A Richard Rohmer Omnibus, page 44
Rashid’s plan for the rest of the morning was to keep his crew, other than the cook and the two engineers, busy on deck scraping and painting. It was time to start cleaning up the grimy old ship, reluctant as the crew might be. Furthermore, he wanted to be on deck himself or on the bridge to keep an eye open for any approaching official Egyptian craft. By nine o’clock he had organized all hands, including the one who had taken Nabil ashore. All five were busy scraping on the fo’c’sle, having started their chore by cleaning up the paint locker which in the last two days had received more attention than it had in years. All of the PLO team’s gear had been removed during the darkness a few hours earlier. The captain calculated that if he had his men working at the bow of the ship, they would be out of the way in the event of a boarding. They would, of course, be available for questioning, but at least they wouldn’t be immediately underfoot or within earshot. Having assigned each man a specific area of the deck for its scrape down preparatory to painting, Rashid called to the cook for coffee and went up to the bridge to escape the increasing morning heat.
When the coffee was brought to him on the bridge, he took a cigarette from the pocket of his open-necked, white, short-sleeved shirt on which he had put his captain’s epaulets. He was in his best white tropical uniform. When he had awakened that morning he had decided he should be properly dressed to greet any boarding party that might appear. Puffing contentedly on his cigarette and sipping the thick coffee, he looked out, past the work party at the bow, toward the city’s docks and buildings to the west. As his eyes scanned, he noticed the gray, rakish, swept-back bow of a small vessel as it moved out from a hidden jetty in the area where he knew the customs offices to be. The craft, however, was no customs boat. Rather it was another of those cursed naval patrol boats. This time, however, it was Egyptian and not nearly so heavily armed as the Israelis’. She carried torpedo tubes but no surface-to-surface missile launchers. A pair of machine guns was mounted on the forward deck, unmanned as she turned the jetty corner heading out into the harbor. What would she do? It was unusual to see a naval patrol boat in the Port Said harbor. And since it was putting out from the customs docks, most peculiar.
Rashid kept his eyes fixed on her as he alternately sipped his coffee and pulled on his cigarette. Across the water came the booming roar of her engines as they were thrust up to full power, driving the bow of the whippet-like vessel up out of the water and then down as it gained high speed on the smooth harbor surface. Rashid was relieved when she turned north toward the harbor mouth, disappearing behind the huge bulk of the passenger ship lying between the Mecca and the western edge of the port. Moments later his heart sank when she reemerged heading east and close in behind the cruise ship. The boat was no more than a hundred yards to the north of the Mecca. It was then that he could see that all the faces of the sailors on board the patrol craft were looking at his ship, at him. There were eight white-uniformed men in the wheelhouse. All of them were armed. At least four of them had stubby automatic rifles. Wherever they were going, they meant business—and trouble. Perhaps they were headed for the labyrinth of channels of the eastern side of the harbor, smugglers’ haven. The captain’s wishful hope was not to be.
As the Egyptian gunboat passed a point just a few yards beyond the stern of the Mecca and still to the north of her, it swung south in a tight arc to come in on the freighter’s starboard side from astern. They were coming aboard.
The old captain’s heart raced with apprehension as he moved quickly down to the head of the gangway to receive his unwanted visitors. Her engines cut to an idle, the war boat was brought skilfully alongside and made fast. Rashid read the boarding party leader’s rank on his shoulders as he mounted the gangway steps, followed by six armed sailors. The peak of the man’s cap and his epaulets told Rashid that he was a commander in the Egyptian navy, an unusually senior rank for an officer leading a boarding party, even though he was assisted by a much younger lieutenant-commander who followed immediately behind.
When the commander stepped on the Mecca’s deck, the greeting formalities were quickly disposed of.
The naval commander, gray haired, had a narrow, angular, and weather-creased face. He was a slim, erect man but a head shorter than the Mecca’s captain. He quickly got down to business as his people fanned out along the ship’s railing on each side of him.
