The Wrecking Crew

CHAPTER 18

Jonah ducked into the interior of the conning tower and closed the hatch behind him, sealing himself and all aboard into the Scorpion.

“Make our course due east,” Jonah barked to Vitaly and anyone else within earshot. “Hard out to sea, full power. We’re being pursued.”

“Set for silent running, Captain?”

Captain, thought Jonah. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“No,” ordered Jonah. “Not yet. We have to get into deeper water first. As soon as the bottom allows, bring us to 300 feet. But if you find a thermocline, hide in it. Bettencourt says the mothership has upgraded antisubmarine warfare capabilities.”

Vitaly nodded, Jonah didn’t need to explain his plan. A thermocline — an invisible oceanic border between waters of different temperature and salinities — would be an ideal place to shelter, capable of masking or reflecting their sonar signature and auditory trail.

“Alexis!” Jonah shouted towards the engine compartment. Alexis popped her head out of the hatchway, one ear of her protective headphones pulled back to hear him.

“Diesels are five by five,” she said, anticipating his request. “But batteries got bled pretty good chasing you down.”

“Charge?”

“Still two-thirds.”

“Excellent.”

Alexis glanced up at the interior boarding ladder to the main hatch in the top of the conning tower. She didn’t need to say anything for Jonah to know exactly what she was thinking. He knew she was looking at the hatch, trying to imagine the massive volume of water between herself and the surface. He always imagined the same thing.

“Alexis, I need you out of the engine room for a moment,” said Jonah, handing her a chunky plastic headset. “Put on these hydrophones and get a feel for the noises of this submarine, the Scorpion. If you hear any noises that aren’t us, you need to report them to me.”

“How will I tell?”

“You’ll be able to tell,” assured Jonah.

Now well beneath the surface, the Scorpion sped forward, unencumbered by the waves and wind of the surface. Once deep, everything changed, her wobbly, top-heavy form shifted into beautiful, efficient forward movement, every line guiding her through the dark waters.

After he was satisfied they were on their way to safety, Jonah stepped away from the command compartment and walked forward into the sleeping compartment, the bunks just forward of command. The sniper lay in a lower rack as Dr. Nassiri carefully wrapped a clean, white bandage around his neck. Fatima sat in the next bunk, her eyes closed, her face a little pale. A single long, red plastic tube joined the radial vein of her inner elbow to the same in the patient’s arm as the scientist gave a battlefield blood transfusion.

“Status?” Jonah asked.

“The damage to your rescuer’s neck was severe but localized,” Dr. Nassiri.

“To set the record straight, I rescued him,” said Jonah, knowing full well he wouldn’t have been in any position to rescue anybody if the sniper hadn’t saved his own ass first.

“Indeed. He looks like the kind of man who would dispute you on that point. In any case, I’ve disinfected and sewn up the wound. He’s going to be fine. I’ve given him a light sedative and a dose of painkillers. My mother is giving him a transfusion to stabilize his blood pressure. You have no idea who he is?”

“Based on what Bettencourt said, I’ve got a notion his name is Dalmar Abdi.”

Fatima sat up with a start. “Wait a minute. Did you say Dalmar Abdi?”

“That name mean something to you?” asked Jonah.

“Dalmar Abdi,” Fatima leaned forward and continued in a whisper, “is the pirate other pirates fear. And you brought him back with us? I’m giving him a blood transfusion to keep him alive?”

“Not to worry, Mother,” interjected Dr. Nassiri. “He’s not going to be able to harm anyone, not in this state. Besides, he’s alone. How much damage could he possibly cause?”

“Let’s see if it’s even him,” Jonah said. He leaned down and touched the man’s shoulder, gently shaking him awake. “Dalmar, hey. How’re we doing?”

The sniper’s eyes flew open. “Glorious!” he said, trying to sit up, twisting around to see Fatima. “I have the blood of a beautiful woman running through my veins!” The medicated look returned, and Dalmar’s features softened and then went slack as he sank back into unconsciousness.

“This man is dangerous,” Fatima hissed, standing and moving as far away from Dalmar as her blood-filled tether would allow.

“He’s the enemy of our enemy,” said Jonah. “Whether that makes him a friend or not, I don’t know. But what I do know is this — we both would have been dinner for the vultures if we hadn’t crossed paths. I would have been shot if he hadn’t attacked the Bettencorps encampment, and he would’ve bled out in the sand if I hadn’t dragged him back to the Scorpion for your son’s expert care.”

