by Peter Albano
Cadenbach nodded, obviously pleased his executive officer had come to life. “The skipper gave him Admiral Allen’s cabin. He had some chow, a shot of Williams’ own private Haig and Haig Pinch and hit the sack.”
For the first time, a smile toyed with the corners of Brent’s lips. “I think he saved our butts. That Kraut would’ve laid his egg right down the hatch if Willard-Smith hadn’t been on his ass.” Brent drummed his temple in mock frustration and switched to German, “I mean on his arschloch.”
Cadenbach smiled and became very British, “Right-oh, old boy.” They both chuckled. He sipped his coffee and became serious. “Mister Ross, we’ve been briefed on the enemy over and over, but no one ever mentioned their use of German designations for their air force instead of Arabic — squadrons, rank, rate. They assign Arab names to their ships, don’t they? Why refer to their squadrons in German? Even the Arab gunner did it. He called himself a Feldwebel, too, instead of ‘sergeant.’ There aren’t that many Germans working for Kadafi. Schachter claims he was the only German pilot in the JU squadron.”
Brent cleared his mouth of the rest of his sandwich and washed the remnants down with coffee before answering. “At first most of his mercenaries were Germans. They used their own nomenclature and the names stuck. And, don’t forget, most of their combat aircraft are still German.”
“But, now, their force is truly international. He’s hired mercenaries from all over the world.”
“Right, Charlie.”
The navigator rubbed the short whiskers on his chin with his thumb and forefinger, obviously pleased with the opportunity to talk privately with his usually reclusive, taciturn executive officer. Rarely did a man find an opportunity like this on a submarine. They had privacy, except for Pablo Fortuno, who was probably eavesdropping. Brent was a veteran and admired by the entire crew, a man who had fought the Arabs for six years and knew them better than anyone on board. “Why don’t they use more Arab pilots?” Cadenbach asked, eager to keep the momentum of the conversation rolling. He was not disappointed.
Brent’s eyes took on a new lustre as he warmed to the topic. Talking to the navigator had helped pull him from the trough. The hatred and repugnance he felt for the enemy made him suddenly garrulous as bitter thoughts crowded his mind, queuing up like impatient commuters waiting to articulate their way through a metro’s door. Words poured out of him as if each were a brick in a barrier, walling off the terrible depression for a moment, at least. “It’s simple. Consider this, over two — hundred-million Arabs can’t whip four million Israelis. And why?” He did not wait for an answer. “You’ve got to understand the Arab. He can’t take discipline and he’s completely irrational. You just saw their bombing attack on us. The Kraut was the best of the lot. Their attack was slipshod and poorly coordinated. They came too low, gave us a shot they shouldn’t have given us. It’s typical of them. Arab armies lack organization, cohesiveness and the will to fight as a unit. Why else does Israel exist?”
The navigator pondered the rhetorical question and then surprised Brent with a singular insight. “You know a lot about them — more than you should know from just fighting them. You’ve been to the Middle East, haven’t you.”
Straightening, Brent made a temple of his fingers and then locked them into a single fist. “You’re very perceptive, Navigator,” he said. “In fact, when I was fourteen my father was assigned as a naval attaché to the ambassador in Cairo. For two years his duties took us all over the Middle East from Iran to Morocco.” He sighed and drummed the table with his locked fists. “It was an education — a real education you can’t get in a classroom or a briefing.”
Cadenbach nodded and pushed on, “You said their armies were undisciplined — like a rabble.”
“Right. Rabble is a good word.”
“But there was Jordan’s Arab Legion. Glubb Pasha was a fine general. They were good — pushed the Israelis back into Jerusalem back in ‘48 and ‘49.”
Brent nodded approval of Cadenbach’s knowledge. “You’ve studied your history, Navigator. They were a good outfit. But they were British trained and British led. And don’t forget, Glubb Pasha was actually an Englishman named John Bagot Glubb. When he and his officers left, the legion collapsed.” Brent felt an old anger begin to mount as cruel memories flashed from the dark recesses. “You know I’ve fought them since 1983. Do you know what started this whole thing with Kadafi?”
“One of Yonaga’s fighters tangled with a Libyan DC-3.”
