That fool Sergeyev didn't have an inkling of what was to come. He thought to use Iran for his nation's interests; in fact, Iran would use him.
Iran would use his nation's greed and manipulative instincts to advance the cause of Allah and His Prophet.
And, truly, the world would never again be the same.
11
ST2 Roger Caswell entered the sonar room, still groggy. He laid his hand on ST1 Penrod's shoulder. "I relieve you," he said.
"You're welcome to it," Penrod said. Dobbs walked in behind him, relieving another watch-stander. Chief Sommersby was already there, a fresh mug of coffee in hand as he leafed through the sonar log.
"Anything interesting?" Caswell asked.
"Whales humping," Sommersby said, replacing the log. "And the usual commercial targets."
He chuckled as he took his seat. So far as submariners were concerned, there were two and only two types of seagoing vessels: other submarines and targets, meaning all surface traffic. A peculiar view of the outside world, he thought, but one that certainly reflected the submariner's unique perspective.
"We've got one noisy broadband contact," Penrod said, pointing at a bright line slanting across the waterfall, "but that one's ours."
"Our pet zoomie," Sommersby said. "He took the Manta out for another test run an hour ago. He's been out ahead of us since."
"What," Caswell said, "he couldn't sleep?"
"I think he just misses all of that sun and sky shit," Dobbs said.
"Sun?" Sommersby asked. "What is this 'sun' thing of which you speak?"
"Big ball of flaming gas up in the sky," Caswell said. "I read about it once."
"Ah! Sounds like Chief Griswold's been at it again," Sommersby replied, nodding. "At least he's letting them rip out in the open now, instead of in the goat's locker."
"How's he getting up to the roof?" Penrod asked.
"Damfino. Maybe he pays the zoomie to take him topside when he needs to fart. In which case, the guy's doing the rest of us a real service!"
Caswell took Penrod's place at the console while the good-natured bantering went on. He yawned.
Day and night meant nothing on board a submarine. Standard orders dictated four-hour watches, standing one in three, which meant that when he was working 0800 to 1200 one day, like today, his next watch would begin at 2000 tonight and last to 2400 tomorrow morning.
Technically, that left eight hours of free time between watches… but besides sleep, he needed to perform other incidentals, including eating, taking care of personal needs, and — above all — continuing to study for his quals.
Together with perhaps a quarter of Ohio's crew, Caswell was a nonqual — or, in the more usual shipboard terminology, a fucking nonqual. During his first six months or so on board a submarine, a newbie was expected to rotate through every one of the ship's departments, primarily learning damage control and emergency procedures, and passing a test administered by each department head. Only when he'd demonstrated proficiency in every area of the boat was a new submariner accepted as fully qualified; a trusted member of the team.
After three weeks at sea, Caswell's body had begun adjusting to this new way of dividing the waking and sleeping periods of his day, but he still felt like he was running short on sleep. Since there was no actual night on board the Ohio, at any given time roughly a third of the crew would be at their duty stations, while another third or more would be in their racks.
His rack in the enlisted berthing area was a box smaller than a coffin, with a two-inch-thick mattress resting on a hinged lid that, when opened, gave him access to his small personal storage locker. The fluorescent lighting in the compartment was always on. Darkness— and his only bid for privacy — was provided by the curtains he could draw shut between his rack and the passageway. And there was always noise… men talking, men getting up or racking out, and all the thumps and bangs that accompanied men going about their duties in a closely confined space.
You learned to live with it.
Tougher to live with, though, was the hazing. All nonquals got the treatment, to one degree or another. In a way, it was a mark of belonging — at least until he earned his final qualifications and received the coveted silver dolphins of the true submariner.
So far, Caswell hadn't been hit too badly — the dead, wet fish in his rack and the usual round of being sent to find a skyhook or a left-handed blivet was about the worst of it. In fact, he'd heard tales of much worse— sailors who'd had their shampoo replaced with Nair, for instance… and were then regaled by their shipmates with stories of the dangers of living and working on board a nuclear submarine.
In fact, the crossing-the-line ceremony last week had been a lot rougher. When Ohio had crossed the equator east of the Philippines, all pollywogs — personnel who'd never before crossed the equator — had been brought up on charges before King Neptune, and forced to do various unmentionable things with various unspeakable substances from the galley and elsewhere.
And now Caswell was a pollywog no longer, but a true son of Neptune, and he had the certificate to prove it. He just wished some uninterrupted sleep came with the package.
He relaxed at his console, eyes on his waterfall, and slipped on the headphones that let him listen to the ocean depths around him. On the broadband channel he could hear the gentle susurration of the water as Ohio slipped along at almost twenty-five knots. At that speed, sonar was largely useless unless the target was very noisy or very close.
The Manta matched both criteria; he could hear it plainly — a kind of high-pitched whine with a deeper throb to it, coupled with the hiss of its wake.
Eyes closed now, as though in deep meditation, Caswell listened….
Lieutenant Commander Hawking opened up the Manta's throttle, putting the nimble little craft into a high-speed banking turn. Ninety knots! Not quite like putting an F/A-18 Hornet through its paces, but it would do.
At one hundred meters, the water was clear but utterly dark. Switching on his headlights, he seemed to be moving alone in a vast, empty bubble of deep and hazy blue.
His fuel cells were draining fast. It was time to go home.
He opened the sound channel to Ohio.
"Ohio, Ohio, this is Manta. Do you copy?"
"Copy, Manta," came the reply over his headset. "Go ahead."
"Open the barn doors, folks. I'm bringing this baby in."
"Manta, you are clear for approach."
"Thank you, Ohio. Open wide and say 'ah…. '"
The sound channel gave him the direction to Ohio, while Doppler ranging gave him an estimated distance— half a mile, more or less.
The run this morning had let him complete the last few items on his predeployment checklist. His superiors back on Oahu might have some quibbles, but so far as Hawking was concerned, the Manta was tight, hot, and ready to take on the real world.