Scorpion in the Sea

TWELVE

“Sonar, this contact continues to close us?” The Captain swung the periscope around, from south to west, straining to see some lights in the darkness above.

“Yes, Captain. The three around us are dead in the water; generators, but no mains running. This one closes at slow speed, from the southwest. He is passing through rain squalls.”

“Yes, I know. I can see the lights from the three, but I cannot see this one. Prepare to secure snorkeling.”

The order went aft over sound-powered telephones. After a moment, the sound of the big diesel engine changed, as the generators were taken off the charging circuit. They had been snorkeling since 0100, continuing the pattern of finding some fishing boats, positioning themselves so that the fishermen were initially between them and the coast, and then coming up to periscope depth, sticking up the snorkel mast, and lighting off the diesels to recharge the battery. If there were hydrophone arrays on the bottom near the naval base, they would not hear another diesel engine light off amongst all the other diesels of the fishermen who carried out a nightly pattern of moving and drifting. The relative position was important only for the initial light-off; after that, they only had to stay near the fishermen to mask the diesel. After three hours, they were now surrounded on three sides, north, east, and south, by the commercial fishermen, who were blissfully unaware of the 3000 ton fish lurking nearby. This night they had the added advantage of passing rain showers, which further muddied up the sound picture.

The Captain took another full circle look with the scope. He could see the lights of the nearby fishing boats lying a few miles away on three sides, white spots on tall booms, topped by red and white hazard lights. He had lingered in this area for the good sound masking, but the new contact approaching from the southwest was going to spoil the temporary nest. Time to go. And since there were nets down on three sides, he would have to make his exit initially to the southwest before turning back out to sea, east away from the coast into the safety of the Stream.

“Down scope.”

The periscope hissed down into its well, the arms folding up with a metallic snap.

“Secure snorkeling.”

“Secure snorkeling, aye.”

Immediately, the sound of the diesel died away, and everyone felt a squeeze on their ears as the pressure changed in the boat.

“Main air induction valve cycling. Main air induction valve is closed; lowering snorkel mast,” reported the diving officer.

The lights on the hull apertures status board went from red to orange to green, indicating apertures closed and locked. The pressure in the boat stabilized. Everyone in the control room opened and closed their jaws several times to equalize their ears.

“Main control reports the drive motors aligned to the battery, turns for three knots, ready to answer all bells. The diesel engines are secured.”

The Captain rubbed his eyes and thought for a moment. The watch was waiting for a course order, as the boat crept along at three knots at sixty feet. He saw the Musaid shift on his chair, his eyes haggard from his continuous watch in the control room. He would have to do something about that; the senior chief was making a religious vigil out of this. He missed his shadow. His edict was taking other tolls around the boat as well. He brushed away the intruding thoughts and concentrated on the surface picture above.

“Come left to course 230, speed six knots; make your depth forty-five meters.”

“Course 230, speed six knots; making my depth forty-five meters, aye.”

The sub tilted downward, and the shafts vibrated slightly as the engineers responded. The planesman kept his planes aligned in the shallow dive position, the foreplanes on the bow tilting down, the after planes slightly up, like an airplane making a dive. The diving officer was using the boat’s speed to settle down to the ordered depth, rather than flooding tanks.

“Bearing to the approaching contact.”

“Sir, bearing is 250, but the bearing is indistinct due to surface weather.”

“Very well; course 230 is good enough separation.”

“Passing thirty meters,” announced the diving officer.

“Very well,” responded the Captain. He grimaced to stretch the muscles in his face. He too, was tired.

Snorkeling required precise depth control, or else the boat might dip a few feet under the surface, which caused the float valve in the snorkel pipe to slam shut, pulling an instant vacuum in the boat as the engines drew on the boat’s atmosphere rather than the outside air to sustain combustion. When the pipe broke free, there was yet another hard pressure change. The snorkel pipe system was identical to the tube used by skindivers to keep their heads just below the surface. It operated on the same principle — if the top of the tube went under, a ball was forced onto its seat to prevent water ingestion. It was very hard on the crew if depth control was not just about perfect, which, in the Al Akrab, meant that the Captain had to be present in the control room. There was also the added danger of sticking the snorkel mast too far up, which might attract the unwelcome attention of a passing radar. They needed three to four hours a night to keep the battery up to 98 percent. In normal circumstances, the Captain could leave snorkeling to the watch, but there were too many possibilities for things to go wrong, either with depth control, surface contacts, or even a problem with the diesel. And the consequences of error were now severe enough to warrant his presence. He was beginning to wonder what he would do if someone else made an egregious error, and he had to follow through on his threat. He now realized that he would have to speak to the crew; he had to defuse this building crisis, a crisis of his own making. The red rimmed eyes of the Musaid reproached him every time he looked across the control room.

“Depth is forty five meters; the trim is stable; we are steady on 230.”

“Very well. Bearing to the approaching contact.”

“Bearing is 255, drawing slowly right; doppler is up doppler.”

“Very well.”

Good, he thought; drawing right meant that he would pass near the fisherman but not under him, in case he was dragging a net. But the net was not likely, as the boats seemed to go much slower when seining than this one was going. Someone coming out to join the rest of the crowd.

“I will have some tea,” he announced to no one in particular. The messenger of the watch scrambled aft to rouse the cook.