Rogue Justice Read online

“I recommend you turn and follow them, Dmitry. This may take a few hours before they swim within detection range.”

  “Right. I’ll mirror their course but lag their speed by two knots to let them move ahead.”

  Four hours later, Volkov sipped tea from a porcelain cup to delay his creeping fatigue. The trainer sat beside the sonar guru, his preferred spot in the control room when his dolphins worked.

  As he feared the Israeli submarine had retreated to its home waters, the Wraith’s commander heard the control room’s loudspeakers pump out unsolicited cetacean noises.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “They say they have a submerged contact at five o’clock,” Anatoly said.

  “Excellent,” Volkov said. “Query for the range.”

  After an exchange of chirps and whistles, the sonar expert offered an inquisitive look over his shoulder.

  “It’s medium range.”

  “Medium? That’s unusual.”

  “Maybe I can explain,” Anatoly said. “I’ve been modeling dolphin echolocation frequencies. In these waters, the temperatures are high and the background noise is really high. The dolphins will be limited in how far they can detect submarines.”

  “So be it. Set the range of the Israeli submarine at five miles from the dolphins and get an update on their position relative to us.”

  After three range checks to peg the cetaceans’ location, icons on his screen shifted, and Volkov sensed an advantage forming over his adversary.

  “Dare to risk a long-range shot?” Anatoly asked.

  “No, the chance of hitting is questionable, and I have a better idea. I’d rather use the dolphins’ explosive charges. It’s a subtler approach and consumes fewer resources.”

  “Meaning we have more spare dolphin explosives aboard than torpedoes?”

  “Not quite, but we should correct that since the dolphins’ explosives take up much less space than torpedoes and are laughably cheaper. Remind me to have Pierre send us more spares with the Goliath.”

  “You can have the dolphins plant their charges on the Israeli submarine now,” Anatoly said. “But I can’t guarantee that you’re close enough for your detonation command to reach.”

  Volkov recalled that the detonation signal mimicked crackling shrimp noise, a sound beyond the dolphins’ ability to emanate. After his prior mission, he’d asked the trainer to condition his animals to detonate the explosives themselves, but they’d lacked the time to learn. The Wraith’s sonar system would be required to set off the cetaceans’ warheads.

  Beside the sonar expert, the trainer displayed his habitual agitation as his children neared danger. But he surprised Volkov by remaining silent as the icon of the dolphins drifted closer to that of the Israeli vessel.

  Then another unsolicited chirp arrived.

  “They’re within a mile of the target,” Anatoly said.

  “That’s sooner than expected,” Volkov said. “The Israelis are moving aggressively in our direction.”

  “They wasted no time turning around after evading our torpedo. I still can’t hear them yet, though.”

  “You will soon. Give control of the dolphin communications to the trainer.”

  Anatoly acknowledged and tapped images on his screen.

  “I’ve passed control of the dolphins to the trainer.”

  “I have control of my babies,” the trainer said.

  “Prepare the dolphins for explosives deployment.”

  Volkov envisioned one dolphin sliding its snout into the strap of the bomb attached forward of the dorsal fin of its partner while a chirp announced the completion of each animal’s arming.

  “They’re ready to lay explosives,” the trainer said.

  “Very well, deploy the explosives.”

  Five minutes later, a chirp came.

  “The explosives are applied to the Israeli submarine, and the dolphins have swum to a safe distance for detonation.”

  “Detonate.”

  The trainer tapped buttons on the console, and prerecorded shrimp-like sounds rang from the Wraith.

  “Nothing,” Anatoly said. “I hear no response.”

  “We’re too far away for this level of background noise,” Volkov said. “Vasily, increase power to one-half.”

  “I’ve increased power to half power.”

  “Detonate.”

  The two pops reminded Volkov of assassin bullets.

  “Detonations are confirmed,” Anatoly said. “I hear flooding. Now acceleration.”

  “Any high-pressure emergency air?”

  “No, Dmitry. The ship is merely driving upward smartly.”

