Allah's Scorpion

by David Hagberg

  For several long seconds he could make out little or nothing but the empty sea. Panning the periscope a few degrees left, the ship was suddenly there, very close. It showed no lights, but he could identify the silhouettes of several containers on deck, which was what he was told he would see.

  He stepped up the scope’s magnification and turned to the stern of the freighter. She was the Distal Volente, out of Monrovia, Liberia.

  Ziyax stepped back, his heart suddenly racing. It was the ship he was to rendezvous with. He looked through the eyepiece again, but there was no movement on deck that he could discern. For all appearances, the Distal Volente could be a ghost ship.

  “Rig for night operations,” he said. He folded the handles and lowered the periscope as the lights through the ship turned red. “Surface the boat.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  DISTAL VOLENTE

  First Officer Takeo Itasaka looked up from the radar screen and shook his head. “We have arrived at the rendezvous point but there is nothing inside the ten-kilometer ring, and nothing heading in our direction.”

  Only he, Captain Subandrio, and Graham were on the bridge. The other three of the ship’s crew plus Graham’s people were out of sight belowdecks. The navigation lights had been doused sixty minutes ago, and the only lights on the bridge came from the radar screen and the few instruments clustered above the wheel. Graham had ordered even the red light over the chart table switched off.

  “Stop the ship,” Graham ordered, not bothering to raise his voice.

  “But there’s nobody here, Rupert,” Subandrio replied. He had taken the helm, which he’d always done when the situation became tense. He was a wise old bird who could smell trouble even before it developed.

  “There will be,” Graham said. “Stop the ship, please.” Graham had developed an understanding and a certain respect for the captain in the several years he’d worked with the man. It was obvious that Subandrio suspected that he and his ship might be sailing into some kind of danger.

  “We’re not early.”

  “No, we’re here spot-on,” Graham said. “Please stop the ship now.”

  Subandrio exchanged a look with his first officer, but then shrugged and rang for All Stop. Moments later, they could feel the change in the diesel’s pitch through the deck plating, and the Distal Volente began to lose speed.

  Graham walked to the window and looked out at the black sea, but there was nothing to see except for the stars above; even the horizon was lost to the darkness.

  He took a walkie-talkie out of his pocket and keyed the Push-to-Talk button. “We’re here,” he said.

  “Have they arrived?” al-Hari asked. He and eight of the Iranian crew were crouched in the passageway one deck below the crew’s quarters. The remainder of Graham’s submariners were dispersed throughout the ship.

  “Not yet,” Graham radioed. “Stand by.”

  “Stand by for what?” Subandrio asked.

  “You’ll see, old friend,” Graham replied mildly. He needed the captain and crew in case the submarine never showed up. If that happened they would pay Subandrio for his trouble, and he could take them to Syria, where they could safely wait until another submarine could be enlisted.

  There’d been other delays before, and Graham had learned patience very early on. Bin Laden had once called Graham a scorpion because of his stealth and because of his lethal sting. “You will be as Allah’s scorpion for me.” It was the only mumbo jumbo from any of the Muslims that Graham had ever found amusing. He smiled now. Once he took control of the Foxtrot more people than bin Laden would think of him as a scorpion. A lot more people.

  Itasaka suddenly hunched over the radar screen. “Son of a bitch,” he swore. He looked up.

  “Where?” Graham asked.

  “To port,” he said excitedly. “It just showed up next to us.”

  Graham stepped out to the port-wing lookout, Subandrio right behind him, as the distinctively stubby fairwater and long, narrow hull of a Foxtrot Class submarine rose out of the sea one hundred meters away.

  Subandrio was clearly impressed. “Who does it belong to, Rupert?”

  “Me,” Graham said. He took a small red-lensed flashlight out of his pocket and flashed QRV in Morse code, which meant, Are you ready?

  Moments later the QRV flashed from a red light atop the periscope; I am ready. It was the agreed-upon signal and response.

