H.M.S. Unseen am-3

by Patrick Robinson

  “According to the Mossad, he’s dead. But I could not place my hand on my heart and say I know he’s dead. And I suspect neither could the Mossad. I’m scared shitless the bastard’s still alive. I’m scared shitless because he’s familiar with the U-Class…and I’m really scared shitless that he’s out there, driving HMS Unseen.”

  Rear Admiral Sir Richard Birley sucked in his breath between his teeth, an involuntary gesture made at the enormity of the American’s words. “Where do you think he’s going?”

  “That I don’t know. But if he’s taking weapons on board somewhere, I guess we have to face up to the possibility that he might be planning to slam a few more warships, ours, yours, whoever. He’s a Fundamentalist, working for Iraq. He hates the West…he’ll do anything to strike against us. We’ve already established that. But I can’t see him going home to Iraq. They simply do not have deep enough water to operate a submarine.”

  “Do we begin a search?”

  “I don’t know how. Your Unseen is like the Kilo, only even quieter. Can’t hear it. Can’t see it. I don’t know where to start. And I’m afraid to instigate anything. I just can’t advise the President to start looking for a submarine all over the goddamned oceans of the world when it might just have had a battery explosion and destroyed itself in the English Channel.”

  “No, I suppose not. But it didn’t, did it?”

  “No, Dick. No it didn’t. And the only ray of hope we have is there’s not really much he could do with it.”

  “No.”

  “I presume she has no weapons on board?”

  “True.”

  “And the Iraqis have nothing that would fit?”

  “I very much doubt it. Nor any trained crew to drive it…much less handle weapons.”

  “Then there’s not much left. I guess he could fill it with explosive and blow it up somewhere it could hurt the U.S.”

  “You mean something like the Statue of Liberty?”

  “Well, I dunno really. But I guess he could make a hell of a big bang somewhere.”

  “Seems a hell of a lot of trouble for a bomb. There are many better ways, easier ways, to make a major bang. I must say, it’s a baffling scenario.”

  “Which means, Dick, we better think about it real deeply, right? Keep me posted, won’t you?”

  Three hours later Admiral Morgan and Kathy arrived back at RAF Lyneham, where the KC 135 was ready to fly them all to Prestwick, way up on the western coast of Scotland, just south of the great championship golf links of Royal Troon.

  They arrived at 1530, and the admiral insisted on driving the Navy staff car himself with just Kathy on board. The four Secret Servicemen rode in a separate car right behind, with the communications equipment. And they headed north, as the admiral put it, line astern, up the A78 coast road, which winds along the spectacular shoreline of the Firth of Clyde until it heads back toward Glasgow along the south bank.

  But the admiral was not going that far. He drove 42 miles all along the water’s edge, then pulled into a small country hotel on the outskirts of the little port of Gourock, which stands on the headland where the Clyde makes its great left-hand swing down to the sea.

  “We’re anchoring here for the night,” he told Kathy. “The guys in the back have already made their security arrangements. You and I are going for a little walk; been sitting down all day.” They were shown immediately to their suite, which had a sensational view right across the water to the point of land where the Argyll Forest reaches down to the sea at the tiny fishing port of Strone.

  They watched a ferry moving lazily across the calm surface, and out beyond there was a big sailing yacht, heading northeast, with a light, chilly southwester billowing the mainsail. Farther east, a black-hulled freighter steamed steadily toward Glasgow. Admiral Morgan stood by the window, staring distractedly at the idyllic scene before him.

  They pulled on big sweaters and walked out into the late-afternoon sunlight, making their way along the shore for about a half mile before the admiral stopped and pointed directly across the deserted water. See that gap over there, between the town on the left?…that’s Dunoon…and the headland…right there on the right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s the entrance to the Holy Loch, the old American submarine base. That’s where we ran a Polaris squadron from…straight up there. Kept the world safe for a lotta years…right through the Cold War.”

  “You were there for a while, weren’t you?”

