“Nothing viscous, mate. I just want to make peace.”
“I wasn’t aware there was a war.”
“Maybe it’s all in me head. But to be sure, I should have a candid discussion to make sure we share the same goal.”
“If you want to approach him, I suggest you let me help you.”
The Frenchman’s stare was strong, and Cahill took the hint to retreat. “Of course. I appreciate the offer. Since Jake’s busy at the moment, we can do this at a more appropriate time.”
He returned to the captain’s foldout chair and sat. The tactical display showed the Specter holding a steady location relative to the unwavering Goliath, and Cahill realized he could leave the ship in junior hands.
After letting several minutes pass to allay the Frenchman’s suspicions, he stood and called out. “Henri?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I could use a short break.”
The Frenchman gave a blank stare.
“You know what I mean, right, mate?”
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”
“To use the head.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Jake normally uses the facilities and trusts me to handle the control room while he’s gone. But in this case, I’m concerned about out proximity to the Goliath.”
“You have no one who can conn this ship competently in Jake’s absence?”
“Well, there is Julien.”
Henri tilted his head toward the young French sailor seated beside Remy’s squat body.
“Does ‘Julien’ speak English?”
Julien answered for himself. “Yes, of course, I do. Jake lets me drive the ship quite often during our quiet hours.”
“Would you know what to do if the Goliath turned towards us?”
The youngster looked upward in thought. “I’d turn left and keep turning until it was on the edge of our baffles. We’re too close together to risk any fancier responses.”
“Excellent. You can handle the basics for ten minutes. Do you have a man who can relieve you at your sonar station?”
“Noah can handle it.”
Cahill looked to Remy for confirmation. As toad-head nodded and then returned to its own distant world, the Australian commander accepted the gesture as a vote of confidence. “I believe that’s a plan. Henri, please call Noah up here to fill in for Julien.”
Two minutes later, the young Frenchmen exchanged roles at the sonar console, and Julien stepped up to the conning platform. “I’m ready to relieve you, Terry.”
“I won’t be gone long. I’ll be back long before you’d need to snorkel.”
“I can manage.”
The Australian raised his voice. “Attention in the control room. I’m taking a short break. Julien has the conn and the deck.”
Walking towards the Specter’s bow, Cahill left the control room’s humming air-conditioned consoles behind him and continued his walk forward.
When he arrived at the torpedo room’s doorframe, he heard two men speaking in French. The words streamed over his ears as gibberish, but the speakers’ tones revealed their meaning.
Jake and his engineering ace were arguing.
Risking a quick view, Cahill held his breath, stole a glance of the torpedo room, and then stepped back. As he processed the image of two frustrated men hunched over an opened warhead with an oscilloscope and test probes, he grasped the problem.
Jake’s effort to reduce the explosive yield on a slow-kill weapon was failing.
He opted to avoid the Specter’s frustrated commander and to seek a different route to find an ally in recapturing the Goliath. He headed aft, searching for unusual company.
As he stepped into the mess deck, he found his targets — the francophone security team.
Wearing dark T-shirts and bluish camouflage pants, the six men huddled around a dinner table. Becoming the room’s seventh inhabitant, Cahill silenced the French conversation.
The eldest warrior, a former legionnaire who revealed graying whiskers in his beard stubble, turned his nose towards the Australian and greeted him in a thick accent. “Are you lost?”
The man’s tone and hardened edge intimidated Cahill, but he kept his composure. “No, mate. I’m right where I need to be. Do you blokes mind if I join you for a minute?”
“Nobody speaks English but me.”
“Then can I have a minute with you?”
The elder legionnaire issued an order in French, and his team dispersed. “I sent them on a break. What’s your question?”
Unsure how to articulate his concern, Cahill groped for words. “I… well.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever your team’s planning with the Goliath, I want to be a part of it.” The blank stare made Cahill question the legionnaire’s English and compelled him to clarify. “I mean I want to participate. I want to join you.”
“You want to swim with us?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But I really want to.”
“It’s a very bad idea.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to land on a ship moving at almost nine knots that is twenty meters underwater. A mistake is deadly.”
“But it’s me ship, and I want to get it back.”
The legionnaire leaned over a sheet of plotting paper his team had spread across the table. Crude sketches of the stolen catamaran appeared in varied perspectives. He tapped his finger against a penciled rendition of the Goliath’s port stern. “My men are trained well, but I am concerned for them. Loss of our grips could have someone to fall into the propeller. I do not know you or your training.”
“I’m in decent enough condition.”
“Maybe, but you train for life inside a submarine, not outside. This is not for you. You can only get in the way.”
Unsure if the elder legionnaire voiced a valid hazard, Cahill questioned his heroic intent. Wondering if he’d overextended himself in asking to join the swim team, he shifted his tactics. “Well, perhaps I can help with your planning. Nobody knows the ship better than me.”
“Maybe after we finish you can review.”
As the security team trickled back into the mess area, Cahill deemed his welcome expired and retreated. He headed forward and stopped to relieve himself in the restroom’s urinal.
He then found his way through the small but unfamiliar ship to the rear entrance to the control room.
The quiet space showed no signs of change since he’d left it, and he relegated the young Julien back to his sonar technician role.
Cahill retook his captain’s chair, glanced at the Goliath’s incoming sound data, and appreciated his quarry’s unchanging and predictable path.
After settling into the routine of monitoring the absconding transport ship, he felt doubts creeping into his mind.
He questioned if efforts to recapture his ship were delusional delays to Jake’s definitive desires to use torpedoes. A thickening sadness enshrouded his spirits, and he slumped into his chair, letting the sea’s swells rock him.
As he sulked, he heard his boss clear his throat over the loudspeaker. Cahill peered at his display and mustered the energy to lean into his console. “Pierre?”
“The mood seems rather subdued on the Specter.”
“Are you saying it’s a party on the Wraith?”
“Of course not. But Dmitry seems to be enjoying the chase.”
“I don’t know how he can enjoy this.”
“He loves his work. He doesn’t care about who’s paying the bills or the politics or the embarrassment of having been victims of a hijacking. He’s in his element, and that’s all that matters to him.”
“Yeah, mate. But I thought I had that going on in me head, too. But this is the worst I’ve felt commanding a submarine since… well, since forever.”