“Captain! Captain, we’ve got something,” he reported. When Captain Mars reached his station, Jameson explained what he heard.
“Could be an emergency generator starting up after an engine failure,” the captain said.
“The generator went on line before the engine quit,” Jameson told him. He shook his head and replayed the sound of the engine shutting off. “There’s the power coming to idle and there’s the sound of the fuel valve closing — this was a normal shut down — there was nothing wrong.”
He showed the captain the sonic signature of the freighter over the last ten minutes, pointing out, “There’s no variation, nothing, even when I blow it up. It wasn’t a fried bearing, thrown rod, or broken crankshaft; it was a normal shutdown.”
“They’re up to something,” the captain said suspiciously. “The bastards have three tons of enriched Uranium on board — of course they’re up to something — but what?”
“There’s that midget sub,” Jameson said.
“Where is he in relation to the freighter now?”
“One klick at the freighter’s eleven O’clock.”
“If there’s something going on between them then they’re going to have to make contact somehow.”
A sharp, metallic clang rang through the seawater, bouncing off their hull.
Once again Seaman First Class Jonah Jameson could only shake his head in amazement, taking his headphones off as he did so. “They’re not subtle, that’s for sure. There’s the signal captain; plain as day!”
Captain Mars frowned, counting the sharp, metallic sound of hammer blows on a steel hull. The crew heard it and they counted along. Nine clangs followed by a pause. After three more clangs everyone — everyone — knew what was coming. When they were done the captain sighed and looked over his crew.
His expression was dead serious, and he said, “Nine-Eleven; they’re using Nine-Eleven as their signal. Well gentleman, I think you know that the only way to respond to this is going to be with a torpedo up their ass! The only question is when and where!”
The sound of the freighter engines chugging to a stop was noted on the Rahman. Then came nine heavy clangs followed by another eleven clangs: the sound of a hammer on the hull. Bashir groaned inwardly. Who couldn’t hear that even without hydrophones? The sailors resting in their bunks below the waterline could hear the signal kilometers away; but no, the fanatics in charge of the mission knew no tactics, no strategy, only their holy war! Holy idiots, all of them!
“Are we going to answer captain?” the navigator demanded.
The captain closed his eyes, knowing he had no choice. “You do it,” he said finitely.
The navigator took out a heavy hammer and rapped on a pipe — hard. The first officer, who was also the engineer, sprang across the narrow deck and grabbed the navigator’s arm.
“Idiot, what do you want to do; crack the pipe and sink us?”
“They must hear the signal!”
“You imbecile everyone in the Straits of Hormuz will hear us! Rap more softly, they will hear it, I assure you!”
The navigator complied, but the first officer went to Bashir and complained, “He’s served on boats for a year and knows nothing of our job — nothing!”
The captain held a finger to his lips and whispered, “His father is a very influential Imam in Hayayi’s inner circle; be careful what you say!”
The first officer swallowed hard, sweating, and said loud enough for everyone one the bridge to hear, “I was only concerned over our sacred mission. The Prophet, Allah bless him, demands all of our skill for his glory and success!”
“Yes, yes he does,” the captain smiled mirthlessly. He went to the sonar operator. Bending over the man, Bashir wrinkled his nose at the pungent mix of sweat and perfume — common for the boat — extreme for this man.
“Report, do you have a bearing?”
“Yes sir, we should proceed at zero-three-nine degrees!”
“Helm, ahead one quarter zero-three-nine degrees; maintain depth twenty meters!”
The midget moved forward rising slowly, heavily, noisily. Never quiet, the midget sub was burdened more than usual. Cargo lashed to her foredeck marred the sleek torpedo shape and created turbulence in the water; that meant noise.
There was nothing the captain could do. Therefore he paid attention to his approach, growing more nervous by the minute. Every minute the freighter repeated the code. Bashir hoped rather than knew it wasn’t being listened to by unfriendly ears. If the Americans could hear it — he shuddered at the thought — then he and his crew would be marked for a deep and watery grave, he had no illusions as to that whatsoever.
The sonar operator honed in his heading until they were almost upon the freighter and he could hear water slapping against the sides of the stationary ship.
“We’re close!”
“All stop!” Bashir ordered. “Periscope depth!”
Air hissed into the dive tanks, displacing the water and making the boat more buoyant. When they came to a stop at three meters, just short of the conning tower breaking the surface in the trough of a wave, Captain Bashir raised the periscope. The freighter wasn’t in front of them!
“Damn!” he breathed, looking around wildly. He sighed with relief. There it was at eleven O’clock. It wasn’t bad, but it made the approach more difficult. In order for Bashir to surface within the hold of the ship he had to be aligned nearly perfectly.
Adjusting the course to line the midget sub up was hard enough, but the freighter was now drifting. Having their engines shut off was part of the illusion, but Bashir had tried to tell the Imams and the army commander in charge of the mission, a Colonel Nikahd, that the current would turn even a heavy freighter with its engines shut down. They ignored him.
Therefore Bashir had to trust to luck and a quick approach to make this happen. He approached the freighter from the front, passed by the port side and then made his final approach from the rear. As the stern of the freighter loomed over him he ordered the midget sub to dive.
Staying at his periscope, Captain Bashir picked up a light that had been lowered in the front of the freighter’s open hold. The light glimmered in the darkness of the night waters, making the approach possible, allowing him to line up the sub with the ship. It was a waterproof version of what airline pilots used to park their aircraft, unable as they were to see the stopping points beneath the nose of the aircraft.
When the light flashed red, he ordered, “All stop! Blow tanks; periscope depth!”
Air hissed into the tanks and the boat began to rise. Bashir scanned all around, trying to ascertain his boat’s position relative to the freighter. It was impossible to tell. The one light told him how far he was from the front of the hold. Beyond that his periscope was met with inky blackness.
All at once his vision cleared; the periscope popped up above the surface of the water. His first view was of the far side of the hold. He could see men on the catwalk on the side of the hold, pointing at the periscope. The midget sub continued to rise.
“Hold periscope depth!” he ordered, but the sub struck the side of the hold, rolling hard to the left. Bashir clung to the periscope as his feet stumbled on the rolling deck. Several of his men lost their footing and crashed to the steel floor. A resounding clang sounded throughout the boat.
The midget sub popped up from under the freighter, swerving to port and rocking like an angry bronco. There were shouts and curses. The horrible sound of water jetting from a burst pipe — a submariner’s nightmare — cut the fetid atmosphere.
“Stabilize our depth at five meters!” he ordered.