“I don’t understand.” Fatima’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What does Bettencorps have to do with this?”

Shit, thought Jonah. She doesn’t know. He took a deep breath to continue. “I’m pretty sure the pirates that held you and Klea were working for Bettencorps the whole time. It was likely a Bettencorps missile that shot your plane out of the sky.”

Fatima and her son exchanged glances. “We had already guessed it was his forces that shot down my plane.”

“Klea and I were rescued yesterday by a fisherman, but someone in his village — I don’t think it was him — sold us out. Bettencorp’s head of security paid the fisherman a visit, and I was captured. Klea escaped, and with a little luck, is on her way to a US consulate as we speak.”

Fatima wavered on her feet, forcing Hassan to wrap a supportive arm around her waist.

“But why? If Charles Bettencourt wanted us dead, why would the pirates who worked for him keep us alive?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Jonah. “Maybe because you and Klea are Muslim. Maybe because they wanted dirt on Bettencorps in case the alliance ever went down in flames. Maybe they didn’t even have a reason at all and would’ve gotten around to killing you eventually. But what we do know is that they were not in the business of ransoming you or Klea. As far as the world is concerned you’re both dead. And by Bettencort’s own admission, this man, Dalmar Abdi, is a big thorn in his side. That puts him on our side, at least for now.”

Fatima sat back down on the bunk, her eyes frozen with a far-away stare as she processed the new information. Hassan leaned over to disconnect the blood transfusion. Dalmar would have to do with what he’d received, Fatima had given enough already.

Jonah knew he was needed back in command, but paused to address one last lingering doubt. “Doc,” he began with uncharacteristic hesitation. “Can we trust Vitaly?”

“Yes,” Dr. Nassiri answered with an emphatic nod. “Unequivocally.”

Jonah frowned. “I’m not ready to make that leap,” he said finally.

“We’d be dead without him.”

“He saved himself,” rebutted Jonah.

“No. It’s more than that. He believes he has a debt to all of us for his role in ambushing the Fool’s Errand. After you vanished, Bettencorp’s mercenaries followed a secret transmitter and caught up to us. We were able to disable the transmitter, but Vitaly fought courageously against his former comrades when he could just as easily have rendered our ship helpless.”

Jonah considered this. Maybe Vitaly didn’t have to convince him. Maybe convincing Dr. Nassiri was good enough. “I still need proof, but I’m willing to consider him your responsibility for the time being. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Jonah turned to leave when the doctor stopped him. “Jonah?”

“Yes?”

“You may call me Hassan.”

Jonah smiled and clasped the doctor’s arm. “Sure thing, Doc.”

Back in the command compartment, Jonah rejoined Vitaly and Alexis.

“Status?” asked Jonah.

“Crossing three hundred feet in depth,” said Vitaly. “Still driving hard to sea at eighteen knots.”

“The mercenaries are right on top of us,” said Alexis, pressing both headphones tight against her ears. “I hear propeller sounds from everywhere.”

“Not surprising,” said Jonah, listening to the churning of the propellers overhead though the thick steel hull of the submarine. “We’re running noisy.”

At this rate, the mercenaries could pursue them indefinitely. He feared they had a computer-assisted listening array capable of directionally tracking the Scorpion at any depth. Even crossing through a thermocline might not throw this pursuer.

Jonah hit the all-call button on the bulkhead and prepared to address the crew.

“We’re rigging for silent running,” he ordered. “Cancel the horseshoes and hammer throws. Please remain at your station — no unnecessary movement or sound.”

Vitaly nodded, and his fingers danced across the console. The cadence of the engines changed, the vibrations lessening as the Scorpion slowed, but only slightly. Throughout the length of the massive submarine, all went quiet. A silent predator, the submarine slipped through the waves. The thump-thump-thump of the mercenary ship’s propellers filled the compartment from above.

“On my mark,” said Jonah, “turn us hard to starboard and drop to four hundred and fifty feet.”

“Aye,” said Vitaly.

“Keep the rudder pegged over. We’ll corkscrew around two hundred and seventy degrees, exit the turn to the north. They should lose track of us as we change depth and course. Alexis, report?”

“I think I hear dolphins!” whispered Alexis, leaning over her console. “They’re singing!”

Jonah smiled. He wished he could hear them, too.