  “That’s a cool bastard of a commander. After two instant geysers springing through the top of my control room, I’m not sure I’d be so calm.”

  “Now I hear hull popping as the ship makes for the surface.”

  “My babies succeeded again,” the trainer said.

  “Indeed, they did,” Volkov said. “Bring them home.”

  “Andrei has confirmed the order,” the trainer said. “They’re coming back.”

  As he fought to suppress the rising smugness of victory, Volkov watched his sonar expert raise his finger and bow his head.

  “What is it, Anatoly?”

  As the question lingered unanswered, the Wraith’s commander folded his arms and waited.

  “Torpedo in the water,” Anatoly said.

  “Did our victim shoot at us?”

  “No. It’s from a different bearing. Zero-four-four.”

  “Is it drifting?”

  “Slightly right.”

  Volkov recognized the danger of a surprise weapon and knew to place it on the edge of his submarine’s baffles.

  “Left ten-degrees rudder, steer course two-eight-four. Make turns for twelve knots.”

  As the deck tilted into the turn, Volkov stood over his sonar expert’s shoulder and watched the noise floor rise on his display as flowing water weakened the ship’s hearing.

  “Can you hear the torpedo?” he asked.

  “Yes, the seeker is active. It’s another SeaHake.”

  “You’re kidding,” Volkov said.

  “No, Dmitry. There’s a second Israeli submarine nearby.”

  In tense silence, Volkov watched the lines of bearing to the hostile torpedo drift behind him. But he needed them to drift faster.

  “Increase speed to sixteen knots.”

  The deck shuddered with speed.

  “We’re at sixteen knots,” the gray beard said. “Time on the battery at this speed is fifty-one minutes.”

  “What do you hear, Anatoly?”

  “We need to maintain this speed, but we’ll evade.”

  Volkov exhaled and shifted his mind to evaluation mode. He wanted to understand how he’d been ambushed.

  “I never launched a torpedo,” he said. “There’s no way we could have been heard by any submarine, unless… damn.”

  “Dmitry?” Anatoly asked.

  “The Israelis have studied current events, and I fear they’ve had access to privileged information. They know that we mimic biologic sounds to communicate with dolphins.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You’ll have to verify this by listening to our self-recordings of our generated sounds, but I’m sure you’ll conclude that the only targeting data we gave the shooter was our dolphin and shrimp signals.”

  “That would ruin our greatest advantage,” Anatoly said.

  “I’m afraid that advantage is already at risk. In fact, let’s be sure that cool bastard of a commander doesn’t dare believe that he can repair two small holes at sea. Prepare the weapon in tube one for a one-third deployment of bomblets and aim it at the surfaced submarine.”

  “One third?” Anatoly asked.

  “Yes. I don’t want to sink the ship–just make sure our adversary returns to port and stays there for a long time.”

  The sonar guru interacted with the technician beside him, who tapped the icons to prepare the w
eapon.

  “This will all but end our charade as an Egyptian vessel when we reveal our slow-kill weapon,” Anatoly said.

  “I suspect that ruse ended when Andrei and Mikhail announced their presence, and we’ve added circumstantial evidence if you count our synthetic biological transmissions. The Israelis have figured out who we are, or they will have done so by the end of the day.”

  “I understand, Dmitry. Tube one is ready.”

  “Very well,” Volkov said. “Shoot tube one.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Terrance Cahill strolled along the causeway above the dry dock and stopped at the railing overlooking his submersible combat-transport ship, Goliath. The catamaran’s nearest hull appeared familiar, but farther away, overhead lights illuminated the alien-looking left half of his ship.

  Questions rattled his mind faster than he could sort them, but he focused on the one that irked his sense of symmetry. The Goliath appeared stunted in its port, forward section.

  “Tell me again why you’ve attached a stubby corvette-sized bow to the front of me port hull,” he said.

  The man beside him withdrew a Marlboro from his mouth and blew smoke.

