H.M.S. Unseen (1999)

by Patrick Robonson

  He had experienced the feeling of desolation when he had walked from Baghdad almost two years previously. But that night it was a hundred times worse. Because he could not go back to the Middle East, where he was wanted as no Arab had ever been wanted. Three powerful governments, Israel, Iraq, and Iran, had all made determined attempts to assassinate him. He had to face it. There was nowhere for him to go. He was, as usual, on his own.

  For the moment, he must concentrate on survival in the short run. He could feel the chill of the night upon his face as the Zodiac ran on toward the island. He pulled out his chart, and he checked the GPS and the compass. He held the little boat steady on course zero-nine-zero and, facing the east, prayed silently to his God to forgive him.

  The trouble was, he needed to get into his bag for the flashlight, and he needed time to look at his chart, just to check. Rather than attempt to hold his course during those routine navigational procedures, he switched off the motor and stopped. And there, solitary in the gusting chill of the Atlantic, Ben Adnam once more studied his bearings. He had already programmed in the way points, and after two minutes of checking, he kicked over the engine and headed east again, course, zero-nine-zero.

  As expected, the GPS told him he was about 15 miles west of the four lonely, uninhabited islands of St. Kilda, which sit in gale-swept isolation, at the mercy of the open Atlantic, 50 miles west of the rest of the Hebridean Islands, and 110 miles from the Scottish mainland. They are the most westerly point of the British Isles, save for the great granite slab of Rockall, which lies another 180 miles closer to North America.

  Commander Adnam was headed for the largest of the St. Kilda group, named Hirta, which is these days referred to simply as St. Kilda, separate from the trio of tiny neighboring islands of Soay, Boreray, and Rona. The combined population of the four is easy to calculate. Zero.

  Before the 1800s the only way out to St. Kilda from the Scottish mainland was in a rowboat pulled by the men of the Isle of Skye. It took several days, and nights, and even today it can be impossible to make a landing in the massive seas that have battered the islands since the dawn of time.

  Ben knew the problems, and he knew how swiftly the weather could change out there. He could feel the wind freshening a little from the southwest, and he thanked his God it was not from the southeast, because a gale from there renders the only landing place on the entire island, Village Bay, unapproachable. He had been to St. Kilda once before, during his submarine training with the Royal Navy, but they had not landed, and, so far as he knew, no British Navy warship had ever put into Village Bay. Not even in the deep water on the outer edges.

  He just had to pray the weather held and that he could get into shelter unobserved. Instinct was telling him to open the throttle fully and go for it. But that would use too much gas. And, besides, much more important in his mind, it would betray panic, a lack of professionalism. Ben Adnam despised amateurs.

  He shined the flashlight on the chart again, noted the depth of the water, and the precise position of his way points along the route to the beach. He noted once more that the southeastern tip of St. Kilda was separately named Dun, a high, jagged promontory, three-quarters of a mile long. The chart showed that there was a channel between Dun and the main part of the island. But it was very narrow, and shallow at low water, strewn with rocks. At one point the chart was showing zero depth at low tide, and the former commander of HMS Unseen had long assumed he would go right around the long headland of Dun, despite the extra twenty minutes running time that would add to his journey into Village Bay. If he revved the propeller on the rocky floor of the Dun channel, he knew he would be finished.

  With the slight rise of the wind, the night grew a little darker, as lower clouds drifted northeastward out of the Atlantic, a high thin layer of cirrus, covering the moon. But none of it worried Ben. He knew everything he would see in the dim, diffused light. And he recognized the cloud for what it was, the precursor of an Atlantic low, bringing rain on a southwest wind, with reasonably warm temperatures.

  Commander Adnam was satisfied he had his mission under tight control, including the weather, his precise course and position. Not for him the nagging dread of less experienced helmsman at the dead of night with no radar, that of being swept against the cliffs or the rocks, in a following sea, which he had.

