Farad was on board the New Persian submarine Yunes. She had been observing the air battle through her periscopes and had spotted his parachute. Armed sailors had been on deck in case he had been an Azanian.
When the sailors saw the Nine-Pointed-Star patch on his suit, they had relaxed. Farad could only lie on the curved deck of the submarine and gasp. He was lowered down the ladder quickly, and roughly so the trunk hatches could be closed above him.
The submarine dived immediately after. The diving alarm sounded, and Farad felt the motors hum through the deck. He was helped to his feet by two sailors. Water fell off him onto the deck.
He found himself in the engine room of the submarine. It was very hot. The diesel engines had been charging batteries. Farad began to add his sweat to the seawater dripping off his skin.
The deck was steel grating. It hurt his hands as he pushed himself up to stand.
The first breath Farad took stunned him with the smell. It was a combination of unwashed men, diesel fumes, cigarettes, and mold. He coughed.
"He's alive, all right," said one of the sailors.
"Enjoying the fresh air?" asked the other.
"Are you enjoying the fresh air, sir." Another sailor in a khaki uniform and officer's insignia corrected him.
"Yes, sir," said the sailor.
"He's a pilot, seaman, and he's been through it. Get him to the wardroom after he dries off."
"Aye, sir."
The officer left Farad with the two sailors, who produced a towel and began to dry him off, roughly. Seawater soaked his flight suit, and he exchanged it for a set of ill-fitting khakis.
The eight-cylinder diesel engine filled the other side of the engine room. There was another engine on the other side of the passage.
More water trickled down from the aft trunk. The air was humid, and Farad could smell mold.
After drying off as much as he could Farad followed the two sailors through a hatch and a soundproof door. They entered a room full of the smell of food and tobacco. There were four tables, and two dozen sailors were eating and conversing over what must have been lunch. They all stopped to watch when Farad came in. He felt like a new kid at school. Farad waved at them.
"Hey," one sailor asked from his seat, "Are you a pilot?"
"Yes," Farad said.
"You shoot down any Azanians?" The same sailor asked in a tone close to a jeer.
"Yes," said Farad, "Four."
"That's all?" The sailor, trying to keep on top of the conversation, said.
"Today," said Farad evenly. "There have been seven others."
The room was quiet.
The sailors with him led him to a ladder leading up. Farad climbed it and got off on the next deck. Gray paint coated the lower deck, but this deck had carpet. Wood paneling covered the bulkheads.
He was met by three naval officers who led him the short distance to the wardroom. They seemed just as curious about him as the sailors below. Farad reflected it must be lonely on a submarine, staring at the same faces day after day.
He sat at a table on a bench cushion along the bulkhead. Maps festooned the walls. A radio in the corner murmured music.
Farad could hear activity all around. There were dozens of men going about their daily business all over the boat. He was aware of how crowded all ships were, but especially submarines.
A bronze plaque on the wall proclaimed this was the submarine Yunes, commissioned the year before, and built by the Bandar shipyard.
The three officers wore shipboard coveralls with their ranks emblazoned on their collars. They looked the same as the other sailors otherwise. Farad looked out of place in the borrowed khakis.
"Commander Azeri," the oldest man introduced himself. He was the equivalent rank as Farad, but the naval rank had a different title.
"Wing Leader Hashemi," Farad said.
"You had a tough day, Wing Leader," Azeri said.
"It was worse for others," Farad said.
"I suppose," Azeri said. "Did your attack succeed?"
"I was the fighter leader," Farad said. "The torpedo bombers were successful. They hit all the Azanian aircraft carriers. I believe they are all sunk or disabled."
"Did you see them?" Azeri asked.
"Yes," Farad replied.
"It makes it easier," Azeri said. "We let them go last night."
Farad raised an eyebrow.
"Orders," Azeri said. "We are to observe and report. We had the carriers in our sights," Azeri said ruefully. "We let them go and radioed their course and speed."
"We found them," Farad said. "The Shahins attacked and hit them all." Farad described the torpedo bomber attack.
"Nice to hear," said Azeri. "something is going right."
"The war goes poorly," Farad agreed. "I do not know what you have heard, but the Azanians are closing on Persepolis."
"It cannot be," Azeri said. "How did they get so far, so fast?"
"Only God knows," Farad said. "And there is something else."
Farad told Azeri about the Azanian transports he had seen, full of troops.
"Where did you see them?" Azeri said. "Wait, come with me."
Azeri opened a small sliding door and walked into a tight passage. On one side was the beeps and squawk of radio code. On the other side was a small office. The passage led to another room whose walls were full of switches, dials, and lights. Two periscopes rose from the deck into the overhead.
"Captain in control," one sailor said.
