Nor did he want to be remembered for simply surrendering his ship. His father had arrived in the United States from South Vietnam via a rickety boat and a stiff brush with Thai pirates.
He didn't intend to start the family saga over again in Latin America.
Reasonable, my royal Asian-American ass! he thought, and turning went below. "Get me Commander Smith," he half snarled.
* * *
Sarah watched the show through binoculars; Comodoro fortunately had a nice selection of high places from which to view all the kingdoms of the earth—or at least of Patagonia. She didn't need to be a lip-reader to work out what had happened. As soon as she'd seen that tanker on the move, she'd guessed how this conference was going to end. The sub was neatly trapped and there wasn't a lot the captain could do about it. Nothing civilized anyway. Clearly they needed help.
Sarah turned and walked away. She had a number of arrangements to make, and information to acquire.
And I'm not all that civilized, either, she thought.
* * *
After a cheerless supper of steamed rice and water, Chu had retired to his cabin to "consider his options." Which prospect made him glad of his bland meal. He had decided not to allow shore leave as he'd originally planned in hopes of allowing the men to find their own more substantial dinners. It was a sure bet that any American leaving the Roosevelt would be immediately arrested.
Of course, then at least they'd get a square meal.
There was a tap on the door.
"Enter," Chu called out.
"Sir," his XO said, "there's a message for you, but you'll have to take it at the decoder terminal."
The captain raised his brows. It was a rare message that couldn't be patched through to his quarters. "A message from command?"
"No, sir. It's being transmitted via the hydrophones—modulated sonic from outside the hull. Expertly blurred—the sonar watch can't give a location."
"Who is it from?" he asked, with a spurt of well-concealed alarm. If the locals have frogmen outside the hull with limpet mines, we are fucked.
The younger man looked at Chu and swallowed, more emotion than he usually showed in a week; he was very black, and stress thickened the Mississippi gumbo of his accent. "She says she's Sarah Connor, sir. The message could be coming from anywhere."
Chu rose and followed his second-in-command down the narrow corridor. Avoiding the jagged bits that stuck out ready to tear your uniform or bang your elbow, and color-coded conduits, was second nature, but he did appreciate shoreside fresh air. The big boomers didn't develop a ripe stink like the old-time pigboats, but things did get sort of stale after a few weeks submerged.
And sailors get sort of thin without food, he thought grimly.
Let's hope this Sarah Connor can help.
* * *
Sarah floated beside the sub waiting to hear from the captain; it would have been dark fifteen feet down in daylight, and this was well after sunset. The water was cold, but her wet suit made it tolerable; she didn't think she'd need to worry about anyone on board finding her here. They were being carefully watched from the harbor and from the oil tanker, and at the first sign that the sub might be deploying sailors, there'd be trouble.
Her expensive face gear would allow her to speak to them as though she were on dry land. Eventually they'd figure out that she was right beside the sub, but probably not until she'd swum away.
"This is Captain Thaddeus Chu of the USS Roosevelt. Please identify yourself."
Her lips quirked, not a request. "This is Sarah Connor," she said. "You may have heard my broadcast."
"Yes, ma'am." Damn, it did sound like her. "What is it you want?"
"To help. Down-coast at Puerto Deseado, there's a cache of supplies waiting. You'll have to pick them up yourselves. I'll be there waiting for you."
"Thank you, ma'am," Chu said. "But we have a small problem here." Which you may have noticed since it's as big as a city block and sitting on my back.
"It's being taken care of, Captain. Be prepared to move momentarily. Connor out."
"Ma'am?" Chu said. He looked at the radioman.
"She's gone, sir."
Chu looked up and met Bob Vaughan's eyes for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "If worse comes to worst we've had a drill. If we're lucky and the lady is as good as her word, we're back in business. Status?"
"Ready to go, sir, as per your orders."
That was one good thing about a nuke boat; as long as you kept the reactor hot, you were ready to roll whenever you wanted, and you didn't have to worry about wasting fuel much.
* * *
Sarah swam off, guided by an occasional glimpse at the GPS
compass on her wrist, confident in the knowledge that she'd hired the best pirates that pure gold could buy. She'd left them scaling the side of the huge tanker. They were well armed and quite capable of capturing the small band of soldiers aboard and two of them could pilot the tanker if no crew had been left aboard.
She popped up on the far side of the harbor, well away from the lights the army had set up. Her battered Jeep—driving something too desirable, like a Humvee, was asking for trouble—and clothes were all as she'd left them; something very loud and unfortunate would have happened if anyone had tried to lift them.
The pebble beach was rough under her hands and knees as she leopard-crawled up from the waves, and the air was cold on her naked flesh as she peeled out of the synthetic fabric and quickly donned her clothes, shivering and stamping. The high-tech binoculars came next. There was nothing she could do to make the operation go better at this point.
God, she thought suddenly. All these years … I wonder how Sarah Connor the student and waitress would have felt? Men may be dying out there— because of me— and I'm completely calm about it now.
Then she shrugged. That was how it had to be if Skynet was to be beaten. What had that German philosopher Dieter told her about said? He who fights dragons becomes a dragon?
No muzzle flashes through the binoculars, though. She switched to thermal imaging…
They've got her engines hot.
She could see the heat plumes from the stack at the rear, and more faintly as a blob of different color on the side of the hull at the stern. The tanker wasn't a super-giant, which would have used steam turbines and taken a long time to move. It was a medium-size job used to shuttle refined products along the coast, about fifty thousand tons, powered by big diesels. Those you could fire up right away; if it was even remotely modern, the whole process could be controlled from the bridge at a pinch.
Yep, there she goes.
So slowly that at first it didn't seem she was moving at all. The tanker had backed halfway to its own berth before the soldiers onshore realized what was happening, and the sub had begun its turn away from the dock. It maneuvered cautiously— Ohio-class boats were a good five hundred and sixty feet long—but swiftly, backing and then heading for the entrance to the harbor with a rush that sent a smooth black wave breaking into foam.
Sarah grinned as she gathered her diving gear and tossed it in the back of her Jeep and vaulted into the driver's seat. She had a sub to meet.
* * *
The only good thing you could say about Puerto Deseado was that it was more picturesque than Comodoro's tangle of refinery tanks.
Which isn't saying much, Sarah Connor thought. Well, all right, the turn-of-the-century architecture was interesting.