by John Hunt
It took twenty more hours to adequately repair the remainder of the damage. Airplane traffic had been intense on Paradise 1, but fortunately, none of the planes were military and none flew over their position. They would easily have been seen, had anybody been looking, but the antisubmarine aircraft no longer seemed to be looking.
While on the surface, Khamil attempted to radio Azid hourly, but to no avail. He could do little but wait impatiently for the repairs to be completed. When the sub became operational, they would again attempt the assault that was interrupted the first time by the aircraft. The hours inched by, day came and went, and then the night did the same. The nearly constant hum of airplane traffic in and out of Paradise 1 gradually died away. It was well into the day before the captain woke Khamil to say that they were ready.
“The front torpedo room was only marginally flooded. It is now dry and operational. We can’t do much with the aft torpedo room. There is a big hole in the side of the boat there. We now have functioning sonar, and our engines are intact. Propellers are decidedly bent, as is one of the propeller shafts. We will be able to move only very slowly. There is nothing we can do about those things.” Having completed his report, the captain awaited Khamil’s orders.
“Is my torpedo still operational?”
“Yes. There was no damage to it, as far as we can tell. We have loaded it back into a tube.”
Nodding in appreciation, Khamil arose and rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes. “Do you see any reason not to push on, then?”
“You wish to make another run at the Island.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Certainly. Azid must be dead, and we have failed to do what he asked. I wish to reverse that failure.”
“Then let’s be off.”
It took only another ten minutes before they were underway. The morning was already half over and the sun was shining brightly as the submarine, running at periscope depth, worked its way out from behind Paradise 5. As soon as they had a view of Paradise 1, the captain noted the large ship and the pleasure yacht that lay in their path.
“Khamil,” the captain said. “We are not alone in these waters. Look.”
Peering through the periscope, Khamil had no difficulty picking out the two surface vessels, one of which was too large to be anything but military. “I cannot see their flag. What do you think?”
“Not American. My guess is they’re Mexican.”
“That makes sense, Captain,” Khamil replied. “This is a Mexican island. It is not surprising they would come here to protect it. At least they won’t have American technology.” He paused, contemplating. “Can we get past them?”
“We don’t need to get past them to fire the torpedo — just to their current position. But that will not be easy. It may well be that they have heard us by now and will come to investigate. If they have not heard us yet, maybe we can avoid them by going down deep and staying deep until we are close enough. Then we can come up and release the torpedo.”
“Can this sub withstand going down deep?” Khamil asked intently.
The captain stroked his chin. “We shall find out.”
It did not take long to see that the submarine was seaworthy. They took it down to sixty meters without a complaint from the seventy-year-old metal that made up its hull. It would only be ten minutes before they were in range of Paradise 1 — fifteen before they had a certain shot. Khamil smiled as he considered what would happen on that island soon.
49. Mutual Demise
CAPTAIN JOSE ARCTURO, standing on the bridge of his cruiser, gazed through his binoculars at the glistening glass spire atop the tallest building on the island. Science Hall, the unique silhouette of which was now world famous, towered above all the other edifices. Presumably, almost twenty of his men and the regional governor went in there twenty minutes ago. He would have to make contact with them shortly to assure that all was well. He shifted his gaze to the lagoon. There was no activity whatsoever. The island was a ghost town.
Arcturo did not understand the politics of what was going on here. He had not read the newspapers this week and therefore did not learn that the evil Americans had effectively stolen the islands from Mexico with the help of corrupt former Mexican leaders and were not paying their paltry lease payments. He did not know, for he had not watched television, that the people on the island were taking Mexico’s natural resources without paying for them, in violation of the lease agreement. He did not know, for he had not listened to the talk shows on the radio, that an overwhelming number of Mexicans were demanding the return of these islands to Mexico’s direct control. And he did not know that the universally respected leader of the Island Project had just been indicted by a federal grand jury.
He had only heard that the people on the island had been making great strides in scientific research and were readily sharing their results with the world. But maybe that was propaganda.
He had his orders, and he would carry them out. He had been instructed to abide by whatever Governor Marcos instructed him to do. It seemed they had come to reclaim the islands with however much force it took. They had told him no more than that.
The last word from the island had been that an evacuation was underway. Perhaps they were leaving in anticipation of the Mexican takeover. Perhaps they had been taking only the women and children away and leaving the men to fight. He hoped there would be no fight, but both he and Mexico were prepared. On board his ship were nine hundred infantrymen — tripling the complement of the crew. They had been sleeping in passageways, under bunks, against walls, in the galley, or wherever else they could find a spot. They had scavenged through the galley’s supplies like vultures. But they were here with a purpose. If there were to be a fight, these men would be the ones to fight it. Had he not had these extra troops on board, it was likely that he would have been ordered to deploy his own sailors. But his sailors were not trained in land tactics. He was glad they would not be needed.