"As you were," said Azeri.
He led Farad between the periscopes to a table covered with charts. "Where did you see those transports?"
Farad looked hard at the charts and closed his eyes. He opened them and asked, "Where are we now?"
Azeri pointed. Farad checked the clock and made some mental calculations.
"Here," Farad said. He pointed at a spot on the chart.
"How fast were they moving?" Azeri asked. He was doubtful Farad would know.
"Not as fast as the carriers," Farad said.
Azeri nodded. "Navigator, plot a course here," he pointed to a spot on the chart. "We'll try to get ahead of them."
The other officer frowned. "We will use a lot of our battery power. Can we snorkel part of the way?"
"I don't see how to avoid it," Azeri said. "They are ahead of us, and they are moving away. We have to play catch up." Both men looked unhappy.
"If we called the transports in, could another air attack be mounted today?"
"No," Farad said at once. "The losses were too heavy. It will take time to reform."
"Then it's up to us," Azeri said. "How long until sunset?"
"Seven hours," the Navigator replied. "Run as far as we can on batteries until then?"
"No," Azeri said. "We would have to snorkel on approach, and would make too much noise."
"Snorkel now?"
"Not much point," Azeri said. "Tell me, Wing Leader, could you see us underwater?"
Farad remembered the submarines approach, the huge shadow rising from the depths. "Yes," he said.
"If we snorkel now, the enemy could see us, and if we run on batteries until tonight, we'll be too close for snorkeling." Azeri thought hard.
"Sir," said the Navigator. "What if we go deep and creep over here, to the west, behind them," he penciled a line on the chart, "and then charge batteries as soon as the sun goes down. We should be out of their radar coverage if we assume they are heading north. They must be heading here," he pointed. On the chart was the notation, "Busher Bay." "The rest of the coast is all rocks and cliffs."
"I agree," said Azeri. "All right, plot the course. Take her down to 800 feet, make revolutions for five knots."
"Aye, sir."
The officer of the deck said, "Helmsman, right ten degrees, make your course three-five-zero. Planesman, ten degrees down. Make your depth eight hundred feet."
There was a rushing noise on the other side of the bulkhead as water was allowed into the ballast tanks. The boat angled downward.
After a few minutes, the submarine leveled off. The hull creaked and popped ominously. Farad saw no one around him was reacting to the sounds. He steadied himself. Being inside a steel tube beneath hundreds of feet below the water was the opposite of flying. He thought it must require iron nerves to serve like this, following orders and having to trust everyone else on board knew what they were doing. Even the sailor steering the boat only did so when commanded. On the other side, the captain had to trust his orders would be carried out. It was all very strange to Farad, who flew his plane alone and expected his squadron mates to fight on their own.
Being a sailor on a submarine was not something Farad would choose to do. Perhaps Basir would have made a good sailor, he thought. Farad imagined his chess-playing friend, with his methodical, patient mind, would do well in this underwater world. Everything here happened slowly, and there was a plan for everything.
Farad was led back to the wardroom by the sailors, who climbed ladders and stepped over thresholds as if they weren't there. The air was already noticeably colder since the diesel engines had shut down and stopped heating the boat. The whir of a fan from the deck below, and the murmur of sailors talking throughout the boat replaced the roar of the engines.
"What will become of me?" Farad asked Azeri.
"You are part of the boat's company, now," Azeri smiled. "Temporarily, of course. We will drop you off the next time we make port. Unfortunately, I don't know when it will be."
"How long can you stay out?" Farad asked.
"Two or three months. And we sailed on the first day of the war," Azeri said.
"I see," said Farad. He felt the frustration deep inside of him. What good was it to be rescued if the war could be over before he rejoined it?
"Sorry, Wing Leader, but the needs of the service..." Azeri sympathized. If he had been left on shore, he knew he'd be doing anything he could to get back to sea. This pilot seemed very steady for someone who had just been shot down and rescued from being eaten by carnivorous sea worms. It was too bad he wasn't in the Submarine Service.
Farad had nothing to do. He felt useless on the submarine as he sat alone at the wardroom table. Officers passed through the tiny room on their way to one task or another, occasionally accompanied by an enlisted man on some errand. The mess steward toiled in the small pantry where food for the officers was prepared.
Farad supposed these sailors were specialists, as adept at operating the boat as he was at flying his plane. He remembered the submarine's control room with its hundreds of dials and switches.
If he were going to be here for any length of time, Farad would have to find a way to contribute because it was his way to shirk his duty, even when he was out of his element. Farad knew he could master this new domain, given time. He had his rank as a colonel, and his rank could guarantee him a place on the submarine. He had only to assert it.
Farad resolved to find out how far his curiosity could take him in this new world.