Scorpion in the Sea (6 page)
Read Scorpion in the Sea Online
Authors: P.T. Deutermann
To the east, the lights of Benghazi were illuminating the horizon. At each end of the pier there were two linehandlers sitting against the bitts, waiting for the order to cast her off. Both figures appeared to be dozing, their bodies dark lumps in the bright moonlight. A third man was waiting by the brow, sipping tea from a mug. Just forward of the conning tower stood the silhouetted and commanding figure of his Musaid, looking like a Janissary from the old times of the Turkish empire.
On the other side of the pier, his submarine’s twin, the Al Khyber, lay silent and dark, like a dead ship. Not surprising, he thought. She and some of the others had been gutted to outfit the AI Akrab. Across the harbor, a tugboat had been standing off its own stub pier, its running lights dimmed, a long, familiar shape tied up alongside. At a nearby pier, the other four Foxtrot class submarines lay nested in two groups of two. There were a few figures visible on their decks; the departure of one of their own on an actual mission was an unusual event.
The Captain remembered scanning the single road that led down the hillside from the base main gate, but there was still no sign of the staff car. He had mentally cursed all staff officers again, and then had seen the headlights.
The car had come down the road quickly, moving faster than most vehicles would on the bumpy, poorly paved road. The base was not that old, but maintenance, on roads as well as ships, was fairly indifferent in his Navy. The car’s headlights swooped erratically as the car negotiated
potholes, throwing bright white light over the windows of the dark buildings and the storage sheds along the waterfront. The Captain had drawn himself up to his full height, just under six feet, a disadvantage in the cramped confines of a submarine, as if to give emphasis to his impatience. He had glanced over his shoulder to make sure there was no one from his crew loafing about on the submarine’s deck, but there were only the two faces visible up on the conning tower, and the motionless silhouette of the Musaid.
potholes, throwing bright white light over the windows of the dark buildings and the storage sheds along the waterfront. The Captain had drawn himself up to his full height, just under six feet, a disadvantage in the cramped confines of a submarine, as if to give emphasis to his impatience. He had glanced over his shoulder to make sure there was no one from his crew loafing about on the submarine’s deck, but there were only the two faces visible up on the conning tower, and the motionless silhouette of the Musaid.
His orders from Defense headquarters had been specific. Wait for the official goodbyes, and then depart immediately. He glanced at his watch once more as the car drove down the pier itself. The two linehandlers sat up and rubbed their eyes as the headlights swept over them. The Captain had noticed that this was a large Mercedes, not an Army staff car. Strange.
The car had pulled up sharply and extinguished its headlights. The driver, a bulky man dressed in civilian clothes, had levered himself out of the car and looked around, inspecting the full length of the pier. The Captain did not recognize him, but then had been stunned to see who was getting out of the right front seat.
Him
! He had stiffened to attention as the Colonel came over to him, dressed in the desert robes of his Bedouin tribe, his black eyes glittering in the moonlight. The Captain remembered feeling a surge of pride that the Colonel himself had come. He had been so excited that he had forgotten to salute.
Him
! He had stiffened to attention as the Colonel came over to him, dressed in the desert robes of his Bedouin tribe, his black eyes glittering in the moonlight. The Captain remembered feeling a surge of pride that the Colonel himself had come. He had been so excited that he had forgotten to salute.
Behind the Colonel, an elderly Army officer and a civilian had stood up out of the car, but they had not approached. The Captain had recognized the officer; he had been a Major General before the last coup attempt. Then all ranks had been reduced to satisfy the Colonel’s dictum that Colonel was now to be the highest rank in the land. The driver had continued to look around, at the pier, the submarine, and the base behind them.
“Muqaddam Muhammad Al Khali! Greetings,” the Colonel had rasped. “A good night to begin a hunt, is it not?”
The Captain remembered trying to find his voice. His throat was dry, and his heart had been straining with excitement.
“An excellent night, Colonel. For a most unusual hunt.”
“An excellent night, Colonel. For a most unusual hunt.”
The Colonel had smiled, turning his dark, angular face to survey the submarine, his eyes glinting with eager malice. The figures up on the conning tower had become motionless as they realized who was speaking to the Captain.
“This hunt must succeed, Muhammad Al Khali,” the Colonel had declared.
He had turned back to lock those malevolent eyes on the Captain, his syllables precise in that dry, almost whispering tone familiar to everyone in the land.
“The cries for justice echo still on the desert air. This mission—do you doubt its success?”
“No, Colonel,” the Captain had replied. “The justice of it is clear. But success will depend on several things. The American Navy is many and strong.”
