the youth, the colonel analyzed the encounter.
He’d learned two important lessons.
Dryness meant the aircraft’s bullets grazed the ship’s hull on a shallow angle, and he filed that knowledge for future reference. He also realized the helicopter crews were confident in their flares’ functionality as countermeasures — tested against one missile.
He wondered if he could create a better outcome by sending multiple men topside together to assure that one of them got off a good shot.
CHAPTER 8
Jake glanced at the system time on a Subtics monitor and mentally calculated twenty-eight hours separating the Goliath from its destruction at the US Navy’s tripwire. “Henri, set up a tracker to give us distance and time until the Goliath reaches the tripwire. Have it update every thirty seconds based upon the Goliath’s position and speed.”
The Frenchman stood from his station and turned to the central plotting table. Within a minute, a new window tracked the submersible ship’s speed, its distance from fifty-six and a quarter degrees east longitude, and the time remaining until the Goliath reached the U.S Navy’s declared demarcation of death.
With two hundred miles to travel and the three port MESMA plants providing a speed of seven point two knots on the port propeller, the system showed twenty-seven hours and forty minutes.
“Good enough, Jake?”
“Yeah. We’re in trouble if the Omani flight crews lose their nerve. I’d be heading home now if I were them.”
“I think not. Imagine if you loved helicopters as much as you loved submarines. With your confidence, you might fight for the sake of the challenge.”
Jake considered helicopters his natural enemy but agreed. “Yeah, maybe. For self-respect.”
“Or purpose. I assume you agree there are purposes worth dying for.”
Jake appreciated Henri’s timely philosophical witticisms, which distracted him from his stressors. But this comment made him question if the Goliath’s theft marked the beginning of the end.
He teased himself that it might be a divine sign for him to abandon violence and seek peaceful ways to carry his share of humanity’s burden. But beyond his lead role in Renard’s fleet, he foresaw nothing, and past prayers had left a future outside the realm of mercenary combat murky.
Barring supernatural guidance to the contrary, Jake was in his proper realm, regardless if caught by surprise and reacting to an ambush. But his mood remained somber, like the crew around him, with their flagship’s uncertain future.
He stepped down from the conning platform, joined the French mechanic by the plot, and murmured a retort. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“But true.”
“I have no idea what an Omani airman might be thinking.”
“Officially, per the state religion, they all should believe in an afterlife.”
“Officially, per my beliefs, so do I. I believe that the consciousness can survive death, but I’m not planning on dying early just to find out. And neither are they.”
His distraction apparently exhausted, the Frenchman looked to his panel. “Pierre will make this work.”
“I’m sure he’s paying them well.”
“Pierre can tell when people are receptive to monetary motivation. I expect he’s issued bounties and other rewards.”
“Well, shit. This has grown into a full-blown mission, and the Omanis are getting our paychecks.”
“Perhaps we should go on strike.”
Jake liked the joke but could muster only a snort. “Thanks for trying to cheer me up. But I was bitching for the sake of bitching.”
“Understood. I was attempting levity as much for my own sake as yours. I don’t imagine we’ll feel anything but twisted until we recapture the Goliath.”
“Was I out of line when I tried to get Pierre to let me finish this with a slow-kill?”
“No, not given the tension we’re under. You needed to speak your mind. But I can’t say that I agreed with your intentions.”
“Well, what the hell do you think we should do?”
“I’ve been considering a few possibilities.”
“But you’ve got nothing better than a slow-kill?”
“I don’t yet unfortunately, but I agree with Pierre and Terry that we need to use the time we have to pursue safer options.”
Jake remembered stealing an American submarine and the leeway from his pursuers which had allowed his narrow escape. “I suppose I’m the only guy who thinks this gets worse before it gets better.”
Hearing movement behind him, he turned to see his Australian colleague. “You may not be the only one. But you’re the only guy with the guts to say it.”
“Thanks, I guess. Was that a compliment?”
“Sort of. A bit of mending of figurative fences, but I may just be preparing you for bad news. Pierre’s got new orders, and you may not like them.”
“Try me.”
The Australian explained them, and he was right.
Jake disliked them. “I don’t suppose this is up for debate?”
“No, mate. Pierre likes it, and I wouldn’t muck around. Save any more of your hard challenges for orders you really hate.”
Thirty minutes later, Jake leaned over the central plotting table watching data from the Specter’s hydrophones draw lines to the Goliath. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
The Australian stood beside him. “This close and this accurate? Never.”
His submarine aside the Goliath, Jake counted dozens of sonic lines shooting from the chirping limpets to his hull. The separation between the ships measured less than the Specter’s length from its bow to the last hydrophone of its toward sonar array.
On the Goliath’s far side, the Wraith held a symmetrical position to that of the Specter. “It doesn’t get any tighter.”
“No kidding, mate.”
Jake looked at the toad-shaped head of his sonar expert. “Antoine, are you sure about the depth?”
“With those limpets being so close, yes. The depression angle on sonar puts the Goliath at twenty meters.”
“That’s right where you’d expect me ship to be per the automated diving routine.”
“Are the starboard MESMA plants still down?”
Remy’s toad-head swiveled. “Yes. It’s still running on only three. Speed is holding at seven point two knots. But I hear sounds of them starting MESMA plant number one.”