“That’s good. Next, I’m going to try to slide under you. Can you slow to half a knot?”
“I can only measure my speed relative to the flowing water. I can’t adjust for the current.”
“Right. Forgot about your true speed. Let’s instead talk in terms of how many turns you’re making.”
“I’m making turns for nine knots now.”
“Try turns for four.”
After giving the order to slow his ship’s reverse crawl through the mud, Causey updated the Australian. “I’m making turns for four knots, and my angle’s at down eleven now.”
“Keep working your angle, mate, but the speed’s good.”
The auxiliary division phone-talker reported the bad news. “Captain, the trim and drain tanks are dry. The trim pump is shut down.”
Causey nodded and then looked at Cahill’s image in the laptop “I’ve reached my limit on the angle. I don’t have any water left back here.”
“Shit. I’ll have to load you like you are.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“Then you’d have to send high-pressure air in your after ballast tanks, but let’s not risk that noise yet.”
“Do you need me to do anything else? Speed, rudder, stern planes?”
“No. Just keep them all where they are. I’ll adjust.” Cahill narrowed his eyes. “Are you ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not unless you want to spend the next seven days skulking along the bottom of the sea.”
“Load me into your cargo bed, Mister Cahill.”
“Right. I’ll send you a different feed so you can watch what’s happening instead of having to see me repugnant mug.”
Causey chortled. “Try not to make any loud noises.”
The Australian smirked, and then the screen switched to a view of the Indiana’s propulsor. Running below either side of his submarine’s tapered stern, the Goliath’s catamaran halves seemed inches from his hull. “Tugboats don’t even get this close.”
Cahill’s voice issued from the laptop. “You’re one meter from me cargo bed, and we’re only going to get closer.”
In the screen, the transport vessel quivered. “What was that?”
“Me bows just hit the bottom. Hold on.” The Australian exchanged rapid words with his executive officer. “Alright. We’ve adjusted.”
“Just like that? How?”
“The outboards and screws. Well, the two outboards I’ve deployed. I obviously can’t use the forward two. It’s all controlled by sonar range finders trying to keep the cargo bed a constant distance to your hull.”
“That’s impressive.”
“And now I’m slowing… you’ll drift into me. For what it’s worth, brace for impact, commander.”
The bump made Causey rock forward on his heels.
“You’re in our bed. I’m closing down the presses. Keep your propulsion as it is.”
In the laptop screen, hydraulic arms rotated from the transport ship’s hulls towards the Indiana.
“We’ve got you, but don’t celebrate just yet. I’ve only got you in sixteen of twenty-four presses.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that if you can’t give me a higher angle, I can’t get you any deeper into the bed. Now you have to pump water back into your after tanks to help balance you out.”
Causey gave the order to flood the tanks and sent his sailors to the compartment’s tail end, and then he turned his jaw back to the computer. “I’m flooding now.”
“I’ll wait until you’re done.”
When his tanks were full, Causey shared the news with the Australian. “I’m as heavy aft as I’m going to get.”
“Alright. Come to all stop.”
The Indiana’s commander gave the order, and with the mud tugging his bow, the speed died instantly.
“You’re stopped, commander. We’re holding you. Everything’s steady. We’ve got you.”
“Then why do you sound doubtful?”
“Because the hard part starts now. We’re going to try to rotate you back to a level deck.”
“Slowly, I trust?”
“Yeah.” The Australian’s voice trailed off.
Below Causey’s feet, the deck’s angle receded, but then he heard alarms from the Goliath.
The Australian’s voice boomed. “That’s enough! Reverse our pitch, Liam!”
Causey felt the angle rise again. “What’s wrong?”
“Too much stress on our presses. You’re heavy forward. We can’t lift you. We can’t hold you tight enough to rock you back to level.”
The Indiana’s commander sighed. “Is that as bad as it sounds?”
“It bloody hell sure is, mate. This isn’t going to work.”
CHAPTER 12
Volkov lifted his head towards his American rider. “You’re sure you’ve translated that correctly?”
Commander Hatcher exposed his palms. “My Russian’s fine, and I’m sure I’ve translated it correctly. The fleet doesn’t want the California to return to the Indiana. They say it’s too dangerous now, and I agree.”
“I hate to admit it, but I agree, too. Why risk a second American submarine when you can send mercenaries?”
“You’re not going back.”
“I know that, but two of my fellow mercenaries are there.”
“Regardless, our opinions don’t matter. You and the California are now tasked to clear a southern egress channel for the Indiana. These are the orders from the fleet.”
Standing at the Wraith’s central plotting table, Volkov straightened his back. The rocking deck vibrated with the rumbling diesel engines which fed his hungry battery cells. Leading a Frenchman’s submarine against Iranian adversaries while following American orders challenged the Russian’s paradigms. But he stayed true to the mission. “No plan survives engagement with the enemy. It’s an understandable adjustment.”
“But you sound like you hate it.”
“It’s embarrassing when two Iranian dolphins can defeat us.”
“We’re not defeated. Like you said. It’s an adjustment.”
Volkov leaned over the table and studied the consensus modeled on the tactical chart. The Americans suspected that at least three submarines were forming a barrier between the Wraith and his return route into Iranian waters. The barrier also trapped the California south of the Indiana. “If the Iranians are truly committing submarines to stop me and the California from returning to their waters, that reduces their search ability for the Indiana.”
“Reduces, yes. But they have plenty of submarines left for searching. I think you’d better get down to the business of removing some of them.”
Although coming from a foreign command structure, Volkov’s orders aligned with his wishes — they allowed him to hunt. Hesitant to harass sailors of the fleet he’d once trained, he accepted the tasking for its tactical challenge. “Does the fleet have an opinion on a search strategy?”
“They left that up to you and the captain of the California.”
“Which means, they left it up to the captain of the California.”
The rider exhaled through his nostrils. “It could’ve been that simple, but the message from the California’s captain is a recommendation for you to trail him northward. If his crew finds an Iranian target, you’ll launch a slow-kill weapon against it. I trust you’ll find that equitable and reasonable?”