H.M.S. Unseen (1999)

by Patrick Robonson

  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 1990 Château Lynch Bages.

  Sir Iain went out and produced a bottle of chilled sauternes, a 1990 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.

  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.”
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  “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.”

  “Which one do you like best?”

  “Don’t like any of them. But I don’t believe she’s sitting undiscovered somewhere in the English Channel. And, if you press me, the third. If she’d been hijacked for some political purpose, I guess we’d have heard. So I think she was boarded and stolen, and that she’s out there, and that the crew are dead. I do not believe Lieutenant Commander Colley would have left the training area. But I am 99 percent sure that submarine is not in the training area anyway. So someone else must have driven the submarine out.”

  “That’s precisely what I think, Iain. But my real question is firstly…who? Who’s driving her with such skill she’s never been caught for nearly two months? And where did she get her fuel from?”

  “We’re dealing here,” replied Sir Iain, “not just with a competent submariner. We are into the realm of sheer daring, ruthlessness, originality, illegality, and, not least, specialized competence in the Upholder-Class.

  “There’s only one man in all the world to fit that list. But, if I am to believe my American friends, that man’s dead.”

  “If I believed that, I would not be sitting here with you. Iain, I think he’s still alive, and I think he’s out there, driving Unseen.”

  “So, since you mention it, do I. Have for some time now. How about another glass of port?”

  “I think we may need another glass of port. Since we have more or less established that some kind of an Arab homicidal maniac is riding round in a silent submarine waiting to do something big. I cannot tell you what it will be like back home if he strikes again. It will finish this Republican administration.”

  “Shouldn’t wonder. Trouble is, I don’t know how to catch him. We don’t know where he is within 10,000 miles. Still, she was only on safety workup…she would not have much on board in the way of serious weaponry.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Dick Birley and I came to much the same conclusion. But it’s kinda tiresome, just sitting still, waiting for something to happen.”

  “I don’t really think you have a choice, Arnold. What can anyone do? Unless he makes a mistake. But judging by his track record, he’s not especially prone to those.”

  “I can get the Navy to put everyone on a heightened alert, for some spurious reason. But my fear remains, despite the apparent lack of weapons, that Adnam plans to hit another aircraft carrier.”

  “You think his luck might hold that long? I doubt it. I think if he tried again, you chaps would probably get him. Nonetheless, it is a worry. But there’s not much to be done…we just have to hope to God he makes a mistake.”

  The two admirals retired for the night at 2330. And Arnold Morgan lay next to the sleeping Kathy, trying to think of the glorious stretches of water they would see the next day on Sir Iain’s boat. Trying to cast from his mind the specter of Ben Adnam at the helm of another rogue submarine.

  201200MAY05. 15.52S, 55.10E. Course 360. Speed 9.

  The Santa Cecilia refueled Unseen for the final time shortly after midnight, 200 miles off the Bay of Antongil on the northern coast of Madagascar, close to the remote French Island of Tromelin. There remained just seventeen days of the journey back to Bandar Abbas, running deep up the Indian Ocean to the Gulf of Iran.

  The submarine had run perfectly all the way, but they were very short of food and water, and Commander Adnam was pleased to restock the galley.

  Back at Bandar Abbas, eagerly awaiting the arrival, was Admiral Badr. His plans to get the submarine home, without the prying eye of the U.S. satellite seeing them, were well in place. He was confident no one would see Unseen enter the new dry dock, and confident no one could possibly photograph her once she was inside.

  The Iranians had a very good hold on the U.S. satellite patterns and were able to predict accurately enough the gaps in overhead coverage. The submarine must make its 14-mile surface run across the shallow water to the harbor at 0130. That way she’d be in by 0245—thirty minutes before the next satellite would pass overhead.

  That was how they had landed the Russian weapons system in total secrecy when it arrived in March. The freighter had waited in the strait, right off the eastern tip of the Island of Qeshm, then run in fast across the shallows, right between satellite passes.

  Admiral Badr was amused at the success of the operation, but seethed inwardly at the humiliating fact that he and his Navy had to behave in this way because of the Great Satan. It was, he said, unconscionable that a foreign nation should subjugate the ancient rights of Iran to defend herself in any way she so wished.

  But all was well. One complete Russian Grumble missile system was safely installed in the workshop area at the deep-set end of the dry dock; the other three were being set up as part of the Naval air defense system. The new dock’s cranes were in place, as were the long galleries that would enable engineers easy access to the submarine. High, heavy-load-lifting apparatus crisscrossed the upper airspace right below the thick concrete ceiling. There were 50 guards on duty outside night and day. The barbed wire was in closer. And there was a second notice board erected right outside. It read, like the one near the main gate:

  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  INTRUDERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.

  Admiral Badr’s missile engineers had checked the system right through and, as far as they could tell, it was flawlessly constructed. It was brand-new, tried and tested over many months by the Russians in the Black Sea in their 10,000-ton guided-missile cruiser Azov. All that mattered now was Ben’s safe return with the submarine.

  The Russian freighter had delivered a stockpile of 96 weapons, which ought to be ample for their purposes, since Commander Adnam would require only six. And the Iranian admiral looked forward to the Mission of Justice with great anticipation.

  070100JUN05. 26.57N, 56.19E. Speed 2.

  Racetrack pattern in 150 feet of water.

  Unseen moved 50 feet below the surface, slowly, through the warm waters of the Strait of Hormuz, just to the east of Qeshm, waiting for the American satellite to slide away through the heavens.

  At 0130 Commander Adnam issued the orders to surface and head up to Bandar Abbas at 12 knots on course three-three-eight.

  And with that the ex–Royal Navy submarine came barreling out of the ocean, shaking the blue water from her decks in a cloud of white spray, the batteries driving her forward on her single shaft, the fastest she had moved since leaving Plymouth sixty-eight days previously.

  Ben Adnam and his navigation officer, Lieutenant Commander Rajavi, were on the bridge as they raced across the bay, the hot night air in their faces. Up ahead they could already see the lights from the Iranian Naval station, and soon they could spot the green light high on the right-hand wall of the harbor. The CO ordered a reduction in speed just outside the entrance, and at 0245 U
nseen ran fair down the northerly channel into the arms of her new Iranian masters.

  They made the hard 90-degree turn to the right, at the end of the harbor wall, and two small tugs maneuvered the 230-foot hull toward the dry dock. Ben Adnam stayed on the bridge, checking the tugs. At 0256 they slid into the new dock, way in, safely away from the vigilant photographer that would drift silently past, in nineteen minutes, miles above. The massive steel double doors were now closed across the entrance to shield the lights inside, where a small team of Navy personnel were waiting to welcome Unseen home. The outside door was constructed to take the full force of an incoming cruise missile without caving in.

  Ben Adnam walked across the gangplank onto dry land for the first time in four months. Admiral Badr was waiting, and the two men embraced, kissing on both cheeks several times in the old Muslim way.

  “How are you, Ben?” asked the Iranian submarine chief.

  “I’m tired,” he replied. “It’s been a long haul.”