Scorpion in the Sea

THIRTEEN

They had ten seconds of warning as the Rosie III’s net tow cable screeched its way along the submarine’s side from the bow to the base of the conning tower. Then the submarine lurched into a momentary up angle as the off-axis pull of the cable and the fishing boat above exerted a sudden 80 tons of force. Everyone in the control room went sprawling except the sonarman, the planesman and the helmsman, who were all belted into their console seats. The Captain’s hot tea splashed down the sonarman’s back, evoking a howl from the startled sailor, but his cry was overwhelmed by the noise of unsecured gear crashing about in the control room and the hideous screech of the wire cable against the steel outer hull of the submarine. The lights in the control room blinked off, then back on, and a cloud of dust billowed momentarily above their heads.

The Al Akrab quickly levelled off, causing a second round of scrambling as men tried to regain their balance. The submarine, displacing almost three thousand tons submerged and going ahead at six knots, had pulled the 80 ton fishing boat under in less than thirty seconds, assisted by the fishing boat’s autopilot, which had tried to compensate and instead had sealed the boat’s fate by commanding a turn which had become her death spiral.

The Captain was the first to recover his wits. He half rose from the deck, wedging himself into a semi-upright position by the attack director as the submarine levelled.

“All stop!” he roared. “Right full rudder! Maintain up angle on the boat!”

The planesman pulled his yoke all the way back, trying to maintain the up angle caused by snagging the tow cable and the net. The simultaneous right turn had the effect of turning the face of the conning tower into the direction of the pull, allowing the net and cable to be stripped off with a great metallic, slithering noise. The momentary up angle on the boat kept the tangled mass out of the submarine’s screws; the steel cable in the screws would have been fatal to their own survival. The Captain heard the mess pull free, and moved quickly to restore dynamic stability. An ominous rumbling, bubbling sound could be heard aft for a few seconds.

“All ahead together, standard! Rudder amidships! Steady as you go. Depth?”

“My depth is passing through thirty meters, Sir!”

“Make your depth twenty meters.” He pulled himself fully upright, and grabbed the intercom box, as the boat once again began to level off.

“Main engineering, report!”

There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the noises of the watch team in the control room regaining their feet and their efforts to pick up some of the equipment rolling around in the control room. The Captain felt an enormous pit in his stomach at the thought of what had just happened. Without ever having experienced such a thing, he knew that he had snagged a fishing net. He wondered if they had capsized the boat above.

“Sir, main engineering reports all systems functional. We are doing the compartment check now, but there is no report of flooding or fire.”

“Very well.” He switched off the intercom. “Depth?”

“Sir, my depth is twenty three meters, coming to twenty meters.”

“Recommend we slow to three knots, Sir,” said the Musaid, from his corner perch by the diving officer’s station. Idiot, thought the Captain. I ordered a standard bell, and then failed to take it off. At twelve knots, we could broach at this depth.

“All ahead slow together, make turns for three knots. Prepare to surface.”

The watch team jumped to configure their boards for surfacing. He looked over at the senior chief, and nodded. Thank you for thinking when I stopped thinking, the look said. The Musaid, his mahogany face impassive, nodded back. Voices could be heard throughout the boat as the crew picked themselves off the decks and restored order. The Captain watched the depth gauge and the pitometer log, waiting for the speed to come down to three knots. When it finally did, he ordered the scope up, and took a look around as it broke the surface above. Darkness. Darkness and rain; he could see the trails of raindrops sweeping across the glass optics of the periscope. Twice he thought he could see white lights on an easterly bearing, but they might have been raindrops on the scope. He swung the scope through 360 degrees, crabbing around the shining brass column. Still looking around through the scope, he called to the sonarman.

“Sonar, what do you hear?”

“Rain, Captain. Nothing else.”

“Bring up the ESM mast.”

Behind the periscope rose another steel tube, this one with an electronic listening array mounted on the top. The watch officer across the control room energized a panel as the ESM mast came up, and three oscilloscopes wavered into life. A junior officer slid into the console seat, and adjusted the displays.

