Steele wondered at that. Didn’t the NWC people trust him, or was there something else at play?

  It turned out that Senior Chief Petty Officer Carlos Alvarez was a veteran of underwater special operations. He was six feet tall, towering over Steele, with a muscular build honed from years of training. He had brown eyes, close-cropped black hair, and chiseled features. Morgan explained Alvarez had exceptional skills in underwater navigation and stealth tactics, and a reputation for calm under pressure.

  “You know about Lieutenant Steele,” Morgan said to Alvarez.

  “You were on the Moon,” Alvarez said, with an edge perhaps.

  Steele nodded.

  “Think that will help you here?” The edge was obvious now.

  “I’m hoping so,” Steele said, wondering what was bothering the man.

  Alvarez nodded, eyeing him closely. He finally turned to Morgan. “When do we start?”

  Morgan spoke quietly to the Chief and then said, “An hour. Gather your gear, and then you can deploy.”

  All this struck Steele as ludicrous. They needed to go over the route. They had to plan together. Instead, Morgan was sending him on the mission blind. What was going on here? Should he demand a delay? That could be bad for several reasons. The Persian Gulf was not safe for them. And the people he was supposed to meet—this was all on a tight time schedule.

  Something felt off here. He’d promised Dawnstar…

  Steele shook his head. It was time to go. He needed to trust Petty had made his wishes known to the top NWC people. It was doubtful the captain or petty officer was pulling something on their own initiative.

  As the submarine held its position underwater, Steele headed to the airlock with Alvarez. The two secured their dive gear.

  Steele donned and checked his equipment, ensuring the seals on his wetsuit were tight and his oxygen levels optimal.

  Alvarez had done likewise and now signaled he was ready.

  Walking in fins, they both went through the hatch and closed it. The airlock slowly filled with water, the pressure equalizing with the surrounding water. The external hatch opened, revealing the dark expanse. Steele and Alvarez swam out into the silent depths, their headlamps cutting through the dark. Ahead of them, illuminated by the sub’s external lights, was the NWC Triton, their underwater delivery vehicle.

  The Triton was 6.5 meters long, resembling a torpedo with two windshields. The body was composite reinforced titanium and carbon fiber, coated with anechoic tiles to minimize sonar reflection. The vehicle’s dual electric thrusters were almost silent, allowing it to glide with minimal disturbance. Steele and Alvarez would ride the Triton in tandem, sitting like riders on a powerful bike, their legs straddling the central chassis.

  High-capacity lithium-ion batteries powered the Triton. It had an operational range of up to 200 nautical miles and an endurance of 24 hours. It could operate at depths of up to 300 meters, making it ideal for the clandestine mission ahead. The vehicle’s life support systems included an integrated oxygen supply and CO2 scrubbers, extending their dive time significantly.

  Steele and Alvarez climbed onto the Triton, securing themselves to the vehicle with specialized harnesses. They adjusted their dive masks and ensured their equipment was secure before powering up the vehicle. They both hooked up to the Triton’s breathing system, switching from their tanks. The internal systems hummed, and the touchscreen nav system displayed data on their surroundings.

  Alvarez took the controls, feeling the vehicle respond smoothly to his touch. They began their journey, navigating the underwater terrain.

  They weaved through underwater canyons and ridges, using natural terrain to mask their presence. As they advanced, Steele and Alvarez maintained radio silence, communicating through hand signals and the occasional encrypted message. They evaded sweeping arcs of sonar pings thanks to the Triton’s stealth technology.

  Later, schools of fish scattered as they glided by, the vehicle’s propulsion leaving only the faintest ripple in the water.

  The underwater landscape was constantly shifting. Finally, after three hours of careful navigation, they reached the rendezvous point in the center of the Persian Gulf. Alvarez checked the coordinates, confirming they were where they needed to be and at the right time.

  Given the Triton’s high-capacity batteries, the UDV was capable of making the round trip on a single charge.

  Steele and Alvarez surfaced briefly, the calm waters of the Gulf stretching in all directions. They scanned the horizon, with the sensors sweeping for any signs of enemy activity.

