Hawking eyed the warning lights with the same blend of annoyance and concern that a driver might muster for the low-gas light on his dashboard. Clearly, he'd overdone it a bit, pushing the Manta too fast, too hard.
The engine was overheating and the power levels were falling a lot faster than they should.
The reason, he thought, almost certainly lay with how dirty the water was in the Gulf. The constant tanker traffic — not to mention the large number of wells and oil production facilities up and down the coast — meant that the Persian Gulf was perpetually blessed by the mother of all bathtub rings, and the surface carried a constant scum of oil and filth. Each time he surfaced, or moved within a few feet of it, his water intakes gulped down more of the stuff, which was fouling his compression and pressurization chambers, reducing engine efficiency and increasing power usage.
His engine temp was hovering just shy of 550 now, definitely red-lining it. At 600 or 650, he might face shutdown.
He cut back his speed to fifty knots. At least he was now entering the general area where Ohio had been operating. He wasn't getting a transponder signal, however. Where the hell was she?
He slowed sharply, letting the Manta drift slowly downward at ten knots while he took a careful listen to the sonar. His screen was showing a hash outside from a dozen sources. The bad guys were definitely stirred up and searching. He didn't see anything on the screen, though, or hear anything over his headset that might be a submarine.
Hold it. There was something. An active sonar source that his computer suggested was ten miles ahead. A sonobuoy? Or a submarine going active?
He increased power and pulled the stick right, angling to move in for a closer look.
Damavandi spent a long time studying the chart. This American submarine captain… he was a clever one. Unpredictable. After somehow avoiding Ghadir's attack, he'd fired a single torpedo, maneuvered as though to drop onto Ghadir's stern, then suddenly broken off and turned east.
The amazing thing was how maneuverable the enemy submarine was, for such a titanic vessel. However, the American was rapidly running out of options. The tide now was in full ebb, and the regions inshore of the two guardians of Charak Bay — Forur and Qeys — were going to rapidly become both shallower and more tricky to navigate as the currents picked up. Damavandi knew these waters. His father had been a fisherman, as had his father before him, and as a boy Damavandi had worked on his father's boat, learning these waters and the ways of the Gulf.
These were his waters, his ground.
East…
The American, he decided, must be attempting to cut north of Forur, before turning south toward the relative safety of the central Gulf. That made sense in terms of avoiding the Iranian fleet now moving to intercept him from the south. It put his ship in serious jeopardy, however.
Especially now that Damavandi had a very good idea of where he was trying to go.
"Helm," he ordered. "Come left to zero-nine-zero."
He would take Ghadir south of Forur Island, then swing north to meet the American as he came south.
And he would be waiting for him.
But… he needed to be sure the American didn't double back on his track, and pass between Qeys and Forur after all.
"Raise the radio mast," he said. "Communications, this is the captain. See if you can contact the Yunes."
Yunes was another of Iran's Kilo submarines, hull number 903, purchased from the Soviet Union in 1997. Her captain, Commander Massoud Dadashi, was a friend and classmate of Damavandi's, and a good man.
During his last radio contact with Bandar Abbas, Damavandi had learned that Yunes was entering the Charak Bay area and was currently on station just south of Qeys. She should have her radio mast up and be able to receive a transmission from the Ghadir. If Dadashi headed straight east, following the American intruder, and if he did so with active sonar blasting away, that should drive the American to continue around the north of Forur… and straight into Ghadir's waiting trap.
Ping!
Caswell looked at the sharp, almost vertical line of white blips on the waterfall display. Each dot was a ping. The fact that they were in a vertical line meant the transmitter was not changing course relative to the Ohio. He was in Ohio's baffles, almost directly astern, but blasting with his active sonar loudly enough that the SSGN's passive sensors could pick up his pinging even above disturbance of her own wake.
"Sonar, this is the captain. Caswell… what's our friend doing?"
"Sir, he's still on our six. Range… about twelve thousand. He doesn't seem to care whether we hear him or not."
"Very well. Stay with him. And keep an ear out for anything waiting for us, okay?"
"Will do, Captain."
Dobbs, sitting next to Caswell, shook his head. "The Old Man thinks we have eyes out there."
Caswell patted his console. "This is just as good. Better, maybe."
"What I can't figure," Dobbs said, "is… if they got us, why haven't they popped a fish at us? They're in range."
"Simple," Sommersby said. "We've outmaneuvered a couple of torpedoes already, which suggests that our antitorpedo tactics are very, very good… or their torpedoes aren't so good. If they shoot and miss, we run, they might lose us."
"They also might not be sure it's us," Caswell added. "From that far back, they know they have a target… but they don't want to score another own goal. Maybe they're waiting to be sure."
"Yeah. Or maybe they're still processing." Dobbs shook his head. "There is so fucking much crap out there… background noise, sonobuoys… And their equipment isn't as good as ours, either."
"Just so you don't start depending on that, Dobbs," Sommersby warned. "We can hear their active sonar from dead astern okay, but if he sends a fish up our ass, we might not hear it until it's too fucking late. So stay sharp, both of you!"
"Right, Chief," Caswell said.
"In any case," Sommersby continued, "if I was the Old Man, right now I'd be thinking the bad guys might be trying to drive us. Herd us into a trap."
"That," Dobbs said, "doesn't sound good."
"No, it isn't. But you know what?"
"What?"
"I'd be willing to bet that the Iranians've never had to contend with anyone like the skipper." He chuckled. "Anyone who can take a school bus and handle it like a sports car has got to be a guy to be reckoned with! So just keep your ears screwed on tight, stay sharp, and don't let the Old Man down. He'll get us through this.
Copy?"
"Copy that," Caswell said.
He closed his eyes, trying to focus on what he knew must be an Iranian diesel submarine stalking them eight miles astern. He could see the other vessel in his mind's eye, her teardrop body, her outsized fair-water. No match at all for a U.S. Navy nuclear boat… but seeking to take advantage of these shoal waters and strengthening tidal flow.
Ping!