Phoenix Sub Zero

If anyone at prospective commanding officer school had asked what he would do in this scenario, he would have laughed in their face. Who would have believed he would continue to trail a front-line attack sub when he himself had an empty torpedo room? But then, when he looked at the chart, the Destiny was following a route to the northwest, going somewhere. Going damned slow, but on the way with a purpose. And someone had to find out what the hell he was doing, no matter the risk.

New Year’s Day. Happy New Year.

CNFS HEGIRA

Sharef’s right eye did not respond in spite of all his efforts.

His left eye opened but seemed caked with dirt. He clamped the eye shut and tried again, realization sinking in that his eye was open yet he could see nothing. He stemmed instinctive panic, grateful at least for his life. When he raised his hand to rub his eyes it wouldn’t move, and when he tried again a bolt of pain shot up to his shoulder. He forced himself to concentrate on what faculties he did have. Feeling, for one thing — he was lying flat, on what must have been a bed or couch, perhaps in his stateroom. He still felt the aftershock of the arm movement, now a throbbing ache. But he could also feel the other arm, his legs, his toes. Though that meant nothing, he reminded himself; the men who lost legs on the Sahand sinking had still felt their legs, even felt itching from their toes, then reached down and found only bloody stumps.

Hearing. He thought he could sense the roar of the air from the ship’s air handlers, but it might be the white noise of deafness or even a symptom of concussion. Now for motion.

He started with his toes, wiggled them, and thought he heard the rustling of a bedsheet. His fingers. On the right, wiggling, on the left, the resistance of a bandage or cast.

Arms — the left seemed to ache as if bruised, and was handcuffed or strapped to something. He didn’t dare try the right again. His face moved, but his lips were chapped and cracked, his throat sore, his cheeks aching. His tongue felt like a rotting piece of meat, the ache making him suspect he bit it when — when what? What had happened?

He took a breath, feeling the restriction of tape around his chest, and tried to speak. Only a rasp came out. He tried again. Another hoarse croaking sound. He tried to blink the left eye again but there was only darkness. He heard a distinct click, and light seemed to flood the room, making him clamp the eye shut again from the pain of the glare.

“Commodore. You’re awake. We worried your coma was permanent.” The voice of someone familiar. Who? The sound of a phone handset lifting from a cradle. Sharef opened his good eye, seeing light but only as a blur.

“Mr. Navigator, the Commodore is coming to. No, sir … yes, sir.” The handset clicked into the holder. The voice belonged to the medical officer, one of the junior officers named Al Rhazes, who was old to be a j.o. but had taken a demotion from lieutenant commander to attend the UIF medical program, and was now a sublieutenant learning the submarine trade. In the UIF Combined Naval Force it was not enough to be a doctor. A crew member was a submariner first.

“Where …”

“Try to rest. Commodore. You’ve had quite a hit.”

Above him, Sharef saw the dim outline of a face, then the voice of the navigator. Commander Omar Tawkidi.

“Sir,” Tawkidi said, “can you understand me?”

Sharef nodded, trying to focus on the face. He could make out the twin dark blurs of eyes now, the oval shape of the navigator’s face.

“We took the torpedo hit hard, sir. We lost six men and a rider. Three are seriously wounded, as is one of the riders.”

“Who …?”

“Captain al-Kunis is dead, sir. So are Mamun, Haddad, Avicenna and Abulcassis.”

Sharef felt sick. His first officer, weapons officer, senior watch officer, electrical officer and communications officer were gone. Men he had trained and knew well. And al-Kunis, the man he had groomed for command, who was to replace him as captain someday. All of them gone. Some would say their deaths were holy, that they were glorious, but Sharef knew that was a lie. They died because their luck had run out. Allah? Apparently he wasn’t watching.

How would he run the ship without the men, who each had fulfilled a vital function in the operation of the vessel? “… riders …?”

“Dr. Abu-i-Wafa. And among the seriously wounded are All Tabari and junior officers Seid and Batouah.”

“How bad?”

“Head wounds, comas, like yours. We thought you might not—” Tawkidi stopped himself.

“Me?”

“You’ll be fine. Commodore. You’ve broken a rib, fractured your wrist, got some glass in your eye and a bad knock on the head. After a few weeks in a hospital you’ll be fine.”

Sharef shut his eye, wondering how he could finish the operation without Abu-i-Wafa, the weapons scientist.

“Where now?”