“No, but I remember the aftermath in the seventies, including another short war. You can’t expect peace when two peoples have deeply rooted disagreements about their worldviews and about who owns the land.”
“So should we give up and go home?” Volkov asked. “You make lasting peace sound hopeless.”
“It is.”
Volkov scolded his veteran.
“Don’t tell me you consider this mission folly.”
“Of course, I don’t. I’m here to stop aggressions. I also hope that my participation helps get supplies to women and children who would otherwise suffer without.”
The comment reminded Volkov of his second fringe role in as many missions with his mercenary teammates. Though working in the same sea as his comrades, he felt unsure if they accepted him as an equal.
Having assumed he’d been undergoing a rite of passage in their prior mission, he’d accepted being a distraction in distant waters. But now he wanted to fight where his skills could harmonize with those of his elite colleagues to create profound outcomes.
He stuffed the doubt inside his gut and forced himself to focus on the positive. Lifting his chin, he summoned a lively tone.
“Don’t be so negative,” he said. “You’re talking like a jaded pessimist. We might actually contribute to an enduring peace.”
“I disagree, Dmitry,” the gray beard said. “If there were a path to lasting peace in these lands, humanity would’ve found it by now. People like us can only right the wrongs within our grasp.”
“Yes, I’ll agree to righting wrongs we can change. Let’s get back to such business if that torpedo’s a concern I can consider a matter of history.”
After glancing at his display, he deemed himself safe and aimed his voice at his sonar guru.
“Does your hearing align with the solution in the system?”
“Yes, Dmitry,” Anatoly said. “We’re free of the torpedo.”
“You should inform our fleet command,” the gray beard said.
“Spoken like a true son of the Russian Navy,” Volkov said. “Was it only six short months ago we were fighting for our homeland against our present employer?”
“Roughly,” the gray beard said. “Time’s flown by so quickly. I’ve seen more real action since then than in my entire Russian career.”
“Perhaps you are indeed our historian by virtue of age. You’ve lived our history, and you remember it.”
“Fleet command, Dmitry?”
“Right. Our employer is our fleet commander. Bring us to periscope depth and prepare for a satellite video and data link with Pierre Renard.”
Volkov turned and stepped upon the Wraith’s elevated conning platform. The deck tilted as the submarine rocked in the swells, and he extended his hands to balance his descent into a bulkhead-mounted foldout chair.
The video feed appeared.
He tapped keys and lifted his chin towards the upper monitor where crow’s feet framed the piercing blue eyes of his French employer. Sharp features under silvery hair faced him.
Leaning on the polished rail encircling the conning platform, one of the Wraith’s translators awaited orders. Volkov obliged, speaking in small phrases and letting the familiar two-way translations become a background drone.
“I just exchanged inaccurate torpedo shots with a vessel I couldn’t detect,” he said. “The hostile torpedo was a SeaHake, which suggests an Israeli submarine.”
“Very good,” Renard said in English, which the translator regurgitated in Russian. “Were you augmented?”
“Yes. Per plan, I was simulating an Egyptian Type-209.”
“Excellent,” Renard said. “You’ve managed to complicate the perspective of the Israeli Navy.”
Volkov frowned at his boss.
“I can’t help but think this ruse as an Egyptian submarine was doomed from inception. Won’t the Israelis figure out that I just took the Wraith through the Suez Canal? Won’t they also have spies watching the berthing of each Egyptian submarine?”
“Yes and yes. They’ll surely know that our three-ship fleet is in the Mediterranean. They’ll also note that two Egyptian submarines are deployed, which happen to be conducting exercises to the west beyond Israeli detection. Therefore, the sum of all this subterfuge will be uncertainty in the Israeli Navy’s perspective, which is to our advantage.”
Volkov attempted to measure his employer’s comfort level in micromanagement.
“I intend to give chase to the submarine that attacked me.”
“Interesting,” Renard said. “For what goal?”
“I would use a slow-kill weapon to reduce the Israeli submarine order of battle by one.”
“I see. But by using our custom slow-kill warhead, you’d reveal my fleet’s involvement against them, and you’d unravel the subterfuge of Egyptian involvement.”
“I know, but you certainly wouldn’t have me use a heavyweight torpedo?”
“I hope and trust that you’ll never use a heavyweight torpedo — or an anti-ship missile, for that matter — against Israel.”
Volkov suspected Israel had been Renard’s past client, but such information lived in the untold stories he hoped to someday hear as he gained his boss’ confidence.
“That’s good to know,” he said. “What’s your opinion on my proposed aggression?”
“I agree with it. I’ll allow you the engagement. Let’s see how you do against Israel’s best. I trust you’ll use your dolphins?”
“Yes. I have no other advantage.”
“Very well. I’d wish you luck, but that’s not my way. I prefer to ask my commanders to remain charmed. I hope the good fortune that surrounded you in the Black Sea and in the Arabian Sea continues for you now.”
Volkov tested his learning by answering Renard in English. Prior to the Frenchman’s call to arms against the Israelis, he and much of his crew had immersed themselves in English language training.
“Thank you, Pierre,” he said. “I will do well.”
The Wraith’s commander ordered his ship deep and then passed behind the backs of technical experts seated at consoles of the ship’s Subtics tactical system. He looked at his executive officer, a man in his late twenties who’d been a junior officer on a Russian Kilo-class submarine, and told him to take charge of the bridge.
Volkov reached the torpedo room where a man as lithe and graceful as the animals he trained hovered over a makeshift aquarium in the compartment’s center passageway.
“Vasily?” Volkov asked.
The trainer kept his hand on a broached dorsal fin as he looked up and forced an uncertain smile.
“I think they’re getting used to their cramped tank. They appear to have adapted since our last mission.”
“My crew’s still fond of them, too, despite having to crawl around them. I assume you’ve already loaded Andrei?”
“He’s in tube three.”
Volkov glanced at the opened breach door on the middle of three stacked starboard torpedo tubes. He saw four sailors squeezing around spare weapons to maneuver a tarp attached to an overhead block and tackle system towards the centerline tank.
“Dmitry, please,” the trainer said.
“Oh, right.”
At the trainer’s spurring, Volkov stepped back and let the sailors load the second bottlenose dolphin onto the tarp. With practiced skill, the men lowered the canvas under the floating animal and worked beast and cradle together.
They hoisted Mikhail and swiveled him towards the waiting tube, exposing a blue harness wrapped forward of his dorsal fin that carried a camera, a sonic communications transceiver, and a small explosive device. The animal began to wiggle, exposing long rows of small teeth, and he fluttered his tongue while releasing a staccato screech.