The Colonel’s face had clouded, his mouth setting in a bitter line. The Captain could not look away from this face, with its intense, black eyes and jagged creases and wrinkles. A jackal’s face, he thought; and like the jackal, the Colonel was cruel, tough, intelligent, and a merciless survivor. The Captain had felt a thrill of fear, while wondering if he had gone too far with his comment about the American Navy.
“The American Navy must be made to pay for the crimes they have committed, crimes against the Jamahiriya, the people, the revolution, my family,” rasped the Colonel, his voice rising. His eyes transfixed the Captain. “Your kinsmen, too, do not forget.”
“Yes, Colonel. I have not forgotten.”
The Colonel had looked again at the submarine. “This ship, this Al Akrab, it is ready?” he had asked, and then continued before the Captain could reply.
“Al Akrab,” he had mused. “The Scorpion. A most fitting name for what you are preparing to do. To go to the Americans’ coast, to lurk in the sea, hidden but with stinger ready, and the strength to stab when the time comes. We have given you all that you need for the voyage and the mission?”
“Yes, Colonel,” the Captain had replied. “The provision has been generous. We are indeed ready.”
The Colonel had nodded. “This is good. This is a worthy hunt. You will surprise them, never fear. Our security has been excellent. They will never, ever expect such a thing.”
“That is our vital advantage, Colonel,” the Captain had replied, now suddenly anxious to be away. “But we must depart, and submerge before the next satellite.”
The Colonel had grimaced again, grinding his teeth. “Their satellites are the devil’s work. But I wanted to speak to you personally, to confirm the trust. You are my kinsman, Muhammad Al Khali, and I yours. The blood of our tribes is the same. It is for this reason that you command this mission. You are zealous, and you are trusted. And you must trust me, as I trust you. You and your crew are not being dispatched to die, but to avenge the great American crimes. The Jamahiriya will ensure that you return safely.”
The Captain had nodded his head in appreciation. “Our trust is complete, Colonel. We shall exact justice, as it is written.”
“Go then, Scorpion, and strike the Godless Americans. It is God’s will.” The Colonel had stepped forward and embraced the Captain in the traditional kiss of greeting and departure.
“Inshallah,” the Captain had intoned. “As God wills it.”
The Colonel had turned away, his robes floating silently around his feet, and the waiting men had scrambled to get back in the car even as the Colonel climbed in. His door had been barely closed before the driver started up, turned the big car around in one smooth motion on the pier, and drove back towards the shore. The Captain had released his breath, resisting an impulse to wipe his brow. He had turned to look down the pier.
“Linehandlers!” he had roared, and the two men at either end of the submarine sprang to their feet. Two petty officers rose out of a hatch on the submarine’s deck, one heading forward, the other aft. They must have been waiting right below the hatch, he remembered thinking. Watchful, as they should be. As they would all have to be for this
mission. The nerves had thrummed in his arms and legs as he strode quickly up the brow, turned forward, nodded once to the Musaid, and climbed the ladder to the maneuvering station at the top of the conning tower, rising through the cloud of exhaust fumes from the engines. The man on the pier had hauled on the short, steel brow, pulling it back onto the pier with a screech of metal on concrete. Up on the conning tower, the watch officer had been speaking on the intercom circuit. Forward on the hull, the Musaid supervised the linehandlers as they unwrapped their lines in preparation for casting off.
mission. The nerves had thrummed in his arms and legs as he strode quickly up the brow, turned forward, nodded once to the Musaid, and climbed the ladder to the maneuvering station at the top of the conning tower, rising through the cloud of exhaust fumes from the engines. The man on the pier had hauled on the short, steel brow, pulling it back onto the pier with a screech of metal on concrete. Up on the conning tower, the watch officer had been speaking on the intercom circuit. Forward on the hull, the Musaid supervised the linehandlers as they unwrapped their lines in preparation for casting off.
“We are ready?” he had asked, wedging himself into the tiny cockpit at the top of the conning tower, his eyes stinging from the diesel fumes.
“Yes, Captain,” the watch officer had replied. “More than ready. I have given main engineering control a one minute standby. That was him? I did not dream it?”
“Himself. It is a great honor. An auspicious beginning.” He had surveyed the pier. “Very well. Take in the lines.”
The watch officer had given a hand signal to the men on the pier, and the petty officers on deck slacked the mooring lines. The submarine had been rolling very slowly, a few degrees from side to side, almost imperceptibly, as if anxious to be underway. Deep in her guts, the tone of the three main engines changed as the engineers reconfigured the control boards, producing a fresh blast of smoke along the pier. The men on deck had pulled the lines onboard quickly, hand over hand to keep them out of the water. The watch officer stood high on the foot railing of the cockpit, leaning out and looking forward and aft to see the lines.
