It was Graham’s intention to maintain the tension between them. Besides being a useful means to keep them on their toes, the mix would be interesting over the next ten days or so, before he was gone and they were all dead.
“The first one to find and identify a warship will become senior sonar man,” Graham said.
A dark expression came over the Iranian’s face, but Graham turned and stepped back around the corner into the control room.
Ziyax, who’d been studying their plot at the chart table, looked up. Like everyone else aboard he was tired. None of them had gotten any sleep in at least thirty-six hours. “We’re nearing the cape. How’s it look topside?”
“Busy,” Graham said. “I want tubes one and two loaded with Mark fifty-sevens.”
Ziyax straightened up, and al-Abbas at the ballast panel looked over his shoulder.
“What is our target?” the Libyan sub captain asked.
Graham leaned around the corner. “Are there any large civilian contacts on the way through the strait just ahead of us?”
“Yes, sir. Could be a luxury liner, I’m not sure. But she’s very large. Four props. Bearing dead on our bow, on the same heading, but making twenty knots. Designate target as Sierra one-seven.”
“All Ahead Flank,” Graham ordered.
“Aye, Captain. All Ahead Flank,” Chief of Boat al-Hari repeated the order.
“I want a firing solution on Sierra one-seven,” Graham told Ziyax. “Look smartly now, if you please.”
Ziyax wanted to argue, it was plain on his face, but he hesitated for only a moment. He keyed the ship’s intercom. “Torpedo room, con. Load one and two with Mark five-sevens. Weapons will have the presets momentarily.”
The Russian-made MK-57s were very old, free-running HE antiship warshots that under the best of circumstances couldn’t possibly sink a very large modern ship, which Graham figured Sierra 17 to be. But they could inflict enough damage to create a great deal of confusion on the surface, because no one in their right mind would possibly suspect that a civilian ship had been attacked by a submarine.
“You’re not trying to sink her, are you?” Ziyax asked.
“If I had the proper weapons I would,” Graham replied sharply. “Hit her in the stern. I want to take out her steering pods.”
Ziyax gave Graham a blank look of incomprehension.
“Unless I miss my guess she’ll be the Queen Mary II,” Graham explained. “No rudders, two of her four propellers are mounted on moveable pods for steering. Quite ingenious, actually. She was preparing to leave the eastern Med last week. Just our luck.”
“If we miss, and put a hole in her stern, she could sink.”
“More’s the pity if we don’t miss,” Graham said sharply. The Queen was American-owned but British registry, and therefore in his mind more than fair game.
In broad strokes it was the same discussion he’d had with bin Laden two months ago. Al-Quaida had all but languished since 9/11. Western intelligence agencies were doing too good a job of rounding up or killing some key lieutenants and advisers, so that recruiting for the organization was way down. And most of the new freedom fighters were little better than ignorant thugs, in it for the glory and not for the jihad.
“The infidels have been beset by contentious elections, ongoing battles in their Congress, one scandal after the other, and best of all a plague of natural disasters,” bin Laden said.
“The Old Testament in living color,” Graham replied dryly. They were alone, walking on the Syrian Desert northeast of Damascus, during one of bin Laden’s highly orchestrated visits to their training camps.
“I tolerate your blasphemy only because you are a good soldier for the struggle,” bin Laden said conversationally.
“And I tolerate your religious mumbo jumbo only because you provide me with the means to strike back at the bloody bastards,” Graham retorted. He had no fear of the al-Quaida leader, because he had no fear of dying.
“Then we are in symbiosis,” bin Laden said, stopping and turning to face Graham. “For the moment.”
“So long as I continue to kill the infidel for you.”
“Not for me,” bin Laden corrected. “But yes, so long as you continue to kill the infidel — men, women, children, there are no innocents — anywhere at any time, especially when they least suspect that death is coming for them, you will have my support and my blessing.”
“Fail, and I die?”
Bin Laden shrugged, but said nothing.
Bloody well have to catch me first, Graham thought. And that would not be such an easy task.
“If you please, Captain,” Graham told Ziyax. “We’ll shoot on sonar bearings. She’s too big a target even for an inept crew to miss.”
Ziyax bridled at the new insult, but went over to the weapons console to see about the firing solution: the bearing, angle of elevation, and speed numbers to be dialed into the two torpedoes.
“Captain,” the Libyan sonar operator called out.
Graham stepped around the corner from the control room. “What is it?” “Distant contact, relative bearing three-five-zero, maybe fifteen kilometers, designate it Sierra one-eight.” Ensign Isomil was pressing his earphones close. He looked up. “There. It’s definitely a warship, sir, her sonar went active again.”
Graham snatched a spare headset and plugged it in the console. At first all he could make out was the tremendous whoosh-whoosh of the QM 2’s four big props, which drowned our everything around them. He was about to ask the young Libyan to filter out as much background noise as possible, when he heard the distinctive ping of a distant warship.
It was British. He was sure of it. Everyone’s sonar signals were distinctive. “I’ve got it,” Graham said. The ship had only pinged once and then had stopped. “How often does he do that?”
“Every fifteen seconds or so,” Shihabi said.
“Can you tell if his range or bearing are changing?”
“Stand by, Captain,” the Libyan sonar man said.
“Captain, your weapons are preset and warm,” Ziyax called from the con.
“Make the tubes ready in all respects,” Graham called out. This consisted of flooding the torpedo tubes and opening the outer doors, which made a lot of noise. But with the QM 2 churning up sea, a noise like four 747s at takeoff, there was no chance that the British warship would hear a thing.
“Yes, sir,” Ziyax responded crisply.
Another ping radiated from somewhere ahead, but this time it sounded much louder to Graham. “Closer?”
“Yes, sir,” Isomil said. “She’s heading directly for us.”
Ziyax was suddenly in the corridor at Graham’s shoulder. “Shall we rig for silent running?” he asked.
Graham held his temper in check. “We shall not,” he said. “Are my weapons ready to fire?”
“I thought it best that we hold off,” Ziyax said. He’d heard the sonar man’s report.
“Why is that, Captain?” Graham asked loudly enough so that everyone in sonar and in the control room could hear him.
“There is an ASW warship out there, obviously looking for us.”
“That’s correct,” Graham said. “What do you suppose their sonar operators are picking up?”