  Alvarez turned and waved a hand. Then he pointed.

  Steele turned and saw a dot on the sea. That might be it. He nodded.

  They submerged and headed that way. It looked like this might actually work.

  -11-

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Steele detached the breathing tube from the Triton and attached his air tank. Then he unbuckled, put on the fins he’d set aside, and swam upward toward the wooden hull under the water.

  He surfaced near a wooden dhow, a traditional vessel of the Persian Gulf, with its distinctive lateen sail. This one also had an outboard motor at the back. It was thirty meters long with a battered wooden hull. Twelve or more men were aboard, rugged-looking individuals. It had a cargo hold. By the smell, it was full of fish.

  Steele swam to the dhow.

  The people in the ship must have seen him, as a man pointed. Someone started the outboard engine, and the dhow turned toward him.

  Soon, two men, one on each arm, reached down and pulled Steele up, along with his tank and other gear, and propped him on a seat in the dhow. Three other men moved forward. They wore desert robes, including cloth masks over their faces. These were called keffiyehs.

  As Steele removed the mask and breathing tube, the lead man removed his keffiyeh and stared at him. He was a lean man with sunken cheeks, taller than Steele, with strong, tanned hands. The man was probably in his thirties, possibly Iranian, with hawk-like eyes. That was how Steele thought of it, especially from his reading of Conan novels. The man could have been one of those Arabic or Turkish warriors that he read about in some Robert E. Howard novels.

  “I am Ibrahim Mansour,” the man said in accented English. “I believe you shake hands thusly.”

  He gripped Steele’s right hand. Steele applied pressure, and the man did, too. He had a firm grip. Steele noticed the man wore no rings on his fingers.

  “I am the Sardar, the leader, and I want to hear what you have to say.”

  “First,” Steele said, “you need to confirm who I am.”

  The man’s brown orbs became more intense. There might have been something fanatical about him. It was evident in the brightness of his eyes. His sunken cheeks appeared even more unhealthy, as if he fasted too much, searching for things better left alone.

  “I imagine you claim to be First Lieutenant John Steele, the one who carried a nuclear device to the aliens on the Moon?”

  This seemed to trouble the man.

  Steele couldn’t understand why. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s me.”

  The brightness of the eyes intensified until this Sardar Ibrahim seemed to understand Steele detected that. He concealed the intensity, or shielded it. His lips thinned, perhaps an attempt at a smile.

  “You claim to have been in this part of the world before,” Ibrahim said.

  There was something wrong here, but Steele couldn’t decide what. Should he continue? Until he knew otherwise, that might be his best option.

  “Not so long ago, I was.” Steele described the time Dawnstar had kidnapped him off a submarine from Dubai. A helicopter had picked them up and taken them to a pontoon plane. That plane had headed for the Himalayas but crashed in the Zagros Mountains instead. “There,” Steele said, “we ran into some JFPs, and they looted the plane.”

  Ibrahim stared at him too hard, almost as if in a trance. He shook himself out of that and indicated a stocky man, “He was there that day.”

  Steele faced the man. He had a beard and an old burn on his forehead. Steele hesitated, wondering why he had felt compelled to return here. Now, it felt like a mistake. As if by rote, reciting a rehearsed speech (which it was), Steele said, “I’m the youth who shot your leader with a big-ass revolver.”

  The bearded, stocky man scowled until his eyes widened. “It is him,” the stocky man said.

  Ibrahim became very still. His eyes became feverish as he stared at Steele. “You killed Aziz?” he asked, his voice rising.

  This had been a mistake, maybe a bad one. Steele might have wanted to atone in some way. Why would he have thought that, though? Perhaps he’d thought of the JFP as patriots, kind of like what his dad had been in the Western States of America. Maybe they were patriots, but not like Old West types. They were Islamic: similar, yet different.

  “If Aziz was the name of the leader back then, I did kill him,” Steele said.

  “Why then would you come here?”

  “I’m not sure,” Steele said.