  “What have you gotten yourself into?” Subandrio asked. He was staring at the submarine. “This is a very bad business. That’s not a machine for hijacking ships. It’s meant only to kill.”

  “Indeed it is,” Graham said. He brushed past the captain and went back inside. He keyed his walkie-talkie. “Now,” he said. “When you’re finished meet me on deck, we’ll take the gig across.”

  “Roger,” al-Hari replied crisply.

  Graham pocketed the flashlight and walkie-talkie, at the same moment gunfire erupted from the crew’s quarters, and elsewhere throughout the ship. He pulled out his pistol and turned around, but the port-wing lookout was empty. Subandrio had jumped overboard.

  “Son of a bitch,” the first officer swore behind him.

  He spun around in time to see Itasaka desperately trying to get the gun locker open. Graham raised his pistol and fired three shots at the man, the second and third hitting the Japanese officer in the back of the neck and base of his skull, killing him.

  The firing belowdecks intensified fivefold; then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. A second later one lone pistol shot came from directly below, and then the ship was silent.

  Graham went back out onto the port-wing lookout and searched the water below, but in the darkness spotting someone would be impossible. He slapped his hand against his leg in frustration. Everything had gone exactly as planned to this point, except for Subandrio jumping ship. Something at the back of his head had told him to be wary of the wily old Indonesian. The man had survived in a very risky business for a very long time because his instincts were good.

  Al-Hari called on the walkie-talkie. “We’re clear down here.”

  Graham pulled his walkie-talkie out of his pocket. “Clear up here. I’ll meet you on deck.”

  “Roger.”

  Graham lingered for a few moments on the port-wing lookout, holding his breath to listen for any sounds; someone splashing in the water, perhaps. But it was a long way down, so it was possible that Subandrio had been knocked unconscious when he’d hit the water, and he’d drowned. But even if he survived the fall they were two hundred kilometers offshore, and that was a very long swim.

  The captain would certainly not survive. Nonetheless, the lack of precision bothered Graham. He did not like loose ends.

  SS SHEHAB

  Approaching the Libyan submarine in Subandrio’s gig, Graham almost ordered al-Hari to return to the Distal Volente, and immediately get under way for Syria. The warship was a piece of junk. Even in worse shape than the rust-bucket freighter they’d just left. Large off-color patches in the hull, where repairs had been made, dotted the side of the boat like a patchwork quilt. Two of the hydrophone panels on the forward edge of the fairwater were missing, and it appeared as if something—a piling or perhaps another ship—had scraped a large gouge nearly the entire length of the boat just above the waterline.

  “We’re submerging in this piece of shit?” al-Hari asked.

  “At least it’s not a nuke boat with a leaking reactor,” Graham said, his hopes momentarily sinking. He had originally wanted a Kilo Class submarine, something more modern and certainly much quieter. And yet if this boat could be repaired once they got under way, it would give them the advantage of range. The Kilo would not make it across the Atlantic without refueling. It was a problem that Graham had been working on, but without a solution so far.

  “We’re looking at a death trap,” al-Hari insisted.

  “A Libyan crew brought her this far,” Graham replied as they approached the submarine’s starboard side just below the fair
water. Two men were waiting on deck.

  “Aywa,” al-Hari said. Yes. “But those bastards are fanatics.”

  Graham could scarcely believe what the man had just said, and with a straight face. He almost laughed. “We’ll make do. When we transfer crews bring anything you can think of to make repairs. And bring all the stores that your people haven’t already eaten.”

  “Some of that garbage isn’t fit for humans.”

  “I think ten days from now you’ll feel differently,” Graham said. He was beginning to wonder if he had picked the wrong man to be his XO. But there wasn’t much to choose from.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re taking this piece of dung?”

  “In due time, Mr. al-Hari,” Graham said. “In the meantime we have work to do.”

  He stood up and tossed a line to the men on deck as al-Hari throttled back and came up alongside nicely.

  The shorter of the two Libyans caught the line, and Graham clambered aboard.