“Right. It was over Tokyo Bay. I saw the whole thing. The transport intruded into Yonaga’s air space after repeated warnings. Commander Matsuhara shot out one of its engines.”
“He didn’t destroy it, Mister Ross.”
“That’s correct. And there were no casualties.”
“But I know all of this didn’t grow out of that one trivial incident.”
“But that was how it started. It was an insult, and Arabs never forget.” Brent dug his fingers into a dull pain that persisted at the base of his skull. The pressure brought immediate relief. “Of course, there’s the small matter of world domination, the oil embargo, the killing of hostages.” The hand dropped to the table and the fingers began to war with the steel top in a series of taps. “But basically, yes, it all started with that one incident over six years ago.” The fingers became a fist that pounded down on the table with a loud clang. “They’ll go after you any way they can.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you ever heard of Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah?”
“The ‘old man of the mountains.’ Founded the assassins in Persia — maybe a thousand years ago.” Cadenbach’s face took on a grim cast. “They still operate, Mister Ross.”
“Correct, Charlie. Call themselves ‘Sabbah.’ They’re fanatically loyal to Kadafi. Their preferred attack is with the knife, but they’ll use anything from AK 47s to plas-tique. They like to catch their victim unawares and stab him in the back. Do you know I’ve fought them with pistols, fists, boards, knives, even a wrench — in alleys, parking lots, a park, the dining room of the Imperial Hotel, the UN?” He stabbed a finger directly at Cadenbach’s face, stopping only inches from the navigator’s sharp nose. “And know this, you’re a prime candidate, too.” The hand dropped to the table with a thump.
Cadenbach eyed the fatigued, flushed face as if he were seeing his executive officer for the first time; as if he had opened a long locked closet and discovered things inside he preferred not to see. He muttered, “I’ve heard of them — heard of the things they can do.”
Brent stared over the navigator at the far bulkhead and was at another place at another time. “They murdered Yoshi Matsuhara’s fiancee in Ueno Park.” The voice suddenly filled with irony, “From ambush, of course. An AK 47. Six slugs in the chest.” He slapped the table so hard the steel top rang from the force of the blow and the mugs clattered. Steadying his mug, the young navigator looked up in alarm as Brent raced on, “What else can you expect from the Arabs? All they’ve known is tyrants and assassination. In a way, they’re all Sabbah. For centuries their leaders have manipulated them ruthlessly, used them for the dirty work while they wallowed in luxury. And Islam just adds more bars to the prison. It’s a dry, barren religion as dry and barren as the land they grow up in. And it’s fatalistic, strips them of what little optimism and ambition they might have. Hatred and vengeance is all they live for — the only things that give meaning to their miserable lives and keep in mind, they are quite ready to die attacking. Eternal paradise awaits the soul of the assassin, you know. After all, Islam promises this.”
Cadenbach shifted uncomfortably and they both sat quietly, the only sounds intruding were the usual ship’s sounds of blowers and engines. The young navigator broke the silence. “I know, Mister Ross. But there must be some scruples, some honor!”
Brent laughed, a hollow sound completely devoid of humor. “Oh, the Arab has his honor, his ‘face,’ and can feel shame. An honorable man will boast of his brave exploits a
nd bore you to death with his lies. And his ‘face’ is skin deep. He wears it with his honor on his sleeve and then will betray his mother for a pile of camel dung for his fire.”
“But you said he knows shame?”
“Shame comes from coming in second in a deal. You feel shame when you don’t lie convincingly enough to cheat your best friend — your brother, father. Or, a man feels shame if he must work at a menial job to survive.” He raised a finger and shook it for emphasis. “Keep this in mind, Charlie, shame never comes from crime, but only in the betrayal of their twisted code of duty. Then a man finds shame and maybe a knife in the back in a dark alley.”
“They’ve had great writers, mathematicians, physicians, Mister Ross.”
“A thousand years ago. But today they’re so full of envy and hatred toward us, their literature is filled with self-hatred and loathing for everything we stand for.”
“There is nothing redeeming about them, Mister Ross?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
Cadenbach squirmed uneasily. “Then people like this can never accept defeat.”
