John R. Monteith
Rogue Invader
CHAPTER 1
Dmitry Volkov raised his head and pressed his palms into the navigation table. His back straightening, he felt shards of shame.
“How long until our weapon hits?” he asked in Russian.
“Almost thirteen minutes,” the sonar operator said.
“This doesn’t feel right.”
“Trust the plan, Dmitry.”
“An elaborate plan of vandalism,” Volkov said. “Three ships. Three phases. Three commanders. This is the opposite of what we stood for in the Russian Navy.”
“We’re not in the Russian Navy anymore. We work for Pierre Renard and his mercenary fleet.”
“He seems trustworthy, but I don’t know him well enough yet to know if this is proper.”
“Nor him, us,” the sonar operator said. “Which is why you’re managing only phase one, and that on the other side of the Suez Canal from his other ships.”
“You noticed that detail.”
“You pay me to notice things.”
Volkov realized he preferred the use of first names and the wearing of white dress shirts and beige dress pants to the staunch formalities of the Russian Navy.
“I’m glad you joined me in this mercenary life, Anatoly. I needed a sonar operator I could trust.”
“You pay me a salary more than I had ever imagined,” Anatoly said.
“You can thank our French boss for that. He pays us all well.”
“That explains how he stole the complete crew for this ship from the Russian Navy.”
“It’s more than his money,” Volkov said. “He has a certain charisma about him. I find it hard to reject his propositions.”
“Even when he tells you to start a war?”
Volkov reflected upon the Frenchman’s plan. Vandalism followed by naval skirmishes followed by more vandalism and then greater battles at sea. All to drive a NATO nation to the brink of revolution.
“Combat will ensue, men will die, and the fate of at least one nation will be sealed.”
“Greece,” Anatoly said. “Forced succession from the European Union.”
“They brought it upon themselves through corruption. Their so-called leaders must be punished, but the hands of those who are funding this mission are tied. They cannot risk overt hostilities. So they pay us instead.”
“Who’s paying? The Germans? The French?”
“Yes. Probably both, I mean. And possibly other nations that are suffering from the Greek economic disaster. I’m sure Turkey is involved, if I understand the way Renard captures payment from those to whom he offers benefits.”
“If so many are behind this, why do you seem so… despondent?
“I know it’s necessary for change and growth,” Volkov said, “but I dislike that innocent people will suffer.”
“I assume the Frenchman has thought it through. He seems like the type of man to leave nothing to chance.”
“His success speaks for itself. However, I must admit that I preferred our prior vessel to this French designed Scorpène-class. The submarines are comparable, but I still prefer the Krasnodar over the Wraith.”
“But you appreciate our new ship, don’t you?”
Volkov smirked.
“Yes, I do. The Wraith is up to the task.”
“Then why do you seem concerned?”
“It’s not the task that concerns me. It’s the reaction.”
Anatoly pointed to his headset.
“I’m sorry, Dmitry, but you’ve reminded me that I need to listen to the sea. I need to make sure the reaction doesn’t catch us by surprise.”
“Right.”
Volkov turned and stepped upon the Wraith’s elevated conning platform. The deck tilted as the submarine rocked in the swells, and he extended his hands to balance his descent into a bulkhead-mounted foldout chair. Beside him, a monitor showed an overhead view of bulbous tanks protruding upward from the liquefied natural gas vessel steaming towards his torpedo.
The video feed from a satellite made the targeting trivial.
“How much time until detonation?” he asked.
“Nine minutes,” Anatoly said.
Volkov tapped keys and lifted his chin towards the upper monitor where crow’s feet framed the piercing blue eyes of his French employer. Sharp features under silvery hair stared at him.
Leaning on the polished rail encircling the conning platform, one of Volkov’s translators awaited orders. Though his boss understood simple Russian, he used the translator to assure impeccable communications.
“Let’s talk to him,” Volkov said.
“I’m ready,” the translator said.
Volkov spoke in small phrases, letting the two-way translations become a drone in his mind.
“Nine minutes to detonation,” he said.
“Very good,” Renard said in English through the translator. “Have patience.”
“Patience, yes. It’s the shame that’s bothering me.”
“Shame?” Renard asked. “What shame?”
“Attacking commercial shipping during a time of peace.”
“It may be a time of peace, but it’s also a time of corruption that can no longer be tolerated.”
“I feel like a pirate.”
“Mercenaries apply pressure where it must be applied in places where the navies of nations dare not risk exposure.”
“I’m starting a war with Iran or Greece or both,” Volkov said. “I can’t be sure.”
“You’re no coward. You proved this when I fought against you in the Black Sea. Nor are you prone to second-guess yourself. Why the hesitation?”
Volkov tested his learning by answering Renard in English.
“I am ready,” he said. “I am talking to eat time.”
“You mean you’re talking to kill time, to make it pass faster while you await your detonation.”
“Yes.”
“Hold on a moment.”
The Frenchman’s face tightened as he looked aside.
“You should release your dolphins.”
Volkov switched back to Russian and reliance upon his translator.
“Why?” he asked.
“I’ve just received word that an Iranian submarine is submerged within one hundred miles of you and heading in your direction.”
“How could you know this?”
“I pay for such intelligence — at a premium, just as I paid for your dolphins. They, too, were quite costly.”
Volkov assumed an American submarine provided the information through Renard’s link to the CIA. Given that he was destroying a ship carrying Iranian natural gas bound for Greece, he expected trouble.
“I’ll make the preparations to deal with this submerged threat,” he said.
“I expect that you’ll need to secure your electronic transmissions before we speak again.”
“Then this is good bye, at least from my end of the conversation, until I’m safe again.”
“I hope the good fortune that surrounded you in the Black Sea continues for you now.”
Volkov nodded to the monitor and then walked away. He passed behind the backs of technical experts seated at consoles of the Wraith’s Subtics tactical system. He then left the control room and headed forward into the torpedo room where a man as lithe and graceful as the animals he trained hovered over a makeshift aquarium in the compartment’s center passageway.
“Vasily?” Volkov asked.
The trainer kept his hand on a broached dorsal fin as he looked up. His face appeared strained.
“They hate this, Dmitry. This is their prison.”
“My torpedo technicians have grown fond of them, despite having to crawl over and around their tank.”
“They can barely turn around in this.”
“There was no other way to get them this far from home,” Volkov said. “But I have good news. It’s time to deploy them.”