Vitaly ably worked his console, struggling to keep the Scorpion from heeling over as she corkscrewed through the tight turn. Reaching the end of her plotted path and depth, her surface planes and rudder snapped into place, guiding her out of the spin and onto a deep, northward course.

“Propeller noises fading,” said Alexis. “I still hear them above us, but the noises are disorganized now. I think they’re searching for us, trying to track our path.”

Jonah realized he’d been holding his breath. He allowed himself to exhale, releasing some of the pressure from his chest and stomach. They weren’t free yet, not by a long shot, but maybe this was the first—

PIIIIIIIIING. The sound rippled throughout the Scorpion as the submarine was assaulted with a massive sonar noise. Alexis ripped off her headphones, throwing them against the console, holding her ears with both hands to block out the noise. The mercenaries had deployed a massive, amplified underwater sound wave to discover the location of the submarine. PIIIIIIING, PIIIIING, PIIIIIIIING, rang the sound again and again, reverberating and echoing throughout the submarine and against the seafloor. With just as much warning as they’d started, the pings ceased.

“Pick up those headphones, Alexis,” ordered Jonah. He took no pleasure in the command, the pinging had hurt his ears through the hull alone, he couldn’t imagine what they would have sounded like through amplified hydrophones.

Without protesting, Alexis picked them up and slid them right back over her ears, wincing in slight pain as she did so.

“We’re still being pursued,” said Alexis. “Propeller noises are moving… if my readings are correct, I think they’re moving ahead of us.”

“Hold course,” said Jonah to Vitaly. “Hold it—”

“I hear…” began Alexis. “I hear splashes. Wait — make that three splashes.”

Dawning realization hit Jonah like a hammer. “Hard to port!” he yelled at Vitaly. “Belay silent running! Engines full! Make depth five hundred fifty feet!”

Swearing, Vitaly punched a series of commands into the navigation console, forcing the entire submarine to suddenly roll to the side as it completed a rattling, tight left-hand turn. Jonah’s hand punched the alarm button on the wall next to the intercom, then the all-call to the speakers strung in every compartment.

“Brace for incoming!” he shouted into the microphone.

Silence fell. For just a moment Jonah felt himself believing that perhaps, just perhaps, the splashing sound was nothing, his orders an overreaction. The Scorpion descended to the ordered depth, silently slipping through the darkness.

The detonation came suddenly and without warning, deafening Jonah and violently twisting the entire bow end of the Scorpion, throwing everyone in the command compartment to the deck as lights popped and electrical boxes arced. Like being caught between Thor’s hammer and anvil, concussive force ripped the breath out of Jonah’s lungs, leaving him gasping on the floor, ears ringing as the submarine moaned and shook off the force of the blast. Before he could drag himself to his feet, a second concussion hit the submarine amidships just above the conning tower, jerking the entire body of the submarine to the starboard as everything in the galley and engine rooms threw themselves out of their drawers and across the compartments, crashing across the deck and into the bulkheads.

Fatima screamed loud and shrill as the third violent concussion hit the engine room, knocking the steady whump-whump-whump of the propeller shaft into a squealing mechanical nightmare of sound. Sparks showered down around them as the lights died a second time.

“Holy fuck!” Jonah gasped, as he tried to regain his ragged breath and unsteady footing. He could barely hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. Hydraulic oil streamed out of the snaking command and control valves, collecting on the deck and turning it into a slippery mess.

Vitaly pounded his fists against his computer console, then leapt up to the bulkhead. Hydraulic fluid flowed over his face and hands as he manually attempted to override the malfunctioning steering mechanisms. “Planes and rudders not responding!” he shouted, spitting out fluid. “Attempting to compensate!”

Alexis had taken cover underneath the communications console, still clutching the hydrophones in her hand. The concussion had knocked the entire system offline — either that or she’d been deafened by the blast.

“What was that?” Hassan yelled.

“Depth charges,” Jonah yelled back. “Barrels of explosives dropped off the side of a ship to detonate when they reach a set depth. Crude, but they’ll do us in if we don’t lose our pursuers.”

Out of balance, the Scorpion wobbled forward, misaligned diving planes in the conning tower threatening to pull her on her side. The struggling engines squealed, metal against metal, trying to maintain momentum. Acrid smoke wafted into the command compartment from some unseen source, collecting against the low ceiling.

