“Young lady,” Renard said. “This is battle. Men will die, and I cannot guarantee your safety. Are you ready to face death?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“So be it, then,” Renard said. “I will have Henri issue you the baggiest jumpsuits he can find. You will wear no makeup and no perfume, and you will hide your hair under a ball cap at all times.”
She smirked as she passed by him and sat in the van.
“Don’t worry, Pierre,” she said. “I won’t tell Marie you have a crush on me.”
“I don’t—merde!”
Jake squinted as the waterfront came into view. With most Taiwanese assets in constant action, few warships lined the piers. He saw a few aging patrol boats and a hand-me-down ex-American frigate with ripped and contorted metal frayed over its bow.
“That’s from a five-inch shell from a Chinese destroyer,” Renard said. “Our submarine is just beyond.”
Jake hadn’t seen the Hai Lang’s sail cresting over the pier opposite the damaged frigate.
“Where? Behind the thimble?” he asked.
“Not all submarines are larger than cruisers,” Renard said. “That reminds me. You remember the masses of water required to trim the Colorado?”
“Yeah.”
“Divide by ten. That is the approximate size ratio between the Trident and the Agosta. If giving orders, divide by roughly two again, because you’ll be dealing with kilograms instead of pounds.”
“I’m walking into hell,” Jake said.
“Don’t worry,” Renard said. “The ship is quite automated and nearly self-trimming. And Henri made a career on the Agostas back in our good old days.”
Renard parked and grabbed a laptop case. Jake chuckled when Olivia snatched her laptop back from the Frenchman’s shoulder.
“I can carry my own stuff,” she said.
Renard led them across the metal girder brow to the back of the submarine. Setting foot on the submarine, Jake felt out of place. On the Colorado, the brow had angled up towards the submarine’s tall back, but after descending to the Hai Lang, he could see under the pier and into the damaged frigate’s anchor well across the pier.
A man in a commander’s uniform stood behind the sail.
“Commander Ye,” Renard said. “Let me introduce you to our new crew members.”
Ye’s eyebrows rose as he fought to keep his neck from snapping and staring at Olivia’s curves.
“Yes, I know she’s a woman,” Renard said. “But she has skills that we’ll need — eventually. I’ll have Henri set her up in my stateroom for privacy. Jake and I will share the executive officer’s quarters, and you, my new friend, I must ask you to join your men in officer’s berthing.”
“Demotion upon demotion,” Ye said. “Just as long as I continue to learn from the masters — and survive this.”
“You are too humble,” Renard said and puffed a cloud of smoke.
“During our latest exercises,” he said, “Commander Ye became the first Taiwanese submarine officer to launch an exercise weapon at a submerged target without the use of active sonar. A quick learner.”
“What did you shoot at?” Jake asked.
“Underwater unmanned search vehicles,” Ye said. “It was all we had.”
Jake shook hands with Ye.
“Are stores loaded? Fuels?” Renard asked.
“Yes, and weapons, too. Three Excocets, ten torpedoes, and one drone.”
“I wish you’d throw that drone over the side and make room for another weapon,” Renard said.
“I’m sure—”
“Yes, Commander Ye, I agreed to carry a drone. I cannot fathom how it will help us, but since your military contractor bothered to develop it, we may as well see if an opportunity for its use will present itself.”
Jake stepped down a ladder into a room lined with long cylinders he recognized as torpedoes. Three Taiwanese sailors in blue jumpsuits and a Frenchman watched a semi-cylindrical rack swing a weapon across the passageway.
Olivia landed behind him and started towards the moving mass. She seemed mesmerized by the jungle of hydraulic pipes and armaments.
Jake scrunched her shirt and pulled her back.
“What?” she asked. “I just wanted to see.”
“Until you know what the hell you’re doing,” Jake said, “keep away from all moving things. There are more ways to die on a submarine than you can—”
“Stop!” the Frenchman said.
A sailor near a control console released a joystick. A servomotor hummed, a hydraulic valve clicked shut, and ram arms glistening with lubrication oil glided to a standstill.
“Check that — what is the word?” the Frenchman asked.
“Strap,” Jake said.
The Frenchman turned. He would have made a portly American, but for a Frenchman he was obese. Jake had found him to be a heavy beer drinker while trying to keep pace one night at Pierre’s estate.
“Bonjour, Jake,” he said. “And thank you. Yes, ‘strap’ is the word.”
The portly Frenchman nodded as two Taiwanese sailors tightened a strap holding the torpedo to the rack. The servomotor hummed again, and the rams slid the rack toward the outboard section of the hull.
Jake turned to Ye to ask about the interface between the Subtics system and the weapons, but he saw his reflection in Ye’s polished shoes.
Halfway up the ladder, Ye was engaged in conversation with someone standing over the hatch. He nodded, waved, and slid down the ladder.
“I’ve been summoned to squadron headquarters,” Ye said. “Mister Slate, please feel free to explore. I trust you have enough experience to keep out of trouble, and I’ll have a technician join you as soon as possible to answer your questions. Henri has been tasked with your berthing accommodations. You’ll have to excuse me.”
Ye climbed up the ladder and disappeared into the sunlight. Jake grabbed Olivia’s arm.
“Stay close to me, and don’t touch anything.”
He led her aft and slapped his palm against a ring of machined metal. Having mastered the technique of passing through an ovular hatch that was too small for the human body’s normal carriage, Jake exhaled, tucked his knee to his chest, and lowered his torso in a smooth move.
He kicked his leg forward and drew his weight over it without breaking stride. His final maneuver of the graceful display was snapping his palm off the ring and whipping his arm back to his side.
Impressed he had remembered a vital intra-submarine walking skill, Jake looked at the plastic covered batteries on either side of the forward battery compartment. As an afterthought, he called to Olivia.
“Be careful going through the hatch,” he said.
No response.
He looked and didn’t know whether to laugh or offer sympathy to the sad creature holding her hand to her forehead. As blood started to flow between her fingers, he steadied her as she sat on the hatch frame.
“Ouch,” she said.
It seemed more a cry for sympathy than an exclamation.
“Let me see,” he said and moved her hand.
A two-inch gash bled, and the flesh over her brow was turning violet. Jake kicked off his Rockports and yanked off his socks. After sliding his bare feet back into his shoes, he put a sock to Olivia’s head. He scanned the area for droplets but saw no blood.
“You have to watch your blood,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “But it hurts.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Jake said.
“Really?” she asked.
“No. That’s a trophy hatch-gash. But that should teach you not to head-butt hatch frames.”
“Not funny.”
“I know. Let’s get you to Henri. I’m sure he can find you a corpsman — if a ship this small has one.”