“Okay, mate.”
“You know not to speak unless emergency? Too loud. Alerts the people on Goliath.”
“Right. Keep it quiet.”
“How is your breathing?”
The air from Cahill’s rebreather tasted like metal and chemicals. “Good.”
“You have plenty of air. Not a problem. Get ready. Stand here.” The legionnaire pointed to the deck behind the first pair of jumpers.
Cahill turned and stood, bumping the buttocks of the second man. Through the open door’s frame, he saw blackness, and the Specter escaped his gaze.
He realized the submarine had submerged to periscope depth, marking one point of a line between itself and the Wraith. Invisible to his eyes, he trusted the exposed optics to guide the helicopter to a drop point in front of the Goliath.
Before he could question the logistics, the first team leapt out the door. Coiled cable unfurled behind them, and the legionnaire ushered Cahill to the aircraft’s edge. “Wait, Terry.”
When the first team splashed, the cable’s unspooling slowed. As the coil unraveled, the Australian’s eyes followed its trailing end to the belt of the legionnaire, and then to his own body.
“Now get ready.”
The Australian waddled to the door, and the moonlit shimmering waves seemed close enough to touch.
The legionnaire slapped him on the back. “Go!”
Cahill gasped for breath, closed his eyes, and jumped.
CHAPTER 14
Unsure where to swim, Cahill floated until he saw the light from the commando’s facemask.
He reached towards the luminous beam, cupped his hand, and pulled water down his body. As he kicked his fins, his abdomen, groin, and inner thighs ached, and he welcomed the helping force of the line joining him to his partner.
Though shrieking limpets blanketed his target, the audio beacons spanned many degrees surrounding him. Their random chirping calls were like mythical Sirens luring him to danger.
Disoriented, he relaxed as his course became obvious and his effort easy when his lifeline to his commando yanked him. It dragged him behind the frogman’s fins, giving him a relieving sense of direction.
Loose cable bends appeared beside him as he swam behind his buddy, who kicked and clawed his way up the line. After several strenuous minutes, his breathing became labored. Though aching, the Australian continued swimming to minimize the strain on his partner and to keep the self-respect of making the effort.
The flowing water was an undersea river, and as it shifted over Cahill’s frame, the milky glow of the Goliath’s dome became a diffused beacon marking a fake undersea horizon. Then, in front of the backlit elder legionnaire, dark lines became visible.
Seeing the commando clamp himself against a retracted hydraulic arm, Cahill kicked the final exhilarating strides to reach his ship. Beside the former legionnaire, he grabbed the arm’s rubber pad and rested.
The legionnaire pulled coils of the cable, pinched a length between his thigh and the hydraulic arm, and reached for the knife sheathed at his chest. When he had three meters of slack, he gestured for the Australian to hold an end.
Confusing Cahill, the commando started severing and fraying the interlaced metal fibers that had guided him to the Goliath’s back. Unable to voice a protest, he frowned and watched his partner with cautious optimism. After creating two frayed ends, the legionnaire detached the useless cut cable from his belt and wrapped the remaining length around the hydraulic arm.
Cahill understood his buddy’s intent as he interlaced the coils and pulled the last wrapping tight. He’d anchored the cable for the other pair of divers who swam in the invisible depths.
As Cahill wondered how he’d reach the ship’s port side, the commando turned his head and pointed his light into the abyss behind and below them. His eyes adjusted to the slight contrast between black metal and the water’s void, and he saw the Goliath’s aftermost crossbeam.
The inter-hull tunnel’s outer shell seemed low and difficult to achieve with a rapid downward swim, but Cahill judged the commando capable. Communicating presented a challenge, but the legionnaire mimed enough gestures for the Australian to understand his desire to be followed.
Cahill trailed the commando down the hydraulic arm to its attachment to the starboard hull. Grabbing it with both gloves, he extended his body in line with the fluid flow, aiming his flippers toward the targeted tunnel. The other swimmer then released himself and drifted into the void.
Alone, the Australian heard his labored breathing, and then a loud chirp pierced his skull. Though most limpets clamped to invisible perches hidden against the Goliath’s underbellies, one had landed halfway up the starboard hull’s side.
Aiming his light at the sonic demon, he lamented its location. Two meters away, with its top visible above the cylindrical ship’s curvature, it mocked him with its proximity. Like a smoke alarm with a dying battery, it taunted him with its maddening tones.
The taut cable at his belt distracted him from the annoying noise, and he redoubled his grip. Concerned he’d tethered his partner short of the tunnel, he considered dropping and drifting to the next hydraulic arm, but the angle from that anchorage to the crossbeam would be too steep.
Unsure how to assess his partner’s safe arrival, he felt harsh yanks and assumed his buddy fought for their next perch. Fearing futility, he was relieved to feel rhythmic rapid but gentle tugs. Risking a single-hand hold to afford himself a view, he contorted his torso and aimed his forehead-mounted light under his arm.
Looking back at him with his artificial beam illuminating flowing particles of plankton and algae, the commando propped his fins’ edges against the tunnel’s smooth front. When Cahill made eye contact, his buddy gestured for him to follow.
Releasing his grip, Cahill pushed himself downward. Doubting he could reach the tunnel, he prayed the commando had envisioned a workable plan.
He had.
A strong force at his waist pulled Cahill down, and he groped for the nothingness. Then the line stopped him, and he grabbed it. Pulling himself forward against the current, he reached the back of the tunnel.
His body pinched to the tunnel’s front, the commando greeted him with a nod and then scrambled atop the crossbeam. Wincing with the pain of exertion, the Australian climbed the rounded steel to crawl behind his partner.
The slippery surface alarmed Cahill, but it provided adequate friction against the water. He noticed his partner’s skewed movement to adjust for the artificial current, but then a fishing net slowed their progress.
The first of the expected four, the net intersected the beam and extended into the darkness in both directions. Taking hold of its fibers, the commando crawled while panning his light back and forth for hooks and other sharp traps.
Discovering a hook, the elder legionnaire aimed his light at it and held it there until Cahill nodded his awareness of the dangers.
When Cahill’s turn atop the net arrived, he moved with caution, but the fibers provided a welcomed stability. As the fibers gave way to smooth steel, he looked up and saw his partner laboring over another net’s width.
A glance to his left showed the second net overlaying the stern planes, which glided in static silence while the huge ship maintained a shallow depth.
After passing over three more nets, Cahill saw the crossbeam’s far end where the tunnel entered MESMA plant six. From there, he could pin himself in front of the cross beam and tether his partner’s drift to the engine room. Finally, the victory seemed certain, and the nightmare’s end within reach.