  He stayed deliberately on the southerly edge of a planned track that would take him within a mile of the terrible black cliffs of St. Kilda. But he would see them in the dim light, even if the GPS failed.

  The Zodiac went on for another fifty minutes, 12.5 miles, planing comfortably at just below 15 knots. Then he cut back the engine and chugged forward quietly, just at idling speed. Suddenly, he could see the shape of the island—bang in front, a monstrous cliff, topped by a massive 1,000-foot mountain peak, glowering out over a shallow bay. He could also see yet another peak, even higher, way back beyond the first one. He shined the light on his chart. “That’s it,” he murmured. “I’m looking at the twin peaks of Mullach Mor and Mullach Bi.” He checked the compass and saw that the GPS had not let him down.

  He stopped the engine and poured half the contents of his spare gas can into the fuel tank before setting off again at 5 knots. After ten minutes, he slowed right down, and turned inshore, and there, about 100 yards off his port bow, he could see the great rock stack of Hamalan, close to the tip of the Dun headland. He ran on for another 200 yards, then turned northeast in the dark, then right around into Village Bay, setting a course of three-four-two on his handheld compass.

  The Bay itself measured a mile across from Dun to its northern point. But the British had built a military base along that northern shoreline, and used it periodically as a missile-tracking station for the rocket range at Benbecula on the main Hebrides Islands. According to Ben Adnam’s guidebook, the British Army made a foray to their base every two weeks, when a couple of soldiers would land and stay for two days, checking the island over, particularly their electronic equipment.

  Commander Adnam thus headed quietly into the western edge of the bay, where the chart told him he could land and secure his boat behind a rocky outcrop and out of sight of the north shore. He would then proceed on foot to the military base, which he hoped would be deserted, with a store full of gasoline. If there were soldiers in residence, he proposed to move into one of the original old islanders’ cottages, which were currently being restored by the Scottish National Trust and the Scottish National Heritage in the summer months, and wait out the soldiers’ forty-eight-hour tour of duty. He had sufficient food and mineral water to last him at least that long.

  He ran without incident onto the dark shore of Village Bay. Given the calmness of the sea, he was surprised at the rough water breaking onto the shore. He steered the Zodiac right in, but heaved the engine up as the bow hit the shingle. As it clicked into its secure position, he darted forward with the painter in his right hand and jumped off the bow into a few inches of water.

  He waited for the next wave to come in and lift the much heavier stern, moved left, and heaved the stern right around, with the raised rubber bow now headed to sea. He knew from long experience that even the smallest waves can wash right over the stern of a Zodiac, and quickly fill it with seawater and weed. The problem was, that the stern, with the suspended engine, was very heavy, and that was the part he had to pull. So he attached the anchor line to the wooden transom, and every time the sea lifted the boat, Ben pulled on that line, until the Zodiac was on relatively dry shingle. Then he wrenched it around and dragged it farther up the beach into the shadow of the rocks, where it would not be seen unless someone fell over it. It remains a sailor’s mystery why it is so difficult to haul a 15-foot rubber hull backward, but hardly any trouble to pull it forward.

  He leaned on the rocks and opened one of his bags, devoured a cheese sandwich and swigged greedily at a bottle of water. He was in the lee of the wind, but it was still cold, and he pulled on his hood again as he set off toward the military camp. Be
n moved quickly over the beach toward the old church and manse, where St. Kildans had often spent nine hours a day on Sundays, before they finally evacuated the place in 1930 after a thousand years.

  The old white-painted church actually stood just beyond the camp, but it provided excellent cover from which to observe the military buildings. And the submariner stayed low, finally coming off the beach some 40 yards beyond the Army huts on the north shore. He reached the moonlit shadows of the church and edged around them until finally he faced the camp.

  There, to his irritation, he saw lights in two rooms, and as he drew nearer he could hear the unmistakable hum of a generator. As if to confirm his worst fears, there was an Army Land Rover parked right outside the door. No doubt. There were two soldiers, at least, in that building.

  Ben swiftly reassessed his options.

  A) He could check out the building, break in and kill both men immediately, drive his boat over, fill it with gas, and leave. But that would be messy, and the murder of two British soldiers would quickly cause an uproar he did not need, as soon as the landing craft returned, probably the next day.

  B) He could hide his boat, and himself, until they all went away in a couple of days. Then he could break into the store and steal the gasoline. But that ran the small risk that the Army landing craft, which would probably come in during daylight, might somehow see the Zodiac as it crossed the bay. Or, the soldiers in residence might find his boat. That option was no good either. Too slow. Too many risks.

  He looked again at his watch. It was 0200. He moved back into the shadows, checked his chart, and went to Plan C. He would make his way back to the boat, deflate the inflatable sides, and pile shingle over and around it to disguise it from anyone approaching by water. Then he would find the main street, to the north of the camp, and get into one of the houses for better shelter overnight. The next day he would get around to his boat before it grew light at around 0900, and wait out the short daylight time until around 1500. Then he would go to work.

  By 0300 the boat was impossible to identify, and, carrying his two bags, Ben Adnam found his way to the line of village houses shown clearly on the map and shoved open the door to the one with the freshest paint. Inside it was cold, but out of the wind, and there was a sofa set in front of a fireplace. Ben decided not to risk a fire, but he spread out luxuriously upon the sofa and fell asleep. He clutched his big desert knife in his right hand, which rested on the floor.

  He awakened at 0800, ate a sandwich, drank more mineral water, and slipped out of the house into the chill of a March morning in the outer Hebrides. He pulled up his balaclava and left the road, moving cross-country back to the boat, staying out of sight and range of the Army buildings. Nothing stirred, save a gaggle of puffins on the beach and a passing gannet that had been fishing in the shallows.

  At 1100 he heard the Army Land Rover rev up and drive away. He could see two soldiers occupying both front seats. As they left, driving to the west, Ben carefully headed for the camp, and there, beyond the church, was the building where the lights had been on. There was nothing. Just silence. No sign of life.

  “Just the two of them,” said Ben to himself. “Excellent.” And he made his way back to the boat, where he waited out the daylight hours, watching the jeep return at around 1400.

  At 1700, Lieutenant Chris Larkman and burly Corporal Tommy Lawson, both of the Royal Army Service Corps, were playing cards in front of the electric fire that warmed their spartan room, when the young officer put down his losing hand and walked slowly over the to north window.

  “Anything the matter, sir?”

  “No. Nothing. I just thought I saw a light, way up there on the headland, the Oiseval side.”

  “Well, sir, unless it was a plane crash, I’d judge that as totally unlikely.” The accent was flat, East London, in contrast to the harder public-school tones of the commissioned man.

  “Very unlikely, Corporal Lawson. It must have been a reflection through the window.”

  “Yessir. As a matter of fact I’m very pleased it was nothing because I’m about to take command of this game.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it, Corporal. Nor would you if you could see the load of rubbish I’m playing with.”

  “Right, sir. ’Ow about that,” he replied, laying down the ace, king, queen, and jack of spades, plus the other three kings.

  “Christ, Corporal. That’s a lot too good for me…hey…wait a minute. I could have sworn I just saw that light again.”

  “Where, sir? Let me ’ave a look.”

  The thirty-two-year-old Lawson joined the twenty-five-year-old officer at the window. In the way of the British Army, it was the young elite assisted by the old stager, a combination upon which the British Army was built. Chris Larkman, whose grades at Bryanston had not been good enough to put him through a top university, had struck up a lasting friendship in the Army with the former failed bricklayer who now shared this remote island with him. And they would represent a formidable fighting unit, Larkman and Lawson, should push come to shove. The slim athletic, former Hampshire County rugby fullback, and the rough East Ender with iron in both fists.