Jonah ripped oxygen masks out of a bulkhead compartment and slipped one over his own face. The effect was immediate claustrophobia and Jonah forced himself to be calm and breathe normally as he tossed a second mask to Alexis. She let it hit the floor then yanked it underneath her console. Vitaly allowed his to hit him in the back of the head. Swearing in Russian, he picked it up and put it on.

Smoke drifted from the engine compartment, accompanied by a brutal, metallic grinding sound. All Jonah had to do was point and Alexis jumped out from underneath the communications console and sprinted down the corridor. With his mask in place, Jonah grabbed three more and ran them into the bunk compartment.

Fatima had curled up in the same bunk as Dalmar, wrapping herself around his sleeping form, whether to protect him or comfort herself, Jonah had no idea. Hassan stood against one bulkhead, halfway crouching, his hands over his head as if the ceiling could collapse at any moment.

“Doc, I need you,” said Jonah, pressing the oxygen masks into his hands. “Get these on your mother and Dalmar, and get in the command compartment now. Fatima, go to the engine room, I need someone in there if Alexis needs help.”

The doctor nodded and instantly responded. So he wasn’t locked up or frozen with fear — he just needed to be told what to do. Fatima unwound herself from the pirate, put her mask on and followed.

As Jonah sprinted back to the command compartment, he realized he didn’t need a pair of hydrophones to detect a new set of splashes from the surface above. The sound penetrated the depths and the thick steel skin of the submarine. Behind him, Hassan looked up. The doctor had heard it, too.

“We’re no longer rigged for silent running,” said Vitaly as he struggled with the manual systems. “Diving planes are knocked out of alignment. Can only be fixed from outside.”

“Can we send a diver?” Hassan asked.

“The shock wave from a depth charge would liquefy a diver.”

“Belay that,” said Vitaly, squeezing a valve. “I think I’ve got—”

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Four depth charges went off in quick succession, every detonation in close proximity to the Scorpion. Half the bulbs in the command compartment exploded in a cascade of sparks and broken glass, spilling across the deck. Pipes burst, spraying greywater and oil into the compartment as the emergency lighting flickered. Wooden and particle-board cabinets in the galley exploded, showering the interior with splinters. Between the tight quarters, the smell, and perfect chaos, Jonah felt as if he were riding out a tornado in an outhouse.

“We can’t take much more of this!” Vitaly screamed through the smoke and darkness, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask.

Alexis ran out of the engine room wearing a full oxygen hood and welder’s gloves, a strange combination with her tank top and cutoff shorts. A massive cloud of ugly black smoke followed her. Without speaking a word, she yanked a fire extinguisher off the wall of the command compartment and rushed back into the engine room with equal speed.

Hassan stepped towards Alexis, instinctively trying to follow her. Jonah caught him by the shoulder.

“Doc, I need you here,” whispered Jonah.

“But my mother is in there!” protested the doctor.

Suddenly, despite the chaos, the noise, the flickering lights and raging fire in the engine compartment, Jonah stopped and stared. On one small console screen, a small blip indicated the position of the submarine on a map. A strange sense of familiarity washed over him. Could it be…?

“Surface the ship,” ordered Jonah.

“Are we surrendering?” asked Vitaly.

“Hell no,” said Jonah. “I have to make a phone call. Doc is in charge until I come back.”

“Phone call, da, da, of course he wants to make phone call now,” grumbled Vitaly as he adjusted the manual controls. The Scorpion lurched, careening towards the surface. Jonah yanked open the drawer underneath the communications console, finding a thick, black satellite telephone.

“Vitaly — tell Alexis to put all power to the engines when we surface,” ordered Jonah. “I know we can’t outrun our pursuers, but we can at least keep the distance as best we can.”

Vitaly relayed the instructions as he and Jonah watched as the depth meter climbed from 300 feet below to 250. More depth charges detonated, rumbling through the bones of the submarine, but far away from Scorpion and too deep to have any effect.

Jonah tossed the hydrophones at Hassan and clambered up the interior boarding ladder, right up against the hatch. He wanted to be ready when Scorpion reached the surface. Dialing the phone number, his fingers floated over the send button, ready to press.

The Scorpion broke free of the waves at the crest of a massive swell. The submarine leapt from the surface of the ocean and crashed down with enough force to nearly knock Jonah off the ladder. He twisted the massive circular lock to the main hatch, swinging it open to the stern of the ship as collected seawater rained down the interior conning tower. His one dared glance around the side of the hatch confirmed his fears — the mothership bore down at flank speed, already launching her inflatable boats.