“Search for radar — airborne or surface ship radar.”

“Sir, I detect a Raytheon device, bearing 095, classifies as a fishing boat radar.” The petty officer twirled two knobs as he searched the spectrum. “Another at 140; nothing else, no naval emitters.”

“Very well. ESM mast down.”

The Captain rotated the periscope to 095 and then to 140. He still thought he could see white lights, but the heavy rain obscured everything. Now he had to decide. He had given the order to prepare to surface because he had to know what had happened to the fishing boat. But the green digital clock display in the scope told him that it was only an hour until nautical twilight. Should he wait until daylight to see what he could see? He thought he had seen lights; in rain, it meant that the three fishing boats were probably not more than five miles distant; one at least had his radar on. But would anyone be looking at the radar while handling nets? Pulling his face away from the scope, he saw his Deputy watching him from across the main plotting table, a neutral expression on his face. He probably wonders who will be shot for this. He is frightened, thought the Captain. So am I.

“Down scope! What do you recommend, Deputy Commander?”

The startled Deputy looked uncomfortable for a moment, but then appeared to stiffen his resolve.

“Sir. We should surface, I think. Yes. We need to examine the conning tower for damage, and we must find out if we capsized that accursed boat. And if there are survivors.”

The Captain’s eyes narrowed, and he swallowed. Survivors. Yes, he had forgotten that possibility. Some of the control room crewmen were looking at him. Survivors.

“Up scope.”

The periscope came back up, and he looked around again, going slowly. No lights. More darkness and rain. A flash of lightning startled him, causing him to flinch with a muttered curse. The officers watching him in the control room saw his eyes reflect the blue-white flash from above, as if he had looked at a welder. The flash momentarily destroyed his night vision.

“Down scope!”

He subconsciously waited for the rumble of thunder, which they could sometimes hear at periscope depth. Decision time. Dawn was coming.

“Up scope! Surface,” he commanded. He pressed his face to the optics as they rose and continued to watch through the scope, turning it constantly, as the boat tilted up, her ballast tanks blowing noisily. He did not look away from the eyepieces until he felt the boat level on the surface, the wash of a heavy rain squall audible now above them. While he scanned the dark horizon he listened subconsciously to the routine reporting sequences of valve lineups and the final announcement from the diving officer.

“Sir, the boat is stable on the surface.”

He pulled his face back from the periscope. The watch officer was looking at him. “Sir, do we want to take a sweep with the radar?”

The Captain glared at him, transferring his anger at what had happened to the hapless watch officer.

“Don’t be a fool! The one thing that can confirm our presence here, even more directly than a visual sighting, is an intercept of our radar. There is an entire naval base full of ships who might pick that up.”

He was shouting now, and the men backed away from him.

“I have told all of you a thousand times: the radar is a fire control device! It is for killing, not for looking!”

He felt his hands gripping the periscope handles painfully hard. Control, control, get yourself under control.

“No,” he growled, restraining his breathing. “We must use our eyes.” He turned to look directly at the watch officer.

“We must use our heads, above all, our heads.”

He looked around at the white faced men in the control room, staring at each one, seeking their assurance that they understood the peril of any emission from the submarine. There were nods. He turned back to the watch officer.

“Open the hatch. Watch officer, we shall remain on the battery. Helmsman, reverse course 180 degrees. I want to go back down our track. Increase speed to five knots.” He turned to find the Musaid.

“Musaid, assemble the special team. Make them ready to come on deck through the forward hatch at my command. Deputy, reconstruct our track for the past fifteen minutes; I wish to retrace it exactly. Adjust the course so that we do. Fire Control, raise the ESM mast. Keep the ESM system manned, and alert me at once to any military radar intercepts.”

As the control room watch scurried to carry out his orders, he walked forward to the conning tower ladder, and began to climb. Two lookouts scampered up the ladder ahead of him. A stream of warm and wet fresh air flowed past him into the boat as he neared the open hatch above. Salt water pattered on to his face. The noise of the rain was more pronounced in the conning tower.

