Khalili really was furious now, his face red, his eyes dark. But he kneeled nonetheless.
Good, ul Haq thought to himself. This one will be a problem if we do not bring him to heel immediately. He saw with approval that the Chinese liaison officer was also kneeling, performing the ritual series of bows toward Mecca. Hsing was supposedly of Chinese Muslim extraction, but ul Haq hadn't fully believed that. How could someone of an alien race, of such an alien culture, understand?
Perhaps, ul Haq thought with a sudden flash of insight, it was not the culture of Islam that bound Hsing so much as the culture of naval service within submarines. Whatever the man might believe privately, deep within the secret reaches of his own soul, he was an experienced submariner and knew the men who sailed such craft, knew how vitally important unity of spirit and purpose was to such men. Noor Khalili possessed an admirable warrior spirit, but he bordered too much on the fanatic for ul Haq's taste. Service on board an attack submarine did not require fanaticism. It required dedication, purpose, self-sacrifice for a common goal, and, above all, patience.
By observing the Prophet's commandment of five-times-daily prayer, ul Haq intended to deepen the bond of trust, dedication, and spirit between the men and officers under his command. They'd taken time for the ritual each day since they'd left Karachi, and it was his intent to continue for as long as possible.
Soon enough, when Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen became the hunted instead of the hunter, such formalities would be set aside. It would be insanity indeed to issue a call to prayer while American submarines were in the area with the keen ears of their sonars tuned for any noise within the ocean depths. And it would be insane to expect the Americans to allow the crew of the Shuhadaa time for their devotions once the hunt had begun.
But for now… Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen was the hunter and had the luxury of choosing its own time for attack. The target, a Filipino fishing boat, was utterly unaware of the submarine's presence in these waters, and, in any case, neither the Filipino nor the Vietnamese navy possessed advanced ASW techniques or weapons. There was some risk, he knew, but that risk was far offset by the benefit this simple ritual would bestow upon the crew.
And the fishing boat would not get far.
The imam's voice continued to waver from the intercom. "In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Munificent… "
"Open the escape trunk, Mr. Kirkpatrick," Garrett told the first class electrician's mate standing next to the securely dogged watertight door. "Let's let our guest come on board."
"Aye aye, sir," Kirkpatrick replied, turning to the door. He didn't sound too certain about this.
Kirkpatrick spun the locking wheel and pulled the door open. Seawater cascaded into the passageway and the control room beyond, a spectacular splash washing across the deck. Most of the hands in the control room were crowded around the passageway entry to see the spectacle.
And spectacle it was. Davy Jones, Royal Secretary to His Majesty, King Neptunus Rex, stepped out of the dripping escape trunk, painted green from head to bare foot, wearing swim trunks and yard upon yard of fishnet and seaweed, with a curly white beard reaching almost to his navel.
"What vessel?" Davy Jones demanded, in a rumbling voice guaranteed to twig sea-bottom sonars as far south as Kamchatka.
"USS Virginia," Garrett replied. "SSN 774!"
"On what course?"
"Heading one-eight-zero… due south!"
"Very well! I have been awaiting your arrival."
"And we have awaited yours, Davy Jones. Welcome aboard!"
"Thank you. Are you the captain?"
"I am, sir."
"My congratulations, Captain, on your fine command." He looked about him. "And my condolences, sir, that you command such a scurvy lot as your crew!"
Garrett grinned. "They're not such a bad lot, Mr. Jones."
"That's as may be, Captain. I have orders for you and summonses for your pollywogs from Neptunus Rex."
"I'll be happy to receive them, sir." Davy Jones — actually Chief Kurzweil, though it was tough to tell through the beard and seaweed — produced an impressive-looking scroll bound in green ribbon. Opening it, he proceeded to read aloud.
"I, Davy Jones, come from the depths of the sea this night to bring from His Oceanic Majesty, King Neptune, Ruler of the Seven Seas, all the summonses for the landlubbers, the pollywogs, the sea vermin, the crabs and eels and slimy bottom dwellers that have not yet been initiated into the Supreme Order of the Deep. We of the great Neptune's Court bring serious indictments against those who still have traces of farm soil and city dust on their feet. No matter. All will be blue-nosed golden dragons after the rough treatment of the morrow, at which time those summoned will appear before the Royal Judge of His August and Imperial Majesty, Neptunus Rex, and there answer for offenses committed both aboard and ashore!"
"Sir," Garrett said, grinning, "I must respectfully ask for leniency of the Great Neptune. These are good men, and true…."
"No, Captain! King Neptune plays no favorites! All landlubbers since men first followed the sea have endured the strict initiation required by the King of the Sea! There will be no leniency! All pollywogs will receive appropriate punishment on the morrow!
"And remember! Sorrow and woe to those who resist or talk in a light and jesting manner of the ceremony or of His Majesty, the Ruler of the Seven Seas, or of Queen Amphitrite or of His Majesty, the Ruler of the Arctic Wastes, Borealis Rex! And woe on any who belittles Royal Members of His Supreme Court! Beware! Beware!"
"We will await the arrival of the Royal Party with keen anticipation, Davy Jones."
"Very well! Goodbye, Captain. I will see you with the Great Neptune on the morrow!"
With haughty dignity, Davy Jones turned and slogged through patches of seaweed and ankle-deep water back to the escape trunk. "Gangway for Davy Jones!" he bellowed, and Kirkpatrick jumped aside out of his way. He stepped across the knee-knocker into the trunk's dark recesses, and waited as Kirkpatrick dogged shut the watertight door.
For a moment, those crewmen present stood in what could only be described as stunned paralysis. "Let's get back to work," Garrett said, breaking the silence.
"All right!" Senior Chief Bollinger bellowed in a voice to rival that of Davy Jones. "You heard the man! What's this lollygagging in the passageways! Back to your stations!"
Garrett was thoughtful as he returned to the center seat. The ritual of crossing the line was ancient, its roots going back to Greek seamen passing the Pillars of Hercules, to Phoenician seafarers crossing the 30th parallel as they rounded Africa. There were a number of different modern incarnations of the rite. If the Golden Shellback and Order of the Dragon awards were the best-known line-crossing ceremonies, the Order of the Blue Nose had a special significance for submariners. That ordeal, supervised by Jack Frost, had attended submarine passages under the ice ever since the Nautilus and the Skate became the first submarines to reach the North Pole.
The ritual just announced by Davy Jones combined the Order of the Dragon with the Blue Nose ceremony. The old hands who'd been across the lines in question looked forward to hazing those who hadn't; those poor newbies who would face Neptune's court tomorrow would soon look forward to the time when they got to have their chance at the tenderfeet.