Warren Murphy: White Water

When on the fourth day an e-mail message popped up on the screen, Anwar leaped for the terminal.

The letter was brief, to the point, but pregnant with meaning: "Did you miss me?"

His reply was even briefer. "Damnably so."

"We should chat."

Eagerly Anwar Anwar-Sadat logged on to the chat line they used when their difficult schedules coincided.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Away. But I am back."

"I thought the worst."

"Never fear. There will always be a place for you in my life, my darling."

Anwar's heart thumped. It was the first time she had used an endearment.

"My Pharaohess..." he replied, his eyes misting over.

"So how has been your life, Anwar?"

"Difficult. Things do not go well."

And he poured out his woes and ambitions and frustrations, divulging more about his schemes and goals than even his most trusted Coptic aides were told.

To his utter dumbfoundment, her replies were intelligent, insightful and very much on target.

"What is it you do that gives you such a mind?" Anwar Anwar-Sadat demanded.

"I am Everywoman. You need know no more."

"I ache to know all about you."

"Woman is mystery. Once you know all, I will cease to attract you."

Anwar Anwar-Sadat had to be satisfied with riddles. And he was. For a time. Nightly he told her of his day. And each night she advised him on the day to come.

One day he lamented the receding blue tide that was the seven continents.

"I cannot control the nations of the world. They are like mischievous children. If only they would cede some control to me. I could solve many of the world's problems. But the blue nations are reverting to green. In Bosnia my UNPROFOR has given way to a NATO thing called IFOR. If the tides continue to ebb, the only blue that will remain will be the seven seas."

To that, Mistress Kali made a reply that Anwar Anwar-Sadat at first dismissed as childish.

"Why not seek control of the seven seas?"

Anwar Anwar-Sadat was weighing a judicious reply, calculated not to offend, when Mistress Kali followed up with another thought.

"The oceans of the world cover three quarters of the face of the globe. It is the source of food, life and is the oldest medium for intercontinental travel. It keeps nations apart, yet connects them by commerce. He who controls the ocean controls the landmasses. Control of landmass equals control of the world."

"This is an astute observation. But oceans are international. No one political body controls them."

"The oceans are controlled for two hundred miles out by nations that have encroached on waters that for centuries were free of man's domination."

"Yes, yes, that last round of treaties expanded them. This was to protect fishing rights. This was twenty years ago. Before my tenure, you understand."

"From where I view the world, two hundred miles is insufficient for the needs of most nations."

"This may be true," Anwar Anwar-Sadat admitted. "But to extend it any farther would invite disastrous conflicts."

"Exactly why the two-hundred-mile limit should be rolled back, and control over coastal waters and deep-sea oceans should fall where it rightfully belongs-under United Nations control."

"This is an intriguing idea. We already speak to this issue in many respects. There is a UN-sponsored international treaty that will allow signatory nations to board and detain violators of recognized fishing regulations. But it will be years before nations sign in sufficient numbers to give it teeth."

"Is it not clear that the extension of the two-hundred-mile limit has only worsened the pillage of the oceans?" Mistress Kali continued. "Today there is virtually no coastal fishery that has not been fished out. This could have been avoided had only your forces taken control of the situation."

"You are unusually well-informed. May I ask where you were educated?"

"I am a student of human nature."

"You are the most brilliant woman I have never met," Anwar Anwar-Sadat typed, ending that bit of admiring whimsy with a smiley: :-)

He only wished there were some way to type out a heart, for he was utterly smitten by this creature who possessed the brain of a shrewd diplomat and the statuesque body of a goddess.

After that bewitching night, Anwar Anwar-Sadat had studied the situation and decided it was feasible.

He gave a speech warning of a global water crisis if the world's precious resources were not husbanded quickly. It was carefully calculated not to offend world governments. It said nothing of control of the seas or fishing rights.

And it sank like a lead balloon. Those newspapers that carried the story buried it on the obituary pages. This infuriated Anwar Anwar-Sadat. These days he found himself buried more and more in the obituaries. It gave him a very ugly feeling. Newscasts reported his remarks as a one-sentence summary just before the car commercials.

By the next day it was completely forgotten.

Except by Anwar Anwar-Sadat.

"There has been no interest expressed in my ideas, Pharaonic One," Anwar Anwar-Sadat informed Mistress Kali that evening.

"You are not a man to give up easily. All you need is an incident to draw attention to your cause,'' she replied crisply. He could almost hear her dulcet tones, though they had never actually spoken.

"I am not in the business of manufacturing incidents. Only in taking advantage of them," Anwar Anwar-Sadat replied unhappily, adding a frownie face: :-(

"Perhaps there is something I can do up here," replied Mistress Kali.

"What, my sweet?"

"Be patient, my Anwar. And if you do not hear from me for some time, understand I think of you hourly and work to fulfil all of your brave dreams."

After she had logged off, Anwar Anwar-Sadat did an impulsive thing. He was not given to impulsive gestures, but this one welled up from deep within him.

He kissed the cold blue computer-screen glass.

Chapter 6

Remo sent the cigarette boat skimming through the oil slick that had now spread an eighth of a mile over the site where the Ingo Pungo went down.

There was a sonar set on board. Remo had figured out how to turn it on, which was pretty good for him. He sometimes had trouble with the VCR.

Passing over the Ingo Pungo, he got a big dead blip. That was his first clue that he had it turned on correctly. Mostly it pinged and binged pointlessly.

Running past the site, he kept the boat on an easterly course. He figured he was looking for a submarine. Maybe the sonar would find it, maybe it wouldn't. Couldn't hurt to try, he figured. Perhaps he'd get lucky.

An hour passed and he watched his gas gauge. He wasn't much of a boater. Fortunately boats were simple. You just had to point the bow where you wanted to go and follow it. The hard part was making landfall. Remo preferred to just run them up on shore and hop out while the hull and propeller chewed themselves up on sand and rocks. Someday they'd build a boat with brakes.

In the end Remo didn't find the submarine so much as the submarine found him.

He got a string of noisy pings. The boat took him past the point of contact before he could check out the screen. Before the pinging stopped abruptly, the last ping sounded like a very big ping, so Remo brought the power boat around for another sweep.

The gleaming black submarine surfaced directly in his path.

It came up with the sail showing first. It lifted out of the water, a slab of blackness with a square of white on its side. Seawater cascaded and drooled from various places on the hull.

Then the long flat deck broke the surface.

Remo cut the power and let the boat glide toward the sub.

The sail loomed closer and closer. It dwarfed the power boat into insignificance.

At the last moment before collision, Remo turned the wheel, and the side of the boat bumped against the hull. He flung out a looped line, snagged a steel cleat and pulled the boat snug to the submarine.