“Right. That’s why they’ve been at war with Israel since 1948. They can’t accept the dishonor of defeat, and they’ll kill any Arab who even suggests compromise. Remember what happened to Anwar Sadat?”
“Then it will never end for us.” There was finality in the voice.
Brent nodded grimly. “You have a point, Navigator.”
Cadenbach fell silent and shifted his body uneasily, his mind leaving the Arabs and finding another troubling thought. His entree was puzzling, “The talks in Geneva between the United States and Russia?”
“What about them?”
“Do you think we can we trust them — can we trust the Russians to withhold their latest weapons from the Arabs?”
Brent stared at his mug. “That’s the agreement. But only because they’re afraid of ours. And don’t forget, technology is the only thing the United States and Russia can hold over the rest of the world now.”
Cadenbach shifted his eyes away from Brent’s, as if he were afraid the executive officer might find something there he preferred to keep hidden. “You think homing torpedoes and their new RBU 6000 depth-charge launcher will remain out?” he asked, staring at the table.
Equipped with active and passive homing devices and a wire, the Russian 533 torpedo could hunt and track a maneuvering submarine to its doom, while the RBU 6000 was a fearsome mortar that fired six 300-millimeter charges weighing 400 pounds each, six-thousand meters ahead of the attacking vessel. With automatic reloading, it was an awesome killer of submarines, especially diesel-electric boats. Brent could understand the young officer’s nervousness. Every man in the crew had been worried about these new weapons despite promises from Geneva, Moscow, and Washington that they would never be handed to the Arabs.
Brent spoke reassuringly. “Why, of course. There’s no chance they’ll be used. They wouldn’t dare use the RBU and guidance systems for torpedoes. They know damned well the US Navy would turn their latest stuff over to the Japanese and all of their allies. We’ve complied and so have they. It’s a balance of fear and distrust just like the nuclear balance that scares the piss out of everyone, and that no one will upset. And never forget, Russians don’t trust Arabs either, Charlie. During the Six-Day War, the Egyptians ran so fast, they left behind whole SAM (surface-to-air missiles) batteries complete with radar control and hundreds of the latest Russian tanks and artillery. The Russians have never forgotten or forgiven.”
Cadenbach nodded but did not look up. “I know. I know, sir...”
Before he could continue, the conversation was interrupted by a speaker mounted in the maze of pipes and conduits overhead. “Mister Ross, Chief Engineer Dunlap requests you lay aft to the aft torpedo room,” it squawked metallically. Brent muttered an oath under his breath. He was beginning to enjoy the conversation. The bright young Cadenbach had taken his mind from the trap of its own morbid jungle. He suspected the navigator had done this deliberately, maybe even conspired with Pablo Fortuno. They were fine men. He glanced at the brass clock mounted over the entrance, which showed 1320 hours. “Got to hurry — got to see what wild hair is bugging Dunlap and relieve the watch at fourteen hundred.” He tossed off the rest of his coffee and rose.
“See you around, sir,” Cadenbach smiled.
“I’ll be around. Might run into you again, Navigator. It’s a small world.”
“It’s a small, small world,” the young junior lieutenant said as he began to hum the melody from the famous Disneyland ride.
Brent was smiling as he stepped into the passageway. Walking aft, he passed through the Chief Petty Officer’s stateroom, where only a single chief, Chief Electrician’s Mate Momoo Kenkyusha, sat at the small table, sipping tea and wolfing down a sandwich — the ship’s supply of sushi had long since been exhausted. As all other Japanese members of the crew-thirty-one out of sixty-seven officers and men — Kenkyusha was a veteran of Japan’s Self Defense Force and an experienced submariner. Short, round, and middle-aged, the chief was bleary-eyed, and his round face was deeply etched with lines of fatigue. There were only four chiefs on board, each an expert in his field, and since the vicious depth charging, they more than any other other members of the crew had been thrown into the breech to repair Blackfin’s wounds.
The chief began to come to his feet, but Brent waved him back. The lieutenant felt a pang of guilt as he thought of the long, casual conversation he had just had with the navigator. “Good shooting, sir,” the chief said in the perfect English mastered by every Japanese member of the crew. “Heard you hit every one of the dorobos (gangsters).”
