“Can the bilge pumps keep up with it?”
The first officer and engineer shook his head, telling him, “Not for long. In another five minutes we will have taken on so much water that the engines and hydroplanes can’t keep us from sinking. We need to surface now while we still can.”
“We’re not outside the ring of American escorts yet,” Captain Bashir said firmly.
“Can we at least go to periscope depth?” the first officer pleaded, fear in his eyes. “It doesn’t seem like much but the water pressure is that much less. The pumps might be able to handle it.”
“Then we risk being run over by an American warship,” Bashir remarked.
“We cannot jeopardize the mission!” the navigator interjected.
“The mission will fail if the boat sinks!” the first officer countered.
“Enough!” Bashir snapped. The two officers stayed silent, waiting on his decision. He took a deep breath of consideration before announcing, “We cannot remain where we are and we cannot surface. Therefore we will proceed to periscope depth and trust to Allah to protect us until we get through the ring of escorts — hopefully undetected.”
“Surely Allah will not abandon this sacred mission,” the navigator said boldly.
“Not unless we are so stupid that Allah refuses to recognize us!” the first officer muttered, glancing darkly at the navigator.
They ascended to four meters. Water kept leaking from behind the patch but it was not nearly as much. The first officer reported, “Water level is going down in the bilge. We’re pumping the water into the dive tanks and then blowing them out using compressed air. We should be able to maintain this depth.”
“Can we dive deeper for a limited time if need be?”
The first officer shook his head. “It’s risky. If we do that the seam could burst and then it won’t matter what we do.” He looked at the navigator. “Our sacred mission will rest on the bottom of the Straits of Hormuz.”
Bashir stayed at the periscope, gauging the traffic around them. For a tense hour they altered course first one way and then another, weaving through the escorting ships, trying not to get run over or detected. After the hour was up they had progressed only a few kilometers, but the convoy and its shadow ships passed them by.
“I think that’s the last of them,” Bashir sighed, sweat streaming down his forehead. The crew breathed a sigh of relief.
Without warning the boat heeled over to starboard, rolling so hard that it threw Bashir off his feet and hard into the trim valves of dive tanks. The blow stunned him. He stumbled across the bridge and fell onto the deck, his head swimming. Somewhere in the back of his brain he heard screaming.
Blinking through the blood in his eyes and the confusion in his mind Bashir had the image of the navigator, the zealot of unshakeable jihadist faith, screaming like a little girl. Over his piercing cries was the urgent voice of his first officer yelling, “We’re sinking!”
In half an hour the Galaxus was outside the breakwater. Fletcher turned to Nikahd. “Where to now Colonel?”
Nikahd paused. Then a bright flash shown in the darkness to the southwest. After around thirty seconds a low rumbling boom rolled over the waters. The colonel was busy setting a frequency in the ship’s radio. He looked up and pointed in the direction of the fading glow. “Set your course towards the light.”
They ran for several hours before a call came over the ship’s radio. “Abd al-Rahman hero of the Umayyad! Abd al-Rahman hero of the Umayyad!”
“Go ahead Rahman!” Nikahd answered.
“Request immediate rendezvous!” the urgent voice of Captain Bashir answered. “We are close to sinking with our cargo. We are heavily damaged. We do not have much time!”
“Give me your coordinates!” Nikahd told the Rahman.
The Rahman did so and Nikahd directed Fletcher to proceed there at flank speed. They sailed for another forty minutes, the Galaxus heaving in the seas, her engines straining. At last Fletcher reported that they were nearing the coordinates.
Nikahd placed lookouts at the bow of the ship. Shortly thereafter a light was spotted. In fifteen minutes the huge freighter slowed and pulled alongside the Rahman. The midget sub was barely afloat. The sea was over her deck. The three containers were half submerged.
Quickly, the deckhands from the Galaxus lashed the midget sub to the side of the freighter. The men didn’t know why they were doing it, nor did they have to ask. The scores of Iranian soldiers with AK-47’s trained on them were all they needed to know.
A small deck crane was enough to upload the three containers. They were then lowered into the same hold as the large container loaded by Nikahd. When that was done the hatch was closed.
“What are we going to do about the sub, I can’t drag it to Indonesia. Besides, she won’t stand our towing. Our wake would break her up quick!” Captain Fletcher asked.
Nikahd simply smiled and got on the radio. “Rahman, you have accomplished your mission. You may now return to Bandar Abbas. May the Prophet be with you!”
“No!” came the desperate reply. “We must be fifty kilometers from Bandar Abbas; we’ll never make it!”
“The Prophet will guide you!” Nikahd said firmly and he switched the radio frequency back to the normal frequency used for international waters. Turning to his lieutenant, he said, “Have the men cut the Rahman loose!”
“Yes sir!”
To Fletcher, he said, “You may continue your voyage captain.” Glancing at Eva, he added unnecessarily, “I would keep your lovely wife out of sight, but remember, if you fail to satisfy the needs of my mission she will satisfy the needs of my men — all of them. Do I make myself clear?”
“So I am to set my course for Jakarta as planned?”
“Of course,” Nikahd smiled. “We must get Mr. Soekarno his Iranian sand!”
Captain Bashir ordered, “Full ahead! Give me everything you have! Bow planes forty-five up! Aft planes neutral!”
They’d cut away the lines, a necessity to keep them from fouling in the propeller. Now the Rahman surged forward, her diesel motor throbbing. Still, it was barely enough to keep her from sinking.
“We won’t make Bandar Abbas!” the first officer told the captain.
“I know. Send a distress call. Perhaps someone can reach us in time.”
“Impossible,” the first officer shook his head, pounding on the radio. “The water is shorting out all the electrical components. The radio just died.”
Bashir went to the navigator. He grasped the officer by the shoulder and told him, “Plot me a course to the nearest land. I don’t care where!”
The navigator nodded. Now that their mission was over he was all for survival over dying alone in the ocean. He went over his charts and shouted, “Course zero-two-four! We are nine-point-two kilometers from shore!”
“Helmsman steer heading zero-two-four!” Bashir shouted to the man barely two feet away. “If she can hold together for an hour we may yet live through this!”
Captain Mars aboard the attack sub Key West watched the Galaxus cast the Rahman adrift. “Okay, they’ve transferred the cargo to the freighter. We’ll follow the freighter. Send word to Washington that we believe the Uranium is now on board the freighter Galaxus bound for Jakarta. We will follow the freighter and await further orders.”