  “Sure was. Must have been thirty years ago. I was the sonar officer in a nuclear sub. We were only here for a couple of weeks…went right out into the Atlantic…right up to the GIUK Gap. It was deep cold water…watching for the Russian boats…tracking ’em…recording ’em. None of ’em ever got far without us knowing.”

  “What’s the GIUK Gap?”

  “Oh, that’s just the narrowest part of the North Atlantic…the choke point formed by Greenland-Iceland and the UK. The Russian Northern Fleet boats have to go through there to get out into the rest of the world…and they have to go through there to get back. That’s why we patrolled it all of the time.”

  “Why were you all so anxious to track them?”

  “Because submarines are very, very dangerous, and very, very sneaky. You just don’t want ’em wandering around on the loose when no one knows where they are. You have to keep an eye on them. If there’s one thing that makes me real nervous, it’s a submarine that’s somehow gone off the charts.”

  “Like that British one?”

  “Well, not really,” he said quickly. “The Royal Navy thinks that one is wrecked on the bottom of the ocean. And we have to accept that. But I’d like them to find it.”

  Kathy looked at him quizzically. “Well, my darling, I don’t know who you were seeing this morning…but I’d say your private thoughts had most definitely become business.”

  They both laughed. And he put his arm around her shoulders as they strolled leisurely the rest of the way to the harbor and watched the gulls wheeling in a noisy cloud at the stern of the departing evening ferry to Helensburgh.

  “That’s where we’re going tomorrow,” he said. “On the new car ferry. We’re visiting an old friend of mine…we’ll sleep late, then spend the afternoon getting there.”

  It was a pity the weather suddenly changed, but the clouds were beginning to roll in from the southwest, right across the Mull of Kintyre and the Isle of Arran, darkening the waters of the Sound of Bute, Rothesay, and the Clyde. By the time Arnold and Kathy reached the hotel it was raining lightly, and the water seemed misty.

  It was not much better the next day. In fact it was probably worse. The rain was steady, and they sat in sweaters and raincoats, outside on the upper deck of the ferry, under an awning. “This is a most beautiful part of the world,” said Kathy. “Is the weather always so miserable?”

  “Mostly,” replied the admiral. “A lot of people have summer homes up here on the lochs, but you couldn’t give me one. I remember the time I was here. It wasn’t much different from this the whole two weeks. And it was summer.”

  “But it is so beautiful. I expect they forgive the climate.”

  “I expect they do. There is a certain way of life up here — you know, golf, sailing, shooting, fishing. And there is a kinda coziness about log fires and whiskey, which is what they love. But it’s goddamned hard work, if you ask me. Just a place to visit. Give me a warm sunny bay anytime.”

  “So speaks the world beach expert, who hasn’t had a vacation since 1942,” said Kathy, giggling.

  “Jesus. I wasn’t even born in 1942.”

  “Precisely.”

  “It’s unbelievable, the insolence I have to put up with. You sure we oughtn’t to get married? So I can keep you in order.”

  “Quite sure, thank you. Unless you want to use that contraption in the leather case that Charlie’s carrying over there, and tell the President you’ve decided to bag his job and take to the hills.”

  “Heh, heh, heh.
Come on, we’re outta here…this is Helensburgh. Let’s get in the car…”

  They drove the black Mercedes off the ferry into the rainswept streets of the little Scottish town, with the Secret Servicemen right behind in the big Ford Grenada. The admiral did not require a map to pick up the A814. He found it with the ease of a man who had done it before, and headed north up the eastern bank of the Gareloch. “This is British submarine country,” he said. “Right there, that’s the Rhu Narrows…used to be a very narrow channel leading up to the base at Faslane, where the Brits kept Polaris. They widened it for Trident.”

  Kathy stared out at the black waters. Just the thought of a submarine running down there gave her the creeps, and she thought of what Arnold must have looked like thirty years ago, perhaps standing on the bridge in his uniform, bound for the dark, cold wasteland of the North Atlantic.

  Arnold, too, was preoccupied, looking at the waters of the loch. But he was wondering about a trainee submarine commanding officer, who had also spent time here, learning the craft which had caused the United States Navy so much heartbreak. I just wish I knew whether that little bastard was alive or dead, he thought. That way I might have a better idea whether Unseen was alive or dead.