  “I am Captain Tariq Ziyax,” the taller of two men said. “And this is my executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Assam al-Abbas.” He held out his hand, but Graham ignored it.

  “My name is Rupert Graham, but you may call me Captain. I’m taking command as of this moment.”

  Al-Abbas made as if to say something, but Ziyax held him back. “This vessel is a gift to the jihad. We wish for you to use him well.” The Foxtrot was a Russian-built boat, and Russians called their ships by the masculine pronoun.

  “Insh’allah,” al-Hari called up from the gig, meaning it as a sarcasm that both Libyans caught.

  “I will require you and your officers to remain aboard,” Graham said before either of them could reply to al-Hari. “How many of your crew will need to be transferred?”

  “Twenty-eight,” Ziyax answered without hesitation. He’d obviously been expecting it. “There will be myself and seventeen others at your disposal for as long as need be.”

  “Very well, I’ll let your XO see to their immediate transfer,” Graham said. “I want to be under way within the hour.” He turned back to al-Hari. “Get our people and supplies over here on the double. I want the Libyans in the crew’s mess for their debriefing. Do you understand everything?”

  Al-Hari gave him a wicked smile. “Yes, sir. Everything.”

  Al-Abbas tossed the painter to al-Hari, who immediately gunned the gig’s engine, and headed back to the Distal Volente.

  “Now, Captain, I would like to inspect my boat, and meet my officers and crew,” Graham said.

  Al-Abbas shot him an evil look, but hurried forward and disappeared down the loading hatch in the deck.

  “Can you tell me your plans for my … for this boat?” Ziyax asked.

  “Colonel Quaddafi wasn’t clear, except that I was ordered to assist you and the jihad in any way I could. But that does not include an attack on any target. Before that happens we must be allowed to leave.”

  “I have been led to understand that the struggle belongs to all Muslims,” Graham said indifferently.

  “The struggle has many forms,” Ziyax responded.

  Graham laughed disparagingly. “This is a warship, and that’s exactly how I intend to use her.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  SS SHEHAB

  Standing on the bridge of the submarine with Captain Ziyax, Graham was nearly consumed with anger and impatience, though he let none of that show. It had been nearly two hours since al-Hari had returned to the Distal Volente to get their crew squared away, secure the transferring crew of the Shehab, and ferry over the repair supplies and consumables. And still the forward-loading hatch had not been closed.

  Every minute they remained out here increased their risk of discovery, though the sonar and radar officers reported no targets within twenty kilometers. But there was always the risk of a chance discovery by an American or British satellite.

  The interior spaces, machinery, and electrical and electronics systems aboard were only marginally better than the hull. But nearly everything worked or seemed to be repairable. The officers seemed competent; at least they appeared to know their jobs, although their resentment had become palpable the moment they’d been informed that their captain was being replaced by an infidel.

  But anger was a useful tool to mold a ragged mob into a cohesive crew, Graham thought. It was a tool he’d used often.

  Though not for himself. He needed to remain calm, in control, superior, the leader of men, no matter how badly he wanted to lash out at all of them; bastards who had allowed his wife to die utterly alone.

  Graham keyed his walkie-talkie. “What’s your situation?” he radioed tersely.

  “Five minutes, Captain,” al-Hari responded. He was still aboard the Distal Volente with two other Iranian submariners.

  “Trouble?”

  “La,” al-Hari came back. No.

  Graham pocketed the walkie-talkie and picked up the boat’s communicator handphone. “Sonar, bridge, has anyone taken notice of us?”

  “Bridge, sonar. My display is still clear, sir.”

  He switched to the radar-electronic support measures officer. “ESM, bridge. What’s it look like?”

  “Nothing hot within one hundred kilometers,” the young Iranian officer responded. He was one of Graham’s. “Three minutes ago, I picked up something very briefly, but it was way east, and high. Probably Egyptian air force, and it turned away from us toward Israel.”