“I am Commander Faher. I am in charge of the Port Said naval district. I have been personally instructed by the president …” He paused, relishing the importance of being able to drop that exalted name, “by the president himself to do a thorough inspection of this …” He looked up and down the length of the unkempt vessel with disdain, “this ship.”
Rashid began his side of the game. “Why does the president so honor the Mecca?”
Commander Faher gave a hint that he was an impatient man, particularly when dealing with inferiors. “Come now, captain. Surely you heard on the news about the big explosion at Haifa. Six patrol boats destroyed and over fifty people killed?”
The captain shrugged, “Yes, but what’s that got to do with me?”
“You were boarded by an Israeli gunboat two days ago?”
“Yes. Off Haifa and in international waters. I intend to file a protest.”
Commander Faher was sympathetic. Even though there was a peace between their countries, the hatred of the individual Egyptian for the Israelis continued unabated. Here he was acting as agent for the Israeli navy. It was a matter of extreme distaste for the commander. Had it not been for the direct order of his beloved president …
“Typical of the Israelis. They think they own the world,” he sniffed. “What the Israelis say is that there is a possibility that while their boarding party was on your ship, someone somehow planted a mine on their patrol boat.”
Rashid protested. “That’s ridiculous. They were on board ten, maybe fifteen minutes. We were minding our own business, making for Port Said when they stopped us. How in heaven’s name could anybody plant a mine in that kind of a situation? We had no notice. And furthermore, you can talk to my crew. There isn’t one of them who would know what a mine looks like.”
The naval commander folded his arms in front of him. “Come now, captain. You had four PLO soldiers on board.” The Egyptian was smug, knowing that the information would catch the Mecca’s captain by surprise. He watched Rashid’s face carefully for a reaction that did not come. He would try again. “They left your ship last night when you were anchored outside the harbor.”
Outwardly Rashid gave no indication of surprise, but inwardly he was taken aback. Clever little bastard, the commander. “Where did you get that information?”
Again a smug look on the commander’s face. “We’ve been watching your ship since dawn. When your first officer came ashore, we intercepted him. He and I had a nice chat over coffee. Being a true and loyal Egyptian, he wanted to get about his business as quickly as possible, so he told me everything he knew. Four PLO soldiers led by a man called Said who wears sunglasses night and day. They got on board at Beirut. Also four packing cases came on board there. When it was apparent that the Israelis were going to board you, the PLO man warned the crew that his team would kill all of them if they tipped off the Israelis. When the Israelis were on board, the PLO men were located in the bow, amidships and at the stern. But your man Nabil could not account for their leader.”
“He was off watch, in his cabin at the time.”
“Yes. He said that. But the crewmen on deck at the time told him they didn’t see the leader. So, perhaps he got overboard and planted a mine.”
The captain shook his head. “Impossible!”
“Maybe.” The commander shrugged. “My instructions are to search this ship thoroughly. Your first officer didn’t see the PLO men get off last night and he didn’t see the packing cases being transferred to a lighter. If they’re still on board this ship, I intend to find them.” He paused, seeming to be uncomfortable about his actions. “You must understand, captain. I am under the personal instructions of the president. I am not an Israeli sympathizer.”
Captain Rashid thought he might like this little man. “When you have finished your search, commander, I will have coffee ready for you in my cabin.”
Within twenty minutes, Commander Faher and his men had been through every part of the Mecca from the engine room and the cabins and lockers at the stern to the hold under the fo’c’sle. They had been into both the forward and aft cargo holds. The four motor vehicles lashed in the forward deck had been carefully scrutinized. The tops had been pried off all six of the huge compressor packing cases, their contents checked out and the lids nailed back again. Faher was satisfied that there was not a square foot of the boat which had not been accounted for.