  They drove on in silence for a while until they reached the small town of Arrochar, way up at the head of Loch Long, 15 miles from Helensburgh. There the admiral announced a course change onto the A83 through the forest, all along the foothills of The Cobbler, a craggy Scottish mountain that has marked the way home for submariners for generations.

  “We’re making a westerly course, now,” the admiral told Kathy. “For about 16 miles, then we run down the coast of Loch Fyne to Inverary. I’ll show you a castle there that belongs to the Duke of Argyll. We’ll go and take a look while the guys check into The George; that’s a local pub.”

  This took about an hour, driving around to find a suitable vantage point to see the famous four round towers of the castle, and the Secret Servicemen took even longer to organize their phone linkups. They decided to have dinner at the pub restaurant in two shifts, one at 1800 and one at 2100, since two of them would be on duty at all times of the night.

  Kathy and the admiral finally arrived at the big white Georgian house on the shores of Loch Fyne at 1730. It was still raining, and they were greeted by a tall, elegant-looking man of about sixty, with greying hair and a beautifully cut country suit.

  Impeccably mannered, he turned to Kathy, and said: “Hello, I’m Iain MacLean, and I am delighted to meet you.”

  “He sells himself short, Kathy,” interjected Arnold Morgan. “He’s really Admiral Sir Iain MacLean, former Flag Officer of the Royal Navy’s Submarine Service, and in the opinion of some people, the best submariner this country ever had.”

  The two men shook hands warmly. They had not met for several years since the Scotsman had served a stint in Washington. But they had been in phone contact during the Jefferson investigation, in which the retired Royal Navy officer had played a pivotal role, as the Teacher who had actually taught Benjamin Adnam how to command a submarine.

  At this moment the introductions were cut slightly short, because the front door was opened by a classic-looking Scottish country lady, just as a pack of three black lunatics burst around the side of the house in a rambunctious trio of tail-wagging Labrador bravado. The first two, Fergus and Muffin charged forward and climbed all over Kathy, but the third one, not much more than a puppy, with feet like saucepans, took a cheerful rush at the American admiral, leapt up, and planted his muddy paws right in the middle of his white Irish-knit sweater.

  “Iain! Iain! For God’s sake get those bloody dogs under control. They’re supposed to be trained gundogs, not street hooligans,” called Lady MacLean, but it was too late for that.

  By now Admiral Morgan had decided to grab the puppy and lift him up; that way he could get a better grip on him, despite having his face licked. Kathy, who had dogs of her own, coped extremely well, and Sir Iain apologized.

  “Don’t bother apologizing to me,” said the national security advisor. “I love these guys, what’s this one called?”

  “He’s new. I call him Mr. Bumble. Annie thinks he’s an absolute bloody menace.”

  “Well he is a bloody menace,” said Lady MacLean. “This morning he went into the loch, then rushed through the drawing room straight over one of those sofas. It took me an hour to clean it.” Then she laughed, and added, “By the way, I’m Annie MacLean…Arnold, lovely to see you again…and you must be the beautiful Kathy?”

  It was second nature to this very senior officer’s wife to put younger people totally at their ease. She had spent a lifetime doing it, as a captain’s wife, a rear-admiral’s wife, and finally as a vice-admiral’s wife: being charming to the wives of lieutenants, knowing their husbands were terrified of Iain.

  But she made it all very easy, and the butler, the red-bearded Angus, came out and took the luggage, before showing the Secret Servicemen to a small downstairs room next to the kitchen, where they could have some tea and watch the television during the early part of the evening.

  Then Annie took Kathy into the big kitchen with her, while the two retired admirals made their way to the great wide drawing room with its perfect southern aspect over the loch.

  “Christ, Arnold, she’s an absolute stunner,” said Sir Iain softly as they settled into the sofa Mr. Bumble had done his resolute best to destroy that morning. “Matter of fact, I’m slightly afraid she might be a bit too good for you.”

