“How are you?” the man asked in the sunny French of the country’s southern provincial region.
“Good. You must have started at dawn,” Jake said.
“When we reach the summit, I’ll be proposing to this beautiful woman.”
“Do you think she’ll say ‘yes’?”
“Of course!” the man said as he turned to kiss his smiling future bride.
He bid the couple farewell and started toward the summit of Mount Saint Victoire, the peak glorified by Cézanne. An updraft from the valley blew the scent of lilac across his face.
Enjoying the risen sun’s rays, he squatted against an olive tree and felt it bend. Hungry, he reached into a backpack for a baguette and wedge of Camembert. After mashing cheese against bread, he swallowed a mouthful and heard boots crunching dirt.
Looking up, he saw Renard, dressed in flannel hiking garb, laboring against the incline. His French friend winced and wheezed. Concerned, Jake moved toward him.
“You okay?” he asked.
Jake felt Renard’s weight trembling on his arm as he struggled for breath.
“I’m fine. Perhaps I overdid it trying to outpace the others. We’re not all athletic marvels like you.”
Familiar men came into view on the trail below. The last time he had ascended the mountain, Jake met Renard’s entourage of veteran French submariners under clandestine auspices. After uniting with them as a crack mercenary submarine crew, he considered them his closest friends.
“You’ll be fine,” he said and released Renard.
“Indeed.”
“I’m running ahead again.”
At a turn, a chapel came into Jake’s view. He crossed the doorstep and smelled stale oak. Except for a statue of Christ and a few rows of pews, the chapel was bare with a floor worn by decades of random visitors.
In the grassy yard outside the chapel, a dried-up well attracted his attention. He walked to it and peered between the bricks. Dirt filled the hole.
He turned toward a structure that resembled a misplaced barn but which served as a gathering room for climbers resting within a stone’s throw of the summit. Inhaling, he smelled dampness and age.
As his party’s strongest climber, he carried the bulk of its goods. He plopped his backpack onto a wooden table, withdrew laminated presentations, and spread them in front of the benches. Next he slid out a thermos of coffee, a bag of baguettes, and wheels of Camembert.
He flipped through a presentation as he waited.
A man entered the structure. Having expected Renard, Jake was surprised to see Henri Lanier, retired expert submarine mechanic and Renard’s closest French confidant. A stickler rivaling Renard with his penchant for upscale dress, Henri wore a flannel Abercrombie shirt and designer jeans.
“Hello, Jake,” he said.
“Hello. Where’s Pierre?”
“I passed him five minutes ago. The mountain seemed to get the better of him.”
Henri lowered a knapsack to the table, and Jake helped him distribute coffee cups, knives, and napkins to those yet to arrive. Within minutes, the room filled with French-bred undersea mercenaries.
Lumbering into the room behind the others, Renard moved to Jake’s side.
“Are you okay,” Jake asked.
“Splendid,” Renard said.
Jake ignored the incongruity between Renard’s appearance and his words. He slapped his arm around Antoine Remy’s back and tossed his leg over the bench. After watching Remy provide solid service on an advanced diesel Agosta submarine, Jake agreed with Renard that he was among the best sonar operators he had known.
“Pass me some coffee, buddy,” he said. “I need it to stay awake while Pierre talks.”
His stomach filled with breakfast, Jake turned his attention to Renard at the head of the table.
“Gentlemen, please,” the Frenchman said. “Open your handouts. Skip the first page, which is a facade, but return to it at once if someone enters the room. Begin on page two.”
Jake flipped to the second page and saw a cutaway diagram of the Scorpène’s trim and ballast system.
“Dang, that thing is small,” he said. “The whole thing would fit inside the missile compartment of the Colorado.”
“Yes, we know,” Remy said, rolling his eyes. “You believe that every submarine of French design fits inside a Trident missile boat. But I must remind you yet again that nothing fits inside the Colorado, specifically, because you blew it up.”
“Technically, the USS Miami blew it up,” Renard said. “We merely encouraged its demise. However, Jake’s point, however crassly made, is valid. The Scorpène-class submarine is comparable in size to the Agosta with which we are accustomed.”
“I’m relieved to see a MESMA unit,” Jake said.
“The MESMA air independent power generation system on the Scorpène benefits from lessons learned from earlier units on the Agostas. Slightly better efficiency, and supposedly easier to manage.”
“So we’ll be snorkeling a bit less than we did with our prior Agosta?” Claude LaFontaine said.
Jake welcomed the presence of LaFontaine, who was the engineer officer on the nuclear-powered Rubis when a younger Renard was its executive officer. He had also impressed Jake with his rapid grasp of diesel submarine operations while aboard the Agosta.
“Indeed,” Renard said.
“It hardly matters,” Henri said. “I can keep any submarine floating gracefully with its conning tower a mere meter below the waves, should you need to snorkel all day and all night.”
“And you will know the trim and drain system better than anyone,” Renard said. “All Scorpène systems are descendants or replicas of those upon which we have all become familiar.”
“You have ship handling data?” Henri asked.
“At the shipyard and on the ship itself,” Renard said.
“Then I will be your expert after digesting them.”
The young couple that Jake had passed during his ascent strolled into the room. Jake smiled and raised his thumb in anticipation of the soon to be engaged couple.
“Flip back to the first page,” Renard said in English.
Jake glanced at the page that held meaningless graphs of European stock indices. He looked up, saw Renard eyeing him, and remembered his queue.
“Your investment strategy looks strong against recessions, but I’m concerned about lagging behind in times of economic recovery.”
Through the corner of his eye, Jake saw the young couple rehydrating from squeeze bottles. They seemed unable to understand English or uncaring if they did.
“It’s fine,” Jake said. “They have more important things on their mind. He’s going to propose.”
“Best of luck to him,” Renard said.
Moments later, the couple departed.
Forty-five minutes passed as Renard’s team covered a dozen systems. Familiarity with the precursor Agosta submarine design made for easy understanding of the pre-commission Scorpène-class boat they would call the Mercer.
“Are we ready to review our prey?” Renard asked.
“Supposed prey,” Jake said. “Nothing’s sure yet.”
“We’ll be prepared to engage the Leviathan in battle whether or not we are granted permission to deliver the final blow. This is most certainly a hunt regardless.”
“Seems complex,” Jake said. “Too many things we don’t know yet. Too many permissions pending.”
“Assume that our mission will develop, and be ready for it,” Renard said.