When the inspection was finished, the commander accepted the captain’s invitation to coffee. The two men chatted politely about ships and politics. When it was time to leave, the commander asked permission to use the captain’s washroom. The apprehensive Rashid could only agree. It seemed to him that Faher was secluded in that room for an inordinate length of time, even though it was perhaps no more than four minutes. The Egyptian finally emerged. He picked up his hat to leave. Holding out his hand to Captain Rashid, Commander Faher said, “It would have gone well on my record to have found what I was looking for. But I must tell you, captain, as an Arab and an Egyptian and as a naval officer, I was delighted with what happened at Haifa. And so I would have been most unhappy, most disappointed if I had found the PLO men. Frankly, I have the fullest sympathy for the Palestinian people. So, captain, I am pleased to have failed. By the way, the latch that moves your shower stall away from the hatch should be oiled. It is a little sticky.”
Rashid was caught by surprise and showed it. His jaw fell open with astonishment as the sprightly commander stepped out of the cabin and disappeared with his men down the gangway steps.
6
11 March 6:00 P.M.
Atlantic Ocean
By 1800 hours on the evening of March 11, H.M.S. Splendid, holding at 500 feet, was midway between the island of Santa Maria, at the eastern end of the Azores, and Madeira, coming up on its port side. From the time it had passed the Finisterre light, the moving panorama of the sonar screen picked up the blips of forty surface vessels. As the plot record showed, all but seven were tankers carrying their precious crude oil, without which Western Europe could not survive, north to waiting ports, or steaming south in ballast toward the Cape of Good Hope still some 6,000 miles ahead. There they would gradually turn eastward and then north up the Indian Ocean toward the Strait of Hormuz and the Persian Gulf or, as it was known by the Arabs of the area, the Arabian Gulf.
The captain was in his cabin on number one deck, just forward of the control room. He had chosen to have supper by himself in his tiny cubicle, cramped by its bunk, desk, cupboards, lockers, a pair of chairs, and a wash basin. On the desk was a telephone and above it shelves holding official publications, charts, and a clutch of the newest paperback books to come out of London. Above the shelves was a depth gauge and beside it a clock and barometer, the most basic of all nautical instruments.
He had eaten in a leisurely fashion. The dish was curried shrimp which the senior of the wardroom’s two stewards, Petty Officer Robert Joyce, a squat, short, kindly Glaswegian, had served with dexterity after covering the desk with a stiff linen tablecloth and setting out shiny new silverware, each piece bearing the name Splendid along its handle. His final touch was a sparkling silver tankard into which, before the food was served, Joyce had poured a pint of lager beer.
“Is there something significant about having Indian curry?” Leach had jokingly asked Joyce.
The reply came with almost a giggle, “After all, sir, we are going to the …”
“Yes. I know, the Indian Ocean.”
The telephone, stark black against the white tablecloth, rang sharply.
“Pritchard in the control room, sir. I have a sonar contact. Looks like a bogey.”
Brushing past his startled steward, the captain was in the sonar department in a few rapid strides. Pritchard was there, standing behind Petty Officer Pratt and his assistant, both seated and wearing earphones. All eyes were glued on the sonar screen.
Their heads turned momentarily as the captain entered the tiny space, asking, “Where is it?”
Pritchard pointed to the right-hand bottom corner of the screen. “There it is, abeam of us and closing on a parallel course about a mile to starboard.”
The captain was astonished. “Closing? Cor’ crikey. We’re going thirty knots and she’s closing?”
“Yes, sir.” Petty Officer Pratt checked at the red numbers coming up in his computer readout faces. “At ten knots.”
“What depth?”
“Eight hundred feet. Range 9,500 yards.”
She had to be either an American or a Russian. With that speed she had to be an attack vessel like Splendid herself.
The sonar watchkeeper’s voice was calm. “I’ll have the answer on her signature in a minute, sir. It’s in the computer now.”
The identification came up in red digits against the black face of the computer glass, in the large electronic machine sitting against the aft bulkhead of the sonar room. It was one word: Alfa.