Brent smiled his thanks and stepped over the high coaming of a doorway in a watertight bulkhead to enter the control room. Unlike the chiefs quarters, this room was crowded, and the smell of diesel oil and unwashed bodies endemic to diesel boats was heavy and oppressive. Thankfully, the odor of chlorine was no longer detectable. Walking aft, Brent passed the “Christmas Tree,” which was the heart of the diving station. The panel known as the Christmas Tree was a huge board covered with gauges and green and red lights that gave the board its name and indicated whether various openings in the pressure hull were closed or open. At the moment, the board glowed a mix of red and green; red for the open main induction valve, exhaust ports, conning tower hatch, and ventilation intakes, all of which Brent expected to see for surface running. However, a red light indicating an open sea valve in the Number One ballast tank burned ominously. Green should be there, and every man knew it.
The executive officer passed men who sat or stood before engine room controls, fuel gauges, rows of voltmeters, ammeters, shaft-revolution indicators, mazes of valves, cranks, levers. Polished brass gleamed everywhere even in the hushed red glow of battle lamps. It was an entirely different world from the computerized control room of the SSBN (nuclear ballistics submarine) George K. Polk Brent had served on when fresh out of the Academy. He passed the two large wheels of the diving planes, still manned despite the boat’s inability to submerge. Two men slumped on their stools before the line-wrapped and varnished wheels, and the diving officer, a young, slight boyish ensign named Herbert Battle, leaned against the bulkhead next to the depth indicator, which was calibrated from zero to six hundred feet. No further calibrations were necessary, because at depths exceeding six hundred feet, the sea would crush the boat’s welded hull like crackers in an angry man’s fist.
Battle came erect, and his brown eyes caught Brent’s. “Good shooting, sir.” Then the dozen other men in the tiny room turned and shouted their congratulations.
Brent felt a sudden rush of warmth that a man can feel only when he is obviously admired and respected by the men he commands. “Thank you, thank you,” he muttered thickly, walking quickly to the entrance to the combination radio room and crypto-center. As communications officer, he had direct responsibility for the equipment and men in this division. He paused and looked inside.
The
two men occupying the small compartment had the boat’s two radios dismantled and spread on a small bench. One of the men was the starboard fifty-caliber gunner, Radioman Second Class Tony “Crog” Romero. He was dismantling a power-supply unit with a long, slender screwdriver and a pair of needle-nosed pliers. Squat, dark, and barrel-chested, he had muscular arms that were so long his huge hands hung almost to his knees. With a wide, narrow forehead trapped between a shock of bushy black hair and heavy eyebrows that met just over the bridge of his flat nose, he had a physique and unusual countenance that had earned him the sobriquet of “Crog,” an acronym for Cro-Magnon. Fortunately, Romero’s disposition was as sweet as his appearance was fearsome, and he accepted his nickname with good spirits. Brent liked the young radioman. He had a bright mind and knew his equipment.
The other man was Cryptologic Technician First Class Don Simpson. Tall, slender, and fair, Simpson contrasted sharply with his companion. He, too, was intelligent and highly competent. But at the moment, he was also obviously frustrated by the damaged equipment. He spoke to Brent who leaned into the room. “Not working yet, Mister Ross.” He gestured toward the control room. “Only the ESM, sir.”
“Hang in there, boys,” Brent said, resuming his hurried walk aft. “I’ll be back.”
“Roger, sir,” Simpson said. He smiled. “And great shooting!”
“Thank you,” Brent said, stepping through the hatch in another watertight bulkhead. He had not trusted his voice enough to call attention to the other gunners who had delivered such devastating fire on the diving bombers. But he had been the most accurate. The men knew this and so did he.
He passed by the minute 6-by-11-foot crew’s galley in three long strides and entered the crew’s mess, which was the single largest living space in the boat. Built on top of the aft battery compartment, it contained four tables with eight benches. Thirty-six men lived in this part of the submarine. Eleven crewmen sat around the tables: four Americans playing poker, four Japanese hunched over a game of go, three men reading. No one smoked. In fact, the “smoking lamp” had been out since the depth-charging.
