speed was roughly ten knots, slower if the batteries were being charged. The midgets were strictly transport vessels, and it would be laughable to compare them to frontline submarines used by the American or Russian navies. But they were perfect as far as Sattari was concerned.
He called them Parvanehs: Butterflies.
The captain glanced back at the rest of the team, strapped into the boats. Among the interior items that had been retained as delivered were the deep-cushioned seats, which helped absorb and dampen interior sounds. Three of the men were making good use of them now, sleeping after their mission.
Sattari turned to the submarine commander.
âAnother hour, Captain Sattari,â the man said without prompting. âYou can rest if you wish. Iâll wake you when weâre close.â
âThank you. But I donât believe I could sleep. Are you sure weâre not being followed?â
âWe would hear the propellers of a nearby ship with the hydrophone. As I said, the Indian ship has very limited capabilities. We are in the clear.â
Sattari sat back against his seat. His father the general would be proud. More important, his men would respect him.
âNot bad for a broken-down fighter pilot, blacklisted andpassed up for promotion,â he whispered to himself. âNot bad, Captain Sattari. Thirty-nine is not old at all.â
Aboard the Abner Read ,
off the coast of Somalia
0128
âW HAT KIND OF SUBMARINE ? A P AKISTANI SUBMARINE ?â
âIâm not close enough to tell yet, Admiral,â Storm told Johnson over the secure video-communications network. âWeâre still at least twenty miles north of it. There are two surface ships between us and the submarine, and another oil tanker beyond it. They may be masking the boatâs sound somewhat. Iâll know more about it in an hour.â
âYou have evidence that it picked up the saboteurs?â
âNo, I donât,â admitted Storm.
Johnsonâs face puckered. âPakistan, at least in theory, is our ally. India is not.â
Storm didnât answer.
âAnd there are no known submarines in this area?â said Johnson.
âWeâve checked with fleet twice,â said Storm, referring to the command charged with keeping track of submarine movements through the oceans.
âI find it hard to believe that a submarine could have slipped by them,â said Johnson.
âWhich is why I found this submarine so interesting,â said Storm. While it was a rare boat that slipped by the forcesâand sensorsâassigned to watch them, it was not impossible. And Stormâs intel officer had a candidateâa Pak sub reported about seven hundred miles due east in the Indian Ocean twenty-eight hours ago. It was an Augusta-class boat.
âAll right, Storm. You have a point. See what you can determine. Do notârepeat, do not âfire on him.â
âUnless he fires on me.â
âSee that he doesnât.â
Off the coast of Somalia
0158
S ATTARI LEANED OVER AND TOOK THE HEADSET FROM THE submarine captain, cupping his hands over his ears as he pushed them over his head. He heard a loud rushing sound, more like the steady static of a mistuned radio than the noise he would associate with a ship.
âThis is the Mitra ?â he asked.
âYes, Captain. Weâre right on course, within two kilometers. Youâll be able to see the lights at the bottom of the tanker in a few minutes. I believe weâre the first in line.â
Sattari handed the headphones back, shifting to look over the helmsmanâs shoulder. A small video camera in the nose of the midget submarine showed the murky ocean ahead.
From the waterline up, the Mitra appeared to be a standard oil tanker. Old, slow, but freshly painted and with a willing crew, she was one of the vast army of blue-collar tankers the world relied on for its energy needs. Registered to a company based in
Alana Hart, Michaela Wright