Rogue Invader

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Dmitry Volkov raised his head and pressed his palms into the navigation table. His back straightening, he felt shards of shame.

“How long until our weapon hits?” he asked in Russian.

“Almost thirteen minutes,” the sonar operator said.

“This doesn’t feel right.”

“Trust the plan, Dmitry.”

“An elaborate plan of vandalism,” Volkov said. “Three ships. Three phases. Three commanders. This is the opposite of what we stood for in the Russian Navy.”

“We’re not in the Russian Navy anymore. We work for Pierre Renard and his mercenary fleet.”

“He seems trustworthy, but I don’t know him well enough yet to know if this is proper.”

“Nor him, us,” the sonar operator said. “Which is why you’re managing only phase one, and that on the other side of the Suez Canal from his other ships.”

“You noticed that detail.”

“You pay me to notice things.”

Volkov realized he preferred the use of first names and the wearing of white dress shirts and beige dress pants to the staunch formalities of the Russian Navy.

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