Fifty miles from their original position he had dove the boat steep and deep; full-down angle on the planes, at flank speed in a maneuver called angles and dangles, which was meant to shake out any loose gear or problems that might crop up under actual battle conditions.
The boat, though thirty-five years old, and just about due for the breaker yards, had done its job reasonably well.
And so had the crew, Graham thought, studying the chart in the control room. He glanced up at the bulkhead-mounted clock above the nav station. It was 2200 Greenwich mean time, which put it at ten in the evening on the surface. It was fully dark topside.
The same mix of Iranian and Libyan crew was still at their duty stations in the con, and throughout the entire boat. He’d allowed no one to leave his post. Not even to eat. The cook and his assistant had distributed tea and sandwiches throughout the long day and into this evening.
The entire crew resented him, but most of all the Libyans because their captain had been forced to act as Graham’s XO. But even his Iranian crew resented him because he’d demoted al-Hari to COB, which meant he and the others had to take orders from a Libyan.
Graham was doing two things: looking for weaknesses in the boat and his crew, and forcing the men to meld into a crew by giving them something to hold on to in common — hating him.
It was something that he’d learned in the Royal Navy after his wife had died, and his method, although it worked, was one of the reasons he was ultimately cashiered. There was no room aboard a warship for friendships and he’d made sure that everyone abided by that one rule.
But it always took an incident with each new crew for the men to fully understand him. An incident that he instigated.
Graham stepped around the corner to the sonar room, where one of his men plus a Libyan officer had been on duty the entire time. The compartment smelled like sweat, but there was no longer the unpleasant odor from the defective head, or of diesel fuel from the bilges. Both problems had been corrected within ninety minutes after they’d submerged.
“How’s it look out there?” he asked.
Both men looked up. “Many targets,” the Libyan officer said. He was a young ensign and his name was Salman Isomil. “It’s busy up there tonight.”
“What kind of targets?” Graham asked, holding his temper in check for the moment.
“Boats—” Isomil said with a sneer.
Graham backhanded him in the face, knocking the man’s earphones off his head, and bloodying his nose. “Shall we try again?”
Al-Abbas had come around the corner. “We do not treat our officers like this,” he said.
Graham looked over his shoulder at the Libyan first officer. “This is a warship, and we are on a mission. It’s my intention to run on the surface for as long as possible so that we can recharge the batteries and ventilate the boat. In order to do this I need to know what’s out there.” Graham turned away. “That’s the last time I’ll explain anything to anyone aboard this stinking pile of shit that smells like unwashed rag heads, an odor that I find offensive.”
The sonar operator picked his headphones off the deck and put them back on. He was no longer sneering, but his eyes were still filled with hate.
“What does it look like on the surface?” Graham asked, his voice calm.
“Sir, there are numerous surface targets, mostly cargo vessels, though earlier this evening we tracked something that was very large, and moving quite fast. Probably a cruise ship.”
“Range and bearings?”
“All over the place, sir,” the Libyan sonar operator said. He studied the display on the screen in front of him. “The nearest target is a small ship, bearing zero seven zero, approximately on the same course as us, range at least fifteen thousand meters.”
“Are there any underwater targets?” Graham asked.
The Libyan was momentarily startled. “None that I have been able to detect, sir.”
“Very well, keep alert, and let me know if anything heads our way.”
Graham brushed past al-Abbas and went back into the control room.
Everyone on duty couldn’t help but hear the confrontation, and some of them were looking to Ziyax to do something at last. But the Libyan captain said nothing.
Graham snatched a growler phone from its overhead cradle. “ESMs, con.”
“ESMs, aye.”
“We’re heading up. Soon as your sensors clear the surface, I want an all-band passive search, military emissions included, especially from aircraft search radars.”
“Can you tell me how long we’ll be running on the surface, sir?”
“Until I order us to submerge, which may depend on you,” Graham replied. “Look sharp.”
“Aye, sir.”
Graham replaced the growler phone. “Captain, bring us to periscope depth,” he told Ziyax. He started for the periscope platform, but stopped and turned back.
Ziyax had not given the order.
“Is there a problem?” Graham demanded.
“We’re too close to Malta to risk surfacing now, if that’s your intention,” Ziyax said. “We need to pass Isole Pelagie and Pantelleria before we’re in the clear. And the men are tired. I say we let them rest.”
“The batteries are low.”
“Then we stop and drift to conserve power,” Ziyax argued. “Or go to snorkel depth so that we can run the diesels.”
This was exactly the kind of incident Graham wanted. “What are you afraid of on the surface, Captain?”
Ziyax stiffened, but did not respond to the gross insult.
“I asked a question, Captain,” Graham said. “Are you a coward?”
The helmsman looked away from his instruments, his mouth open.
“Bring us to periscope depth, or I will relieve you of duty and place you under arrest,” Graham ordered harshly. “Now.”
Al-Abbas was suddenly right there, a compact 5.45mm PSM pistol in his hand. He placed the muzzle against the back of Graham’s head. “We will be returning to base now,” he said. “I am relieving you of command.”
Ziyax said something in Arabic, and al-Abbas replied, but did not remove the pistol.
“You will be shot by your government as a traitor,” Graham said conversationally.
“You won’t be alive to see it.”
“Oh?” Graham replied.
Ziyax said something again in Arabic.
Al-Abbas started to answer, when Graham suddenly stepped to the left, grabbed the officer’s gun hand, and shoved the man up against the bulkhead. He pulled out his stiletto and raised it to the man’s throat.
Ziyax came across the control room. “Don’t do it, Captain,” he said. “We need every capable man to run this boat.”
“I don’t want to be constantly looking over my shoulder,” Graham said, looking into al-Abbas’s eyes. There was nothing there now, only resignation.
“That will not be needed,” Ziyax promised. He reached around Graham and took the pistol from al-Abbas’s hand. “If Lieutenant Commander al-Abbas even looks as if he might try again I’ll kill him myself.”
The scenario had played out exactly as Graham had wanted it to do. He backed off. “Very well,” he said. He sheathed his knife. “Give me his pistol.”
Ziyax handed over the weapon, butt first.
Graham examined it for a moment. “Nice little gun. But I didn’t know the Sovs ever exported them.” He handed it to a startled al-Abbas. “Next time you’ll want to release the safety if you mean to fire it.” He turned his back on the Libyan. “Now, Captain, if you please, take us to periscope depth.”
“Yes, Captain,” Ziyax said.
The sun was very high in the sky when Halim Subandrio, clinging to the precariously balanced tabletop, came out of his daze. It was hot, but he was shivering from being half-immersed in the sea for a full day and a night and now half of a second day. He was sick to his stomach from swallowing diesel-fouled seawater and his legs were cramping painfully.