His eyes were not night adapted when he rose up into the conning station, making him doubly blind. The rain rebuked him, soaking his face and hair, and then his uniform. He had not thought to get raingear. The two lookouts on either side were equally blind, having preceded him from the white light of the interior. The three of them waited patiently as the boat came around in a slow turn, the noise of the rain drowning out any other sound. Without the diesels, the boat was silent as a ghost, a dark shadow in the sea.

After five minutes, they could begin to see again. The Captain leaned over the front of the conning tower. He realized from the way that the rain blew over his face that the windscreen mounts were gone, as well as the pedestal for their running lights fixture. There was one scrape mark running up the full height of the conning tower, the bruised steel glinting in the rain. He thanked Allah they had not had a scope up. The rain suddenly began to diminish, and the visibility began to extend in every direction. As the rain dwindled, all three reached for the binoculars the lookouts had brought up with them. After a few more minutes, he could begin to see the twinkling lights of the fishing boats on the eastern horizon. He also sensed that the sky was beginning to lighten in the east.

“Captain,” came the quiet voice of the Musaid over the intercom. “The special team is assembled under the forward hatch.”

“Very well. Keep them ready. Night adapt their eyes.”

The special team was a seven man squad of naval infantry. They lived by themselves in one corner of the forward berthing compartment, having little to do with the rest of the crew. They were big, silent, and hardened soldiers, disdainful of all sailors. Trained in the Palestinian commando camps, they spent most of their time doing physical exercise and cleaning their AK-47 assault rifles. Their leader was a ferocious looking black Algerian from the Atlas mountains. A few words from the Musaid, and they would deal with any survivors.

“Captain,” came the Deputy’s voice over the intercom. “We are on the reverse of our track. At this speed it will take ten more minutes to cover the area of the — ah — incident. We have about thirty minutes until nautical twilight.”

“Very well, come up to seven knots.”

The speed order was acknowledged. Now, he thought, how do I find one or more men swimming in the ocean, if there are any. He swept the area ahead with his binoculars, as did the two lookouts. Thirty minutes to nautical twilight, the official time for star fixing, when the horizon would be just visible against the night sky. The air was cool and the visibility clearing rapidly in the wake of the rain squall. It must have happened very quickly for them. A light. He needed to show a light. Men in the water would make themselves visible if they saw a light. He ordered the control room to raise the search periscope, train the optics down into the water, and then to turn on the periscope interior tube light and begin sweeping the periscope from side to side. The prisms in the periscope would project a beam of dim white light down into the water. It would not be visible to ships or boats on the horizon, but, thirty five feet below, on the surface of the sea, a swimming man might see it.

He heard the tube hiss up to full elevation behind him, and begin to swivel from side to side like a cobra seeking prey. He kept his eyes pressed into the optics of his heavy, Russian binoculars in order to keep his night vision intact, and continued to scan the arc of black water ahead.

They had gone for six minutes back down their underwater track when one of the lookouts touched his sleeve, and pointed in the direction of the port bow. He trained his binoculars in that direction. There. He saw something white in the water. The pungent smell of diesel fuel was suddenly noticeable. The Captain reached for the intercom switch.

“All engines stop. All engines back slow together. Bring the special team on deck.” He turned to the senior of the two lookouts. “Well done. You may go below now.”

The men looked at him blankly for an instant, and then they both unstrapped their binoculars, and climbed down off their perch, disappearing into the conning tower hatch at the Captain’s feet. A moment later, the Musaid’s head appeared above the hatch coaming.

“Permission to come on the bridge,” he requested formally.

“Permission is granted,” replied the Captain, not taking his eyes off the bobbing white objects coming slowly into view ahead.

Up forward, on the wet, black foredeck of the submarine, seven bulky shapes rose up out of the dim red light showing through the forward hatch. Each shape carried an assault rifle.

