“Where?” Graham asked.
“To port,” he said excitedly. “It just showed up next to us.”
Graham stepped out to the port-wing lookout, Subandrio right behind him, as the distinctively stubby fairwater and long, narrow hull of a Foxtrot Class submarine rose out of the sea one hundred meters away.
Subandrio was clearly impressed. “Who does it belong to, Rupert?”
“Me,” Graham said. He took a small red-lensed flashlight out of his pocket and flashed QRV in Morse code, which meant, Are you ready?
Moments later the QRV flashed from a red light atop the periscope; I am ready. It was the agreed-upon signal and response.
“What have you gotten yourself into?” Subandrio asked. He was staring at the submarine. “This is a very bad business. That’s not a machine for hijacking ships. It’s meant only to kill.”
“Indeed it is,” Graham said. He brushed past the captain and went back inside. He keyed his walkie-talkie. “Now,” he said. “When you’re finished meet me on deck, we’ll take the gig across.”
“Roger,” al-Hari replied crisply.
Graham pocketed the flashlight and walkie-talkie, at the same moment gunfire erupted from the crew’s quarters, and elsewhere throughout the ship. He pulled out his pistol and turned around, but the port-wing lookout was empty. Subandrio had jumped overboard.
“Son of a bitch,” the first officer swore behind him.
He spun around in time to see Itasaka desperately trying to get the gun locker open. Graham raised his pistol and fired three shots at the man, the second and third hitting the Japanese officer in the back of the neck and base of his skull, killing him.
The firing belowdecks intensified fivefold; then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. A second later one lone pistol shot came from directly below, and then the ship was silent.
Graham went back out onto the port-wing lookout and searched the water below, but in the darkness spotting someone would be impossible. He slapped his hand against his leg in frustration. Everything had gone exactly as planned to this point, except for Subandrio jumping ship. Something at the back of his head had told him to be wary of the wily old Indonesian. The man had survived in a very risky business for a very long time because his instincts were good.
Al-Hari called on the walkie-talkie. “We’re clear down here.”
Graham pulled his walkie-talkie out of his pocket. “Clear up here. I’ll meet you on deck.”
“Roger.”
Graham lingered for a few moments on the port-wing lookout, holding his breath to listen for any sounds; someone splashing in the water, perhaps. But it was a long way down, so it was possible that Subandrio had been knocked unconscious when he’d hit the water, and he’d drowned. But even if he survived the fall they were two hundred kilometers offshore, and that was a very long swim.
The captain would certainly not survive. Nonetheless, the lack of precision bothered Graham. He did not like loose ends.
Approaching the Libyan submarine in Subandrio’s gig, Graham almost ordered al-Hari to return to the Distal Volente, and immediately get under way for Syria. The warship was a piece of junk. Even in worse shape than the rust-bucket freighter they’d just left. Large off-color patches in the hull, where repairs had been made, dotted the side of the boat like a patchwork quilt. Two of the hydrophone panels on the forward edge of the fairwater were missing, and it appeared as if something — a piling or perhaps another ship — had scraped a large gouge nearly the entire length of the boat just above the waterline.
“We’re submerging in this piece of shit?” al-Hari asked.
“At least it’s not a nuke boat with a leaking reactor,” Graham said, his hopes momentarily sinking. He had originally wanted a Kilo Class submarine, something more modern and certainly much quieter. And yet if this boat could be repaired once they got under way, it would give them the advantage of range. The Kilo would not make it across the Atlantic without refueling. It was a problem that Graham had been working on, but without a solution so far.
“We’re looking at a death trap,” al-Hari insisted.
“A Libyan crew brought her this far,” Graham replied as they approached the submarine’s starboard side just below the fairwater. Two men were waiting on deck.
“Aywa,” al-Hari said. Yes. “But those bastards are fanatics.”
Graham could scarcely believe what the man had just said, and with a straight face. He almost laughed. “We’ll make do. When we transfer crews bring anything you can think of to make repairs. And bring all the stores that your people haven’t already eaten.”
“Some of that garbage isn’t fit for humans.”
“I think ten days from now you’ll feel differently,” Graham said. He was beginning to wonder if he had picked the wrong man to be his XO. But there wasn’t much to choose from.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re taking this piece of dung?”
“In due time, Mr. al-Hari,” Graham said. “In the meantime we have work to do.”
He stood up and tossed a line to the men on deck as al-Hari throttled back and came up alongside nicely.
The shorter of the two Libyans caught the line, and Graham clambered aboard.
“I am Captain Tariq Ziyax,” the taller of two men said. “And this is my executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Assam al-Abbas.” He held out his hand, but Graham ignored it.
“My name is Rupert Graham, but you may call me Captain. I’m taking command as of this moment.”
Al-Abbas made as if to say something, but Ziyax held him back. “This vessel is a gift to the jihad. We wish for you to use him well.” The Foxtrot was a Russian-built boat, and Russians called their ships by the masculine pronoun.
“Insh’allah,” al-Hari called up from the gig, meaning it as a sarcasm that both Libyans caught.
“I will require you and your officers to remain aboard,” Graham said before either of them could reply to al-Hari. “How many of your crew will need to be transferred?”
“Twenty-eight,” Ziyax answered without hesitation. He’d obviously been expecting it. “There will be myself and seventeen others at your disposal for as long as need be.”
“Very well, I’ll let your XO see to their immediate transfer,” Graham said. “I want to be under way within the hour.” He turned back to al-Hari. “Get our people and supplies over here on the double. I want the Libyans in the crew’s mess for their debriefing. Do you understand everything?”
Al-Hari gave him a wicked smile. “Yes, sir. Everything.”
Al-Abbas tossed the painter to al-Hari, who immediately gunned the gig’s engine, and headed back to the Distal Volente.
“Now, Captain, I would like to inspect my boat, and meet my officers and crew,” Graham said.
Al-Abbas shot him an evil look, but hurried forward and disappeared down the loading hatch in the deck.
“Can you tell me your plans for my … for this boat?” Ziyax asked.
“Colonel Quaddafi wasn’t clear, except that I was ordered to assist you and the jihad in any way I could. But that does not include an attack on any target. Before that happens we must be allowed to leave.”
“I have been led to understand that the struggle belongs to all Muslims,” Graham said indifferently.
“The struggle has many forms,” Ziyax responded.
Graham laughed disparagingly. “This is a warship, and that’s exactly how I intend to use her.”
FORTY-FIVE