H.M.S. Unseen (1999)

by Patrick Robonson

  “I doubt it, these days. Which two?”

  “Northern Fleet Typhoon TK-17. Northern Fleet Delta IV K-18.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  Admiral Morgan held on the line, drawing little submarines on his writing pad, as he usually did in times of stress. But in less than four minutes the Russian was back.

  “The Typhoon’s in the Pacific, way south of the Bering Strait, heading for Petrapavlosk. You’ll probably pick her up there on overheads tomorrow. The Delta IV’s in refit in the Baltic. Covered dry dock in St. Petersburg. That’s why you can’t see her. What else? I am anxious there should be no misunderstanding between us.”

  “Not much really. Pretty routine inquiry.”

  “Arnold, dear Arnold. On the day after your Vice President is killed in the crash of no less an aircraft than Air Force Three, probably the best-maintained passenger jet in the world…you get up at God knows what time to call me to ask about a couple of submarines that are doing no harm to anyone, especially the one that’s in hospital? I have leveled with you, my friend. Now you must level with me; otherwise, a very useful friendship for both of us will begin to lose its foundation.”

  “Crafty Russian motherfucker,” murmured Morgan, but not quite softly enough, not on the new crystal-clear international phone lines. He heard at the other end a roar of laughter from the giant ex–Soviet international oarsman.

  They both laughed, and Morgan knew he had to say something, although he was not sure precisely what that ought to be.

  Admiral Rankov saved him a lot of trouble. “Arnold, you don’t think someone shot those aircraft down, do you? And if the answer’s yes, you couldn’t possibly think it was us, could you?”

  “Vitaly, I do think someone shot them down. But I never thought you had anything to do with it. I now know you could not have had anything to do with it.”

  “Why? Because the two submarines are now accounted for?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you believe the aircraft were shot down by a missile launched from a submarine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus. Who has such a submarine? Not us.”

  “Nor us. But someone has. You haven’t fitted a surface-to-air system on someone else’s boat, have you?”

  “If we have, no one’s told me.”

  “Well, Vitaly old buddy, the last time there was an almighty calamity, the one involving our aircraft carrier, you’ll recall it all started with a missing submarine of yours.”

  “I’m unlikely to forget that.”

  “Well, if you have anything in the North Atlantic and it happens to trip over a diesel-electric boat with engine lines from a couple of British Paxmans, do me a favor, will you? Sink the sonofabitch, before it knocks out another airliner.”

  “Arnold, is this classified information? I presume you do not wish a word of this to get out?”

  “Vitaly. It’s as secret as any secret I have ever confided in you. Don’t let me down, will you?”

  “I would not dream of it, my friend. Basically you are telling me that someone stole or hijacked the Royal Navy’s Upholder-Class boat that went missing a year ago? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Correct.”

  “And he’s somehow converted it to have an antiaircraft missile, and now he’s out there, causing havoc?”

  “Correct. And remember, if they can hire one of yours, they can surely steal one from the Brits.”

  Admiral Morgan could not, of course, see it, but there was a broad smile beginning to decorate the Russian’s face. “Arnold, what kind of security do you have on Air Force Three? You do, of course, have missile jammers, decoys, and not just some kind of chaff?”

  “No, we never went that far.”

  “Arnold, I’m surprised. You really want to get that security beefed up. It’s a damned dangerous world out there. As you once told me, old comrade, stuff happens.”

  “All right, Rankov. All right. I’m hearing you. Don’t give me a difficult time. I’ve got enough trouble. But if you should see or hear anything in the area between 20 West and 30 West on the jet flight paths, lemme know, will you?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll put our two North Atlantic patrol submarines on alert right away. Just one thing, though, before you go…”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Remember…stuff happens.”

  012130MAR06. 57.49N, 9.40W. Depth 300. Course 90.

  Speed 8. Unseen runs quietly east in deep water.

  Commander Adnam’s task for his Iranian paymasters was over, the revenge of the Ayatollahs on the Great Satan complete. Three strikes. An eye for an eye. And now the former Israeli commanding officer was alone in his cabin, wondering whether he would find his reward of the final $1.5 million in his bank account. The Iranians had paid the first $1.5 million in three installments, without a murmur. The question was, would they now cut him loose? Or, more likely, have him assassinated and save the cash? I know what I’d do if I were the head of the Iranian secret service, he said to himself. I’d execute Benjamin Adnam forthwith.

  He sat with his loaded service revolver on the small table before him, his big desert knife sheathed on the belt beneath his jacket. He was writing a letter to his trusty navigation officer, Arash Rajavi. It read as follows:

  My Dear Arash,

  We have traveled far together in the short time of our acquaintance but, as you know, for many reasons I have to leave you. This letter is to confirm what you already know, that I enjoyed serving with you, and regard you as potentially a great submariner. I do believe this is a very good boat and will do much to further our cause.