The captain looked further around the island. He could not see the resort from this vantage point, but he had seen it well as they passed just south of it earlier that day. It looked like a marvelous spot for relaxing, with generally calm beaches, protected from the larger surf by a natural breakwater formed by uplifted coral. The bungalows scattered along the waterfront were inviting. He wished he could vacation there himself. But soon the resort would be in Mexico’s possession, and the odds were that corruption would ruin it. Corruption was what the new government professed to want to fight — this was what they were elected to do. But why then was this Juan Marcos made a regional governor? He had no honor or courage or morality, as far as Arcturo could tell.
He moved the glasses upward. At the top of the high mountain was a large white structure that appeared to be an astronomical observatory. Along the mountainside were hundred of bare patches where the vegetation had been cut away for a few square meters. Standing within each bare patch was a flat shining metal structure with a reflective surface. Some were more readily visible than others. They seemed to be mirrors. Arcturo assumed these devices were part of the Island Project’s solar energy array.
He swung around 180 degrees to look through the portside windows of the bridge. Paradise 3 lay to the southwest, and close to shore — just a few kilometers away — was the giant OTEC, made famous by the media throughout the world months before. It looked like it was resting quietly now. The energy production capacity of that device was as impressive as its appearance. He gazed at it for a few more moments. It was low in the water and the waves lapped at its saucer. This was not like in the pictures in the paper and on TV in which the saucer was kept high above the water by a shining tower of steel.
Taking in the rest of the area, he noted once again the positions of the three other islands in the group. Paradise 5 lay very close and due west of them. He turned the binoculars to peer at it — an ugly place. Paradise 5 seemed completely barren. Stepping out onto the wing, he focused on the last two islands. Paradise 2 and 4 were each
beautiful in their own way, and he was impressed at how different they were from the large island, Paradise 1. As far as he could tell, all but Paradise 1 remained untouched.
“Captain!” It was the excitable officer of the watch calling. He was a young man, barely twenty-two years old, just out of university. “Sonar is picking up an approaching object underwater — a submarine. Four kilometers, bearing two-seven-zero. It is moving at five knots directly toward us.”
Arcturo replied, more calmly than the officer, “How big is it?” Never having served in the Navy during an armed conflict, the captain presumed that a submersible must be a research or commercial craft.
“Sonar estimates eighty meters.”
That was too big to be a research submersible. That was an attack sub. They were broadside to an approaching submarine in the midst of a potentially hostile situation. He snapped to action. “Battle stations, now! Full ahead! Rudder hard left!”
A wailing siren arose on the ship, leading the seamen to scurry into action everywhere while the troops on board for the ride tried to stay clear.
“May I ask why we’re moving toward the sub?” The watch officer was young, and inexperienced even in war games.
“If a tiger comes into the lion’s den, it had best be ready for an argument. We’re growling. Let’s see how much they growl back.” He picked up the microphone to the direct communication link with sonar.
“Sonar, how did that sub get so close?” He was not accusatory in his tone.
“Must have been hiding at Paradise 5. I think maybe it came out from behind.
“How deep is she?”
“Depth sixty meters, Captain.”
“Any signs of hostility?”
“No, sir. Outer tube doors have not opened.”
“What else can you tell me, Sonar?”
“It’s damaged. Worn out prop that’s cavitating badly. Never heard anything sound so bad before. Not American. Not Russian. Certainly not nuclear. Could be an older British or French boat. Maybe an ancient German U-boat. Sorry, I’m not sure.”
“Keep a careful ear out. Tell me anything you hear.”
“Yes, sir.”
Arcturo turned to his radioman. “Can we make contact with that sub?”
“Doubt it, sir. They’re a bit deep to receive radio.”
“Try it anyway. And let’s find out who has subs around here.” Damn, Arcturo thought. This guy could sink us in a moment. He motioned to his Executive Officer, who was now on the bridge. “Bad situation, Commander.”
The XO, a short man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist who lifted free weights daily, asked, “What do you think, Captain?”
“I have to bet that the sub belongs to the Island Project — unless some nation decided to lend them a hand. No one except the US and Central and South American countries would have had time to get a diesel sub here in the three days since we informed the island of our intentions. It’s not the Americans, and only the Chileans would be so bold. But it’s unlikely they have any submarines that old and beat up.”
The XO nodded. “It would seem, then, that it must belong to the Islands. I wonder what they intend to do?”
“We need to be cautious — avoid being rash. Despite its size, it may not be armed. It might actually be being used for research purposes.”
“Is it using active sonar?” A research vessel would most likely be actively pinging to ensure that they were traversing the waters safely. An unarmed submarine would not want to rely on passive listening devices only.
“Sonar says it’s not pinging. It might as well be, though, for all the racket it’s making.”
“Sir, we’re closing in fast. We may have our answers shortly.”
“Bridge, Sonar. The sub is coming up to attack depth. She’s flooded one tube. Repeat — one tube flooded!”
“And there is our answer, XO!” It was certainly a hostile submarine, preparing to fire torpedoes. “Distance to contact?”
“Nine hundred meters, sir.”
“Has the outer door opened?”
“Negative. Outer door remains closed.”
