Cahill kept pace beside the Frenchman while bringing the guardhouse into view. A Taiwanese security team buzzed around a half-dozen Caucasians, checking for metallic objects, harmful chemicals, and explosives. While gyrating through the inspections, the visitors revealed the taut bodies of soldiers, but one physique caught the Australian’s attention.
She was built like an athlete with flat, shoulder-length brown hair, pert breasts, and a strong build with the hard, muscular lines of a swimmer. Then the Israeli lady turned, exposing firm, round buttocks, and Cahill noticed his heartbeat accelerating.
“Pierre?”
“Yes.”
“You’re putting a Sheila on me ship?”
“Is that a problem? Women haven’t been considered curses aboard seagoing vessels for a long time.”
“Right. It’s just that…”
“What?”
He suffered tunnel vision as he watched her slide her green fatigue uniform over her tank top tee-shirt.
“Well, she’s a she, and an attractive one at that.”
“I assure you, Major Dahan is competent enough to lead her team and maintain a professional relationship with you and your crew. I implore you to return her the same courtesy.”
His heart fluttering, Cahill tried to regain control of his breathing. Seeing the Israeli woman had sent his hormones into hyper-drive, and he feared the distraction.
He lied to his boss.
“Will do, mate,” he said. “It’s no concern at all.”
Renard approached her and introduced himself, and Cahill held his breath as the Frenchman aimed her attention at him.
“This is Terrance Cahill, former commanding officer of Her Majesty’s Australian Ship Rankin, and now the commander of the Goliath, the flagship of my fleet.”
Cahill inhaled and extended his hands to hers. He felt electrified as her soft hands rendered a firm grip, and he melted in her eyes.
“Terry, please. Call me ‘Terry’.”
“Major Ariella Dahan,” she said.
Warmth billowed throughout him as her voice struck with beauty and strength. He judged her capable of nursing a child in one arm while snapping a man’s neck with the other.
“Call her ‘Major Dahan’,” Renard said. “Although we abandoned formal ranks in our fleet, she and her team are Israeli military. Remember to honor that.”
The reminder helped center Cahill.
“Of course,” he said. “I would have it no other way. Let’s get on with the introductions and get you familiar with me ship.”
After a quick and quiet walk from the guard house, Cahill led Renard and the Israeli soldiers down serrated steps into the dry dock basin. Concrete walls reflected the echoes of steel-toed boots as the group descended to the bottom.
From behind and below its starboard hull, the combat transport ship appeared a magnificent beast.
Cahill adjusted his hardhat and then pointed upward.
“The ship is a marvel of reuse of existing designs with minimal customizations. Both screws and rudders are from the French Scorpène-class submarine, but you can see that the shafts are extended deeper into the water with a sunken stern area. This allows the screws to avoid cavitation while we’re surfaced and to give extra buoyancy carrying the weight of our cargo.”
“Mister Renard had it built to triple the speed of transport of his submarines to operational theaters, but the ship alone has proven itself as a tactical asset,” Dahan said.
“She knows of our work in Greece and Russia,” Renard said.
“The whole world knows of your work in Greece and Russia,” Dahan said. “Your missions make too great an impact for Renard’s mercenary fleet to remain a secret, and this is why we knew to call upon you.”
“Renard’s Mercenary Fleet,” the Frenchman said. “Is that what people call it?”
Dahan shrugged.
“Yes,” she said. “At least in my intelligence circles.”
“I’m chuffed,” the Frenchman said. “Renard’s Mercenary Fleet — RMF. Welcome to the RMF Goliath.”
“Me boss’ swollen ego aside, I’ll take this notoriety as a compliment,” Cahill said.
“It’s up to you how to take it,” Dahan said.
The comment’s brusqueness reminded Cahill of Israeli directness as he led them between two of the thick wooden blocks that cradled the ship’s underbelly. He assembled the entourage midway between the hulls.
“The railguns are hydraulically raised and lowered into each weapons bay, which mark the highest points of the ship. Of course, that’s also where we run our masts and antennas, and we mount our phased array radar panels, there, and there.”
He pointed at either side and then turned forward.
“Above us is the aftermost lateral support beam that connects the halves of the catamaran. It’s also the largest beam since it holds the stern planes, which are those huge wings above us. It’s also the only path the crew can take between the port and starboard hulls.”
“So, it’s a crawlspace,” Dahan said.
“Real tight and hardly used,” Cahill said. “In fact, we essentially have two crews and two subcultures aboard the ship. Let’s keep moving forward.”
He showed his future riders the repetitive crossmembers that held the halves together and supported the central bed that could hold the weight of two submarines. Hydraulic arms were retracted to either hull, ready to grab and stabilize the Goliath’s cargo.
“We’re passing the sections that hold the MESMA units,” Cahill said. “Those are the French-designed air-independent power plants that can be added to Scorpène submarines. The submarines use one each, whereas we use six total, three per side.”
“We had estimated six to eight,” Dahan said.
“I had considered eight, but the increase would have given only an extra knot of submerged speed,” Renard said. “I deemed it unworthy of the cost given that the ship can make thirty-four knots surfaced.”
“On the gas turbines,” Dahan said.
“Yes,” Cahill said. “To my knowledge, we’re the only ship designed to submerge that can also run on the surface at destroyer speeds. Much of that speed is thanks to our bows, which are normally cuts of steel designed for Lafayette-class frigates.”
“Or Kang Ding-class frigates, rather,” Renard said. “Same design, different production facility. Much as I respect French ingenuity, I must admit that the Taiwanese are my preferred hardware vendor.”
“Regardless, this time, I have some alien corvette-like thingy on me port bow,” Cahill said.
“That thingy is actually the best replacement component I could find on short notice.” Renard said. “And yes, it’s from a decommissioned corvette that was in processing for scrap.”
“So, it’s true that you took a torpedo hit in the Aegean Sea,” Dahan said. “That explains the ugly bow on the port hull.”
“Ugly?” Cahill asked. “I still find it a beautiful ship despite that temporary stubby bow.”
Where he might have expected a perfunctory apology for the insult, Cahill knew better with Israelis.
“You called her an ‘it’,” Dahan said. “Aren’t ships referred to as women?”
“That habit has fallen from use,” Cahill said. “I don’t have a good reason, but it might have to do with the growing number of women on crews. I personally find it archaic because no matter how attractive a hunk of metal is, it pales beside the beauty of a real woman.”
As he smiled, her unreadable stare stymied him. Unsure if she welcomed the flirtation, ignored it, or pondered the proper krav maga strike to silence him, he welcomed the Frenchman’s rescuing.