The Chase: One Courageous Skipper Battling The Perilous Evil Out To Destroy Him. (Sea Action & Adventure)

by Herzel Frenkel

  The Chase

  A sailing adventure

  By Herzel Frenkel

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Herzel Frenkel and Gaveta publishing, 2014

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

  Contact: htf@orange.net.il

  ISBN 978-965-92327-1-0

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWETY FIVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  The rocky, mountainous, Western coast of Turkey descends steeply into the dark, blue water of the Aegean Sea. This Northern extension of the Mediterranean, once the playground of the Ancient Gods, is now a sailing paradise for modern-day sailors. Wind, mostly Northern to North-eastern, is abundant, rolling down the hills of Anatolia, breeding gentle waves across the timeless waters. Storms, ocean style, are quite rare and never occur in the summer.

  A white boat sailed at six knots, her bow slicing the calm waters, soaring through them with a majestic serenity. Her transom glittered in the reflection of sunlight bouncing off the long wake she lay behind her. Her name was written in black letters across the transom –GALATEA - and smaller letters, centered below her name showed her home port – RHODES. She carried a white mainsail and a large Genoa on her masthead ketch rig.

  Her skipper, Avri Keren, watched the rugged dark Turkish coast with an uneasy eye. There was something vaguely ominous about the black, rocky hills plunging sharply into a bottomless coast that offered no refuge for a troubled boat and no anchorage but for a few bays.

  Even if I do survive the rocks, Avri thought, the authorities would be typically mean and greatly bureaucratic. Although the people of Turkey are generally sociable in nature, it would, nonetheless, be a bad place for trouble to happen - any trouble.

  He perched, ill at ease, in his favorite spot – the Starboard aft corner of the cockpit. The wind picked up toward the last hours of the day, blowing down the Turkish hills at a steady fourteen knots. The Galatea sailed some three miles west of the coast. At this distance, on the lee of the land, the wind does not have the strength over the water to produce waves. The combination of brisk wind and calm waters is the major component of a sailor’s paradise. Avri Keren, like most sailors, enjoyed and searched. He could have sailed a direct course from Bodrum to Mikonos, shaving as much as five hours off this 125-mile trip, but he didn’t. Sailing, like romance, has its own pace and should be navigated along the right course, or else the whole affair loses its meaning.

  He noted the compass heading – 345º, somewhat west of north. The log registered 023 miles, still 15 miles before he would point her on a 265º course, heading directly toward Mikonos. Mickey – the automatic pilot, kept the boat steady on her course effortlessly. Minute wind shifts were handled almost imperceptibly by little adjustments of the tiller.

  The sun had started its descent into the Greek horizon when Avri got up and headed toward the cabin. Although it was his fifth season of sailing these waters, he, nonetheless, felt restless. Avri trusted his navigation. The boat was fine and the weather steady, yet still he felt uneasy. He thought he would treat himself to a short glass of Pertsovka Vodka, or perhaps tune the radio to the Monte-Carlo pop station for some relaxing music. He had to do something. At times he welcomed the tension, appreciating some anxiety to spice up his otherwise placid sailing vacation.

  He had just walked two steps forward, and stooped down to duck under the boom when the boat was hit. The Galatea had come to a sudden stop. Avri was hurled forward like a harpoon from a cannon. His head hit the bulkhead with a horrible blow, absorbing his one hundred and sixty pounds of momentum. He heard the loud crunching noise of the bow crashing into something solid, or perhaps it was the sound of his skull smashing against the bulkhead.

  While his mind lurched sickeningly in the last dazed vestiges of consciousness before merciful oblivion, all his efforts were directed towards determining which sound belonged to which impact. This seemed to be the most urgent problem of his life. If he could only understand the sounds, analyze the noises and group them neatly according to cause, origin, magnitude and frequency…

  And then the pain came, like a tidal wave of the sea, growing sharper and stronger every second. He could actually trace it from the piercing pain at the top of his skull where his head had hit the solid fiberglass bulkhead, spreading down his neck and shoulder like tentacles of an octopus, escalating to a dull nauseating throb throughout his body. His skull felt huge and heavy and his vertebrae were about to collapse under the agonizing load. The bleeding hadn’t even begun when a choking fog of the most horrible pain he could ever imagine engulfed his dazed mind until there was nothing more.

  His body slumped on the cockpit floor like a wet bag of sails. The wind-vane, mounted above the stern, fluttered slightly as the boat turned into the wind. The headsail started luffing, fluttering its leading edge toward the Turkish hills. The Galatea lay still in the water, her sails flapping in the wind, the tiller swinging about, loose, and her skipper lying unconscious on the floor. She stayed still for a few minutes, as if lost and unable to decide what to do. Then, seemingly realizing Avri wasn’t getting up, the Galatea started taking care of herself. With the balance of forces disturbed, the boat turned slowly off the wind. The mainsail, once more full of air, started pulling the boat forward all by itself, as if to justify its name. The rudder started to turn the stern to weather as water resumed flowing over its surface. Each additional degree turned added another fraction of a knot to her speed and, in turn directed her closer to her original course. As if guided by an invisible helmsman, the delicate balance of forces incorporated into her design by her creator guided the Galatea back onto her original course.

