“I thought that’s what tomorrow night was for,” Cahill said.
“Are you kidding?” Jake asked. “I’ve seen you drink. You won’t have a coherent thought after eight o’clock.”
Cahill chuckled.
“Good point, mate. What’s on your mind?”
“The dolphins.”
“I love them,” Cahill said. “Can’t get enough of them lads. They’re trailing your ship just fine, aren’t they?”
“They are for now,” Jake said.
The Frenchman became animated.
“I haven’t forgotten them,” Renard said. “I have a helicopter ordered to pick them up in five hours. I needed to get their trainer to the area before I could schedule the logistics. The trainer assures me they’ll be able to keep pace with the Specter until then.”
“That’s great to know,” Jake said. “But that’s not what I meant. What I meant was their future use.”
“I think they’ve earned their way onto this team,” Renard said. “In fact, I can only see brighter and more useful futures for them in our coming missions.”
“Exactly,” Jake said. “But do some quick math. The dolphins work in pairs, and we have only one pair to go with our three ships.”
The Frenchman frowned.
“I admit to a rare moment where you’re thinking ahead of me strategically. I hadn’t taken any action on our Russian mammalian assets yet, but as long as you’ve broached the subject, we may as well speak about one pair of dolphins supporting four ships.”
“Four ships,” Cahill said. “Don’t tease us.”
“I’m not. I won’t tell you the details, but I ask you to trust me on the progress of the construction of the Goliath’s sister ship.”
“That strengthens my point,” Jake said. “One pair of dolphins and four ships. Seems we’re a bit thin in dolphins.”
Shrugging, the Frenchman sounded dismissive.
“You speak as if they’re free.”
“Okay then, how much do the extra dolphins cost?” Jake asked.
“Do you truly expect me to share one of my significant cost structures with you? Secrecy in such matters is paramount for my negotiation strategies.”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “For me, I expect you to share.”
The Frenchman scoffed.
“Very well, then. For you, for Terry, for Dmitry. And why not for Mikhail and Andrei, too? I negotiated a price of ten million dollars for each dolphin.”
Jake’s eyebrows rose.
“Ten million dollars per dolphin,” he said. “Are there others in the training pipeline?”
“Of course, there are. The Russians take them very seriously, as all evolved navies do — or at least should.”
“And it’s still ten million each, even if you buy in bulk?”
“Yes, Jake,” Renard said. “I know of no frequent flier or rewards programs for purchasing military dolphins. They’re expensive little fellows, are they not?”
“Expensive?” Jake asked. “For these little fellows, ten million each sounds like a bargain to me.”
“Easy for you to say since it’s not your money.”
“No, but it’s my ass out here in the battle. And if you want my ass, Terry’s ass, and Dmitry’s ass to come back in one piece from the next mission, I suggest you buy six more of them.”
Cahill smiled.
“I agree.”
After a two-way translation through Russian, Volkov agreed.
“Very well,” Renard said. “I know when I’m outnumbered. I’ll see what I can do. Just don’t mutiny before you arrive in Sicily.”
“Wouldn’t think of it, mate.”
“Never crossed my mind, either,” Jake said.
“Don’t patronize me, gentlemen. I know you’ve each thought of it at least once in your dealings with me. But for God’s sake, if you ever do turn on me, don’t let it be over a handful of dolphins.”
CHAPTER 25
Dmitry Volkov took a last look into the dry dock basin at the second ship he’d led in battle. He knew few modern submarine captains saw real combat, and he considered himself privileged to have commanded two different ships into hostile action within a three-month window — and to have survived.
In the Black Sea, the Russian submarine Krasnodar had proven its survivability with its rugged dual-hull construction. Then in the Arabian Sea, the mercenary Wraith, born of French design, sold to the Malaysians, and then reborn under piracy into Renard’s fleet, had proven its elusiveness with its anti-air missiles.
He loved both submarines and found sorrow in leaving each. However, he held hopes of rejoining the Wraith for a future mission.
First, he needed to unite with the team that owned the mercenary vessel, but the thought of their company intimidated him.
To him, they were elite. If he counted the Goliath in the reckoning, then two of its members had commanded multiple submarines in battle. Even the retired leader, Pierre Renard, had demonstrated more combat leadership in his career than Volkov had in his two battles. Worst of all, Renard, Slate, and Cahill had united to defeat him in the Black Sea. In their midst, Volkov felt vulnerable.
His actions on the Krasnodar had impressed Renard enough to earn an invitation to the fleet, but Volkov doubted himself. He wondered if Renard were testing him against a gap in his command structure. The Frenchman needed a leader and crew, and Volkov considered himself a mere candidate for a job.
Renard told him he’d earned the position as the Wraith’s commander, but the true test — acceptance by his colleagues — awaited. Over recent missions, Slate and Cahill had risked their lives for each other and had developed a rare bond. Volkov needed to break into their ranks if he wanted to lead a submarine into combat again.
Bright lights bathed the mercenary vessel in its concealed concrete pen. Atop the ship, one of the commandoes Renard had sent to secure his property spoke with one of the technicians the Frenchman had sent to babysit it. Pakistani naval security personnel guarded, patrolled, and controlled access to the compound’s perimeter.
Volkov turned from the Wraith and stepped into the limousine with a Pakistani admiral.
“Come on,” the admiral said in English. “It’s time. Your crew is already aboard the aircraft waiting for you.”
From the vehicle’s cabin, the translator repeated the words in Russian.
“Thank you, admiral,” Volkov said. “To verify, how long can I keep the submarine here?”
After a volley of translations, the answer came.
“I told Mister Renard two months, but I would much prefer fifty days. I have a ship awaiting an overhaul that I’d like to get started sooner rather than later.”
Given the speed at which his French boss found clients, Volkov suspected the Wraith would leave Karachi long before the Pakistani admiral needed the dry dock.
“I’m sure that will be fine,” he said. “But I’ll also verify that Mister Renard is aware of your needs.”
Fifteen hours, a short nap, and a shower later, Volkov felt like a square peg in a restaurant for round holes.
In Catania, Italy, his boss had reserved a large room in the most expensive restaurant he could find. Though some men were absent, most of the three crews crammed themselves into tables to enjoy local beers, house wines, and a family-style array of salad pasta, and fish.
As alcohol loosened lips, the men of his crew tested their English with Cahill’s Australians and Slate’s bilingual Frenchmen. Their efforts earned them strange looks as their English faltered and as the overwhelmed translators struggled to bridge the frequent misunderstandings.
The snippets he heard bothered him as he realized the crews ignored tales of the week’s campaign against Greece in favor of arguing their past battle against each other in the Black Sea. The animated talk grew lively, and he sensed arguments forming.