Hundreds of spare railgun rounds covered the free spaces between pieces of exercise equipment. Some crates formed short walls around a treadmill, and others concealed the lower half of a Bowflex machine. The three crates in front of the resistance-training equipment dipped low to allow a man to step over them, and he understood why Brown had removed the additional three that blocked his access to his workout.
But life on a warship required sacrifices, and Brown would need to move the crates into the passageway and then return them to their rightful place each time he exercised.
Cahill continued to the port hull’s berthing area, and he heard snoring. A quick mental count told him three men slept while the other seven tended to the port hull’s systems. After gaining trust in the French-designed MESMA systems, he had relaxed the watch team for each hull’s three plants from seven sailors to five. He also had a man in the propulsion plant and a solitary gunner in the weapons bay.
He crept through the space and reached the abandoned tactical control room that served as a redundant brain of the Goliath. A final door led him to the port bow module, where instead of stairs leading to a bridge, he saw the hydraulic hoist to the retracted Phalanx close-in weapon system.
“All’s quiet up here,” he said.
Retracing his steps, he reached the aft MESMA plant and then entered the port engine room. He walked under the wide air ducts to the gas turbine engine that allowed direct feeding of the ship’s motors for speed while surfaced.
“How are we doing back here?” he asked.
A man in coveralls seated before a control panel looked up and then nodded towards the electric motor at the tapering cylindrical stern.
“Everything’s fine. Purring like a kitten.”
Cahill glanced aft and saw the top of the motor, which the ship’s Taiwanese builders had sunk into a custom recess. He then opened a hatch on the engine room’s angled slope, reached upward to handles, and pulled himself through. Closing the hatch, he noticed the quietness of the weapons bay. He climbed a ladder and entered his ship’s aft space.
The railgun was unimposing, impressing Cahill with its compact size. The greatest mass rose behind the breach to absorb recoil, and as he walked deeper into the bay, he stood on his tiptoes to reach the top of the cannon. Withdrawing his fingertips to his face, he saw the right amount of dust to suggest that his crew followed the railgun’s proper cleaning schedule.
He saw a lanky man reclining in a cot reading a magazine under a recessed curve in the hull.
“What brings you this far from the bridge?”
“I was taking a tour to get me mind off the Greek warship that just passed over us,” Cahill said.
The man stirred, as if expecting action. Cahill had his propulsion and weapon technicians trained to back each other up to operate the railgun, propulsion plant, and the MESMA systems. He recognized this watch stander as a neophyte in the weapons bay, and he knew a senior gunner would replace him before his attack on Greece would begin.
“I need to be ready for action.”
“No need,” Cahill said. “It’s a small gunboat. No sonar. No clue that we’re below it, and I plan to keep it that way.”
“Oh. Right. I don’t imagine you’d be back here if we were getting ready for battle.”
“Right, mate.”
A light source flashed by one of the polycarbonate windows that offered a thin panoramic view out the weapons bay. He recognized it as some form of biological life and ignored it.
A sound-powered phone chirped by the man’s head. He reached, tore it from its cradle, and lifted it to his cheek.
“Port weapons bay,” he said.
He extended the phone, and Cahill took the handset.
“Captain,” he said.
“Terry, it’s the bridge,” Walker said. “I’ve got an update from Renard. He says the gunboat that just passed over us is the last ship of concern. All engines of Greek warships in port remain cold, and all other deployed ships are far away. He wants us to attack when the gunboat is out of reaction range.”
“Excellent,” Cahill said. “How long until the gunboat is fifty miles away?”
“Two and a half hours.”
“Schedule the tactical briefing in an hour, and have the weapons bays load the explosive rounds.”
“Will do, Terry. Explosive rounds. This will be interesting.”
“New levels of vandalism,” Cahill said. “I feel like a mongrel for ambushing a friendly nation, but I know it’s exactly what we need to do.”
CHAPTER 8
Jake Slate leaned over the navigation table.
“I can’t believe that tanker’s crew is testing me,” he said.
“The prime minister must have ordered them to,” Henri said.
“I know,” Jake said. “I still can’t believe a man can be that arrogant. Or that stupid.”
“His arrogance — or his stupidity — has allowed him to succeed in something. He’s forcing us into a difficult decision. The outpouring of Hellenic warships has exceeded our expectations, and if we give away our position by attacking the tanker, there’s true risk that we’re discovered.”
“We wouldn’t give ourselves away entirely. There’s plenty of water around that tanker from where we could be attacking.”
“But our hunters know we’re attacking from the west since they know our maximum speed and the rough location of our prior attack north of Crete.”
“I was trying to be optimistic.”
“It doesn’t become you.”
Jake smirked.
“True.”
“It’s your call,” Henri said. “This is why I presume Pierre pays you a captain’s share of the bounty.”
Jake restrained a smile as he considered his multi-million-dollar commission for each mission.
As Renard’s first recruited commanding officer, he knew his mentor appreciated competent commanders and found ways to support their handsome payments by squeezing money from his clients. His French boss could smell desperation and extract maximum pricing from those who needed his services. He wondered how many Euro Renard had negotiated from the French, Germans, Italians, and Turks.
“He pays me to think things through rationally.”
“Yes, he does. But you have that look in your eye like you’re getting ready to blow something up.”
“The ultimate intent of our mission is to force a new regime,” Jake said. “I can’t let the prime minister get away with stating that tankers bound for Greece are safe. One torpedo undermines his credibility. So let’s do it.”
From the control station, Henri turned his nose at Jake.
“Does Pierre have an opinion?” he asked.
“I suppose I should check. I can be cavalier about our lives but not about his precious submarine.”
“He cares about our lives, too,” Henri said. “And more so than just for our value to him as a crew. Ask him.”
Jake walked to the conning platform and leaned into his console. Where he expected Renard, he saw an empty chair.
“He’s not there. He’s probably taking a leak.”
“Or indulging in a cigarette,” Henri said.
Frowning, Jake twisted his neck to look at the Frenchman.
“What?” Henri asked. “Didn’t you notice that he’s not been smoking in front of you?”
“I guess. It wasn’t near the top of my thoughts.”
“Well, our boss is losing his battle to stop smoking, and the Toulon command center doesn’t allow smoking indoors.”
“Sucks to be Pierre, then.”
“Why?” Renard asked.