Jonah pressed send. The phone buzzed to life. Within seconds, the signal bounced off three separate orbiting satellites and a thousand miles of fiber-optic cable to a hard line on the far side of the world. He yanked down his oxygen mask, letting it dangle around his neck.

“Hello?” came a sleepy voice from the incredible distance. Despite the grainy connection, Jonah was relatively certain he could hear the soft patter of a Seattle drizzle.

“Hey beautiful,” he said, trying to adopt his best calming voice. She was going to be pissed receiving this phone call. What time was it in Seattle, anyway?

“What the hell?” demanded the voice from the other end. “Is this Jonah?!”

“Marissa,” said Jonah. “I am so happy to hear your voice.”

“Jonah fucking Blackwell?” shouted Marissa, anger overriding the sleepy tones of her voice. “I thought you were dead! You say you’re going to Spain for a week and then you fucking vanish!”

“Who is that?” demanded a male voice from the other end of the line.

“It’s my ex,” said Marissa, just as much to Jonah as the man sleeping in bed next to her. “For Christ’s sake, Jonah! You let me think you were on the bottom of the ocean or buried in a shallow grave somewhere. What the hell happened to you?!”

Half-listening, Jonah watched as the mercenary mothership disgorged two small boats into the water. Behind him, the broken-off snorkel in the rear of the conning tower belched out black smoke as the engines drove beyond full capacity. At least Alexis seemed to have knocked the misaligned propeller shaft back into place.

“Marissa, I’m really, truly sorry,” said Jonah. “And I can explain, but that’s not why I—”

“Fine!” yelled Marissa. “What do you want? It’s two in the goddamn morning! Are you in jail? A car accident? And how many people did you call before you called me?”

Jonah stomped at the diving plane, trying to drive it back into alignment. “Marissa,” said Jonah, taking a break from stomping to get some air. “This is literally the first phone call I’ve made in years.”

Gunfire ripped around him, pinging off the conning tower and open hatch, sending Jonah flying back behind the hatch for cover.

“What the fuck was that?” yelled Marissa.

“Somebody’s shooting at me,” said Jonah. “I hate to cut this short, but I’m kind of on the clock here. Remember that silver wreck we worked off the Horn of Africa?”

“I don’t understand — the SS Richard Thompson James?”

Jonah remembered the name now. The SS Richard Thompson James, an Allied Victory-class ship transporting silver coins to the Saudis in the closing days of World War II. An American ship pursuing American strategic interests but under British protection, the British allowed it to wander alone into the hunting grounds of a particularly prolific German U-boat. It was torpedoed and sank in nearly six hundred feet of water, abandoned until Jonah and a small team of salvagers ripped it apart for the silver within.

Another burst of gunfire rattled around him, interrupting his thoughts.

“What about it?” she demanded. “And why is someone shooting at you?”

“Pretty sure they’re trying to kill me. Look, I need the coordinates to that shipwreck, Marissa. I need them right now. I don’t have time to get into the details.”

“Fine, whatever,” said Marissa. He heard the sounds of her climbing out of bed, walking to her office around the corner of her bedroom, booting up her computer. Part of him missed her, missed her smell, her warmth, and the normalcy in which she conducted herself and all her affairs. That was to say, all her affairs outside of the one she shared with him.

“Thank you,” he said. “Seriously, thank you. You’re saving my life here.”

Marissa started rattling off a series of numbers, the coordinates to the silver shipwreck. Jonah memorized the numbers and aimed one final kick at the depth plane, forcing it back into alignment with a snap of metal against metal. A fresh salvo of gunfire clattered off the hatchway and conning tower, the ringing ricochets narrowly missing him.

“I don’t even want to know what you need this for,” Marissa asked. “Can I go back to bed now?”

“That’s all I needed,” said Jonah. “Thank you. Let’s, uh, do lunch sometime.”

“Lose my number, asshole.” Marissa slammed down the phone with the fury of a woman who’d probably be on the next flight out if Jonah would only ask. But he didn’t. Instead, he ducked back inside the conning tower and slammed the hatch shut behind him. He raced down the interior boarding ladder and re-secured his oxygen mask.

“Helm, dive now!” ordered Jonah.