  The Galatea sailed again at six knots, her bow slicing the calm water with a majestic serenity, heading on 345º - and her skipper completely still unconscious on the cockpit floor.

  * * * * *

  Something heavy was enveloping him like a wet blanket, pressing his body down to the floor. It was totally dark under that shroud, and cold. Yet everything seemed O.K. as he lay safe, and motionless, unwilling to move a muscle. His semi-conscious brain accepted everything as normal - except for a pounding sound that reverberated with a slow, percussive rhythm throughout the hull. Something was pounding somewhere against something else, and this, he knew, was wrong. He tried to analyze the sound, to determine its origin and cause
, but was unable to concentrate. His mind looped like a scratched record, beginning the whole procedure over and again

  It was well past midnight before he had gathered sufficient strength to stay awake long enough to think with any amount of reason. Unfortunately, burgeoning consciousness carried with it that terrible pain.

  Still lying on the cold floor, he slowly began to recollect the events of the past two days…

  The weather was perfect as he departed from Lod airport in Israel. It was his annual vacation time, as he had done for the past five years. Avri Keren, age 38, an engineer by profession and a sailor by heart, was on his way to the sailing paradise that lay between Turkey and the Dodecanese islands in the Aegean Sea.

  He stood five feet nine, with a dark Mediterranean-style complexion, short curly hair and black, shining eyes. His rounded face extended a ready smile, which made him look considerably younger than his 38 years. His shoulders were broad and strong, developed during a very active youth, but his waistline showing warning signs of too much sedentary office work. He was still in good shape though, with his gait both agile and self-assured. He considered the slight potbelly a temporary situation of unknown reason. He wore light blue jeans and a white short-sleeve shirt. He carried a small white duffle bag containing just the basic necessities.

  These ‘Greek cruises’, as he called them, had, for almost ten years now, been his favorite vacations. Five years ago, when his divorce from Ruth became final, it became his only vacation, and, in many respects, his primary passion in life. It was then that he had bought the boat: a 1969 British built Nautik-36. He named her Galatea after the statue King Pygmalion of Cyprus had carved of ivory, which then, according to the Greek mythology, came to life, eventually leading the king to fall in love with his own creation. The love Avri felt for the boat and the joy of being with her – be it sailing, working or dreaming, inspired the name.

  ‘Greek cruises’ were Avri’s escape to serenity, to simplicity and freedom of mind. Every year he toyed with the idea of staying on the sea for life, extending his vacation forever, yet he knew that he could not bear this placid existence for any extended length of time.

  He recalled landing in Athens, waiting three hours for the Olympic Airline 727 flight to Rhodes - to his Galatea. It was slightly before five o’clock in the afternoon when he boarded the boat at Mandrake harbor. There was no one on board. No one was supposed to be there; just him and the boat. Not a passionate orgy but a simple love affair, a most honest and wholesome encounter only a sailor can have with his boat. The Galatea knew it too. She moored there waiting, her mast gleaming proudly toward the blue sky, reaching for the sailing clouds, her shiny hull bobbing with the little wavelets as they rolled in from the harbor entrance at the tip of the ancient breakwater.

  That evening Avri went to Kostas, his dear friend and partner. They had owned the boat for four years now. The mere fact that Avri Keren of Israel paid every dollar she had cost, and kept paying every Drachma it took to keep her up didn’t make him more senior than Kostas, who looked after her and took care of all her needs during most of the year. They both knew that a boat, much like a woman, thrives on love, affection and attention. These are the things that make the Galatea a living and loving mistress, and not merely a mass of fiberglass and paint. They both knew how to talk to the boat and they mostly knew how to listen to her, to the slow murmur of the rudder in the water, the soft sound of the wind in the rigging, the hum of the sails as they harnessed the wind. The Galatea talked to them in a thousand and one languages and they responded in their own.

  Kostas bid Avri happy sailing as they walked out into the narrow street. He knew Avri was anxious to get to the boat so he cut the evening short.

  “If you plan on sailing out tonight beware of some naval maneuvers they are having about ten miles northeast of the island. And," he continued in good, but heavily-accented English, "I have listed all the details in the logbook. I've also written down the barometer reading this morning and again at noon, so you do your own forecasting from there”.

  "Thanks,” Avri said shaking his hand. “And again, my compliments to your wife. The Dolmathes were superb and so was the Avgolemono soupa. I really am stuffed like a blowfish”.

