Rogue Crusader

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A bead of sweat dripped from Hana al-Salem’s jaw as the sonar display counted down distance to the Israeli submarine overhead.

As the reading inched towards zero, a thud echoed throughout the submersible Jammal. Salem cringed.

“Careful!” he said.

Haitham al-Asad, the ex-naval officer seated before him, grabbed joysticks to level the tiny submarine.

“Leveling out,” Asad said.

“Did we just announce ourselves to the Leviathan?”

“Doubtful,” Asad said in a tone that impressed Salem with its calmness. “The rubberized tiles on our hull silenced the impact.”

Salem tried to straighten his six-foot frame within the control center, but his dark hair brushed the overhead piping. He crouched again over Asad’s shoulder and watched the digital display.

“Bazzi reports that we have only thirty minutes of battery energy remaining at this speed,” Asad said.

“I know,” Salem said. “I heard him.”

“Sorry, Hana. I’m nervous.”

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