“That’s not what I asked.”
“What did you ask?”
“What are your options — for you? What do you see now? It’s human nature to need to do something, to go somewhere, or to see someone. Pick your top three options for the next hour, day or week of your life.”
Jake ran his hand through his hair. He found it peculiar that his transcendental-meditating brother found it necessary to coddle him like a lost child through the basic tactics of living.
“Shit, Nick. I don’t know. Maybe see an old friend in South America. Maybe chill at my home in France.”
“Did you want to visit me?”
“Maybe.”
“Chilling at home is lame, and I can tell that you’re not ready to visit me again. So you could visit your other friend, but that sounds like running away, and you’re too driven to be lacking a stronger choice. What else is there for you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
Jake tapped the edge of his dress shoe against the damp metal of the Mercer’s sail.
“Maybe the people who I thought didn’t need me, need me,” he said.
“People need to go where they’re needed. If you avoid that, your spirit dies.”
“What about the danger?”
“Life is dangerous, and I can’t tell if the danger I sense lies on the path to your friend in South America, on the road to your home in France, or with the people who need you most, but I know it’s still close to you.”
“So I’m back to square one?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I wish I could be more helpful.”
“No, Nick. I think you helped.”
After hanging up, Jake headed below and found Renard in the operations room.
“Have you enjoyed the view, my friend?” Renard asked.
“I’m staying.”
“What?”
“With you and my friends here. I’m staying. I’ll help you identify the Leviathan and send it to the bottom if needed. Whatever you need from me.”
“Are you sure?” Renard asked. “I cannot ask this of you out of guilt or obligation. That is destructive. You must want this.”
“I want this.”
Renard extended his hand, and Jake accepted.
“Welcome back, Jake.”
CHAPTER 15
Hana al-Salem dreamt.
He sat at the head of the table in the captain’s chair of the Leviathan’s wardroom. The people of his personal selecting — all those aboard except the Hamas detachment — filled the other seats.
Lively banter filled the room until a bowl of unidentified flesh in a stew of crimson materialized on the table. He dipped his hand into the goo and rammed his fingers in his mouth. He tasted soft organ tissue and piquant blood, and in his dream he knew the flesh to be human. The mouthful repulsed him.
He looked to see if his companions enjoyed the macabre meal, but they had fallen silent. Each had his throat slit open and his head pulled back to expose bloodless vertebrae, with lifeless eyes gazing straight up. Standing, Salem reached for a holster by his waist to defend himself against an unknown assailant.
Movement at the room’s door caught his eye, and he withdrew a pistol. As he pointed it, it transmuted itself into a black serpent that writhed free, thumped against the deck plates, and slithered into the passageway over the sneakers of the man blocking Salem’s escape.
Adad Hamdan, the Hamas team leader, smiled.
“Look,” he said, and nodded to the table.
The men with opened throats were now Israeli submarine sailors from the Leviathan.
“I don’t understand,” Salem said.
“You killed them all,” Hamdan said. “Everyone. Regardless who lifts the blade or pulls the trigger, it is you who delivers death.”
“My actions are just.”
“As are mine.”
With imperceptible movement, Hamdan appeared before Salem, who felt cold steel slicing into stomach.
Salem awoke to the sound of Ali Yousif’s voice. The rotund engineering professor seemed concerned.
“Hana?”
Salem turned over in the sheets of the captain’s bunk. He rubbed his eyes.
“Yes?”
“You wanted me to wake you for breakfast.”
Salem realized that he had attained normal circadian rhythm sleep, and his dreaming mind was allowing itself to process his subconscious fears.
“Thank you, my friend.”
“You were stirring in your sleep,” Yousif said. “I had to repeat your name five times before you awoke.”
“Thank you, Ali,” Salem said.
Salem stepped into the jumpsuit he had procured from the Leviathan’s prior captain and followed Yousif to the wardroom. One of the linguists had made a sizable quantity of powdered eggs, cheese, powdered milk, and toast. Salem and Yousif joined the linguist as did Hamdan and a younger Hamas soldier.
There was little energy in the conversation at the table, reminding Salem of the lethargic energy he noted throughout the ship.
Under tow of the tanker, the submarine required little effort to maintain. One man sat on watch in the operations room to adjust depth and to monitor whatever consoles happened to demand his attention, and another man sat in the engineering spaces watching the battery trickle electrons into its economized load.
Success in mating with the Iranian tanker had provided Salem’s crew with a spark that had revitalized them but then flamed out. As the ship approached Gibraltar, Salem sensed that boredom was his men’s greatest enemy. His mind raced for a topic of interest and found one.
“We have prepared too much food for this meal,” he said. “We will store the excess for lunch. There is no need to waste.”
“Hana,” Yousif said, his eyes sullen, “we have more than enough stores.”
“For what purpose?” Hana asked.
“We have at least thirty-five, perhaps forty days, worth of stores.”
Hands and utensils stopped moving, and the room became silent. With his peripheral vision, Salem watched Hamdan’s reaction as he spoke with Yousif.
“I didn’t ask about timing. I asked about purpose. You said we have enough stores. For what purpose?”
“For achieving our mission, of course,” Yousif said.
“Perhaps,” Salem said. “But we must be ready for contingencies. Our escort tanker could fail for any number of reasons, and then we’d need more time to reach our destination.”
“Even so,” Yousif said, “we would run out of fuel before running out of food.”
“No, damn it!” Salem said. “You’re thinking with a closed mind. Use your creative mind. What if we find ourselves in a situation where we can cripple a merchant vessel and procure diesel fuel from it?”
“Then we could take their food, too, Hana!”
Salem caught himself forming a smile and let it happen. It was the first time in days.
“That’s the type thinking I want to see more of,” he said.
Hamdan and the younger soldier exchanged a silent and uneasy stare.
“For what situation, Hana?” Hamdan asked.
“Excuse me?”
“For what situation might we need to procure diesel fuel? We have plenty to reach our objective, do we not?”
“Of course we do,” Salem said. “At least per plan. But not all plans survive contact with the enemy.”
After breakfast, Salem stood below the Leviathan’s forward hatch. Droplets trickled along the cord connecting the communications box with the tanker Zafar.
Salem depressed a switch on the box and saw a green light illuminate.
“Good morning?” he asked.