The captain turned to the XO. “Rig depth charges for shallow depth! Have the men get ready to act fast. And tell the engine room to give us more revolutions! We need speed!”
Khamil’s torpedo, when fired, would rise to the surface and head for shore. When it hit land, the small canister of anthrax spores would launch a hundred meters into the air, where it would burst. The wind, coming in from the west, would spread the germs throughout the island. Within days, the coughing would begin. Then, fevers, prostration, and soon the victims’ lungs would begin to bleed. They would rapidly suffocate when bloody fluid filled their lungs. Each man, woman, and child would experience misery. But to Khamil it would be glorious.
The voice of the sonarman interrupted Khamil’s contemplation. “The surface vessel knows we’re here. It’s heading directly for our position.”
“How soon until they’re on top of us?”
“Six minutes, sir.”
The captain moved beside Khamil. “We’re probably close enough to fire the torpedo now. Most likely it’ll strike its target.” Actually, he thought, he doubted that it would even come close. They had yet to move even a kilometer away from their hiding place on Paradise 5.
“Go on as far you can. Fire the torpedo only at the last possible moment, when we’re as close as we’re going to get to that damn island.”
The captain nodded and turned to his men. “Go to attack depth. As we approach, flood Tube 1 and prepare to launch torpedo on my order.”
The boat tilted upward, and soon Khamil heard the words, “Attack depth.” Almost simultaneously, he heard a rush of water as the number one torpedo tube filled with water. The captain was looking through the periscope.
“That destroyer is almost right on top of us. We may well hit if we stay at this depth.”
Khamil smiled. “Why don’t you sink it, then?”
The captain laughed nervously. “Flood tubes 2, 3, and 4. Target, mark. Distance six hundred meters. Closing at fifteen knots.” They could easily hear the sounds of three more tubes flooding. “Open outer doors 2, 3, and 4.” Thirty seconds passed. Khamil knew that the men in the forward torpedo room must be working feverishly to keep up with the sudden change of plans. The captain hollered, “Fire 2! Fire 3! Fire 4!” The sound of the torpedoes being thrust forward filled the bridge.
The sonarman began talking immediately. “Torpedoes are pinging. They’ve acquired target. Ten seconds to impact with cruiser… Four seconds…” Then the sonarman whipped off his headphones and yelled, “Depth charges in the water! Right on top of us!”
The percussions of what seemed like dozens of explosions tossed the submarine around viciously. Khamil rolled across the floor and fell hard into the wall, crashing his forehead against a cast iron lever. The boat was on its side now and in complete darkness. As he drifted out of consciousness, Khamil heard the high-pitched groan of tearing metal.
“Captain Arcturo!” the man in the sonar room called loudly. “The sub has flooded three more torpedo tubes. They are opening outer doors now.” A brief pause. “One, two… three. Sir, there are three fish in the water!”
We weren’t fast enough, the captain thought. A change in course now would leave a larger target. The way they were heading — straight at the submarine — presented the smallest cross-section. Loudly, he shouted, “Launch forward depth charges, minimum depth, now!”
The sonarman called up, “Three torpedoes have acquired us. Eight seconds to impact.”
The water in front of the ship burst into a boiling cauldron as a half-dozen depth charges exploded a few meters below the surface nearly simultaneously. Steam filled the air, and salt spray pelted the bridge windows, though fully eight stories above the water line. The ship shuddered frightfully from the detonations. As the bow entered the frothing waters, it was forced to starboard violently.
“Back on course!” Arcturo shout
ed to the helm. The side of the ship was exposed.
The helmsman cried back. “Trying, Captain!”
The sonarman called again. “One torpedo made it past the depth charges, Captain. It’s going to hit now!”
The ship flailed like a bucking horse when the torpedo tore through the hull. The third torpedo had found its mark ten meters forward of the stern on the port side. It tore a three-meter rift in the steel hull, and a torrent of water immediately followed.
The captain ran to the port bridge wing. Black smoke was billowing out of the portion of the hull breech that had not yet gone below water.
The executive officer was shouting orders. “Damage control! Seal off the lower decks! Check all watertight doors! All pumps on maximum!” A chorus of responses filled the bridge.
Captain Arcturo spoke into a microphone. “Sonar, where is that sub?”
“Directly below us, sir. She sounds pretty torn up now. Flooding heavily. We must have hit her with our depth charges. She’s only about fifteen meters below our keel.”
“Are you sure it’s not us that you hear flooding?”
“Yes, sir,” the sonarman replied. “We’re flooding much worse. It sounds very different.”
The ship was still moving forward at high speed. Arcturo had little time.
“Weapons, set aft depth charges for twenty-five meters. On my command…. Launch!”
A volley of thuds echoed through the ship as the metal cans full of explosive were flung clear of the hull. The water behind the ship erupted in a violent melee of steam and foam. There was no way that a shallow submarine could possibly survive the volley.
“How deep is the water here?” he asked nobody in particular.
“One hundred and seventy meters, sir,” someone replied.