“Pierre? This is Terry. Are you there, boss?”
“I’m here. I’m recovering from my abrupt stop from four knots to zero. That’s harder on the body than you might expect.”
“Sure. Can I drop anchor now?”
“Yes, we all can. I’ll get the skiff ready and send it to you.”
Thirty minutes later, Cahill stood on the back of the anchored Specter, the sun heating his face. A gangway offered him a path to the mated Omani skiff, which the armed security force had already boarded. The elder legionnaire waved him over, and the warm puddles on the wooden planks tantalized his bare feet.
He stepped into his fins while the skiff took him the short distance to the dive point, and as he looked over the boat’s edge, he saw the Goliath’s black form through the blue water.
The elder legionnaire slapped his back. “You’re with me again. We go last.”
Carrying weapons, explosives, and welding gear, the first four divers rolled backwards into the water.
As they kicked downward, the legionnaire lowered an underwater phone over the boat’s side and then energized its console. Over several minutes, he exchanged words in French with his team and then warned Cahill. “Here it comes.” A crack rippled through the water followed by watery words in French. “They blew open a bigger hole through the existing damage. They’re going in.”
“Can we go now?”
“No. First, they secure the room.”
Hearing no signs of resistance, the Goliath’s commander remained optimistic. Minutes later, the report came in French, which the legionnaire summarized in English. “Yes, it’s clear, now. You go. I follow.”
Cahill slid his facemask over his chin, tested his air, and then rolled himself backwards over the skiff’s stern. Warm water enveloped him, and he turned towards his ship. Excited to board the Goliath, he kicked downward.
As he swam into the port hull’s shadow, he questioned the wisdom of continuing underneath a vessel a hostile force could bring down upon him. But the steel cylinder remained stationary above him, and he pulled himself through the gap that plastic explosives had widened for human entrance.
Lights atop four facemasks greeted him, and one warrior spoke in French. Cahill nodded his ignorant response and raised his thumb. After hand gestures, more French words, and a gentle nudge, the Australian understood the order to swim out of the way.
When the legionnaire emerged from the hole, he issued an order, and his team lowered a thin piece of metal an Omani crew had shaped. As it reached the hull, it offered a flawed covering of the breach, but Cahill believed his powerful ship’s pumps could outpace the overlay’s imperfections.
As the men lit a welding torch and applied it to the metals and filler material, the legionnaire swam by Cahill. Watching the swimmer’s shadow traverse the silent gas turbine gave the Australian a chill.
At the engine room’s door, the legionnaire stopped, popped his head towards the port hole, and retreated. Reporting in French, he shook his head to indicate the lack of visible hijacker resistance in MESMA plant six.
The arcing behind Cahill reminded him he’d volunteered to breathe limited air while sealed within a flooded steel tank. While he waited for his French teammates to bar his escape, his imagination taunted him with his adversary’s having blocked the door into MESMA plant six.
Before he could think himself into anxiety, the legionnaire spoke the dive’s first words in English. “Terry, please move. Hold something strong.”
Two warriors faced the door, their rifles pointed forward, while two other commandos transformed themselves into tethering lines, grabbing machinery mounts and their colleagues’ belts. A pistol in hand, the legionnaire rested his fins on the deck, counted to three in French, and then lifted the handle.
The outrush rolled the door open and carried the legionnaire out. Instead of fighting for balance as Cahill expected, his companion pushed forward to his knees and then recovered himself on the adjacent compartment’s deck.
As the water flowed, Cahill noticed air gurgling from the MESMA plant’s space into the engine room’s upper recesses.
The weld behind him had held.
One commando released his rifleman, who then surfed through the door and sought stability on his knees behind his leader.
With the forward men’s heads exposed to air, communication with the immersed Cahill and his companions became impossible. But when seconds passed without gunfire, the next rifleman risked his passage forward.
Every five seconds, another swimmer moved, and then Cahill took his turn.
With his eyes wide open, he swam through the door, and a torrent pressed his back. He welcomed hands reaching into the temporary waterfall to pull him forward.
At the entrance to the next compartment, the legionnaire yelled a command in French, and his team gathered near the door. With water rising up its length, they threw the portal open and entered, weapons readied. With four men through, the legionnaire barked in English, and his amplified voice sounded strange in the air. “Come on!”
Flapping his fins, Cahill waddled through the rising water and ducked through the door. The legionnaire followed behind him and started rolling the door shut. “Help me.”
Cahill pushed against the small flow that issued into MESMA plant four, and he helped his companion muscle the door against its machined seating. He cranked the handle closed and breathed a sigh of relief.
At the dry compartment’s forward end, a French commando offered a thumbs-up, indicating no resistance. He then lifted his facemask to sample the Goliath’s air, which proved clean.
The team shifted from rebreathers to the transport ship’s atmosphere, and they regrouped at the entrance to the last MESMA plant. After the legionnaire peeked through a port hole to verify his colleague’s initial assessment, he shook his head and uttered a quick phrase in French.
Cahill voiced his opinion. “They may be waiting for us in the next compartment. That’s where all the spare weapons are.”
“You said they cannot get into the gun locker.”
“I know I said it. It’s true, but if they brought spare explosives, they could blow their way in.”
“I wish you had said this earlier.”
“Sorry, mate. I just thought of it.”
“If so, we will have to win in combat.” The legionnaire turned to his men and begat a heated discussion in French that Cahill assumed pertained to his increased predicted probability of armed resistance. Until he’d thought of it, the hope had been that the hijackers had stashed their weapons on the starboard side prior to the tunnel’s flooding.
As the voices of French commandos rose with their ire, Cahill saw movement through the port hole. He pointed. “Hey!”
The Frenchmen stopped talking and darted out of the portal’s view. Sweeping his arm, the legionnaire compelled Cahill behind him.
Then, from the door’s other side, the hijacker knocked.
The Frenchmen looked at each other in surprised disbelief, and then the legionnaire issued his order. Taking positions behind large pipes and pumps of the MESMA systems, they raised their weapons and waited. Cahill joined one of them and watched.
The legionnaire moved to the portal and made eye contact. He then raised his hands, and the hijacker mimicked the gesture. Then the legionnaire whirled his finger in a circle, ordering the hijacker to expose his backside. Apparently satisfied, the legionnaire gestured the man into the room while stepping back with his pistol raised.
The hijacker clicked open the handle and crouched through the door.
The legionnaire gave his order in French and pointed to the deck. The man obeyed, dropping to his knees, but the legionnaire repeated his demands until the arrival’s chest flattened against the walkway.