  “Because a stubby corvette-sized bow section was all I could acquire on short notice. You left the proper frigate-shaped bow section on the bottom of the Aegean Sea three months ago, if I remember correctly.”

  “Better the bow section than the entire ship,” Cahill said.

  “If you’d stop running my property into hostile weapons, we wouldn’t have to worry about replacement parts. I believe that’s twice now you’ve had relations with torpedoes that forced me to dip into my capital asset account.”

  “With all due respect, Mister Renard, you can press your dry old French lips hard against me bare hairy Australian arse.”

  His companion aimed eyes of steel blue at him and broke out in a smile.

  “No need for vulgarity. I was merely jesting. I assumed you’d know that, but perhaps I hit a nerve?”

  “Don’t worry about it, mate.”

  Cahill felt a discomforting silence until his boss broke it.

  “Unfortunately, your reaction is giving me cause for worry,” Renard said. “You meant your comment about me kissing your buttocks as a joke, but I noted a hint of frustration.”

  Cahill shut his eyes as a waking recurrence of his repeated nightmares played in his head. A torpedo erupted, a wall of infinite water pounded him, and he drowned.

  His awareness returned to Renard.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “In time, you must.”

  He grunted, left the Frenchman’s comment unanswered, and posed one of his own.

  “Ugly as it is, what do the simulations say about me new bow section?”

  “Of course, with less mass, you’ll have less buoyancy when submerged. You’ll have to compensate symmetrically by holding more water in your forward starboard trim tanks.”

  “Right, mate. But what about top speeds surfaced and submerged? What about the risks of oscillations with the new hydrodynamics?”

  “I admit the Taiwanese were unable, or unwilling rather, to commit to a simulation of hydrodynamic performance.”

  Cahill glanced around the covered wharf. The shipyard workers seemed lithe and short for Southern France, reminding him that Renard’s primary workforce consisted of Taiwanese personnel, regardless of his location. The more he learned about his French boss, the more he understood how the secrets he shared with the renegade Chinese province guaranteed ongoing mutual trust.

  “That’s a pity,” Cahill said. “The Taiwanese have been providing solid engineering to your fleet for years. I assume that if they can’t run a simulation, then a simulation can’t be run.”

  “Indeed,” Renard said. “Rather, it could be run, but it’s not worth the time and effort.”

  Cahill gave the Frenchman a sideways glance.

  “You mean it’s not worth your money.”

  “Admittedly, no.”

  “It’s unlike you to leave your investments to chance.”

  “I wouldn’t trust the simulations until they were proven against reality for such a strange thing as an undersized bow section. So I decided not to bother. Also, you already proved you can manage the Goliath without a bow section at all. Your maneuvering of the ship in the Aegean after losing your port bow was commendable.”

  A fresh snapshot of the recurring nightmare flashed across Cahill’s mental view, and then reality returned.

  “A feat I hope to never repeat.”

  A phone chimed in the Frenchman’s pocket, and he reached into his blazer to lift the cellular device to his cheek.

  “This is Pierre. No, I’ve not met them in person. You can match their faces to their photographs as well as I. Good. Give them badges and let them into the dry dock area. I’ll meet them at the north entrance.”

  “Me Israeli Mossad guests?” Cahill asked.

  “Not Mossad. That’s for external affairs, and their problem–our opportunity–is due to an internal disagreement within the Israeli machine. Your riders are Aman, military intelligence.”

  “With all the mistrust and problems around Israel, you can’t blame me for getting it confused.”

  “Confused indeed,” Renard said. “And in the event that your Aman riders get confused about their priorities underway, you have the four Legionnaires I rented to protect you.”

  Cahill appreciated the security force and recalled that the four men who’d joined his crew a month earlier were respectable students in learning their jobs tending to the propulsion equipment. They would monitor gauges and clean machines underway to blend in and earn their keep.

  “And you trust them, these Legionnaires?” he asked.

  “Indeed. Their battalion officer is the son of a very close friend I’ve known since my years at l’Ecole Navale.”

