“His being in front places him at more risk than me.”
“But you get the shot.”
“Of course, I get the shot. I’m the only one with slow-kills.”
Commander Hatcher cleared his throat and gave a cold stare.
Volkov canted his head. “Maybe I’ve presumed too much. Perhaps I’m not the only one with slow-kills. I may not be privy to all knowledge of this mission.”
“Let’s not argue such details. The California already has a target for you.”
Anticipation rose within him, but then the Wraith’s commander sighed in resignation. His effort to learn English had been focused on the spoken word, and now the written characters from the California left him at a disadvantage. “Is that what it says?”
“Yes. It’s the primary reason we believe they’re setting up a barrier. The California solved for course and speed, and the target was probably in transit towards a position within the barrier.”
“That’s a reasonable response by the Iranians.” Volkov turned his head and glanced at his trusted translator scribbling notes by the captain’s chair. “Bring me what you have.”
The translator ripped a sheet of notebook paper, darted to his commanding officer’s side, and extended the scribbles.
“Your handwriting’s atrocious.”
“Fortunately for you, I specialize in real-time verbal translations so that your colleagues don’t talk English circles around you. But I never won an award for my penmanship.”
Volkov glanced at the scratches and conceded they passed as Cyrillic characters. “It’s hard on the eyes, but I can read it.”
“There’s more coming. May I?
With a wave, the Wraith’s commander dismissed his translator and then digested his penned translations. They aligned with the rider’s comments. “So, am I to attack this target the California’s found for me?”
“If you can.” The rider grabbed a stylus and tapped in the Iranian submarine’s position. “The shot has some distance, but the target’s motion is predictable. It’s been holding course and speed for ten minutes.”
“So be it. I’m ready to shoot.”
“Then you agree with the overall plan? Follow the California and shoot targets as you receive the feeds?”
“If I’m also free to shoot what I find on my own.”
Commander Hatcher frowned and gave a dismissive wave. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”
“Agreed, then.”
“May I send a response through your sonar team?”
“Hold on. How’d the California hear the target from its position? That’s too far away, even for a Virginia’s sonar system.”
“You haven’t read far enough into the data stream yet, but the California’s deployed a drone.”
Volkov addressed his sonar guru. “Anatoly? Who’s listening to the California?”
The technician lifted his arm and pointed two seats to his left. “He is. But he didn’t hear the drone being deployed, if that’s what you’re going to ask. It was too quiet.”
The guru’s clairvoyance surprised Volkov more than the quietness of the American submarine. “Yes. That’s exactly what I was going to ask. Get both my drones ready to launch on forty-five-degree offsets.”
“I’m getting both drones ready on forty-five-degree offsets. Grigory will handle both drones.”
Volkov aimed his chin at the technician beside his sonar guru. “Is he ready to handle two of them?”
“Yes. He handled one in Israel with one hand and half his brain.”
“Hold off on the drones. I want to get a weapon out first.”
“Tube one is ready, assigned to the Iranian submarine. Do you want to restrict the yield?”
Volkov realized the damage of twenty-four submunitions would be catastrophic to a vessel as small as a Ghadir. He opted for the humane solution, a subset of eight bomblets, half of which he expected to attach. “One-third.”
“I’ve set the yield on torpedo one to one-third.”
“Do you hear the Iranian submarine?”
“No. I’m just using the California’s data.”
“So be it. Keep this one quiet. I want it to swim out.”
Anatoly tapped keys. “I’ve updated tube one to swim out.”
“Shoot tube one.”
“Weapon one is swimming out of tube one.”
As the torpedo’s icon formed on his tactical plot, Volkov turned his attention towards reconnaissance. “Are my drones ready?”
Muffs over his ears, Anatoly bounced his voice off his Subtics monitor. “Yes, Dmitry. Tubes five and six.”
“Shoot tube five.”
Anatoly angled his voice off the console again. “Drone one is swimming out of tube five. Drone one is clear of our hull and deployed on a forty-five-degree offset to the right. We have wire connectivity and confirmation of propulsion.”
“Set the drone’s speed to its maximum of ten knots.”
“Drone one is at its maximum speed, ten knots.”
“Shoot tube six.”
“Drone two is swimming out of tube six. Drone one is clear of our hull and deployed on a forty-five-degree offset to the left. We have wire connectivity and confirmation of propulsion.”
“Set the drone’s speed to its maximum of ten knots.”
“Drone two is at its maximum speed, ten knots.”
The rider straightened his back. “Now, may I inform the California of your compliance with the plan?”
“Use drone two to avoid exposing our position.”
“I’ll have your technician aim the communication at the California’s second drone.”
“I don’t see its second drone.”
The translator ripped off a second sheet of notes, sped to his commander’s side, and handed him his scribbles. “The second drone’s listed here, Dmitry.”
“Much as I appreciate this encrypted connection with the California, I hate being the last on my ship to know.”
Nine minutes later, the torpedo’s icon blinked, and the sonar ace announced the acquisition of its target. “Our torpedo has acquired the Iranian submarine.”
“Very well. Any sign of evasion?”
“Just a course change. It was already making maximum speed. It’s not going to matter, though. It’s a good shot.”
“Time to impact?”
“Fifty-seconds.” A minute later, Anatoly announced the weapon’s success. “The warhead has detonated. I can’t hear bomblets… it’s too far away.”
“I’ll trust the weapon.”
“An explosion! Now another. Two more. And another. Five total.”
Volkov felt anxious empathy for his distressed submarine brethren. “What about hull popping? Is it making it to the surface?”
“I don’t know.”
Calling out from the back of the room, the translator allayed his commanding officer’s fears. “The California hears hull popping from its rightmost drone. The target’s surfacing.”
Commander Hatcher snorted. “You seem awfully concerned about your enemy’s survival.”
Volkov recalled a two-year tour of duty training the Iranians to use their Kilo-class submarines. “They’re not my enemy. They’re yours. For me, they’re just an opponent in a dangerous game.”
“At least you recognize the danger.”
For a moment, Volkov wondered if he could get away with shooting the rider out a torpedo tube. “I’m fully aware of it, commander, and don’t doubt for a moment that I am. I’ve traded more weapons in hostile engagements than all your present submarine commanders combined. I also haven’t forgotten that I just sprinted from a heavyweight torpedo and needed divine help from the California to keep my pressure hull intact.”