Screens came to life showing views of the outside world. Though limited to the artificial lighting under the tent, cameras showed multiple angles. Three cameras covered each railgun, giving the operators clean views of the weapons.
Designed to function outside the armor, the Phalanx-RAM units deserved only one camera each. Watching one, Jake saw the opening in the concrete expand and then steady, followed by the air-defense unit sliding outward through the gap.
Another view, through downward looking cameras, covered a full circle around the base of the structure, allowing manual control of the Phalanx guns to shred any frogman, marine, or small boat that attempted to approach. He also considered that the electric fence that would surround the module offered additional anti-personnel defenses.
He heard the high-pitched whine of the first gas turbine coming on line twenty-five feet below, and he noticed the operational staff climbing back into the room.
Men took their combat stations and tapped control buttons. The officer relieved the senior enlisted sailor, who took a place at a console. For minutes that flowed with impressive choreographing, verbal reports flew back and forth in a rehearsed routine as status lights flashed, camera views changed, and weapons moved.
Servomotors whined overhead and camera views showed the guns rotating, demonstrating coverage around the module’s full azimuth and spanning sixty degrees in elevation.
As unceremoniously as it had started, the test ended. The captain uttered a few words that Jake couldn’t hear, but the nod and stiffened back of the operations officer conveyed the meaning. The team was deemed ready.
“What?” Cahill asked. “No live firing?”
“No need to announce to the Chinese that we’re here. This module needs to be a surprise.”
“Correct,” Renard said. “This final test demonstrated every system except actual live fires. The three-man engineering team brought the gas turbines online, capacitors were charged, weapons were maneuvered, and guidance systems were energized. The team performed satisfactorily.”
“So that’s it?” Cahill asked.
“I’m quite afraid so,” Renard said. “The show is over.”
Jake smelled the tobacco from Renard’s Marlboro as the Frenchman accompanied him on the return walk to the helicopter. The heat had become sweltering, limiting conversation. Once in the air-conditioned boundary, Cahill spoke.
“Is it just me perception, or are the guns rather small for taking on full-size naval vessels?”
“No, you are correct,” Renard said. “These aren’t the anti-ship or land-attack weapons you would see on a Zumwalt destroyer. These are smaller guns using smaller, simpler, cheaper rounds. They are designed to hit aircraft as well as surface targets. Though they lack explosives, they are guided rounds moving at Mach 7.”
“What’s that?” Jake asked. “Just over five thousand miles per hour?”
“Indeed,” Renard said. “A man can carry the munition in the palm of his hand, and the unit stores almost a thousand of them. It’s a matter of quantity, kinetic energy, and precision more so than explosives. There are, in fact, no warheads.”
“Satellite-guided, right?” Cahill asked.
“Yes,” Renard said. “There’s inertial guidance, too, improving the marksmanship. Even though the damage to large vessels is only the punching of holes, enough holes can sink the largest ship, not to mention what the guns could do to the annoying Chinese installation on Mischief Reef.”
“So this is what it’s all about,” Jake said. “This is what we’re fighting for.”
“It’s a land grab,” Cahill said. “Held with the most advanced weaponry on the planet.”
Renard blew smoke.
“It’s much more than that,” he said. “The location is strategic in that it covers promising drilling sites for the Philippines. The first drilling platform is already afloat and waiting to be towed to its first site.”
“Waiting for what?” Cahill asked.
“Waiting for this railgun module to be installed and operational for protecting the drilling platform’s first deployment.”
“What about after the platform is deployed?” Cahill asked. “Railguns can’t stop a Chinese submarine from attacking it.”
“The platform will have its own anti-submarine helicopters for that very purpose. And should that defense fail, the structure’s base is reinforced to withstand a torpedo attack.”
“Really? Has it been tested?” Cahill asked.
“In simulations,” Renard said. “But no need to test this feature in reality. All you have to do is protect the railgun during its installation. Beyond that, you may trust that the Philippines will deploy the drilling platform and at least triple its oil output.”
“Triple?” Cahill asked.
“At least, based upon the geological research. As you may note, Commander Cahill, I rarely take on a client unless I can benefit him well beyond my fees.”
Cahill smirked.
“I assume your fees are hefty.”
“Quite. And I shall soon earn a good portion of them once we touch down at the submarine base.”
“And how’s that, mate?”
“By enthralling your crew and that of Mister Slate with the genius and insight of my operational plan for your submarines. The brief begins after lunch.”
CHAPTER 9
After the tactical brief, Jake accepted the Australian submarine’s presence. If Cahill’s crew found anything worth sharing, the Rankin would provide intelligence. Beyond that, the surprise accomplice would stay out of his way.
And that’s how he liked it.
Following the brief, he descended the dark asphalt road to the wharf. He bypassed the gaping hole of the open weapons loading hatch and entered his submarine.
A status report with Henri and a brief tour of the torpedo room satisfied him that the Wraith would be armed per his desires. Two weapons remained to be loaded, and he knew his crew would finish before stopping work for the day.
Retreating to the privacy of his stateroom, he sat at his foldout desk and grabbed his laptop, which employed a temporary Internet connection wired to a pier-side router. He typed his password to his encrypted communications site and waited for his wife to respond.
Linda Slate appeared, her smile spread across wide, ruddy cheeks that he wanted to reach out and pinch. He considered his wife an anomaly among the Chaldean people with her rosiness glowing through her perpetually tanned skin.
“Hi honey!” she said.
“You look tired,” he said. “Did I wake you up?”
Since unpredictability surrounded his days, he wired ringers in his home to wake his wife when he called. With her natural smooth swarthy skin and dark eyelashes, she required no makeup. Only the vessels in her eyes revealed that he had rousted her from her slumber.
“It’s okay. I’m glad you called me. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, cutie.”
“How’s work?”
He knew how to tell her what she needed to hear without exposing her to tactical secrets.
“It’s fine,” he said. “You know Pierre. He wouldn’t sign me up for anything unless he knew it was safe.”
“The last time you left me, you said it would be your last. You said you were done.”
“We’ve been through this a thousand times. You know I can’t stop. This is who I am.”
“I don’t like it. You make me worry.”
“Don’t. I’m fine.”
Sadness cast shadows over her face.
“Pierre says hi,” he said.
“Hi to Pierre.”
The sadness remained. He switched tactics to his French crewmen. If she felt comfortable about their wellbeing, she would accept his safety.