  He walked through the narrow, winding streets to Mandraki harbor, then along the dock to the old quay on the south of the marina where his Galatea patiently awaited his return.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The crew of the small, secured electronics chamber in the mid-quarters of the submarine felt a slight jolt as their antenna tower hit the bow of the Galatea. What most drew their attention though was the sudden disappearance of all the blips from the green monitors they were watching. Grisha, tall with a sparse novice’s mustache and smooth dark hair was wearing a set of supersensitive Japanese earphones. He plugged the phone jack into another channel, turned several dials and tapped a few knobs on the control panel. Nothing. His listening post was dead. He turned in his swivel chair to meet the puzzled look of his two comrades.

  The ELINT station of the U.S.S.R. submarine Slavianka was totally dead.

  Yuri, the senior of the three technicians, picked up the heavy black telephone, which connected him directly to the Captain on the bridge.

  Second officer Vladimir Korchenko answered the phone, the second on the left. It had a buzzing sound rather than the usual beep of the other telephones in the submarine. This one was the direct line to the ELINT room. ELINT, ELectronic INTelligence, was the primary reason for the existence of this submarine. In fact, it was the only reason. This category of Russian submarines was dubbed by NATO WHISKY CANVAS BAG.

  Anything to do with the operation of the ELINT system was handled directly by the Captain.

  Captain Valerie Nickolaiev Poliakov reached the ELINT room which was situated some ten feet down from his cabin, within seconds. He rushed into dimly lit room with a brisk step that belied his forty years of service. The three technicians jumped to attention, expecting the worst.

  “What happened comrade Yuri,” he snapped while they were still at attention.

  Second lieutenant Yuri Kovak tried to be brief yet concise: “At this time it seems that something failed somewhere between the receivers and the antenna system. It could be one of the intermediate R.F. amplifiers, or possibly the main supply to the phase detector network”.

  Hesitantly he looked at his comrades and then added awkwardly, “It is almost as if we lost the whole microwave antenna”.

  “Call the repair crew”, said the Captain in a calm, authoritative voice, “I am sure it’s those damn amplifiers. We can’t have lost the antenna. We keep an eye on every darn vessel within five miles around us. There is no way we could have hit a ship without noticing her, the sound of her engines or the loud flaps of her screw in the water. It must be those amplifiers. Let me know as soon as it’s fixed”.

  He looked at his watch and walked out. It was 17:14 G.M.T. Captain Poliakov decided to spend the forty-five minutes left until mealtime inspecting his sub, surprising crew and officers alike.

  Four hours later the chief ELINT officer informed the Captain of his final diagnosis: “It’s the antenna system, comrade Captain,” he said tensely. “We’ve checked everything over and again. It's either a massive cable failure at the antenna base or something in the antenna itself”.

  Anxiety in the room grew tense. They all knew the meaning of what was said.

  “Say it out loud, comrade,” the Captain said somberly. “We’ll have to surface now, right?” and, without waiting for an answer he walked, out leaving his ELINT crew still nervously standing at attention. They all knew their mission was not quite legitimate. They were cruising underwater in NATO’s backyard, spying on electronic activities in the area. It was obvious the Slavianka could not surface in broad daylight. Even at night it would be unsafe to do so. There were rumors of American satellites now capable of picking up and tracking a single car in the middle of Moscow’s Red Square. It would be easy for such a satellite
to track down a massive one thousand and fifty ton submarine floating in the calm waters of the Aegean Sea.

  Captain Poliakov stood up, facing his senior officers who were assembled in the mess hall, which served also as conference room in the space-starved vessel.

  “Comrades! We face a serious situation. I trust every one of you to do his very best so we can solve this problem in a manner befitting a unit of the great Soviet Navy. Should we fail to solve this crisis honorably, we will disgrace our ship and our country.”

  They all recognized the implicit warning in his words. Exposure of the submarine in these waters would lead to an international scandal, as well as a personal hell for each and every one of them. There were rumors of a submarine sinking in the Pacific in 1960, and the hype that ensued afterwards. The stories varied in detail, but they all had a very unhappy ending.

  “Turning back home is not an option,” the Captain continued. “A Soviet ship does not turn tail for every little problem.” Some of them suspected it was his own tail the Captain was protecting rather than the integrity of the Russian Navy. “I want your recommendations for a safe check-and-repair operation of the ELINT antenna”. He didn’t mention the word surfacing, yet it was definitely implied by what he said.

  “Comrades,” he continued with a bit of pathos, “this is the time when your country demands the most of you. Do not let her down”.

  The room went silent for a while. The low and steady hum of the electric motors dominated the space. Being used for spy missions, the Slavianka was modified to run extremely quietly, enabling her to approach vessels and ground installations without being detected.

  “With your permission comrades, I would like to point out some places which, I believe, may be suitable for surfacing without getting detected.” It was the navigation officer who interrupted the silence. He spread a 1:100,000 map on the table and tapped a nervous finger upon it as he explained: