his shoulder to make sure there was no one from his crew loafing about on the submarine’s deck, but there were only the two faces visible up on the conning tower, and the motionless silhouette of the Musaid.
His orders from Defense headquarters had been specific. Wait for the official goodbyes, and then depart immediately. He glanced at his watch once more as the car drove down the pier itself. The two linehandlers sat up and rubbed their eyes as the headlights swept over them. The Captain had noticed that this was a large Mercedes, not an Army staff car. Strange.
The car had pulled up sharply and extinguished its headlights. The driver, a bulky man dressed in civilian clothes, had levered himself out of the car and looked around, inspecting the full length of the pier. The Captain did not recognize him, but then had been stunned to see who was getting out of the right front seat. Him ! He had stiffened to attention as the Colonel came over to him, dressed in the desert robes of his Bedouin tribe, his black eyes glittering in the moonlight. The Captain remembered feeling a surge of pride that the Colonel himself had come. He had been so excited that he had forgotten to salute.
Behind the Colonel, an elderly Army officer and a civilian had stood up out of the car, but they had not approached. The Captain had recognized the officer; he had been a Major General before the last coup attempt. Then all ranks had been reduced to satisfy the Colonel’s dictum that Colonel was now to be the highest rank in the land. The driver had continued to look around, at the pier, the submarine, and the base behind them.
“Muqaddam Muhammad Al Khali! Greetings,” the Colonel had rasped. “A good night to begin a hunt, is it not?”
The Captain remembered trying to find his voice. His throat was dry, and his heart had been straining with excitement.
“An excellent night, Colonel. For a most unusual hunt.”
The Colonel had smiled, turning his dark, angular face to survey the submarine, his eyes glinting with eager malice. The figures up on the conning tower had become motionless as they realized who was speaking to the Captain.
“This hunt must succeed, Muhammad Al Khali,” the Colonel had declared.
He had turned back to lock those malevolent eyes on the Captain, his syllables precise in that dry, almost whispering tone familiar to everyone in the land.
“The cries for justice echo still on the desert air. This mission—do you doubt its success?”
“No, Colonel,” the Captain had replied. “The justice of it is clear. But success will depend on several things. The American Navy is many and strong.”
The Colonel’s face had clouded, his mouth setting in a bitter line. The Captain could not look away from this face, with its intense, black eyes and jagged creases and wrinkles. A jackal’s face, he thought; and like the jackal, the Colonel was cruel, tough, intelligent, and a merciless survivor. The Captain had felt a thrill of fear, while wondering if he had gone too far with his comment about the American Navy.
“The American Navy must be made to pay for the crimes they have committed, crimes against the Jamahiriya, the people, the revolution, my family,” rasped the Colonel, his voice rising. His eyes transfixed the Captain. “Your kinsmen, too, do not forget.”
“Yes, Colonel. I have not forgotten.”
The Colonel had looked again at the submarine. “This ship, this Al Akrab, it is ready?” he had asked, and then continued before the Captain could reply.
“Al Akrab,” he had mused. “The Scorpion. A most fitting name for what you are preparing to do. To go to the Americans’ coast, to lurk in the sea, hidden but with stinger ready, and the strength to stab when the time comes. We have given you all that you need for the voyage and the mission?”
“Yes, Colonel,” the Captain had replied. “The provision has been generous. We are indeed ready.”
The Colonel had nodded. “This is good. This is a
His orders from Defense headquarters had been specific. Wait for the official goodbyes, and then depart immediately. He glanced at his watch once more as the car drove down the pier itself. The two linehandlers sat up and rubbed their eyes as the headlights swept over them. The Captain had noticed that this was a large Mercedes, not an Army staff car. Strange.
The car had pulled up sharply and extinguished its headlights. The driver, a bulky man dressed in civilian clothes, had levered himself out of the car and looked around, inspecting the full length of the pier. The Captain did not recognize him, but then had been stunned to see who was getting out of the right front seat. Him ! He had stiffened to attention as the Colonel came over to him, dressed in the desert robes of his Bedouin tribe, his black eyes glittering in the moonlight. The Captain remembered feeling a surge of pride that the Colonel himself had come. He had been so excited that he had forgotten to salute.
Behind the Colonel, an elderly Army officer and a civilian had stood up out of the car, but they had not approached. The Captain had recognized the officer; he had been a Major General before the last coup attempt. Then all ranks had been reduced to satisfy the Colonel’s dictum that Colonel was now to be the highest rank in the land. The driver had continued to look around, at the pier, the submarine, and the base behind them.
“Muqaddam Muhammad Al Khali! Greetings,” the Colonel had rasped. “A good night to begin a hunt, is it not?”
The Captain remembered trying to find his voice. His throat was dry, and his heart had been straining with excitement.
“An excellent night, Colonel. For a most unusual hunt.”
The Colonel had smiled, turning his dark, angular face to survey the submarine, his eyes glinting with eager malice. The figures up on the conning tower had become motionless as they realized who was speaking to the Captain.
“This hunt must succeed, Muhammad Al Khali,” the Colonel had declared.
He had turned back to lock those malevolent eyes on the Captain, his syllables precise in that dry, almost whispering tone familiar to everyone in the land.
“The cries for justice echo still on the desert air. This mission—do you doubt its success?”
“No, Colonel,” the Captain had replied. “The justice of it is clear. But success will depend on several things. The American Navy is many and strong.”
The Colonel’s face had clouded, his mouth setting in a bitter line. The Captain could not look away from this face, with its intense, black eyes and jagged creases and wrinkles. A jackal’s face, he thought; and like the jackal, the Colonel was cruel, tough, intelligent, and a merciless survivor. The Captain had felt a thrill of fear, while wondering if he had gone too far with his comment about the American Navy.
“The American Navy must be made to pay for the crimes they have committed, crimes against the Jamahiriya, the people, the revolution, my family,” rasped the Colonel, his voice rising. His eyes transfixed the Captain. “Your kinsmen, too, do not forget.”
“Yes, Colonel. I have not forgotten.”
The Colonel had looked again at the submarine. “This ship, this Al Akrab, it is ready?” he had asked, and then continued before the Captain could reply.
“Al Akrab,” he had mused. “The Scorpion. A most fitting name for what you are preparing to do. To go to the Americans’ coast, to lurk in the sea, hidden but with stinger ready, and the strength to stab when the time comes. We have given you all that you need for the voyage and the mission?”
“Yes, Colonel,” the Captain had replied. “The provision has been generous. We are indeed ready.”
The Colonel had nodded. “This is good. This is a
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