Leach knew the Alfa class Soviet submarines. There were only four of them in service. A downstream generation of the Novembers of the early sixties and later the Victors, her ship’s complement was only fifty against that of his twelve officers and eighty-five men. Smaller than the Splendid, the Alfa was 260 feet against the Splendid’s 272. Her displacement was 3,300 tons deadweight against the 4,500 of Leach’s boat. Her advertised speed was thirty-two knots plus, against the Splendid’s thirty. With her lesser weight and bulk, she had much greater power, 24,000 shaft horsepower from her nuclear reactor and steam turbine as against the 15,000 of Splendid. No wonder she was overtaking at ten knots.
“Has she got us? Has she been pinging?”
If the answer was yes, that meant that the “bogey” (now transformed through its Soviet identity to a “bandit”) was on active sonar, sending out enormous belts of energy into the surrounding waters to bounce back from any object coursing through the depths of the ocean. On passive sonar, the huge hydrophones of the boat’s sonar system sent out no energy pulse but would simply take in and record the noises it picked up.
Earphones in place but able to hear the words from the captain as well as the electronic sounds, Pratt, his eyes moving from his control panel to the huge screen, nodded vigorously. “Aye, sir. No doubt about it. She started pinging just as she came on the screen.”
“We’ve got her and she’s got us,” Pritchard added.
“But she’ll soon be long gone unless she wants to play silly bugger with us.”
Suddenly the huge gray map of the sonar screen flickered, interference lines running up and down its face like a television set.
“What in hell is that?” the captain half shouted.
“Damned if I know, sir,” Pritchard replied. “I’ve never seen anything like that before and it’s not in any of the textbooks.”
For a moment, the full sweeping image of the screen was restored. With it came another shock. Marcus Leach could scarcely believe what he saw. “Hell’s teeth. There’s another bloody sub.”
There on the screen, about a mile behind the first bandit but slightly off to port, steering exactly the same course, was the blip of the second submarine. Was it another Alfa? Or was it a shadowing American?
“What’s the second one?” Leach’s voice had a note of urgency.
Pratt was furiously punching buttons on his console, trying to capture the signature and feed it into the computer, when the screen again lost its image and showed only horizontal rolling lines.
More furious button punching, switch flicking, dial twisting by the sonar watchkeeper. Suddenly he took the phones away from his ears. He turned to his right, handing the earphones past Pritchard to the captain. “Listen to that, sir. Gorblimey, I’ve never heard anything like that in my bleedin’ life.”
Leach clamped one of the phones to his left ear. What he heard was an undulating signal, a sound curiously similar to the range of white noise in the relatively narrow band of frequencies emitted by the engines, machinery and propellers of submarines but at a much higher, more penetrating volume.
“What do you think it is, sir?” Pratt had swiveled around in his seat to watch the captain as he listened to the peculiar sound.
Leach kept the phone to his ear for a few more seconds before saying, “I haven’t a clue. I’ve never heard anything like that before either.”
He handed the head set back to the petty officer and spoke to Pritchard. “There may be something wrong with our own sonar gear. Better check it out, chop, chop. I’ll take over the watch while you’re doing it.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Back in the control room, Leach dispatched the messenger of the watch, Smith, to fetch the first lieutenant. As he waited for Lieutenant-Commander Paul Tait to appear, he settled into the chair between the two watch-keepers on the steering and hydroplane controls, his eyes expertly reading the instruments in front of them.
When his tall, ungainly first lieutenant burst into the control room, sandals flapping, Leach told him to go into the sonar room, take a look at the screen and listen to the sound on the earphones. Tait promptly disappeared.
In a few minutes he was back, the forehead below his long, stringy, brown hair furrowed.
“What do you make of it, Paul?”
Tait’s puzzled eyes contemplated the deck, unseeing, as he puzzled over what he had heard. Then they lifted to look at Leach. “I really don’t know, sir. It’s a new one on me. There’s probably something wrong in our own gear.”
A clue crossed Leach’s mind. He got up and stepped forward through the doorway to stick his head in the sonar room again, where Pritchard and the two watchkeepers were busy running through the standard test checks.