“All lines clear,” he had announced. Behind and above them, the two petty officers stationed as lookouts slipped large, black Russian binoculars around their necks, and clipped their safety belts to the periscope mountings.
“Very well. All engines back two thirds together,” ordered the Captain.
The engine noise changed to a full throated roar, and a wash of foaming water had roiled back along the submarine’s hull as the propellers bit in. Harbor debris boiled up
between the submarine and the pier, and then the sub began to back out, slowly at first, and then more quickly as she gathered sternway out into the harbor. After thirty seconds her bows cleared the head of the pier, and the Captain stopped the port shaft, and ordered it ahead to begin the twist. The sub had come about slowly, vibrating as the narrowly spaced propellers opposed each other in their effort to twist the boat in place. As her head came around, beginning to point for the harbor entrance, he stopped the twist, and ordered both engines ahead. The Captain remembered glancing over to the shore; he had thought he could just see the dark staff car, stopped at the top of the hill. The submarine had gathered speed quickly, the night air pushing the diesel exhaust clear over the side.
between the submarine and the pier, and then the sub began to back out, slowly at first, and then more quickly as she gathered sternway out into the harbor. After thirty seconds her bows cleared the head of the pier, and the Captain stopped the port shaft, and ordered it ahead to begin the twist. The sub had come about slowly, vibrating as the narrowly spaced propellers opposed each other in their effort to twist the boat in place. As her head came around, beginning to point for the harbor entrance, he stopped the twist, and ordered both engines ahead. The Captain remembered glancing over to the shore; he had thought he could just see the dark staff car, stopped at the top of the hill. The submarine had gathered speed quickly, the night air pushing the diesel exhaust clear over the side.
The Captain had swept his binoculars around the harbor entrance, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Behind them the tugboat had started up, a large cloud of gray smoke hovering above her, as she headed for the pier which they had just left. The Captain had nudged the watch officer,
“The decoy,” he had said. “Our stand-in.”
“I hope it is authentic,” replied the watch officer, correcting the course by one degree to avoid a buoy. “They say those American satellites can count the shoes on the front porch of a zawiya.”
The Captain had laughed.
“They probably can, but what does it tell them? Only how many shoes there are on the mosque’s porch. Increase speed to twelve knots. We must get out to the dive point before 0200.”
The submarine had begun to pitch very gently as she met the first deep sea swell rolling in from some distant storm out over the Mediterranean. The petty officers on the foredeck finished turning the bitts under, folding each mooring line attachment point upside down and stowing it under the deckplates, while keeping an eye on the bow for any sudden waves. Each in turn made a hand signal to the conning tower, and then disappeared down the forward hatch. The Musaid had checked everything again, and then stepped
down into the forward hatch, clanging it shut behind him. The Captain could remember hearing the search periscope turning in its greased tube above him as the Navigator took bearings from his station down in the attack center. The sea breeze had felt fresh and clean, containing no hint of sand and dust for a change. Their wake made a broad path behind them, parallel to the shine of the moon on the black waters. The base had remained dark, sliding aft and dwindling now as they left the harbor, with everyone there oblivious to the steady rumble of diesels carrying the submarine out of the harbor.
down into the forward hatch, clanging it shut behind him. The Captain could remember hearing the search periscope turning in its greased tube above him as the Navigator took bearings from his station down in the attack center. The sea breeze had felt fresh and clean, containing no hint of sand and dust for a change. Their wake made a broad path behind them, parallel to the shine of the moon on the black waters. The base had remained dark, sliding aft and dwindling now as they left the harbor, with everyone there oblivious to the steady rumble of diesels carrying the submarine out of the harbor.
The Captain remembered breathing deeply, a rush of adrenaline filling his veins. It had begun. They would have to run for about an hour in order to reach deep water. Time enough. The decoy would have been in place by then, and his sub would have vanished into the black depths of the Gulf of Sidra on its way out into the middle Mediterranean Sea, safe from the probing, hostile eyes in space. Assuming the satellite could see in the dark, there would still be six, old, and inactive Soviet Foxtrot class submarines tied up to their piers, as they had been for nine months. Their entire submarine force, thought to be barely operational, and therefore no threat. He remembered baring his teeth in the dark. The Americans would be five-sixths right. The Scorpion was loose in the sea, and unaccounted for.
He was startled back to the present when the steward dropped a handful of silverware on the deck outside the wardroom curtain. He rubbed his face with both hands as he considered his next move while the subdued sounds of life in a submerged submarine intruded on the edges of his thinking. He knew that his threat to execute the next person who made a major tactical mistake was extreme, and that probably he would have to soften it in the near future. But this mission was too important. If he had to keep their attention by death threats, he would do it. Their Navy would never get another chance like this one to strike a blow against the arrogant imperialists.
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