“Agreed. I’ll have a team review our tactics against these mercenaries since I expect we’ll be tangling with them soon. However, this changes nothing about your present orders. Continue your patrol, and make sure the blockade holds. Squadron, out.”
Levy looked at his veteran.
“Lower all masts and antennas. Make your depth thirty meters.”
“All masts and antennas are lowered, sir. Coming to thirty meters.”
The deck dipped forward and then leveled.
“Steady on depth of thirty meters,” the veteran said.
As the world became the familiar tranquility of the undersea realm, Levy walked to a central plotting table and stood beside his executive officer, a portly man with thick glasses.
“Any sign of that mercenary submarine?”
“No, sir. We never heard it. It’s either drifting quietly, or it’s already cleared the area.”
Since Levy’s crew lacked useful data on his new enemy, the display showed a void where he hoped to see an icon of the hostile submarine.
“Nothing,” Levy said.
“Do you want to chase it, sir?” the executive officer asked. “We can make educated guesses about where it evaded.”
“I want to, but I won’t. It would take a long effort to find it, if it’s even still around, and we have more important business.”
He tapped an icon, and raw sonar data showed lines to multiple fishing ships expanding towards open water.
“You see,” he said. “The Palestinians are moving farther from their shore. They’ve observed Shaldag Three in distress, and they suddenly believe they have the right to fish wherever they want.”
“What can we do about it?” the executive officer asked. “It would be overkill to use torpedoes or anti-ship missiles on a bunch of small fishing ships.”
“Overkill indeed,” Levy said. “Your flair for the obvious underwhelms me. What’s more important is that using any of our weapons would reveal our presence, and I’d prefer to preserve the secret that we’re dedicating submarines to our blockade.”
The stocky man stared at him.
“Then what’s on your mind, sir?”
“I’ll find a way to keep this blockade enforced.”
“I don’t see how, without weapons.”
“Pick the closest fishing ship, and set an intercept course.”
The cowering look in the man’s eye revealed his lack of understanding and his obedience.
Levy wanted that look. His men were his pawns, and that suited him for running his ship.
“I’ve set us on course zero-one-five, speed eight knots, to intercept the closest fishing vessel, sir.”
“Very well.”
Levy moved behind his seated sonar supervisor, crouched over his shoulder, and verified the visual representation of the targeted vessel’s sound on a display.
“What size fishing vessel is it?” Levy asked.
Sitting with a straight back, his new sonar supervisor was skilled and knew it.
Levy made a mental note to break down the man into his control without destroying his technical confidence. He’d later attack him on his division’s equipment maintenance or paperwork, to keep him unbalanced. There was always a weakness in his underlings that his position of commanding a naval vessel could exploit.
But for the moment, the man oozed self-esteem, and his voice was strong.
“Best I can tell, it’s small, sir, like most of them. It probably holds a dozen men.”
“Best you can tell?” Levy asked.
“Yes, sir. There are very few ships in this fleet that stand out as having any respectable size. Ninety-nine percent of them are thimbles used to feed a hundred people at most.”
“Very well,” Levy said. “You exaggerate, but I consider your point good news. It will minimize the risk of the task.”
Levy saw inquisitive eyes in the control room awaiting his explanation of his meaning, and he glared at each man, ensuring silence from those who dared meet his stare.
But the supervisor challenged him.
“What task is that, sir?”
“Why, ramming the fishing ship, of course. Can you think of a more efficient way for me to enforce a no-fishing zone with our surface combatants spread too thin to do it themselves?”
The portly executive office spoke with a squeaky voice.
“Sir, it’s my duty to inform you that intentionally ramming a fishing ship could pose a threat to our ship’s safety.”
Levy scoffed.
“Duly noted. Annotate that in the deck log, if it makes you feel better. But I’ll take three inches of steel against a fraction of an inch of wood or fiberglass.”
As his hefty second-in-command waddled towards the section’s quartermaster to annotate his precautionary but ineffective protest, Levy returned to the back of the room and sat in his captain’s chair.
“Does anyone else object to what I’m about to do?”
Though grammar framed his words as a question, his tone made them a statement. Even the impertinent supervisor offered a silent and dumbfounded look.
“You?” Levy asked.
The man shook his head and twisted his chest back towards his sonar screen.
“Good.”
He looked to his mechanical technician.
“You, keep me on an intercept course with this fishing vessel. I don’t care if it maneuvers or if another ship in violation of the fishing limits gets closer to me. I’ve decided that this one will serve as the example.”
“I’ll keep us on course, sir,” the veteran said.
“Very well,” Levy said.
“I’m tracking the targeted vessel in our system as contact thirty-eight, sir,” the supervisor said.
“Very well. Contact thirty-eight is my target. How long to intercept?”
“Twenty-four minutes, sir.”
“At what target angle?”
“The target angle is presently three-two-six, sir.”
“That’s not what I meant. I can see that on my tactical display. I mean when I slice my conning tower through its keel. What will my target angle be then?”
The supervisor tapped his screen and advanced icons forward in time.
“Two-nine-one, sir.”
“Good. That’s close enough to a broadside to assure no damage to my sail. Scraped paint, at worst.”
A few minutes of silence passed during which Levy ignored routine reports of other Gaza vessels seeking better waters. The supervisor then surprised him.
“You’ll need your periscope, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your periscope. There’s not a sonar system accurate enough or an operator skilled enough to guarantee that you’ll be able to ram a target that small. If you want to do this, you’ll need visual data.”
The man’s insolence infuriated Levy, and he stood to bark out an order relieving him of his duty.
But then, as he wagged his finger, he realized the truth.
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to appear appreciative of the comment but strong while still giving orders.
“Of course, I’ll use the periscope, and I’m assigning you the role of counting down the time to impact. You’ll announce when you predict exactly thirty seconds, twenty seconds, and then ten seconds prior to impact so that I can lower the periscope at the precise time.”
A junior sonar technician who habitually avoided direct speech with Levy stirred and murmured to the supervisor, who nodded his understanding.
“Contact thirty-eight is slowing, sir,” the supervisor said. “It’s drifting, probably getting ready to lower its nets.”
“Very well. Get me an updated intercept course.”
The supervisor ran his finger across icons.