The Wrecking Crew

by Taylor Zajonc

  “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 ta
ke 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.