“They’re not suicidal.”
“How do you know? And if not, they can still scuttle it and swim away from it as easily as they swam to it. You can’t assume anything about these mongrels.”
Cahill welcomed his boss rescuing him from the impasse with Jake. “Enough, gentlemen! Focus on your duties. The second helicopter has dropped its last crewman to your deck.”
The new crewmen came through the forward hatch and then shut it. At the ship’s control station, the silver-haired Henri faced the newcomers, queried them, and looked to his commanding officer. “Jake, the ship is rigged for dive.”
“Good. Now I can dive us below those railguns. Henri, submerge the ship.”
Cahill watched the subtle interplay between Jake and Henri. The quick glances, gestures, and body language communication they shared became a graceful dance of effective informality.
In a blink, the French mechanic aimed the Specter below the waves. A slight dip brought the submarine below its radio mast’s highest reach, and Renard’s face froze before the screen darkened. Then the mechanic nudged the ship’s mass upward, and the conversation recommenced.
To Cahill’s relief, Renard recommenced the discussion in his favor. “Terry has a good point.”
The American remained doubtful. “Which point?”
“We need to know who did this. We can better react if we know our adversary and what he’s doing.”
“I know who did this. The bad guys. What the hell does it matter?”
“Don’t be so hasty, Jake. Statecraft is a complex art. I could receive a ransom call any minute, for example.”
“And that would be a good thing?”
“It would present options that remain available only while our adversaries believe they control our flagship.”
The American appeared uncomfortable as he adjusted his seated posture. “You think they’re just thieves? Like a Somali pirates all-star team?”
“I’m saying there are multiple possibilities. We have hours to react — not minutes. So keep your wits about you while we have a time to think.”
Cahill’s mind was a beehive of thoughts. “I’ve been thinking about how to get it back. I have several ideas.”
“Anything foolproof?” Jake’s tone was more accusatory than questioning.
“Nothing we do is foolproof.”
“Our torpedoes are foolproof.”
Unsure how to deal with the American’s stubbornness, Cahill welcomed the Frenchman’s rescuing. “Enough, Jake. I implore you to redirect that energy towards devising a tactic to disable the Goliath.”
The American aimed a frown at the monitor. “I’ve already been racking my brain on that, and the only answer is a slow-kill.”
“We must analyze other options. I urge you all to keep your hopes up. We have the skills and resources, and I’m sure we’ll have a plan soon.”
“What plan? We all know this is going to end with a slow-kill weapon. Period.”
Cahill saw his French boss’ rare anger as he barked words in French. The American snapped a response in the same language, and then Renard spat a final volley. Jake looked away, weighed his words, and reverted to English. “It won’t happen again.”
“Let’s move on, then, shall we?”
The American sounded calmer during a shift into a productive dialogue with Renard. “We need some rules of engagement.”
“Right. Let’s set trailing parameters. Despite your limpets, I want you to stay close to minimize torpedo run times if, God forbid, you do need to shoot.”
“Let’s go for broke. Two miles.”
“Aggressive, but appropriate.”
“We’ll need depth separation between me and Dmitry.”
“Right. I want you shallow so I can have easier access to Terry. Jake, take eighty meters and above. Dmitry, take below one hundred meters. We’ll arrange two-dimensional separation if Dmitry needs to snorkel.”
On a quiet screen, the Russian commander scrunched his face while listening to his companion’s translation. Cahill hoped his colleague would voice an idea to regain the transport vessel, but Volkov remained silent as the American responded. “What about tripwires?”
Cahill sought a meaning for the slang. “What’s a tripwire? That sounds like American jargon.”
“A parameter that gets crossed which requires action.”
“So, you’re looking for reasons to shoot me ship?”
“Yeah. Like if its cannons start shooting at an American aircraft carrier, I’m sending a heavyweight up its tailpipe.”
The gravity of the possibility silenced the conversation. Cahill reflected on the heightened American naval activity around the Arabian Peninsula, including the home base of the Fifth Fleet, three hundred miles away in Bahrain.
His heart sank as he grasped the risk his former ship posed to innocent people. If his colleagues failed to stop it, they might face a situation in which decency forced its sinking.
Cahill accepted time as a constraint. “That’s about a day away from the Goliath.”
With the new opening, the American’s defiant tone resurfaced. “You got a plan to get it back in a day? Or how about before it gets within range of Dubai? Or Bandar Abas? Or whatever the hell it’s going to attack?”
“You know bloody well there’s no plan yet.”
His respect growing for his boss’ conversational skills, Cahill appreciated Renard’s quick redirection. “Then we’d better start making one.”
“Is that Sheila at the CIA willing to give you friendly combatant ship locations? I mean, without telling anyone about our predicament?”
The Frenchman’s face assumed a shade the Australian found odd. It seemed plasticized, even for the seasoned negotiator. For a moment, Cahill suspected his boss spoke with a half-truth. “Miss McDonald has been on my mind since this disaster struck. Soliciting her is dangerous, based upon the concern you expressed. She may use news of our predicament against us.”
“Meaning she might order me ship sunk as a safety precaution?”
A Marlboro’s butt turned amber as the Frenchman inhaled. Squinting, he exhaled while framing his response. “She has the power to destroy the Goliath.”
Seated under Cahill’s chin, the American stirred. Having once been Olivia McDonald’s professional target, and then her heart’s target, Jake had an old connection with the fleet’s CIA link. “She’s not the Director of the CIA yet, is she?”
Renard confirmed that the power within the CIA of the American’s pursuer-turned-lover-turned-ally remained limited. “No. She’s still too young, and she’ll always be too female. She can overcome one of those obstacles, but not both. She’s still one promotion, or more accurately one presidential appointment away, from being next in line.”
“You’re sure she could have Terry’s ship sunk, but would she betray us like that?”
“She may see no other option. Consider her position. Knowledge of our predicament makes her responsible to prevent the Goliath from reaching strike range of any NATO asset, much less an American ship.”
Cahill wanted to ask if his boss had shared their difficulty with his CIA contact, but he read a subtle clue in the Frenchman’s face warning against it. “So we may get no help from American intelligence?”
“Let’s not rely upon it. In fact, I can’t promise any help beyond that of the Omanis.”
Images of his new love flickered in Cahill’s mind. “What about Ariella? She can gather intelligence for us.”
“I hesitate to place such a burden on your new lady friend. She was a stranger to you only a month ago.”
“You don’t trust her.”
“I can’t afford the luxury.”
Unsure if infatuation or true love clouded his judgment, Cahill checked his hopes of seeking support from his Israeli girlfriend. “Then what do we do, mate?”