But the night remained empty.
"I think we got away with it, Chief," Mayhew said.
"Seems that way, sir. Let's not jinx it."
"Roger that."
They still had a long way to go.
Captain Majid Damavandi was a patient man. He knew how to wait. The Mullah Hamid Khodaei, however, was not.
"Captain! Allah uses us all as His tools, as His weapons, if need be… but we must act in order to be used! I must insist that you get this vessel under way!"
"Indeed, Mullah Khodaei?" he replied, keeping his voice pleasantly noncommittal. "And what would you have us do?"
"I don't know! You're the submarine captain! But something other than sitting here on the bottom as the hunt proceeds without us!"
Damavandi cocked his head slightly, listening to the background noise ringing against the hull. Even without headphones, the confusion in the surrounding waters was evident. Half of Iran's navy must be banging away out there now, determined to find the American intruder.
He reached for the intercom mike and switched it on. "Lieutenant Shirazi. This is the captain. Report, please."
"The new contact is still bearing toward the northwest, sir. High speed… and erratic, as though it's zigzagging. I still cannot identify it."
"Keep on it, Lieutenant. If it approaches us, sing out."
"Yes, Captain."
He replaced the mike. "Mullah, we are doing something. We are acting as a strategic reserve."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Consider this, Mullah. Right now we have a very large number of ships and sonobuoys scattered all throughout this part of the Gulf, making a very great deal of noise. Either that noise will keep the American away, or we will be able to spot him as he enters these waters, and we begin picking up active sonar returns. Do you understand?"
"Yes… "
"With all of those ships, submarines, and air-dropped buoys already taking part, this vessel could not add anything to the search."
"But… but we have detected an intruder! The highspeed contact!"
"Yes. And I find that contact extremely suspicious."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"Mullah Khodaei, submarines by their nature are secretive beasts. They survive by remaining undetected. They are quiet. And American submarines are the quietest in the world. They are very, very good at what they do."
"So I've heard you say on numerous occasions, Captain."
"Do not take that tone with me! Do you wish to understand or not?"
"My… apologies, sir. Continue."
"If the American submarines are so silent, then what is the nature of that high speed contact? Lieutenant Shirazi has not heard anything like it, ever before. It is as fast as a torpedo — faster, in fact. Sonar returns suggest that it is fairly large, much larger than a torpedo. Certainly, it has a much greater endurance. And, because it is so fast, it is noisy. What is it?"
"Some sort of American submersible device," Khodaei said. "They do love their toys."
"Indeed. And some of their toys are quite dangerous." Damavandi sighed. "I'll tell you what I believe it to be, Mullah. The Americans have been experimenting lately with a number of unmanned vehicles. Their UAV technology is superb."
" 'UAV'?"
"It stands for Unmanned Aerial Vehicle," Damavandi said, giving the Farsi words. "Our intelligence agencies report that they are working on underwater drones as well, Unmanned Underwater Vehicles.
"I believe we are hearing one of those. An unmanned submersible drone would be of great use. Guided from a manned submarine, it could penetrate minefields, locate opposing submarines, scout out shallow approaches and harbor entrances, and — significant in this case— act as decoys."
"Decoys!"
"Exactly. Why make so much noise unless you want the other side to hear?"
Khodaei looked pale. "We should… we should alert the other ships of the fleet! Let them know that they are chasing a drone!"
"No, Mullah. We should do exactly what we are doing. We are under the lee of Forur Island. If the American is approaching Charak Bay we will be able to detect him from the backscatter of our sonar long before he can detect us. If we pick him up, we will alert the fleet at that time, and then move in for the kill."
"You… you believe the American is coming here, then?"
Damavandi grinned. "You must admit that they have been most interested in this area lately. They tried to penetrate the bay with their patrol boats last month. Now they are doing so by submarine."
"You placed Ghadir here deliberately, then. An ambush!"
"An ambush, yes. And I am not going to spring that ambush prematurely by chasing around after shadows… or decoys."
"I understand, Captain. You are right, of course. I… I was wrong to question you. I just have trouble sitting and doing nothing."
"Yes. I've noticed." Khodaei looked stricken, and Damavandi laughed. "Don't worry. Submarine combat, for those not used to it, is extraordinarily wearing. Hours upon hours of doing nothing, remaining silent, sneaking about like mice… and then a few minutes of stark and brain-numbing terror. It's not a life for everyone."
"I am beginning to understand that, Captain Damavandi."
He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. "It is nearly time for morning prayer," he said. "I will permit the ship's company to pray, but in three shifts. Understand?"
"Yes, Captain."
"And quietly. Whispers only."
"Allah will hear us nonetheless."
"I will leave the spiritual well-being of this ship to you, then."
Damavandi watched the retreating back of the cleric. What had possessed the government to saddle their officers with such nonsense? The men knew their jobs and were well-trained. They didn't need a cleric watching over their faith.
No matter. The men would do their jobs when the time came.
And he was certain that that time would be very soon now.
"Coming up on the sixteen-fathom line, Captain," the enlisted rating at the plot table announced.
Sixteen fathoms. One hundred feet. Close enough. Waypoint Bravo was tucked into an indent in the seabed topography, a short ravine east of Qeys Island. They should be pretty close by now.
"Water is shoaling, Captain," Connors, the Dive Officer of the Watch, added. "Three fathoms beneath the keel forward."
Eighteen feet. Scraping barnacles again. "Maneuvering, ahead slow."
"Maneuvering, ahead slow, aye aye."
He stepped over to the periscope. There was no need to order the boat brought to periscope depth. They were already there. "Up scope."
He rode the scope to the roof, checking above, then swinging through a 360 pan of the horizon.
"Nav. You got our GPS fix?"
"It's coming through, sir. Waypoint Bravo… within forty meters, give or take."
"Damn, you're good," Shea said.
"Damn we're good," Stewart corrected him, continuing to study the horizon. There was the coast along Charak Bay. He couldn't see the beach — the scope was too low in the water to see that far — but he could take a laser sighting off the top of a large, rounded hill that he knew was right on the coast — Jabal Yarid, according to the charts. The sighting confirmed what the GPS was telling them. They had reached the pickup point, sixteen miles south of Bandar-e Charak. Fourteen miles to the west was the eastern tip of Qeys Island. Seventeen miles to the southeast was barren little Forur.