“Yes,” she said.
“Is it also possible that the commanders know it’s risky to provoke me, and after launching Seagulls, they know their time is better spent salvaging what they can of the blockade?”
“Yes.”
“I hope we’re right, major,” Cahill said. “Pierre will kill me if I get this wrong, even if nobody gets hurt. If I put Israeli sailors in mortal danger, I’ll be looking for a new job.”
“Is job insecurity worth the risk to your life?” Walker asked.
Cahill scoffed.
“No. I’ll shoot now. Standby.”
He verified his torpedoes’ targeting, tapped through warnings, and pressed a button to launch one weapon from each bow section.
His launch of torpedoes from the Goliath impressed him with its gentleness. With the tubes mounted in inaccessible bow tanks, the pneumatic systems thrust the weapons into the sea without a pressure impact on Cahill’s eardrums.
But the tactical information before him showed two flawless shots reaching out beyond the ship’s beams and then turning backwards to pursue the Seagulls.
Ten minutes later, his weapons exploded and halved the number of hunters. Guided by Renard’s feed, the wire-guided targeting proved trivial.
With the two remaining Seagulls slowed to solitary hunts, Cahill studied his display. His reduced speed disadvantage created a degree of freedom, and he expected to navigate a safe path away.
“I think we did it,” he said. “Mission accomplished.”
“I agree,” Walker said. “So does Pierre, per his data feed.”
Cahill’s once-shaking legs felt warm and numb, like he was standing in a hot bath. As he shed his instinctive paranoia, he wondered if the strange calmness was his first feeling of victory unhindered by a near-death experience.
To be safe, he prepared two more torpedoes, in case the remaining robotic hunters got lucky.
CHAPTER 14
Ariella Dahan willed herself still to hide the shaking.
She couldn’t let Terry Cahill see her weakness.
Clenching her jaw shut, she hated herself for letting her first submerged experience under the Goliath’s bridge dome happen during battle. Though predictable, the crash dive had surprised and shaken her.
She deemed herself incompetent for having avoided the bridge during prior submerged hours. Having restricted herself to the steel-encased sections of the vessel, she realized she’d masked her fear of being underwater. The sudden enveloping of windows that looked so thin had terrified her.
A voice in her headset startled her.
“Ma’am?”
“What? Say that again.”
“Can we stand down from battle stations and return to a normal watch rotation?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“If it’s okay with you, ma’am, Silverstein and I will switch watch sections. My adrenaline’s still pumping, and I want to stay here in the control room. He’s okay with it.”
“Fine. Go ahead.”
Unsure what she’d agreed to, she slid the headset to the console and stood. After clearing her throat, she excused herself.
“Good night, gentlemen.”
“Aren’t you going to attend the battle reconstruction, major?” Cahill asked.
With the dark heaviness of the sea’s infinite abyss surrounding the dome and encircling the edge of her vision, she aimed her eyes down the staircase.
“Of course. Whenever you want.”
“We usually do it immediately after a battle.”
She paused to gather her bearings as the steps seemed to spin and twist below her.
“I need a break.”
Cahill’s reply was a muted echo as she skirted down the stairs to the watertight door and fumbled through it. Once on the other side of the steel, she noticed her panting.
A gathering of her men and the Goliath’s tactical team crowded the control room’s central plotting table. In unison, they seemed to dissect her.
Feeling exposed, she froze.
One of her soldiers broke an uncomfortable silence.
“The remaining Seagulls turned back, ma’am. We’re in the clear now.”
She understood his English but responded in Hebrew.
“Seagulls. Good.”
The Aman warrior responded in her native language.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
“Fine.”
“I think you should sit down, ma’am. Perhaps get some water and food. Let me escort you to the mess deck.”
She remained motionless until he stepped to her, grabbed her elbow and led her away. Time slipped unnoticed until her buttocks hit the hard seat and the smells of coffee and buttered rolls wafted under her nose.
Sipping the bitter drink calmed her, and she gulped half the porcelain cup’s volume.
“What happened?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me, ma’am.”
“I was fine, and then all of a sudden…”
As she replayed her memory of the sea swallowing the bridge, the cup trembled in her hands.
“Never mind,” he said. “Just drink and eat. I’ll get you some water so you can rehydrate.”
She nibbled, imbibed, and regained her awareness.
“How bad do I look?” she asked.
“Just a little sick, ma’am.”
“Thanks for taking care of me. I guess I needed it.”
“No problem, ma’am.”
“Go ahead and get back with the team,” she said. “I’ll join you soon. I just need a little time to freshen up.”
“You’re sure, ma’am?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Go on.”
She powered down her snack, stood, and then deposited her dishes in the scullery. Continuing around a corner, she found the empty crew’s head and relieved herself in a toilet stall. After washing her hands, she splashed water on her face and wiped it dry with paper towels.
As she walked forward, she reminded herself to stand tall. Taking a place at the center plotting table, she watched the system replay the battle as Cahill led a review. Though she forced herself to appear strong, she was grateful that the Goliath’s commander let her remain silent. She watched him guide the team through a replay of the blockade run, sharing insights on tactics for future use.
She judged him as plain, with the average military build of a trim and fit man. Nothing in his physical stature suggested grandeur, but his demeanor oozed an easy, earned confidence.
That made him interesting. That made him charismatic. That made him sexy.
Given her emotional day, she felt susceptible to his stimulation. She stuffed away the slight tingle she felt in her stomach when he smiled.
When the tactical recap ended, the Goliath’s commander read aloud the low-bandwidth update from Pierre Renard.
“Let me see if I can decipher our French boss’ shorthand gibberish,” Cahill said. “Seventeen ships ashore. Sufficient aid received. Painful to my bank account but worth it. Successful run. Congratulations.”
Dahan withheld her insider knowledge that most of the food, fuel, and medicine would land with Hamas and that the ruling party would use the aid as a tool of control. She instead let the men celebrate since she believed the Gaza Strip’s general populace would benefit despite its leadership’s corruption.
Though feeding upon corruption, the people would enjoy months of surplus. Hope would replace despair. Full stomachs would replace full rifle magazines and mortars at checkpoints and border tunnels. The evening’s maritime-driven loosening of the prime minister’s damning grip over Gaza — a step towards peace — deserved a moment of cheer.
But Cahill’s demeanor kept the men subdued.
“There’s more,” he said.
“Well, you’ve shared the good news,” Walker said. “Now why do you look like we’ve still got work to do?”