“Of course. It’ll happen soon.”
Henri looked to him. “It’s time to head shallow.”
Agreeing, the Specter’s commander qualified his response. “But not time to surface. We need to keep our speed. Make your depth thirty meters. Come left to course one-seven-five.”
“Coming to thirty meters, course one-seven-five.”
As the deck rose and rolled, Jake stepped towards the elevated conning platform and reached for a handset. He brought it to his lips and keyed it. “Everyone, this is Jake. If we end up in the hands of the Iranians, which is likely, we’re going to hide that fact that Commander Martin and I are American citizens.” He lowered the handset and let the news sink in.
From his control station, the silver-haired mechanic laughed nervously. “I thought the CIA revoked your citizenship?”
Seeking levity to hide from his fear, Jake scoffed. “No. Dying revoked my citizenship. I’m legally dead, which is one reason you’re taking my place in the crew’s most uncomfortable role.”
“Do you need to remind me? Why do you think I have this sickened look on my face?”
Jake lifted the handset and continued updating his sailors. “Until I say otherwise, you’ll all refer to Henri Lanier as our commanding officer, and you’ll refer to me as the best French mechanic you’ve ever known. We’re switching places. Furthermore, Commander Martin is no longer an American naval officer but one of our sonar technicians pilfered from la Marine Nationale. His name is Michel DuPont. Make sure you remember this. Remind each other.”
Henri nodded slowly. “Well said.”
Keying the microphone, the Specter’s commander issued his final order to the bulk of his crew. “Everyone outside the control room, prepare to abandon ship. Muster the Stinger teams and have them go first. Be ready to defend against helicopters from topside. Bring at least two reloads each, duct tape life jackets around them, and assign strong swimmers to get them to the rafts. That’s it. I’ll see you all in the water. Move out!”
The toad-head exposed its jaw. “The incoming torpedo has changed its ping cycle. It’s acquired us. Per system solution, the time to impact is three minutes, fifteen seconds.”
“Understood, Antoine. We’ll wait a bit longer.”
“Three minutes to impact. I think we should surface.”
“Not yet.
“Two minutes, forty-five seconds.”
Jake yelled. “It’s time! Henri, drive us to the surface.”
“You don’t want to blow the main ballast tanks?”
“No. Use our speed and a thirty-second high-pressure air blow to both tanks. Don’t touch the emergency air.”
The Frenchman called out while adjusting the stern planes on his console and then reaching for high-pressure air levers. “Understood. Thirty-seconds of high-pressure air to both tanks. Do you want to use Sidewinders? Possibly with a delay to account for the transit time of helicopters?”
Jake wanted to avoid angering the Iranians by shooting a fire-and-forget weapon. “I don’t. The Stinger teams will have to suffice.”
“Understood. I’m driving us to the surface, pumping trim tanks.”
As the deck rocked in the shallows, Jake dismissed the majority of his control room. “Everyone except Henri and Antoine get out of here. Join everyone else at the after hatch. Henri, call Claude and make sure men are heading topside.”
As the room emptied, Henri yanked a phone from its cradle and lifted it towards his cheek. “I’ll tell him. By the way, we’re surfaced. Do you want to take a look around and get on the radio?”
Realizing he’d let his tactical brain lapse into a coma, Jake sneered. “Yeah. May as well hear Pierre whine about losing his submarine. Connect me. I’m raising the periscope.” He strolled to his console and tapped a key to raise his photonics mast. A quick rotation brought him a sunlit panorama.
The low height of his optics shortened his horizon, but the upper halves of three helicopters appeared above the water in the Goliath’s direction. One’s rounded contours suggested an anti-submarine aircraft while the others’ sharp edges portended armored gunships. A final item caught his eye — the thin, dark cross of a Burke-class destroyer’s mast jutting from the waves.
Henri yelled across the control room. “I briefed Pierre. I’m sending him to you on the open microphone.”
Renard’s voice filled the room. “Jake?”
The Specter’s commander yelled. “I’m here.”
“I don’t suppose you have one more evasion within you?”
Jake’s mind raced for context but found none. “What the hell?”
“Terry’s using the Indiana’s propulsion to make twenty-three knots. He can escape without you sacrificing your ship.”
The Specter’s commander sneered as his heart sank. “Too late. The torpedo’s locked in, and we’re getting ready to ditch.”
“I feared as much. I can see the first among your crew jumping overboard through a Fire Scout. I’m also tracking the weapon through Dmitry’s data link.”
Jake had forgotten about his Russian colleague’s support and welcomed the reminder of the Wraith lurking below him. “Sorry, Pierre. I’m about to waste… what? Three hundred million of your dollars?”
“Roughly, but you made the right call. I can buy a new Scorpène, but I can’t replace the Goliath, and I don’t need the Americans hunting me down for failing to protect the Indiana. Save yourself and consider my property a tax write off.”
Jake scoffed. “But you don’t pay taxes, you drowning rat.”
“Speaking of drowning, get your charmed ass off my ship before you get dragged under with it.”
Agreeing with his boss, Jake yelled. “Say goodbye to the Specter, boys. Let’s go.”
A gloomy déjà vu fell over Jake, and he noticed the insanity of his repeated jumping from doomed submarines. He recalled giving the ocean’s depths a rented submarine to protect an American destroyer, and he recalled an unnecessary evacuation of the Specter a decade earlier off the coast of a Taiwanese islet.
Slapping Jake’s back, Henri broke the nostalgic trance. “Since I’m pretending to be the captain now, I should be the last one off.”
Taking the hint, Jake followed Remy out of the compartment, past the crew’s dining area, and to the cone of natural light beaming through the opened hatch. He grabbed a lifejacket from a pile and slipped it over his chest. After putting on his Bluetooth earpiece, he withdrew his global satellite phone from his pocket and dialed Renard while climbing into the salty air. Heat rising from the submarine’s black paint engulfed him as he squinted to protect his irises from the sun.
Bobbing in the Specter’s whitewashed wake, floating sailors were a collage of white shirts, orange lifejackets, and splashes as they swam towards and climbed into inflated circular rafts.
Renard’s voice filled Jake’s ear. “Good to see you, my friend. You have a minute and a half. Get off.”
“Can you hear me, Pierre?”
“Yes. I said, get off my ship. Why are you still standing there?”
Shouldering a Stinger launcher with lifejackets taped around its length, a lone, lanky straggler stood in front of Jake, Henri, and Remy. Claude LaFontaine called out to his shipmates. “How much time do we have?”
The Specter’s commander glared at his engineer. “Ninety seconds. But we need to be off in thirty to avoid the shockwave.”
“Then we have a problem.” The launcher swinging beside his ear, LaFontaine twisted his wiry frame. “They can’t get good footing to hold the other launcher steady.”