  Arnold Morgan chuckled. He had always been extremely fond of the droll, aristocratic Scotsman, and he had much to talk to him about. Iain MacLean was one of the very few people in any navy to whom he was prepared to defer in matters of strategy, history, and intention. They were both thoroughly learned men in the art of Naval warfare, its execution, and its prevention.

  Dinner that evening was substantial. They began with wild, local smoked salmon, served with a white burgundy. Then Angus brought in a large, hot, baked Scottish game pie, which Kathy thought was about the best thing she had ever tasted. She could not identify its contents, but according to Sir Iain neither could anyone else. “I’ve always thought it was grilled stag with slices of barbecued golden eagle,” he said. “Annie’s got a warlock in the village who makes them.”

  “Don’t listen to him, my dear,” said Lady MacLean. “It’s a perfectly normal game pie, made by Mrs. MacKay. She also makes them for The George. I expect some of the meat has been frozen, but it’s got some pheasant, grouse, and venison…and I think a few oysters.”

  “Well, I think it’s delicious,”, said Kathy. “And so does Arnold. I think that’s his twelfth slice.”

  “Eighth,” muttered Admiral Morgan, chewing luxuriously and sipping a glass of velvet 199 °Château Lynch Bages.

  Sir Iain went out and produced a bottle of chilled sauternes, a 199 °Château Chartreuse, which they sipped with the poached pears Lady MacLean served for what she referred to as “pudding.” Which her husband took pains to point out was a particularly “bloody silly English phrase for dessert…used mainly as a way for pretentious middle-class snobs to differentiate themselves from the riffraff.”

  “Well, I’m not a pretentious middle-class snob,” said Lady MacLean with an edge of indignation.

  “No. I know you’re not, since your father’s a ninth generation Scottish earl. That’s why I said mainly. I mean…‘pudding.’ What kind of a word is that? Bloody ridiculous.”

  “Well that’s what our schools taught us. That’s what everyone I know says.”

  “Most of ’em probably only say it because you do. That’s what snobbery is…. Kathy…how about some sauternes…with your pudding?”

  By 2230 the party was drawing to a close. Lady MacLean announced that she was on her way to bed, and Kathy said she thought that was a sound plan. Admiral MacLean said he thought he and Arnold might wander over to the study for a medicinal glass of port before retiring and chat about old times for a half hour.<
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  They walked across the hall together, and Sir Iain closed the door behind them. He put another dried log in the dying embers of the fire and poured them each a glass of Taylor’s ’78 port from a decanter. The log crackled into life, and they sat among the admiral’s collection of books, in deep leather armchairs. Sir Iain touched a button on a music system to his left, and the unmistakable sounds of Duke Ellington drifted around the room.

  “Goddamned Brits,” said Admiral Morgan. “You guys have a real way of living life, which I sometimes think we have not quite mastered in the U.S.”

  “We’ve just been at it a bit longer,” said the Scotsman, smiling. “Probably learned a bit more about what’s important. We’re not here that long, you know.”

  “We’re too busy being successful,” said the American. “Still, I guess we might get there in the end.”

  “Actually, I’d rather like you to get there now,” said Sir Iain. “What is it, Arnold, that really brings you here? As if I don’t know.”

  “If you do, tell me.”

  “It’s that damned submarine, isn’t it.”

  “Yes, Iain. Yes it is.”

  “And what is it that you want from me? I’m long retired as you know. Very out of touch, really.”

  “I know one thing. Your brain’s no more out of touch than mine is. I just want to know what you think. Is it still floating? Or is it history? Is everyone really dead?”

  “Well, Arnold, I thought after two weeks that they would have found it. And I’m now drawn to the conclusion that it isn’t there. Look here, they found the bloody Affray after five weeks, without any modern equipment. My opinion is that Unseen is not wrecked and did not destroy herself. No one hit her with a torpedo. Otherwise, something would most definitely have been found.”

  “Well, where is she?”

  “Three possibilities. The crew went berserk and stole her to get away from their wives. But you might have thought they’d have run out of fuel by now. The second is that the ship was hijacked, for political purposes. The third that she was stolen.”