  During your long journey home, please try to remember all that I have taught you. Keep your speed down to less than 8 knots all the way, run close to the coast of Ireland, get into the Bay of Biscay, staying inshore all the way round. Then run down the coast of North Africa to your refueling point. Your next stop is at Code Point Delta, 200 miles off the east coast of Madagascar, and after that I want you to make slowly for the coast of Somalia and Oman, and stay inshore where you will be much safer. In so doing you will be well clear of the American CVBG.

  Until we meet again, my friend, may Allah go with you. Commander B. Adnam.”

  He took the letter and sealed it in an envelope, on which he wrote carefully, “To be opened by Lt. Commander A. Rajavi after my departure. Commander B. Adnam.” It would not be long now.

  The telephone on his desk rang almost immediately, as he finished. It was the navigator reporting their position, and Commander Adnam ordered the Officer of the Watch to take Unseen to periscope depth. He put down the telephone and began to change into the wet suit he’d kept from their swim in Plymouth Sound. Over that he put on extra layers of the cold-weather clothing provided for the bridge watch-keepers in the North Atlantic. The gear rendered him as close to immune from cold, wind, rain, and snow, as made no difference.

  The commander placed his sheathed knife-belt around his waist and stored in the zipped pockets of his jacket a large envelope of cash, his revolver, his compass, his handheld GPS link, a small chart, and his paperweight, the one he had used to stun the would-be assassins when he left Iraq. He carried two sealed bags in which were stored civilian clothes and shoes, his passports, papers, a substantial supply of food and mineral water, his binoculars, and a flashlight. Then he pulled on his fur gloves. He had no need of a hat. The jacket had a tight fur-lined hood rolled into the collar. He concluded he could survive for several days in the open, should that become necessary.

  The CO picked up his bags and made his way to the control center, where there was already activity. The fishing boat was signaling about a mile off their port bow. Ben ordered them to surface and make their way toward the boat. The night outside was frigid, but the sea was calm, and the skies were clear. “We’ll make a straight ship-to-ship transfer,” he said. “Put the fisherman on your starboard side…deck crew to their stations.” Then he turned, removed his right glove, and asked his senior officers to enter
the control center.

  He said that he had been privileged to fight with men such as they. “And I believe you will all become very fine submariners. You have learned thoroughly and learned quickly…and I shall miss each one of you, although I have high hopes that we shall meet again.”

  Then he paused, and an immense sadness settled upon him as he prepared to part from the men with whom he had lived and worked for so long. For a moment he seemed lost for words, but then he extended his right palm, and, echoing the words of another commander, he said softly, “I should be obliged if each of you would come and take me by the hand.”

  And as they did so, they each understood the meaning of the word “camaraderie,” as perhaps only fighting men can, those who have faced danger together, but somehow come through it. Most of these young Iranians had been with their Iraqi-born leader for well over a year. Most of them had gone into the water with him in the outer reaches of Plymouth Sound on that black night when they had stolen the submarine. It was not yet clear in their minds that they were the most hunted men in the world. But they knew it was not over yet.

  By now the deck crew was preparing to secure Unseen alongside the still-moving, aged, rusting 200-tonner, Flower of Scotland. And there was urgency in their every move. Out there were the search ships of both the United States Navy and the Royal Navy. And the Iranians intended to be on the surface for the minimum time. It was understood among them that they would dive the submarine and, if necessary, leave the commander in the water should they be threatened.

  And now the fishing boat was lowering big fenders very low, its engines reversing, the captain himself throwing a looped continuous line over the rail to the submarine for the CO’s bags. Commander Adnam had his life jacket on, and they were hitching two lifelines to his belt. Transfers of this type can be extremely dangerous in the dark in mid-ocean, and there was tension in the air.

  The wide gangway was pushed out under the rail of the fishing boat, and the submarine’s deck crew hauled it over. They had just made it secure, when, somewhat to Ben’s surprise, a submarine officer he had seen several times in Bandar Abbas walked across and joined him on the casing.

  “Good evening, Commander,” he said. “I am Lieutenant Commander Alaam. I was responsible for hiring the boat; you will return it to Mallaig. The skipper knows the way.”

  “But I understood you were coming back with me,” replied Adnam.

  “Change of plan, sir. I am taking over Unseen all the way home.”

  “I see. But I have not briefed you.”

  “I presume you have briefed someone, sir.”

  “Of course. The navigation officer, Lieutenant Commander Rajavi, is in a position to take command. But the matter is nothing to do with me. I should speak to him immediately if I were you.”

  “Yessir. Good-bye, sir.”

  Commander Adnam turned once more to face his deck team for the last time. “Allah go with you,” he said.

  “And also with you, sir,” replied one of them.

  And with that Benjamin Adnam walked across to the Flower of Scotland and ordered the skipper to let go all lines and head due east with all speed. He stood on deck in the biting wind and watched Unseen pull away, running south. One minute later she was gone, beneath the dark waters of the North Atlantic in which she had caused such havoc.

  Then he turned and went immediately to the bridge and asked Captain Gregor Mackay to join him alone on the deck. His request was simple. “I want you to stop this ship immediately and hand over to me the rigid inflatable you have on the stern, I want her filled with petrol, and ready to go in five minutes. Also put a full four-and-a-half-gallon jerry can in the boat. Do it yourself, no one else.”

  “I canna do that,” said the captain, in a broad Scottish brogue. “I dinnae even own the ship.”

  Ben smiled at the old familiar accent he had heard so often during his days training at Faslane. He pushed away a million memories of the Scotland of his younger days and returned quickly to business, a subject he knew sits easily with any Scotsman, especially a fisherman. “How much is the Zodiac worth? She’s a 15-footer, right? With a 60 h.p. outboard?”

  “Yessir. I suppose £6,000, sir.”

  “Then if I give you £10,000 in cash, you’ll be well ahead, correct?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Then hurry, man,” snapped the commander, reaching into his bag for the cash and watching with some satisfaction as the fisherman from the Western Isles moved aft and began to fill the tank with gasoline.

  Seven minutes later, the ship was stationary, and the Zodiac was in the water, secured by a painter to the port-side rail. Commander Adnam handed over the money, and Captain Mackay counted it out very carefully. “Aye, sir, I think 200 of these 50-pound notes adds up very nicely.”

  Ben grabbed his bags, threw them down into the rubberized Zodiac. He climbed over the side, dropped onto the firm GRP deck, revved the engine, slammed her into gear, and took off into the night. Captain Mackay watched him go, half in amazement, half in ecstasy. “That young man is in a very great hurry,” he muttered. “But it was a pleasure doing business with him.”

  Ben Adnam moderated the speed as soon as he had put 200 yards between the Zodiac and the Flower of Scotland. He checked his global positioning system, then the compass, and settled into a steady 15 knots, which he would hold in an easterly direction for a little over two hours. He did not yet refer to his map. Instead, he made himself comfortable on the long rubber seat behind the wheel, pulled up his hood, and watched the lights of the fishing boat, heading southeast, over his right shoulder.

  The night was bitterly cold, but still clear as he moved swiftly across the calm sea. There was a slight swell, but the Zodiac rode that perfectly, the silence of the seascape broken only by the high-pitched whine of the well-tuned outboard. So far as Ben could tell there was no other ship in the vicinity, save for the Flower of Scotland, the lights of which he could still see 2 miles away.

  He checked his watch, which was still set for Greenwich Mean Time, and saw that it was 2320. He glanced again at the running lights of the fishing boat; then he turned back toward the east, where a rising moon was casting a thin silver path on the sea, lighting his way.

  Nonetheless, the mighty red-and-orange flash that lit up the sky over his right shoulder still turned the night into day. Two seconds later the thunder of the blast split the night air as the Flower of Scotland and her three-man crew were blown to pieces by a bomb that detonated right behind her engine.

  Ben Adnam watched the burning wreckage scatter downward onto the water. Then he shook his head, shrugged, and kept heading east.

  He knew it was a bomb. A torpedo from Unseen would have caused quite another kind of explosion, more muffled, less spectacular. And yet he was curious. Because he saw in his mind the tense, worried look there had been on the face of Lieutenant Commander Alaam. He remembered the way there had been no time for even the warm exchange of greetings so prevalent in the Muslim world. No time to discuss anything, not even to deliver the congratulations of their masters. Not a word about the success of the operation. Not even civility. Not even approval, far less warmth.

  The Iranian, in Ben’s view, had been a man on the edge of his nerves, taut, dry-mouthed, and desperate to get away. He had been too overwrought even to offer a reasoned explanation for the change of plan. In Commander Adnam’s view, he might as well have carried a placard with him which stated he had just booby-trapped the Flower of Scotland in order to kill their redundant employee, who knew too much.

  But Ben Adnam was still curious. “I wonder why,” he asked the empty ocean. “After all that I have done, some people still assume that I may be a fool?”

  So many lessons, for so many people. “Especially Captain Mackay,” he mused. “That was a hard way to learn there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

  His own situation was, however, only marginally better than that of the late master of the Flower of Scotland. Betrayed first by Iraq,
and now by Iran, he felt the horizons closing in. He understood the reasoning of the Ayatollahs—that he, Benjamin, was just too much of a liability. If they offered him shelter and perhaps more work in Iran, it would be a only matter of time before someone put together the pieces that made up his murderous six-week reign of terror in the North Atlantic.

  The Americans were plainly not going to sit still and forget about the acts of mass destruction he had perpetrated. There would be men in the Pentagon and the CIA, perhaps even the White House, who would never rest until he was caught. He knew, too, the icy cunning of the British military, who would eventually learn of his whereabouts and come after him.

  The Ayatollahs would be crazy to harbor him; he had always known that. It was nonetheless an emotional, if not intellectual, shock, that they had attempted to execute him quite so summarily, within a couple of hours of his leaving the superb submarine he had acquired for them. On reflection, he thought, I’m glad I played it safe. I just hope my crew is as lucky.