Renard clenched a stainless steel rail and held his breath. He wanted to believe he would live.
“Do you hear anything, Antoine?” he asked.
Remy shook his head.
“We’re going too fast to tell,” he said, “and we’re blind in our stern sector due to our countermeasures.”
“We’ll keep running just a few more minutes then,” Renard said. “How far are we from our countermeasures?”
Jake glanced over Ye’s shoulder.
“One mile,” Jake said.
“That’s far enough,” Renard said. “Launch another pair of countermeasures.”
Canisters of compressed gas popped on either side of the hull as they spat hissing countermeasures.
“Right ten-degrees rudder, Henri,” Renard said.
As the ship reeled, Jake appeared before Renard.
“We’re going to make it,” he said.
“I agree,” Renard said. “The torpedo must have exhausted itself by now.”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “It’s over. We did it.”
“Henri, steady on depth and slow to five knots,” Renard said. “No need to invert our battery cells.”
As the tension in his muscles waned, Renard assessed his victory. Sailors certainly had given their lives on the Stennis, but the toll would be a tiny fraction of the tally had the nuclear torpedo detonated. As for the harbor and surrounding cities, including Honolulu, he had spared them from shock waves and fallout.
He also realized that he had sent more than thirty dutiful Pakistani sailors to their death. Their greatest mistake had been following orders of a charismatic commanding officer who was seeking personal peace in a violent way. He inhaled cool tobacco flavor and decided to delay his lamentations for the dead.
There was still business he needed to finish.
“Henri,” he said. “Belay my last ordered depth. Surface the ship.”
*
The Hai Lang rolled with the calm surface waves. With a ball cap pulled low, a jacket lapel pulled high over his neck, and sunglasses to conceal his identify from any onlooker, Renard accompanied Lieutenant Wu in the bridge atop the sail.
While Wu raised the Taiwanese flag to make obvious the submarine’s nationality, Renard called Admiral Khan. The conversation was brief and bittersweet as Renard declared victory at the expense of a Pakistani submarine and dozens of Pakistani lives.
As Renard ended the call, he sensed that Khan had held hope that the Hamza’s run could have been thwarted without violence. But as the admiral had accepted the results, he agreed to work with Defense Minister Li to manage the diplomatic fallout, and he conceded that Renard could position the Taiwanese submarine atop the Pakistani wreckage for salvage rights.
Khan also agreed to pay Renard his twenty-five-million-euro bounty upon verification of the Hamza’s demise through diplomatic channels.
Renard scurried down the ladder and explained his conversation with Khan to Ye and Jake. Then he gave his final command on the Hai Lang.
“Henri, station us above the wreckage of the Hamza,” he said. “Ten knots, course two-six-zero.”
“That’s fast, given our low battery and fuel.”
“I know,” Renard said, “but we must make haste.”
“I will need to make a call to Keelung,” Ye said. “We must hasten the departure of an underwater salvage team.”
“And you will need to contact the defense minister,” Renard said. “He and Admiral Khan will jointly be facing a hefty amount of diplomatic damage control.”
“I will call him,” Ye said as he pulled a global account phone from a cubby under a Subtics monitor.
Renard went to his chair, sat, and inhaled from his Marlboro.
“I would bet my bounty on the Hamza that there is at least one more nuclear weapon on the seafloor near or within the Hamza’s hull,” he said. “There still may be opportunity to transform your nation into a nuclear power.”
Ye raised a thumb as he climbed the ladder, but Jake turned from Henri and glared.
“Your bounty on the what?” he asked.
Heads in the operations room turned towards Renard, who reclined and blew smoke.
“Don’t worry, mon ami,” he said. “I’ll be sharing it liberally with all present provided we all agree that our weapon hit the Hamza before that of the American submarine.”
*
Ten hours later, as the anchored Taiwanese submarine drifted over the wreck of the Hamza, Jake stood beside the ladder leading to the tiny bridge atop the sail. The sun’s rays poking through the access trunk had turned red as the sun set overhead.
“You can’t show yourself outside this hull,” Renard said. “No need to confirm our presence on video camera. Had I not needed to speak to Khan, I would not have risked it myself.”
“We’ve been inside this thimble for two months. I forgot how much being underwater made me miss the sun.”
Jake walked to the railing, pasted his eye to the periscope, and saw the superstructure of the Stennis. The smoke billowing from its stern had subsided, but from the radio chatter Jake surmised that a swarm of coast guard and naval vessels provided security, medical, and damage control assistance to the Stennis.
