“Keep listening. I want you to hear it sink.”
At the ship’s control station, Henri’s understudy spoke with a thick accent.
“Would you like a message prepared?”
“Yes,” Jake said. “Include our location, the sinking of the closest Seagulls, the sinking of the attacking fishing vessel, the loss of our periscope, and being stuck dead in the water while assessing damage to the propeller.”
As the words swirled in his head, Jake sought his optimum tactical steps but conjured nothing to improve his lot.
“My team hears the fishing ship that attacked us taking on heavy flooding,” Remy said. “Weapon five just detonated eighteen limpets against the other target, which is also flooding.”
Having no time for pity, Jake consoled himself knowing his slow-kill weapon gave the innocent vessel’s crew time to abandon their ship. He also distracted himself with thoughts of survival as he called up a chart showing currents in the Mediterranean Sea.
Paralleling the coast, a major current flowed north by northeast at a knot and a half, and Jake told Henri’s understudy to align the ship with the current when he restored enough propulsion to allow steerageway. With a little luck, Jake could borrow a force of nature to help carry him from danger.
“Our attacker is sinking,” Remy said.
“But not sunk yet?”
“I believe sections are still above the surface.”
“I’ll take my chances. They’re too busy jumping overboard to shoot me again.”
Jake stepped behind Henri’s relief.
“Bring us to periscope depth real slow.”
The Frenchman pressed icons to pump water, and the depth gauge showed a gentle ascent.
“While we’re waiting, add a note to Pierre about us possibly driving out of here on the outboard motor with the current.”
The replacement tapped keys on a keyboard, impressing Jake with a speed of typing that outpaced Henri’s.
“Raise the radio mast,” Jake said.
More tapping of icons.
“The mast is raised. No link yet.”
“Wait for it.”
The ship inched higher.
“There, we’re linked, Jake.”
“Transmit.”
More tapping.
“Transmission receipt acknowledged.”
“Lower the mast and get us back down to thirty meters.”
Confident he’d done all he could in the control room, Jake headed aft to investigate the limits of his propulsion.
After passing through small berthing and dining areas, he entered the extra hull section that extended the Specter’s length eight and a half meters but permitted air-independent propulsion through the ethanol-liquid oxygen MESMA plant. The familiar hiss of steam filled the section, and Jake felt heat waft over his body.
The air-independent power plant would bear the electrical loads and preserve his battery charge while he determined his next steps, giving him one less worry.
With cooler air than the MESMA plant, the quiet engine room seemed morbid. He walked its tapering length to the aftermost, tightest conical confines where he found a small crowd huddled around the propulsion motor and two young sailors standing over the controls of the lowered tiny outboard motor.
The wiry frame of his engineer wrapped around the shaft where it penetrated the hull through a circular bearing. Aiming a flashlight at the seals, the man greeted Jake from his contorted position.
“We were making turns for twenty-two knots when we took the damage,” LaFontaine said. “That hurt.”
“How bad?” Jake asked.
“The seals took a beating. They’re holding now, but whatever mass was lost or deformed on the screw is causing the shaft to whip around abnormally during a good quarter of its rotation. That’s wearing into the seals.”
“But you shut it down before there was damage?”
“I did, but it’s only a matter of time before you’ll have bare metal against bare metal. You also need to consider the stresses on the bearings further aft that we can’t see, and then you also need to consider the change to our lateral loads. That’s putting a stress on the bearings and also on the motor.”
“Call me crazy,” Jake said. “What if we made flank turns and rode this thing until it seized or the first structural support broke? How long would we have?”
LaFontaine pushed on the shaft, wiggled his torso back over his knees, and looked up at Jake.
“You really want me to guess?”
“Yeah, give me your best guess.”
“Five minutes for this bearing. Ten at most. The metal would heat up, the lubrication oil would break down, and at some point it would become a grinding operation. And God knows what would happen to the hidden bearings or the motor.”
Having remained silent, Henri, who stood on the other side of the shaft, interjected.
“What about a very slow approach?” he asked. “Five knots or even three. That could be enough to allow our escape.”
“It’s the same problem scaled down,” LaFontaine said. “But at low speed, it may delay the inevitable for hours or even days.”
“The noise would still be harsh,” Jake said.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Henri said.
“Right,” Jake said. “Get Antoine on the phone for some diagnostic listening. We’ll see what three knots sounds like.”
“Shall I stay back here and coordinate activities while Claude focuses on the damage?” Henri asked.
Jake nodded and darted forward.
The toad-head turned as he entered the control room.
“You ready?” Jake asked.
“We all are.”
Jake stepped to the conning platform and grabbed a sound-powered phone.
“Henri, this is Jake. Are you online?”
A deep, filtered voice came through the receiver.
“I’m online in the engine room. All is ready to make turns up to five knots.”
“Make turns for three knots.”
The toad-head shook before the speed gauge registered a knot, and Jake heard a nasty grinding whine echoing through the Specter’s hull.
“Shit. Shut it down.”
“Claude’s shutting it down,” Henri said.
“Is the outboard ready?”
“Yes.”
“Give me all you’ve got on it.”
The speed gauge showed the submarine moving at a knot and a quarter through the water. With the current, Jake estimated he approached three knots over ground, and his inertial navigation system confirmed it.
“Even the outboard is loud,” Remy said.
“How bad?”
“It’s like making ten knots normally.”
“I’ll take that for now.”
“What’s next, Jake?” Remy asked.
“Listen for the Crocodile. That’s the major threat.”
“We’re listening, all of us. I’m listening for the Crocodile itself, and they’re listening for its incoming torpedo.”
Jake stared at Remy while digesting the pessimism, transforming it into realism, and accepting his guru’s approach as wisdom. He was stranded, and the first sign of his enemy might be an incoming torpedo.
Seeking insights beyond his own, he called up Renard’s data.
His boss had acknowledged receipt of his predicament and suggested surrendering as a viable option in which the Frenchman’s negotiations would assure the safety of the Specter and its crew.
His employer had also deemed the anti-tank mission a failure and had ordered Cahill to abort the mission and turn back.
“Surrender?” Jake asked. “Defeated by a fishing boat.”
Henri entered the room and joined Jake.
“I’m glad you’re here. Take a look at Pierre’s latest.”
The mechanic’s eyes moved across the screen.
“Logical,” he said. “But it feels terrible when our boss sums up our problem so tersely and so desperately.”