  “Right, then let’s meet our Aman riders.”

  “Agreed,” Renard said. “Let’s not keep them waiting. They’ll be our allies only as long as it suits them. Best to begin this short relationship on a positive note.”

  Cahill kept pace beside the Frenchman while bringing the guardhouse into view. A Taiwanese security team buzzed around a half-dozen Caucasians, checking for metallic objects, harmful chemicals, and explosives. While gyrating through the inspections, the visitors revealed the taut bodies of soldiers, but one physique caught the Australian’s attention.

  She was built like an athlete with flat, shoulder-length brown hair, pert breasts, and a strong build with the hard, muscular lines of a swimmer. Then the Israeli lady turned, exposing firm, round buttocks, and Cahill noticed his heartbeat accelerating.

  “Pierre?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re putting a Sheila on me ship?”

  “Is that a problem? Women haven’t been considered curses aboard seagoing vessels for a long time.”

  “Right. It’s just that…”

  “What?”

  He suffered tunnel vision as he watched her slide her green fatigue uniform over her tank top tee-shirt.

  “Well, she’s a she, and an attractive one at that.”

  “I assure you, Major Dahan is competent enough to lead her team and maintain a professional relationship with you and your crew. I implore you to return her the same courtesy.”

  His heart fluttering, Cahill tried to regain control of his breathing. Seeing the Israeli woman had sent his hormones into hyper-drive, and he feared the distraction.

  He lied to his boss.

  “Will do, mate,” he said. “It’s no concern at all.”

  Renard approached her and introduced himself, and Cahill held his breath as the Frenchman aimed her attention at him.

  “This is Terrance Cahill, former commanding officer of Her Majesty’s Australian Ship Rankin, and now the commander of the Goliath, the flagship of my fleet.”

  Cahill inhaled and extended his hands to hers. He felt electrified as her soft hands rendered a fir
m grip, and he melted in her eyes.

  “Terry, please. Call me ‘Terry’.”

  “Major Ariella Dahan,” she said.

  Warmth billowed throughout him as her voice struck with beauty and strength. He judged her capable of nursing a child in one arm while snapping a man’s neck with the other.

  “Call her ‘Major Dahan’,” Renard said. “Although we abandoned formal ranks in our fleet, she and her team are Israeli military. Remember to honor that.”

  The reminder helped center Cahill.

  “Of course,” he said. “I would have it no other way. Let’s get on with the introductions and get you familiar with me ship.”

  After a quick and quiet walk from the guard house, Cahill led Renard and the Israeli soldiers down serrated steps into the dry dock basin. Concrete walls reflected the echoes of steel-toed boots as the group descended to the bottom.

  From behind and below its starboard hull, the combat transport ship appeared a magnificent beast.

  Cahill adjusted his hardhat and then pointed upward.

  “The ship is a marvel of reuse of existing designs with minimal customizations. Both screws and rudders are from the French Scorpène-class submarine, but you can see that the shafts are extended deeper into the water with a sunken stern area. This allows the screws to avoid cavitation while we’re surfaced and to give extra buoyancy carrying the weight of our cargo.”

  “Mister Renard had it built to triple the speed of transport of his submarines to operational theaters, but the ship alone has proven itself as a tactical asset,” Dahan said.

  “She knows of our work in Greece and Russia,” Renard said.

  “The whole world knows of your work in Greece and Russia,” Dahan said. “Your missions make too great an impact for Renard’s mercenary fleet to remain a secret, and this is why we knew to call upon you.”

  “Renard’s Mercenary Fleet,” the Frenchman said. “Is that what people call it?”

  Dahan shrugged.

  “Yes,” she said. “At least in my intelligence circles.”

  “I’m chuffed,” the Frenchman said. “Renard’s Mercenary Fleet–RMF. Welcome to the RMF Goliath.”

  “Me boss’ swollen ego aside, I’ll take this notoriety as a compliment,” Cahill said.

  “It’s up to you how to take it,” Dahan said.