Radio chatter also indicated that twenty-eight sailors had died in the engine rooms of the Stennis. Jake reminded himself that they would have died–along with tens of thousands more–if he had not helped.
Looking closer, he watched the bizarre mix of ships forming a welcoming party that now encircled the Taiwanese submarine. To the north, a Perry class frigate cut slow ovals in the water. He was certain he had seen the barrel of its amidships three-inch Otto-Malera gun rise and fall as if ranging the Hai Lang.
To the west, a Hamilton class coast guard cutter mimicked the frigate by standing guard over the Taiwanese submarine with its three-inch cannon. Smaller coast guard patrol vessels armed with machine guns and men in bright orange vests carrying rifles floated within shouting range but had used only bullhorns to harass the Taiwanese sailors who ventured topside.
Despite a Notice to Mariners declaring the area around the Hai Lang off limits, dozens of leisure craft dotted the waters, aiming video cameras back at Jake. The coast guard vessels tried to drive them back, but the numbers of civilian craft approaching the area mounted beyond the coast guard’s capacity to engage them.
“Plenty of people are going to have interesting videos to show their friends and family,” Jake said.
“It is no mistake,” Renard said. “Defense Minister Li asked Taiwanese ex-patriots in Hawaii to make sure the media knew about our situation. The navy or coast guard will make no move against us in international waters while on video. Look above.”
Jake swiveled the optics overhead. It took him several minutes to find them all, but he saw five helicopters–one coast guard, one navy, and three from local television station affiliates. Small aircraft also encircled the submarine, most likely taking personal video from above.
“Can we watch ourselves on television?” Jake asked.
“Petty Officer Zhu is trying to arrange the wiring,” Renard said. “The ship is not designed for it, but I have a sense that he may figure something out.”
From Jake’s perspective, most of the day since sinking the Hamza in the morning had passed as an uncomfortable blend of American vessels taking station on the Hai Lang and offers of assistance, orders to dock in Pearl Harbor, and threats to be boarded.
As Ye, the legitimate commanding officer, had refused all assistance and orders to leave his position over the wreckage, the threats had grown more severe and the ships with the three-inch guns had arrived. But as the civilian craft had appeared, the threats had tapered.
A high-speed motor whizzed up to the hull. Jake swiveled the scope aft and looked down. A small boat had raced by the Hai Lang. Four men of college age wore khaki cargo pants, golf shirts, and sunglasses. They raised their thumbs as they passed. One lifted a beer and whipped his tongue across his face. Two bent over and mooned the coast guard craft that pursued them.
Jake laughed it off as a college prank until he noticed one of the men hurling coiled rope into the water. Following the rope to one end, Jake saw that it was tied to a bobbing fuel drum. The rope’s other end was tied to a smaller rope which, in turn, held a softball that had been hurled over the back of the submarine.
Classic underway replenishment maneuver, Jake thought.
On the Hai Lang’s back, sailors pulled the small rope until the larger rope emerged on the deck. Then they heaved the rope and drum aboard.
“Hey, Pierre,” Jake said. “I think the word’s out that we’re low on fuel.”
A clamor rang from the ladder as Ye descended from the bridge. His boots hit the deck.
“You wouldn’t believe what just happened,” he said.
“I saw it,” Jake said. “It was sweet.”
“Every gallon helps,” Ye said. “And if one boat can help us, more will surely follow. Minister Li has made it known that we are in need.”
“You don’t look too happy, though,” Jake said.
“I just received a new threat from the American Navy,” Ye said. “They claim they want to launch a search and rescue operation for possible survivors on the Hamza. The deep submergence rescue vehicle is airborne from San Diego and already halfway here. It will be here and ready to search tomorrow morning.”
“Twenty-four hours–anywhere in the world,” Jake said. “That’s their advertising motto. I guess it’s true.”
“We’ve been listening,” Renard said. “If there were survivors, they would be banging metal and calling for help. We have heard nothing. A submarine this small hit by an F-17 torpedo–perhaps a few men on either extreme of the ship, but I fear the silence confirms their demise.”
“The Americans will still insist on inspecting the wreckage,” Ye said.
“The Taiwanese deep salvage dive team?” Renard asked. “They are en route, are they not?”
“Yes,” Ye said. “They will arrive in the night.”
“Then perhaps a joint search and rescue effort would be a proper gesture,” Renard said. “Followed shortly or even conducted simultaneously with a salvage operation.”
“I will ask Minister Li to arrange that,” Ye said.
“A delicate negotiation for which Li is skilled,” Renard said.