moment, reaching for equilibrium. He reflected on the mission, harking back in his mind to the night they had departed, almost a month ago, trying to recapture the excitement, almost as an antidote to the dread he was now beginning to feel.
The submarine had glistened like a killer whale in the moonlight bathing the Ras Hilal base, her sides black and glossy, her conning tower raked above the rounded hull like a thick, unyielding dorsal fin. He had waited on the pier by the brow, raising his face to the cool air streaming in from the surrounding desert and breathing deeply, savoring the desert smells of sand and fading daytime heat. Behind him, the exhaust from the idling main engines had rumbled at the waterline, alternatively throwing up hot bubbles and steaming spray as a low swell rolled up the submarine’s sides from the harbor entrance. Pungent, wet clouds of diesel exhaust wafted over the conning tower above him, sending the two lookouts there into occasional fits of coughing. The Captain called it the conning tower, not the sail of modern parlance. Dhows have sails. Submarines have conning towers.
Where are these people, he had thought. It is time to begin. He stifled a sigh of exasperation. Staff officers. Always making a great commotion about nothing. Neither he nor his fellahin needed a sendoff. His pulse had quickened. It is time, he had thought, impatiently. It is time.
He had looked around at the submarine base buildings and the surrounding harbor, darkened and still at this late
hour. Dim green and red lights from channel buoys winked and blinked around the harbor. The low swell washed quietly against the ballast rocks under the pier, stirring the flotsam. He had wondered how many people sleeping in the dusty barracks or on the patrol boats at the next pier had any idea of what was going on. Surely the engine noise must have aroused some curiosity, but there were no signs of life in the darkened buildings. He remembered shivering; the desert’s night air threading its way into the harbor from the sand hills above the base reminded him of his proper antecedents.
To the east, the lights of Benghazi were illuminating the horizon. At each end of the pier there were two linehandlers sitting against the bitts, waiting for the order to cast her off. Both figures appeared to be dozing, their bodies dark lumps in the bright moonlight. A third man was waiting by the brow, sipping tea from a mug. Just forward of the conning tower stood the silhouetted and commanding figure of his Musaid, looking like a Janissary from the old times of the Turkish empire.
On the other side of the pier, his submarine’s twin, the Al Khyber, lay silent and dark, like a dead ship. Not surprising, he thought. She and some of the others had been gutted to outfit the AI Akrab. Across the harbor, a tugboat had been standing off its own stub pier, its running lights dimmed, a long, familiar shape tied up alongside. At a nearby pier, the other four Foxtrot class submarines lay nested in two groups of two. There were a few figures visible on their decks; the departure of one of their own on an actual mission was an unusual event.
The Captain remembered scanning the single road that led down the hillside from the base main gate, but there was still no sign of the staff car. He had mentally cursed all staff officers again, and then had seen the headlights.
The car had come down the road quickly, moving faster than most vehicles would on the bumpy, poorly paved road. The base was not that old, but maintenance, on roads as well as ships, was fairly indifferent in his Navy. The car’s headlights swooped erratically as the car negotiated
potholes, throwing bright white light over the windows of the dark buildings and the storage sheds along the waterfront. The Captain had drawn himself up to his full height, just under six feet, a disadvantage in the cramped confines of a submarine, as if to give emphasis to his impatience. He had glanced over
The submarine had glistened like a killer whale in the moonlight bathing the Ras Hilal base, her sides black and glossy, her conning tower raked above the rounded hull like a thick, unyielding dorsal fin. He had waited on the pier by the brow, raising his face to the cool air streaming in from the surrounding desert and breathing deeply, savoring the desert smells of sand and fading daytime heat. Behind him, the exhaust from the idling main engines had rumbled at the waterline, alternatively throwing up hot bubbles and steaming spray as a low swell rolled up the submarine’s sides from the harbor entrance. Pungent, wet clouds of diesel exhaust wafted over the conning tower above him, sending the two lookouts there into occasional fits of coughing. The Captain called it the conning tower, not the sail of modern parlance. Dhows have sails. Submarines have conning towers.
Where are these people, he had thought. It is time to begin. He stifled a sigh of exasperation. Staff officers. Always making a great commotion about nothing. Neither he nor his fellahin needed a sendoff. His pulse had quickened. It is time, he had thought, impatiently. It is time.
He had looked around at the submarine base buildings and the surrounding harbor, darkened and still at this late
hour. Dim green and red lights from channel buoys winked and blinked around the harbor. The low swell washed quietly against the ballast rocks under the pier, stirring the flotsam. He had wondered how many people sleeping in the dusty barracks or on the patrol boats at the next pier had any idea of what was going on. Surely the engine noise must have aroused some curiosity, but there were no signs of life in the darkened buildings. He remembered shivering; the desert’s night air threading its way into the harbor from the sand hills above the base reminded him of his proper antecedents.
To the east, the lights of Benghazi were illuminating the horizon. At each end of the pier there were two linehandlers sitting against the bitts, waiting for the order to cast her off. Both figures appeared to be dozing, their bodies dark lumps in the bright moonlight. A third man was waiting by the brow, sipping tea from a mug. Just forward of the conning tower stood the silhouetted and commanding figure of his Musaid, looking like a Janissary from the old times of the Turkish empire.
On the other side of the pier, his submarine’s twin, the Al Khyber, lay silent and dark, like a dead ship. Not surprising, he thought. She and some of the others had been gutted to outfit the AI Akrab. Across the harbor, a tugboat had been standing off its own stub pier, its running lights dimmed, a long, familiar shape tied up alongside. At a nearby pier, the other four Foxtrot class submarines lay nested in two groups of two. There were a few figures visible on their decks; the departure of one of their own on an actual mission was an unusual event.
The Captain remembered scanning the single road that led down the hillside from the base main gate, but there was still no sign of the staff car. He had mentally cursed all staff officers again, and then had seen the headlights.
The car had come down the road quickly, moving faster than most vehicles would on the bumpy, poorly paved road. The base was not that old, but maintenance, on roads as well as ships, was fairly indifferent in his Navy. The car’s headlights swooped erratically as the car negotiated
potholes, throwing bright white light over the windows of the dark buildings and the storage sheds along the waterfront. The Captain had drawn himself up to his full height, just under six feet, a disadvantage in the cramped confines of a submarine, as if to give emphasis to his impatience. He had glanced over
Similar Books