  “I was… was Aziz’s friend,” Ibrahim said.

  “I get that,” Steele said. “I suppose it confirms my identity to you. I meant them no harm back then—not at first. Look, they attacked us. They took my wife and might have raped her. You can understand that?”

  Ibrahim nodded. “They would have raped the infidel bi—”

  “Be careful how you talk about my wife,” Steele said, interrupting fast. He didn’t like the way this was going, but damn if he would let him call his wife something vile.

  Ibrahim almost smiled, although his eyes had that feverish burn again. “She was an infidel and so are you… I think.”

  “To your way of thinking I am,” Steele said. “But I also can tell you how to enter the Delhi sewers that connect to the subterranean military complex, the one Director Drusus uses.”

  “Sewers, yes,” Ibrahim said. “If you know this, tell me.”

  Steele related what he had memorized on OS Aphrodite. Orbital intelligence operatives had uncovered a prize: a former Delhi sewer manager had emigrated to the orbitals and become a manager for the sewer system on Orbital Station Artemis. By chance circumstances, operatives learned he knew a secret about the Delhi sewers—how they connected in the back to the subterranean military complex. A different agent learned Livia Drusus often used that complex. From that, a plan had formed. Steele did not know all the details, particularly how orbital intelligence operatives had met with JFP people, but here was a connection orbital intelligence now attempted to use.

  Ibrahim and the others in the dhow, as it swayed in the Persian Gulf, listened intently to Steele. None scribbled notes, however. Steele could see no recorder in evidence. Instead, they listened raptly. Several times, Ibrahim nodded.

  Finally, Steele finished. “Do you want me to repeat that?”

  “There is no need,” Ibrahim said. “I have heard, and it confirms what we learned. It confirms several things. You told the truth, as far as we know, unless you planted that evidence too.”

  “Orbital intelligence is not as good at this spy stuff as the World Government operatives.”

  “True, but you are bold. You are First Lieutenant John Steele, and you stopped the aliens from building the mass drivers on the Moon.”

  “You know about that, huh?”

  “Everyone in the world knows,” Ibrahim said. “That was courageous, and I salute you. Indeed, may Allah have mercy on you for what you did. You helped the Earth, and now you have helped us. I will remember, though I will not remember for long.”

  “Oh yeah, why’s that?” Steele asked, nettled for a reason he couldn’t pinpoint.

  Ibrahim shook his head, although he said, “I will lead the foray into the Delhi sewers. I will do as you have done, John Steele, although I may not return from my meeting with destiny.”

  “You hate Livia Drusus that much?”

  Ibrahim’s features hardened. “Drusus is an infidel and a pig. She must die so that we may be free, and so that an Islamic Republic can sprout and grow.”

  “All right, good luck to you, Ibrahim. I’ve met your people before, and they seem ferocious, and I’m guessing courageous.”

  “It is so,” Ibrahim said. “And you are courageous. Perhaps like your crusader ancestors of old.”

  A hard smile crossed Steele’s face. He supposed he must have crusader ancestors. He hadn’t thought of that before. But wherever there was fighting, it seemed a Steele had been there. Had Scottish Highlanders gone on crusade to the Holy Land back in the day? He had read a Robert E. Howard story where one did.

  Once more, Steele shook Ibrahim’s hand. It had been a long journey here. Steele looked at the sun, at the waves. It was time to go down again to the underwater delivery vehicle and return to the sub, if Alvarez could find it.

  “Till we meet again,” Steele said.

  “Are you a Muslim?” Ibrahim asked, with greater intent than seemed necessary.

  “No. Christian,” Steele said.

  “Then we will not meet again, for I am not destined long for this Earth, though soon I will be in Paradise.”

  “All right then.” Steele nodded, wanting to leave. He slipped the mask over his eyes and nose, and shoved the breathing tube in his mouth.

  The others grabbed his arms, but they did not help him over the gunwale. In fact, they stopped him from going over the side.

  Finally, with an elbow, Steele knocked off his mask and spat out his breathing tube. “Is something wrong?”

