The Lotus Eaters

S806 Diamant (Amethyst Class), Shimmering Sea, Terra Nova

The control room, though crowded and cramped, was also calm and fully collected. They were a professional crew, with what every man aboard would have agreed was a first rate captain in command.

"Any sign that the target sub is moving away?" asked the captain of a fresh faced, young deck officer.

"So far nothing, sir," the deck officer replied. "They can't be so ignorant as to believe we don't hear them, can they?"

The captain, medium height and graying at the temples, raised one hand to his jaw and commenced tapping his fingers lightly across thin lips.

"Is it possible they don't hear us—or the escorts or the helicopters—all heading this way?" the captain asked.

The deck officer frowned. "After that burst of speed we put on," he said, "they've got to know we're here. And Intel has said the Balboans brought Volgan and maybe improved that through their Yamatan or Zioni contacts. Volgan may not be of the best but it's plenty good enough to hear everything but"—the deck officer put out one hand and waggled his fingers—"maybe the helicopters off of Charlemagne."

"Is it possible they don't know how good our sensors are?" the captain asked.

"Why do you ask, sir?"

"Because Intel also said that every member of a Balboan submarine crew is a graduate of something like our own commando course. That means they're a very determined bunch. And if a very determined bunch is pressing in to engagement range after having been made, that worries me a great deal.

"And then, too, when you think about the rogue nature of the whole Balboan state, an army that owns a country . . . renting themselves out as mercenaries . . . their long standing policy of enmity with everything decent and liberal . . . uncontrollable . . . willful . . . and war is coming, where Charlemagne will be a critical asset."

The captain made a sudden decision. "Ready four torpedoes," he said. "Rig for extreme silent running. Bring us back above the thermal. And then bring us into a three hundred and sixty degree turn."

"Sir?"

"I want to come up on their tail again."

"Sir, they don't carry torpedoes."

"You know, son," the captain said, putting an affectionate hand on his officer's shoulder, "I could believe one research or drug interdiction sub might be built with no weapons. But nobody builds what amounts to a factory to make a class of submarines with no arms. No market for it, you see."

"But Intel—"

"Fuck Intel. They've been wrong before. And they're just the sort to be right about the quasi commando training—that can be seen—but utterly wrong about whether that sub is armed, since that's harder to see."

"They could intend for the subs to be commando carriers," the deck officer said, not unreasonably.

"Do you want to bet your life on that?" the captain countered. "The life of the Charlemagne?"

"Put that way, sir, no." The deck officer turned from the captain and began to give the orders.