  Lieutenant Larkman’s wealthy parents were bitterly disappointed that their son should have ended up in the RASC—“So much nicer in a good Guards regiment”—but Chris was happy, and he was considered by his superiors as a man destined for higher rank. Lawson was going nowhere, but he was fine where he was, a natural-born corporal, tough, bossy, sharp, irreverent, and a bugger when riled.

  He stood by the window with his superior, peering into the black night, up at the great escarpment of Oiseval, which rose fairly smoothly on the landward side, then ended with terrifying suddenness to seaward, like a giant apple sliced in half. The black cliff plunging down five hundred feet, almost sheer to the jutting deepwater rocks below. It was only half as high as some of the other cliffs on St. Kilda, but it was a hell of a sight from both top and bottom.

  “There it is, Corporal…look…up there…to the right…three flashes.”

  “Where, sir…You mean ’igh up?”

  “Right. Keep looking. Pretend you are staring up at the very top of the headland. Keep staring.”

  Three minutes went by, and then Lieutenant Larkman saw it again. “Did you see it, Corporal? Three flashes.”

  Tommy Lawson was silent, which was unusual and brief. But when he answered he was deadly serious. “Yessir. Yes I did. That was not some fluke of nature. Someone’s up there, sir. And if he ’asn’t landed in a bloody parachute, quite frankly I don’t know how the fucking ’ell ’e got up there, do I?”

  “Do you think it is definitely a person? Not some meteorite or something.”

  “That, sir, is a bloke. A bloke wiv a fuckin’ light, right? Otherwise, he wouldn’t be shinin’ it, would ’e?”

  “No, I suppose he wouldn’t.”

  “Well, what’s ’e fucking doing up there then? That’s what I wanna know, don’t I?”

  “Yes, that’s rather what I want to know, too. We, Corporal, had better find out.”

  “Well, sir. We’ve really got two choices. We can either take the jeep and get up there, wiv lights, and flush ’im out, or rescue ’im, as the case may be. Or, we leave ’im up there all night to freeze ’is bollocks off.”

  “I don’t think we really ought to do the latter. We are in charge of the place. There is quite a lot of sensitive equipment here, and I am inclined to think we should just go and sort it out?”

  “I think that is the correct military assessment for an officer of your class, sir. And I’m ’ere to do as you tell me. ’Owever, I must say, meself, I’d probably take the bollock-freezing option, wouldn’t I?”

  “Okay, Corporal. Coats on. We don’t need weapons. Bring two flashlights, and let’s get out there. Warm the engine over, will you? I’ll shove a petrol can in the back…You know the gauge has never worked on this bloody thing.”

  “Right, sir.” Corporal Lawson headed for the door, jangling the keys to t
he jeep. He opened it and kicked over the engine, which started with a roar. The lieutenant was right behind him, with a gas can from the store.

  The breath of both men was white on the freezing night air, and as the corporal walked, he glanced again up to the highest escarpment of Oiseval. And there it was again. Three short flashes. But this time it was followed by three longer ones, and then, immediately, by three more short ones. “Sir, I think we’re seeing an SOS up there,” said Tommy Lawson. “Which means it’s got to be an aircraft of some kind. There’s no other way anyone could be up there…Might be a Navy chopper or something. But we didn’t hear nothing, did we?”

  “No, we didn’t,” replied the lieutenant. “Nothing at all.” And there was a worried frown on his face as Corporal Lawson drove the jeep over the rough terrain beyond the camp, heading northeast across the rising ground, up toward the light.

  The total distance up to the summit of Oiseval was less than half a mile, but it was rock-strewn, and Lawson had to pick his way through the boulders. They were making about 5 mph and the Land Rover lurched and roared its way up the steep hill to the top. Every few minutes they saw the flash of the light above, and as they drew closer they had to make a wide detour around a sheer rock face that even their vehicle could not handle.