  “Keep your eyes open, Ahmad, we’ll be running on the surface for most of the night,” Graham ordered, then he switched to the control room which for the moment was being manned by Ziyax’s XO. “Conn, bridge.”

  It took several moments for al-Abbas to answer, and he sounded surly. “Aywa.”

  Graham’s anger spiked, but he held himself in check. For now he wanted to get under way. He would deal with the lieutenant commander later, though not much later. “Prepare to get under way.”

  “Submerged?”

  “Negative,” Graham said. “We’ll run on the surface for as long as we can. But I want the boat prepared for sea in all respects, including emergency-dive procedures.”

  “Aywa.”

  Graham replaced the growler phone in its cradle beneath the coaming. Ziyax had been watching him closely.

  “Assam is a good officer,” he said.

  “We’ll see,” Graham replied. Al-Hari and the last two Iranian submariners appeared out of the darkness in one of the rubber boats from the Shehab. The Distal Volente’s gig had been winched back aboard the freighter and would remain there.

  He looked up. The sky had gone cloudy and the night had become even darker than it had been at midnight. But there wasn’t much time until dawn, when they would have to submerge, and he was seething because of the unexpected delay. He wanted to be as far away from here as possible before daybreak.

  Graham turned to Ziyax and fixed the man with a hard stare. “I suggest that you counsel him. If he or any of your officers decide they’d rather not cooperate, there will be a solution that will not be much to their liking.”

  “Does that include me?” Ziyax asked.

  “Especially you, Captain,” Graham responded.

  The Libyan watched the rubber raft approaching. He nodded toward the Distal Volente. “What about the rest of my crew? Are they to be returned to Ra’s al Hilal? It wasn’t in my orders, nor was it made clear to me. I was told that you would explain where they were to be taken.”

  “They cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of any Western intelligence agency, or Mossad.”

  “Yes, I understand this,” Ziyax said. It was obvious that he was beginning to suspect that something drastic might be about to happen. “Of course they can be held on base until your mission develops.”

  Graham said nothing, watching as al-Hari and the two crewmen reached the submarine, scrambled aboard, and deflated the rubber raft.

  Al-Hari looked up and nodded before he went forward to the loading hatch, and disappeared below, closing the hatch
behind him.

  “They can be taken to one of your training camps in Syria,” Ziyax argued. “They would be safe from capture there.”

  “We can’t take the chance, Captain,” Graham said, taking the walkie-talkie out again. “I’m told this was Colonel Quaddafi’s suggestion, actually.”

  “Place them under arrest,” Ziyax implored. “Give them a chance. They could join the jihad.”

  Graham switched channels, and glanced with supreme indifference at the Libyan captain. He held out the walkie-talkie. “They were your crewmen. Would you like to do it?”

  “This is monstrous,” Ziyax said, backing away.

  Graham depressed the Push-to-Talk switch, his eyes never leaving the Libyan officer’s.

  The sound of a muffled bang came across the water to them, and then three others in rapid succession. The first explosive device had been placed directly beneath the mess where the Shehab’s crew had been locked up. It was a bit of common decency that al-Hari had insisted upon.

  “They’re not our enemy.”

  “But they could betray us,” Graham had explained, though it had been unnecessary for him to do so. Al-Hari would cooperate now, no matter the task. But sometimes it was interesting to see how far a man would go for his petty little feelings of squeamishness.

  “Yes, they must die, Captain. But not by drowning,” al-Hari argued. “Every submariner hates the thought of drowning more than anything else.”

  “As you wish,” Graham had magnanimously agreed.

  Now everyone aboard the Distal Volente was dead, and the ship immediately began to settle, bow down, her bottom ripped open by three explosive charges that had been placed very low in the bilges.

  The growler phone squawked. “Bridge, sonar.”

  Graham picked it up as he watched the freighter sinking. “Bridge, aye.”

  “There were four small explosions close aboard, sir,” the Libyan sonar operator reported excitedly.