  Ibrahim stared at him until hatred shone in his eyes. “Do you recall that I said Aziz was my friend?”

  Steele nodded, feeling a wave of dread from the sunken-cheeked fanatic.

  “Aziz was my friend but also my brother,” Ibrahim said.

  Steele wanted to say, “Shit happens,” but felt that would be terribly inappropriate. This was bad. He was sure of that. “So what happens now?” he asked.

  “Several things,” Ibrahim said.

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “No.”

  Steele felt relief flood through his body.

  “You are going to take Aziz’s place in the mission,” Ibrahim said.

  Steele frowned. “Say what?”

  “You will join our strike,” Ibrahim said.

  “You do realize I have friends waiting for me.”

  “Where are these friends?” Ibrahim asked.

  Did Steele sense malice in the question?

  “My friends are waiting below,” Steele said. “They’ll launch a torpedo at this dhow if I don’t show up soon.”

  Ibrahim breathed heavily through his nostrils. It was unsettling, to say the least. “There is much you do not understand. But soon, you will.”

  “What does that mean?” Steele asked.

  “Wait a few minutes and it will all start to become clear,” Ibrahim said.

  Steele frowned until he saw bubbles coming up from the depths. He looked that way, and it seemed that the UDV was rising. Had Petty Officer Alvarez doubled-crossed him, and if so, why?

  Steele had a terrible feeling about all this. What made it worse was the promise he’d made to Dawnstar. Damn, but this was going south in a hard way.

  -12-

  The UDV emerged from the depths. The man sitting in the control seat took off his mask and breather. It was Petty Officer Alvarez. The strange thing was there was a second person in a wetsuit sitting in the second seat. He was a stocky man. He removed his mask.

  Steele was astounded to see Captain Morgan sitting there.

  Seconds later, floats attached by lines to the UDV bobbed up to the surface. The floats surrounded crates. Did that mean the UDV had gone back to the submarine to retrieve those? If so, the submarine must have trailed the UDV. That meant the submarine was nearby.

  While he had been speaking to Ibrahim, the UDV had returned to the submarine, collected these goods, and come back.

  “Now you understand,” Ibrahim said, as he stood beside Steele.

  He looked at the JFP leader. “I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me.”

  “Aziz was my younger brother. I should kill you for killing him, as it is my right. However, you are courageous and fought the aliens. For that reason, I will give you a chance. As you take Aziz’s place in this holy task, you might well see the superiority of our ways and enter Paradise by deciding to follow Allah.”

  Steele kept his mouth shut, saying nothing in response to the offer.

  Soon, several JFP members helped Alvarez and Captain Morgan aboard the dhow.

  Morgan stood in his fins and wetsuit, having removed his mask and tube, putting his hands on his hips as he regarded Steele. The captain had short arms. “This is why I didn’t introduce you to Alvarez before. He gets emotional. I don’t think he could have done this if he had become your friend. Do you understand?”

  “Why do any of this to me?” Steele asked. “I never did anything against you—CEO Petty is going to shit bricks when he hears of this.”

  Captain Morgan shrugged. “Petty will never hear of this. The reason is political. These brave men are going to make a critical assault that will help the New World Conglomerate. In particular, key people in North America want to see the assault happen.”

  “Not Maria Chavez,” Steele said. “There’s a peace conference about to take place, a Greenland Conference, or have you forgotten about that?”

  Morgan shook his head arrogantly, as if he knew things others did not. “There are factions in the New World Conglomerate. Believe me when I say that my benefactors don’t believe in this so-called peace initiative. Maybe you can’t understand that.”

  “I understand,” Steele said. “I don’t see why that has turned you into a backstabbing bastard, though.”

  Morgan scowled. “I don’t care for your tone or your words.”

  Steele raised his eyebrows as he felt anger swell through him. “What are you going to do about that, fat man?”

  Morgan glanced at Ibrahim as if asking for permission.

  “He is my guest, my prisoner,” Ibrahim said. “You will not lay a hand on him.”