The Tempest by John L. Lynch

Author:John L. Lynch [Lynch, John L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
Published: 2020-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

Twenty-three

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 sweltering. 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 Farad 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 said, trying to keep on top of the conversation.

“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 monotonous on a submarine, staring at the same faces day after day.

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