Straits of Power

other islands, and gas-drilling platforms, lay astern or off the starboard bow. Shakir Island was an arid reddish- brown hill sticking out of green water. The chart said its peak rose eight hundred feet high. Jeffrey still couldn’t see the friendly aircraft, but their data continued coming in. With the naked eye, out the bridge windows, the edge of the island’s coral reef could be seen looming to port. The Bunga Azul was riding visibly deeper in the water. Her subdivided ballast control tanks had helped absorb and contain the blasts, but her wounds were mortal. Thick black smoke was boiling out of the after holds and trailing behind the ship. The smell of burning was stronger in the air, and Jeffrey smelled leaking diesel fuel too. The diesel fuel would catch fire at any moment.

In 2 miles the water would drop suddenly to 650 feet. In 20 miles it would reach past 3,000 feet; the Snow Tiger was still rushing south at that depth, to outflank the island. He’s faster than me but has farther to go…. Will I remain afloat for another two miles? The Bunga Azul had slowed to fifteen knots. Two miles at this speed would take eight minutes.

The water was still too shallow for Challenger to leave the hold through the bottom doors. Jeffrey’s best place right now was here on the freighter’s bridge, doing everything he could to make sure the Bunga Azul reached deeper water.

Bell called on the intercom. “Sir, seawater in the hold is rising faster now. We’re floating off the support blocks. I’m afraid we’ll drift and damage the stern parts or the bow dome. What do you want me to do?”

Jeffrey thought hard. He could have his crew tie the ship to cleats in the sides of the covert hold, but then she’d be trapped inside the Bunga Azul as the host ship sank.

“Work the propulsor and auxiliary maneuvering units if you have to.”

Again Jeffrey looked at the chart. He watched the inertial-navigation position plot, advancing at a pace that was much too slow. Minute after minute dragged on. The Bunga Azul shook harder and settled deeper and handled sluggishly. Jeffrey was afraid her shafts or engines would completely fail, stranding Challenger inside so that the cargo ship became her coffin in a horrifying burial at sea. Then more torpedoes would tear in and pound the Bunga Azul’s hulk and Challenger to pieces.

All at once they were off the shallow shelf, with Shakir Island still to port and a huge coral reef to starboard.

“Master, stand by to open the bottom doors. If you don’t hear from me or my crew in five minutes, open the doors regardless.” With Siregar’s ship in bad shape, once those doors were open, Jeffrey might never make it to Challenger. But he needed a fail-safe arrangement now, so Challenger could get away even without him.

“Understood,” Siregar said.

“Good-bye. Good luck. Thank you. And remember, keep the satellite feed in operation as long as you possibly can.”

“I’ll do it myself. Go now. Go with God.”

“Go with God,” Jeffrey responded, knowing how literal this was — Siregar might go down with his ship. He noticed that the master wore a wedding ring, and wondered if he had children.

Jeffrey tore himself away. He hurried through the tunnels down to Challenger. In some places lightbulbs had shattered from the torpedo concussions, and he needed to swipe the bigger pieces of glass aside with his forearm so he could keep crawling on hands and knees. In other places AFFF — aqueous fire- fighting foam — dripped from above and made puddles. The slippery white foam was hot. Something up there was busy burning. Using foam suggested a flammable liquid. Jeffrey caught whiffs of gasoline. For deck-mounted winches? He waited for the gas tank somewhere above him to explode. The deeper in the ship he went, the heavier the vibrations from her engines.

When he came out onto the catwalk in the hold, Challenger sat there before him, long and sleek and black. Water jetted loudly into the hold through inward-bulging jagged cracks, and the hold was filled with the tangy mist of saltwater spray. Jeffrey tasted it on his lips, he smelled it, and it got in his eyes. He also smelled the acrid, toxic fumes of spent torpedo warheads, and tried not to breathe in too much.

The seawater surrounding Challenger’s free-floating hull was choppy, and kept sloshing back and forth and from side to side. This was called free surface during damage control. It made the Bunga Azul much less stable. She could capsize at any moment.

Jeffrey started running down the brow. But the weapons-loading hatch was shut. He saw why: The in-rushing water was washing right over the hull.

Bell shouted from atop the sail. “Up here, sir! We shifted the fiber-optic connect to stay in touch as long as we can as the hold fills!”

Jeffrey noticed that the photonics mast was lowered. There was little headroom now between the overhead of the hold and the top of the sail. He heard throbbing and roaring amid the other sounds, as the master kept trying to pump the water back out of the hold — a losing battle. Jeffrey hit the switch to retract the brow; the remote- control system still worked. The brow’s near end raised up, but this robbed him of any handholds.

Warm seawater lapped at Jeffrey’s shoes, then a wave of it drenched him up to his knees and almost swept him away. He lunged and grabbed a safety harness and lifeline that crewmen were lowering. He strapped them on, and the crewmen, with Jeffrey helping as much as he could, pulled him up the twenty feet to the top of the sail — there were no ladder rungs outside the sail because they would cause bad flow noise.

Jeffrey ordered the two crewmen to stay in the tiny bridge cockpit, as lookouts of a sort for now. He and Bell slid down the vertical ladders leading below, being careful not to snag the dangling fiber-optic cable. They rushed to the control room and took their seats at the command console; the lighting was red, for battle stations. Meltzer was very busy at the ship controls, trying to keep Challenger from damaging herself by hitting the bulkheads in the hold.

At least floating free in the hold helps cushion us from the shaking by our host.

“Fire Control,” Jeffrey ordered, “load high-explosive Mark Eighty-eights in torpedo tubes one through seven. Load an off-board probe in tube eight.” He wanted this all done immediately, while they were more or less on an even trim.

Bell acknowledged and relayed commands to Lieutenant Torelli, standing in the aisle nearby. He acknowledged, issued more orders, and Torelli’s men went to work.

Jeffrey called up data from the helos, masked from the line of sight of the Bunga Azul by Shakir Island. The data remained available over the net, through satellites.

“Firing-point procedures, Mark Eighty-eights in tubes one through seven. Target is the Snow Tiger. Load firing solution using target depth and course and speed from the data link.”

Bell and then Torelli acknowledged.

This was network-centric warfare at its most extreme. Jeffrey was programming his torpedoes against a target he couldn’t detect, while inside a sinking surface ship’s hold, using information from helicopters coming to his host’s antennas via outer space.

“Make tubes one through seven ready in all respects, including opening outer doors.”

Again Jeffrey’s crew went to work.

Speaking of doors.

Jeffrey tried to call Siregar, not sure if the intercom inside the master’s ship had failed. Siregar answered.

“What’s the depth beneath your keel?”

“Six hundred feet now. The seafloor drop-off is steep.”

“What’s your status?”

“The fuel fires are out of control. We are very low in the water and very difficult to handle. I will not be able to counterflood against the port list without losing too much buoyancy. The main deck will soon be awash regardless.”

“Evacuate the covert radio room. In one minute from my mark, open your bottom doors. Then abandon ship. You’ll be picked up soon when those helos see you.”

“One minute, understood.”

“Mark.”