Vitaly nodded and sent the Scorpion into a tight, stomach-churning dive at a speed and angle Jonah thought impossible.

“Make our depth five-five-oh feet,” said Jonah as he plugged the new coordinates into the navigational computer. Good news — they were less than fifteen minutes away, maybe less if Alexis drew the batteries hard and pushed the electric engine beyond spec. He stole a suspicious glance at Vitaly, who maintained his stoic vigil at the helm. Vitaly turned and glared back through the clouded plastic of his oxygen mask.

“That’s still within range of the depth charges,” protested Vitaly.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Jonah. “We can’t out-dive the explosives.”

“Rig for silent running?” asked Vitaly.

“No,” said Jonah, pressing the intercom to the engine room. “Stay noisy. Alexis, full power to the engines. I don’t care about range or endurance, just speed. Vitaly — follow my course, but be unpredictable. Run like a rabbit. I want them wasting depth charges. Doctor — report!”

“Fire in the engine room has been contained,” Hassan said. “We lost a few batteries, nothing crippling. Hydrophones are working again. Vitaly rerouted the systems past the damaged circuits. They’re still following us — and they’ve made no attempt at communications.”

“Do we still have those bodies in the freezer?”

“We do,” said the doctor, confused. “But why—?”

“Hand the headphones to Vitaly and follow me,” said Jonah, walking towards the bunkroom-adjacent galley. “I want those frozen bodies in the diver lockout chamber along with any trash from the galley.”

“Splashes!” came Vitaly’s tinny voice from the command compartment. The submarine abruptly changed course, speed and depth, sending the Scorpion jolting in a new direction, almost dropping Jonah and the doctor to their knees with the abruptness of the course change. They righted themselves and opened the small walk-in freezer where five lumpy bodybags were stacked against one wall.

“Two should be enough,” said Jonah over the distant popping sound of three underwater explosions. The mercenaries had missed again. Vitaly was a talented navigator, especially under such pressure. Whether or not he could keep it up for the next critical minutes was another question entirely.

“Let’s get the burned ones from the front compartment,” Hassan said. “They’re in pieces, should be lighter.”

“I like the way you think,” said Jonah, chucking one bag of body parts towards Hassan and grabbing the other for himself. They exited the freezer, each grabbing a stacked bag of kitchen waste as they did so.

“What’s happening?” asked Fatima as they both passed.

“I wish I knew,” Hassan said, closely following Jonah.

The mercenaries stopped dropping charges, not wanting to waste them on the seemingly panicked, fleeing crew of the Scorpion. Jonah and Hassan opened the body bags, gagging as they dropped the burned, chopped-up, frozen, and tattooed body parts into the lockout chamber along with two massive bags of galley waste.

“Go ahead and throw up if you need to,” said Jonah, dry heaving. “It’ll just add to the effect.”

“You never told me what we’re doing,” Hassan said, covering his face and mouth with one hand, unable to tear his eyes away from the horrific scene.

“Garbage shot,” said Jonah. “We blast this out of the lockout chamber. The bodies and trash float to the surface. They’ll think we’re dead.”

“Ah, clever.”

“Not really. It’s an old trick from World War II. Problem is nobody’ll buy it without a massive oil slick.”

“How do we do that?” asked the doctor. “Can we vent from the fuel tanks?”

“Not enough to sell it.” Jonah slammed the hatch to the lockout chamber shut.

“So what—”

Jonah cut him off. “You’re not going to like it.” Fingers punching the controls, Jonah programmed the chamber to over-pressurize.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Stay here,” said Jonah. “When my signal comes, press the green button. The outer hatch to the chamber will open automatically and the air pressure will evacuate the contents.”

Hassan stole a look through the small portal window into the chamber. “I’m about to evacuate my contents,” he said.

“And hold on,” said Jonah. “The ride is going to get bumpy.”

“Captain!”shouted a voice from command compartment below. “Come quickly!”

Jonah slid down the ladder, joining Vitaly at his helm console. The Russian brought up a passive acoustic reading to the main screen, rendering the underwater terrain as a crude, shifting 3-D model.

“What is it?” said Jonah.

“This,” said Vitaly, pointing at the screen. “I following your coordinates, but I believe there is obstruction.”

The screen depicted the forward-looking sensor reading of the Scorpion as it steamed towards a large, blocky object.

