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“Open your eyes.” Rapp spoke in English this time.
The man slowly opened his eyes.
“Where did they take her?”
The man started to purse his lips like he was going to spit.
Rapp was ready this time. His right fist came crashing down and hit the man square in the mouth. The guy coughed and turned his head to the side, spitting out blood and a tooth. Rapp let a moment pass and then in a very congenial tone said, “All right, I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way. You do know you’re gonna tell me where she is, though.”
The man spit a gob of blood from his mouth and then said, “Fuck you.”
Rapp laughed and leaned in a little closer. “Let me tell you how this is gonna go. I’m gonna start by slicing off your left nut…and then I’m gonna slice off your right nut.”
The man closed his eyes.
“And if you manage to make it that far without telling me,” Rapp continued, “you won’t get much further. Because trust me on this one…you’re going to tell me what you know, because no man in his right mind wants to have his dick cut off and shoved down his throat.”
Rapp stood up and when the man opened his eyes, he took another photo. Almost as if on cue, the voice of a man screaming in pain erupted from somewhere beyond the door. Without saying another word, Rapp turned and left.
43
STRAIT OF HORMUZ
Halberg sat in his elevated chair, an elbow on each armrest, his hands bridged under his chin. They were halfway through the channel and so far there had been no sign of the Yusef. Not that Halberg expected any. With a constant stream of supertankers coming and going the acoustics were horrible. Add to that freighter traffic of all shapes and sizes, fishing boats, and pleasure craft, and his sonar men were left with a din that was comparable to trying to listen to your cell phone while sitting in the front row of rock concert. Still no one complained. They simply did their best to sort it all out and make sure they didn’t run into anything.
Halberg got up from his chair, walked into the sonar room and noticed a concerned look on the face of one of his operators. Each of the five men was wearing noise-canceling headphones so they wouldn’t be distracted by the other conversations taking place in the CACC. The captain took a sip of coffee. His eyes stayed trained on Louis Sullivan, or Sully as he was called by the rest of the crew. He was by far the best sonar operator on the boat. If he looked concerned, that meant something unusual was going on outside the hull and that meant Halberg needed to be concerned too. He waited for Sully to start nodding. Waited for the smile to form on his thin lips. That’s what Sully always did when he classified a particularly difficult contact.
One minute passed. Then two. Halberg remained motionless, other than to take an occasional sip of coffee. He noted the time, decided on how long he would wait, and then returned his attention to the tactical display. Before entering the Persian Gulf, the shipping channel turned almost due west forcing vessels to turn hard to port. Halberg had set a course for the inside edge of the channel. If the Yusef was trailing the first ship by 200 feet or more they stood a good chance of picking her up as she executed her turn and came out in front of the tanker that separated them.
Halberg glanced over at the sonar station just as Sullivan was looking over his shoulder back at him. This was not a good sign. Halberg stared intently at Sullivan who had moved the large, bulky headphone from his left ear.
“What’s up, Sully?”
“We picked up the Sabalan heading out of port.”
Halberg nodded; he’d already noted the ship on the broadband sonar. The Sabalan was a British-made Vosper Mark V–class frigate that had been commissioned in 1972. Back in 1988 an A-6 Intruder from the U.S.S. Enterprise dropped a 500-pound bomb on her in retaliation for an Iranian mine that had blown a fifteen-foot hole in the side of the U.S.S. Samuel B. Roberts. Instead of allowing the navy to finish her off, then–secretary of defense Frank Carlucci decided to spare the Sabalan. The ship was then towed back into port and repaired. By surviving the attack the ship had become an Iranian national treasure.
“Nothing unusual. Just cruising along at the standard fifteen knots. About five minutes ago, her Rolls-Royce turbines started howling. She’s been steadily picking up speed, and if she holds her current course it looks like she’s going to try and slide in between the two container ships.”
“You think she’s going to sit on top of the Yusef and help screen her when she clears the channel?”
“That’s what I thought until a few minutes ago. It’s hard to be sure, Skipper, with all that noise out there, but I think the Yusef has been blowing ballast. In fact I think her sail might be out of the water.”
Halberg could not hide his surprise. “You’re serious?”
“I know I’m a bit of a screwball, Skipper, but I would never joke about something like this.”
Halberg glanced around the CACC. Strilzuk and the navigator were watching them. The captain looked back down at Sullivan and said, “Keep me posted.” As he walked over to Strilzuk he wondered why in the hell the Yusef would be showing the top of her sail. Strilzuk glanced at the fire control panel and noted the
assumed position of the other sub. In forty more seconds she would be clear of the container ship, and they could get a glimpse of her. Halberg was about to order the photonics mast raised when Sullivan called for him.
“Skipper, I’ve got her! She’s taking on ballast and increasing speed.”
Halberg quickly moved his attention back to the sonar monitor. He looked down at the updated location. She had been right where they thought she was. Halberg was in the midst of trying to figure out if he could pass the container ship on the inside turn when he noticed a commotion among the sonar operators.
The man to Sullivan’s left announced, “Sir, the Sabalan is pinging the Yusef.”
Before Halberg could absorb the comment, Sullivan announced, “The Yusef is flooding tubes.”