“Come left twenty degrees; all engines stop. Secure the periscope tube light,” ordered the Captain into the intercom.

The orders were acknowledged below, and the boat turned toward the white things in the water ahead. The Captain continued to adjust the boat’s heading as they closed in on what appeared to be two men in the water. The big submarine began to wallow as her speed through the water dwindled. Twilight was coming fast now that the rain had moved out. The fishing boats on the horizon were still visible only as lights, but the lights were dimmer now in contrast to the lightening horizon. Fortunately, they were several miles distant. Time was running out. This had to be done quickly.

The two survivors began to wave as they saw the dark shape of the submarine approaching. One of the men in the water stopped waving, and held his hand near his face, as if trying to make out what kind of vessel was silently approaching them. The submarine, which had slowed to bare steerageway now after the backing propellers dragged her way through the water down, was rolling slowly in response to some unseen swell.

They looked so small in the sea, with seven eighths of their bodies under water, like tiny ice floes in the black sea. The Musaid turned to look at the Captain from the side of the cramped bridge area. The special squad were in line, their rifles at formal port arms in the darkness. He could hear the men in the water shouting now, their voices a mixture of anxiety and relief at being found. The boat was close now, moving through a slick of diesel oil and debris from the fishing boat. Suddenly, the men in the water stopped shouting, as they saw the soldiers and their rifles, and realized what that silent line of men on the foredeck might mean.

The Captain raised his right hand, waiting for the submarine to pull almost alongside the swimming men, and then dropped it. The night erupted in automatic weapons fire, the hammering sounds penetrating to flinching men below decks. Ten seconds later, there was nothing on the water except the oil slick and some bits of debris from the Rosie III, including a life ring that was floating very close to the submarine’s side.

“On deck,” called the Captain. “Retrieve that ring!”

The sergeant in charge handed his rifle to another man and ran back along the deck, past the conning tower, his boots clumping on the deck. Just aft, he stepped out onto the swell of the ballast tanks, putting his foot into a limber hole along the submarine’s water line, and reached out to retrieve the life ring that was bumping its way aft along the side. The Captain watched from above, approvingly. The life ring would have a name on it. The rest of the debris would be dispersed in a few hours, but the life ring would have floated and been proof that the fishing boat was sunk.

“Prepare to dive,” he ordered over the intercom, as the men on the foredeck went back down the hatch, one by one, passing their rifles before them.

The sergeant, clutching the white life ring, waited for them impatiently. The Captain turned to look at the Musaid, who was staring impassively down at the oil streaked water.

“Well, Musaid? This was a necessary thing, yes?”

The Musaid nodded grimly, trying to erase the sight of the thrashing figures in the water as their faces were obliterated by the AK-47’s.

“Very well, then. Clear the bridge,” ordered the Captain softly.

He then took one last look around before keying the intercom and giving the command to dive. The Musaid dropped down the hatch, slithering down quickly in the manner of old hand submariners, letting the tips of his boots just brush the rungs while sliding the ladder rails through his gloved hands.

The Captain suppressed a stab of guilt at what they had done to the men in the water. It violated the law and every tradition of the sea. Would that be their fate when the final encounter came with the American carrier? The mission, he reminded himself. You must keep the mission in the forefront of your mind. Let nothing distract you. He conjured up the cold fire in the Colonel’s eyes on the pier. This is a mission of vengeance, to be carried out in the old way, by the precepts of the Book. This killing of innocent men was necessary; these two men had to die in order that his men and this holy mission would live. He felt a chill, despite the tropical warmth of the air. He knew the real reason for his guilty feeling: he should not have passed so close to the fishing boat in the first place. These men had died because of his stupid error. His second major error of the trip — the first was that equally stupid edict about shooting the next man who made a major mistake. By rights, he should go shoot himself. The sounds of the ballast tanks spewing air and the sudden downward tilt of the bow snapped him back to reality. He shook his head and looked around again, before turning to the hatch as the submarine leaned into the dive.