“It’s not an obstruction,” said Jonah. “It’s a shipwreck, the SS Richard Thompson James. I dove her during a salvage mission a few years ago.”

Vitaly looked up at Jonah, eyes wide with understanding. “This is suicide.”

“We have to create an oil slick. Our pursuers won’t believe the possum act without floating bodies and lots of oil. That wreck is chock full of seventy-year-old bunker fuel. The tanks are amidship, right in the center of the ship. Aim for them.”

“I do not like this plan,” said Vitaly, as he bore the bow of the Scorpion down on the increasingly clear acoustic image of the hulking war transport. The Scorpion zeroed in on the image at frightening speed. Jonah realized the window to change his mind was approaching quickly. He swallowed and allowed it to pass.

One final time, Jonah punched the all-call button. “All hands, brace for impact!”

Vitaly ducked underneath his console and Jonah slid underneath the communications console. Jonah slipped his oxygen mask once more over his face. He didn’t want to suffocate while unconscious, if it came to that.

The submarine slammed into the fuel tanks of the shipwreck, driving deep into the hulk like a spear, bucking and throwing her crew across compartments like toys. Emergency klaxons rang as pipes burst, flooding the compartment with rushing water and white, foamy spray. Fires burst from consoles. Vitaly leapt to his feet, grabbed the remaining extinguisher and hosed down the sensitive electronics. Water rushed down from the damaged forward compartment, frothing as it ran across the deck and over his feet. From above, Jonah heard the familiar whoosh of a diver’s lockout chamber as Hassan obeyed the order to activate the outer door, sending burnt body parts spinning into the rising column of debris and fuel oil.

Ignoring the fires and the spraying hydraulic lines of the command compartment, Jonah rushed into the burned, blackened forward compartment. The nose of the submarine had absorbed the worst of the impact. Several of the seawater circulation pipes had sheered, spilling their high-pressure, foamy contents into the compartment. The submarine’s stern sank until it hit the ocean floor, seawater rushing downwards like a newly-formed river of oil and debris.

Behind him, Vitaly scrambled from console to electrical box, trying to keep ahead of the dancing flames. Jonah used all of his strength against the feeder valves, trying to stanch the powerful flow of water. He dug deep, reliving every betrayal, heartache, prison whipping, gunshot, stabbing, dead friend, and ruined life. Joints popping, muscles straining, the valve squeezed close, choking off the flood.

An immense, overwhelming PIIIIIIIIING rang through the submarine, fraying already-shattered nerves as Jonah made his way back to the command compartment. He put his hands over his ears. PIIIIIIING, PIIIIING, PIIIIIIIING, rang the assaulting sound three more times, reverberating in the submarine and against the speared shipwreck. With just as much warning as they’d begun, the noises ceased.

Jonah crawled to the communications console, one hand holding the earphones to the side of his head, listening intently. He held up a single finger, forbidding anyone from saying a word. Hassan paused on his way down the interior boarding ladder, careful not to move or make a sound.

They waited in silence.

“They’re leaving,” he said, at first with a mumble, then louder. “They’re leaving!”

Surely enough, the soft swish-swish-swish of propeller screws slowly faded into the distance, replaced with the still-settling metal of the wartime shipwreck’s hull against their own.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he warned. “Probably intend to return with a salvage crew, pick through our bones.”

“Let’s not be here when they return,” Hassan said, dropping down next to Jonah.

“Agreed,” said Jonah. “This bought us time, but it won’t take long before they they figure it out.”

In the dim emergency lighting, they surveyed the remnants of battle, the filthy, sewage-ridden floodwater swirling around their ankles, burn-marks and extinguisher foam on the bulkheads and electrical boxes, flickering lights and the vicious cuts and bruises worn like medals of valor by all of those aboard. Around them, the shipwreck settled, steel members moaning as they found new forms after the vicious impact. From the engine room, Alexis emerged, holding both welding gloves in one hand, oxygen hood in the other. Dirt, grime, blood, and tears streaked her face. Shaking, she opened her mouth to speak, but made barely a noise before she closed it.

“I… tried—” she began again.

“What?” asked Jonah.

“She won’t breathe.”

“Where is she?” Hassan’s face contorted with horror. “Where is my mother?”

Alexis shook her head and looked up at him, eyes glistening with tears. Hassan shoved her aside and charged into the engine room, Jonah, Alexis, and Vitaly at his heels.

