“What happened, Hana?” Bazzi asked.
“As a veteran, I hoped you could tell me.”
“Asad and Latakia could explain it better than I could, I’m sure.”
“I don’t want to talk to them now. They nearly killed us,” Salem said.
“I share the blame for requesting the flank bell.”
“No, we needed to do this to test the ship and our ability to operate it. They should have known better.”
Yousif, scribbling readings at the electric control panel, looked away as Salem shook his head.
“Please, Hana,” Bazzi said. “Speaking against our own men is dangerous.”
“You’re right, Bazzi. Perhaps I’ve judged too quickly. Tell me then, what do you think happened?”
Bazzi stiffened his palm, angled it downward, and pressed his other rigid palm against it.
“The bow planes must have turned down, like this, pushing the bow of the ship down, like this. At some point, if there’s enough speed, the ship’s angle becomes a powerful force in driving us up or down, and it can be overpowering. I believe that’s what happened. At that point, you have to use the stern planes, but righting the angle takes time. I didn’t mean to assume that you wanted to stop, but it was my only choice.”
“You did well to slow us on your own initiative, Bazzi. I commend you.”
The old man smiled, and sweat rolled around the corner of his mouth.
“And how about the systems that we meant to test?”
“We’re checking seawater piping and lubrication oil for leaks, but everything seemed to hold.”
“Like I said, this ship is solid. We must learn it and work with it.”
Salem reentered the control center. Asad sprang to him, his eyes wide with eagerness.
“Hana, we know what happened and can explain.”
“The bow planes forced the ship’s angle down too far?”
“Yes. How did you—”
“Bazzi explained it to me.”
“Hana, we had no way of knowing.”
Ire rose within him and coursed through his limbs. He slapped his palm against a hand railing and felt it sting.
“Damn it, yes you did. The answer’s somewhere in the ship’s manuals, and we risked our lives and mission because we were too foolish to translate the book and read it.”
Asad lowered his gaze.
“When’s the last time you slept?” Salem asked.
“Eighteen, nineteen hours ago.”
“But we’ve all endured chronic sleep deprivation,” Salem said. “We now know beyond doubt that this ship is strong and solid and that we can crawl safely with just a few men awake. Where are we in relation to the rendezvous with the Zafar?”
Asad turned towards the stacked monitors.
“No!” Salem said.
“Hana?”
“You should know by memory. I trust you to navigate and operate this ship. Free your mind of all other clutter and focus.”
“Yes, Hana.”
“How far, in miles and time, moving at five knots, are we from the Zafar’s path?”
Asad’s eyes darted to the corner of their sockets as he accessed his cortex.
“Our shortest distance to their track is one hundred and sixty nautical miles. Thirty-four hours at five knots, although closer to thirty-seven with the current.”
“Good,” Salem said. “And where will the Zafar be in thirty-seven hours? Don’t look. Give me your estimate.”
“I don’t know, Hana.”
“Will it be at least two days away?”
“Yes, Hana. I’m sure of it. Three days or more.”
“Then we have time to rest and study the manuals for future tasks we might take, such as shooting weapons.”
“I see, Hana.”
“Take your rest. I’ll remain here with Latakia. And when you awake, you will begin with a new focus on understanding this ship and the world around it.”
Six hours later, exhaustion took a grip on Salem, and he welcomed Asad’s image at the berthing door. His face was puffy with sleep.
“I’m rested enough, Hana. You and Latakia can get your sleep. Yousif will replace Bazzi in monitoring the propulsion and machinery.”
Salem glanced at the speed display. Three knots.
He stood, walked by Asad, and mumbled a hasty word of appreciation as he passed through the door. He slid down a ladder to the lower deck and walked to the captain’s stateroom. He desired a shower but had precluded all men from risking the noise and strain on resources. Wearing his smelly jumpsuit, he crawled into his bed.
Two days passed without event. Academic personnel transcribed manuals, prior naval personnel read them, and everyone made whatever possible sense of any system that looked important. Confident that he had made his mark on his team that ignorance failed as an excuse, Salem gave himself time for a long sleep.
He dreamt.
He was five years old running around a white stucco wall of his childhood home outside Damascus. Fear compelled him to run from something beyond his capacity to understand, and he tripped. The dry, hard earth smacked his jaw, and he wanted to cry, but a voice comforted him.
“Hana,” a lady said.
The soothing tone erased his fear and pain. Warmth overcame him and he knew he was smiling as he rose effortlessly to his feet.
A woman with a paisley blue dress and white apron revealed perfect white teeth. Her wavy dark hair framed a heart-shaped face and tanned skin while curving to her shoulders. Soft brown eyes glistened in the early morning sunlight as she stooped toward him and extended her arms.
He bowed his head, pumped his arms, and ran to her, watching the pebbles and patches of grass flow below him in a blur.
“Hana,” she said again, half laughing.
“Mama!”
Death’s cold voice caught him.
“Hana,” it said.
He fell again and felt the sting against his face. He pushed himself up, bearing a mighty new weight. The thirty-nine-year-old professor of economics tasted the blood flowing into the corner of his mouth from the laceration a rock had inflicted on his temple. His head pounded.
“Hana!”
He turned and saw Hamdan, his eyes hollow sockets, dressed in a wetsuit with Asad kneeling at his feet. A knife reflected the sun’s rays, blinding Salem.
“You must end this now,” Hamdan said.
“No,” Salem said. “I have a destiny. We have a destiny.”
His vision returned and he watched Hamdan stab the blade into Asad’s throat, over and over, with fantastic speed, and then toss the flailing victim to the ground, blood spurting through clenched hands.
“We end this now. Drive to infidel cities and launch the cruise missiles.”
Thunder struck and engines whined over the horizon. Salem looked over a hill of olive trees and saw cruise missiles streaking across the sky. They ripped through the atmosphere with impossible speed and created mushroom clouds.
“That was Damascus, you fool!” Hamdan said.
“No!”
“Yes. You’ve ended this in shame!”
Salem glanced to his mother, a silver-haired corpse in a coffin consistent with his final memory of a woman driven by a hard life to an early grave. Her peaceful face split, and the Mediterranean Sea shot forth from the wound, enveloping Salem, carrying him toward a horrific abyss and pinning him under its mass to force him to await death by drowning.
He awoke.
“Hana!”
“What,” he said. “What is it?”
Asad’s head appeared in the doorway.
“You wanted me to wake you when we reached the Zafar’s track,” Asad said. “We’re there.”