Fatima lay face-up in a collecting pool of water, skin pale and white, eyes open but unseeing, muscles bound, small flecks of white foam in the corner of her mouth. Hassan dropped to his knees beside her and picked up her hand. Her fingers were charred to the second knuckle. He glanced up at a blackened, smoldering electrical panel and tore open his mother’s shirt, revealing a white spiderweb of electrical burns encircling her heart.

“I tried to resuscitate her,” Alexis said, barely audible over Hassan’s hoarse, ragged breathing.

“You wouldn’t have been able to,” he said, “She was dead”—his voice warbling with grief—“the moment she touched the panel.”

Alexis choked back a sob. “I’m so sorry.”

Hassan leaned down and kissed his mother on the cheek, using his fingertips to close her eyes for the last time.

“Goddammit!” Jonah yanked the oxygen mask from around his neck, rubber straps snapping, and hurled it against a bulkhead. It clanged off the hatch, dropped into the water and bobbed face-down like a drowning victim.

Vitaly crouched in the filthy water and wrapped both arms around Hassan’s sagging shoulders.

“These motherfuckers are not going to stop,” Jonah growled. “We’ve taken everything, everything they’ve thrown at us. We’ve been shot at, shot down, beaten up, blown up, tortured. We’ve spilled blood, theirs and ours. If we don’t fight back, they’re going to keep coming until we’re done for.”

“What can we do?” Alexis asked. Behind her, Dalmar emerged from the bunk room, disoriented and unsteady. Seeing Fatima, he shook his head, drew in a long breath, and turned away. Vitaly stood and drew Hassan back to his feet.

The muscles in Jonah’s jaw clenched and unclenched as he surveyed his traumatized crew. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” His face twisted with rage. “I’m going to walk into Bettencourt’s playground and knock his fucking sandcastle down.”

Hassan simply shook his head, unable to even bring tears to his eyes.

Jonah cleared his throat to continue, suddenly wishing he wasn’t still wearing a pair of dead man’s pants. “Charles Bettencourt deserves what’s coming to him, but I can’t ask you to risk your lives again, not now that we finally have a real, solid window to escape. We can make for Oman so everyone who wants to leave can leave. We’ll run dead silent and submerged as far as we can to the north, then recharge the batteries with the snorkel as needed.”

“Boss, no snorkel,” said Vitaly.

“That’s right,” said Jonah, recalling the sheered-off snorkel. “What happened?”

“Collision with ship,” said Vitaly. “You missed much excitement when you on little vacation.”

“Fine, we’ll charge surfaced,” Jonah fixed his gaze on the engineer. “Alexis, you have your parents and a life back in Texas. What are you still doing here with us pirates, deserters, and outlaws, anyway? It’s time to go back to the land of big hair, big trucks, and barbeque. What do you say?”

Alexis glanced down at Fatima and then let her eyes rest a moment on Hassan. “I’ll follow you on down the road apiece,” she said with an exaggerated drawl. Then she crossed her arms and stared at Jonah. She didn’t need to say another word for everyone to know she fully intended to stay.

Jonah nodded and turned to the doctor. “Hassan, take your mother home, give her a proper burial. You can still go back to your medical practice.”

Hassan frowned. “There is nothing for me in Morocco,” he whispered. “Besides, Bettencourt will not let me live in peace. You know that.”

“Vitaly?” said Jonah, turning his attention to the Russian helmsman.

“You shoot Vitaly if he leave?” Vitaly said with a grim smile. “Again?”

“Hell, I might shoot you for staying,” said Jonah.

“You are terrible captain.” Vitaly shook his head as if Jonah was a great disappointment. “But I take my chances with Scorpion. She good ship. I stay.”

“Good,” cracked Jonah. “Because I know fuck-all about sailing this thing.”

Jonah started to speak again, but Dalmar interrupted, his solemn baritone filling the engine room. “I am with you in this. We will rain destruction upon him. Blood for blood, for the doctor’s beautiful mother, for my people. My men and I will provide whatever support we can whenever you need it.”

Hassan spoke up, his voice barely a whisper. “Charles Bettencourt has no right to do what he’s doing. He thinks everybody is too stupid, too poor, or too weak to oppose him. I’ve lost my cousin and my mother… and for”—his voice broke—“for what?”

“We can’t bring back what was lost,” said Jonah. “But we can show the world who Charles Bettencourt really is.”