Nimitz Class (1997)

by Patrick Robinson

  “I wonder how she got out of Russia,” said Rankov.

  “With that much cash she had a thousand options,” said Bill. “She could have hired a car and driver and headed for the border. She could have hired a boat and headed down the coast, but that’s probably too slow. She could have hired a small private plane, or even a helicopter, to get down to Georgia, and then cross into eastern Turkey. The cash makes almost anything possible, and if she has the same backup we think she has, documents are going to be no problem whatsoever.”

  “How would you do it, Bill Baldridge?” asked Admiral Rankov, slipping into the Russian habit of using both names.

  “I’d make for Georgia, as fast as I could get there, and enter Turkey at the border-crossing post at Sarp, or cross over on the hydrofoil which takes non-Georgian nationals from Batumi to Trabzon. It would depend on what documents I had for myself and the two boys.

  “I’d guess Natalya has been stockpiling clothes and possessions at her mother’s house for several weeks, and paid a private driver, say, five thousand dollars, to take her through the night to Batumi. They probably walked out of their apartment emptyhanded at around six the previous evening. Nothing remotely suspicious about that. Then they hit the road. First stop, Mum’s house, second stop gas station, and on to the southern border.

  “I think it’s about six hundred miles down the east coast, but if they averaged 40 mph and made one night gas stop on the way at around 2300, they’d do it in fifteen hours. That would have put them in Trabzon yesterday morning around 0900.”

  “And then where, from Trabzon?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. No hurry. There are direct flights from Trabzon to Istanbul, and she’s had four months to make sure she arrived at exactly the right time to catch one of ’em. Then she took the British Airways evening flight to London, and on to wherever the hell she’s headed. Probably South America. If I had to guess I’d say she was out of Turkey and on her way to London, or even Paris or Madrid, last night. And, remember, she’s broken no law. She’s just taken her children to live somewhere else. So what? The South Americans will never extradite her, even if you find her.”

  “You Americans are so very accepting of human behavior,” said the admiral with a smile.

  “That’s right. That’s why we’re rich, and you’re broke. Go with the flow, old buddy. Saves you a lot of time and trouble.”

  “Well, I guess we’d better give back the key, and head back to the hotel. I do have to report all of this, of course.”

  “Sure you do. And what’s more you must find her. Because where she is, is where Captain Georgy Kokoshin is headed, right now, with his crew.”

  On Sunday morning, August 11, the U.S. lieutenant commander traveled with Admiral Rankov in a military aircraft as far as Kiev, for an overnight stop en route to London. He checked in to the Ukraine Hotel on Taras Schevchenko, and prepared to call Admiral Morgan at his home in Maryland. It was 0900 in Washington. Once more he unpacked his telephonic scrambler case and placed the hotel phone in the electronic cradle.

  “Morgan…speak.”

  “Baldridge…preparing to speak. Stand by crypto August 11.”

  “Roger. Standing by.”

  With the crypto locked on, and their conversation now protected from prying ears, Bill explained that the Kokoshin family had fled. He passed on Admiral Rankov’s kindest regards. “If you want him this week, he’s in his office in Moscow.”

  Admiral Morgan confirmed it was looking more and more like Iraq, but he had not yet heard whether they had run Ingrid Jaschke to ground. He had spoken to Scott Dunsmore the previous night, and the CNO reported that the President was unflinching in his attitude to a global submarine hunt. “Get through the Bosporus underwater,” he had said. “Then I’ll authorize anything you want. But I’m not doing anything if you guys fail on the mission.”

  Bill’s news was critical. And it fired up the American admiral. “Does Rankov want us to help find her?” he said. “He’s welcome to all of our resources.”

  “He didn’t say so, sir. But I think he’s very worried about his own position. They just lost a submarine, which is about to embarrass the entire nation, and his guys have allowed their prime witness to slip through their fingers. Old Vitaly’s a bit depressed, to tell the truth.”

  “Guess he would be. Hey, where are you? You on your way home? Or you going back to see MacLean?”

  “Right now I’m in Kiev. Then I’m headed back to London, and I guess home. Unless you want me to stay in Europe.”

  “I don’t think so, Bill. You need to be in Istanbul on September 6. But there’s no need to make the outward journey to Turkey in the boat. Come on back, help me start preparing this report. See you Tuesday.”

  The line went dead. And this time Bill just laughed.

  The following three weeks, which he spent in the United States, went by very fast. The detailed intelligence report Baldridge compiled with Arnold Morgan on the destruction of the USS Thomas Jefferson would become a case document for Naval investigations for years to come.

  In the middle of Bill’s third week at home, the Mossad made another major breakthrough. General Gavron called Admiral Morgan to report that they had traced Ingrid. On April 7, she and her bagman, Kamel Rasheed, had checked into the Pera Palas Oteli, off the great pedestrian walkway of Istiklal Caddesi.

  They had stayed two nights, checked out on the morning of April 9. The rooms had been reserved with an American Express card which the hotel had not checked. Then Ingrid had deposited $1,500 in cash on arrival.

  Ingrid had dined alone in the hotel restaurant on both nights. No charges were forwarded to American Express, and there was no trace of either billing or payment. By the time the Mossad got hold of the number, the card was obsolete. And American Express would disclose nothing.

  Nonetheless, Ingrid Jaschke, the Iraqi courier, was suddenly in Istanbul five days before Kilo 630 set sail.

  Arnold Morgan liked what he now knew. He liked Ingrid’s sudden presence in Istanbul. He liked the man fitting Adnam’s description who made an overnight run to the Turkish border just hours before the Kilo sailed. “A thousand coincidences,” he grunted at Bill Baldridge. “They gotta add up to something. And right now they’re telling me our man Adnam is an Iraqi. No wonder Gavron’s upset. Those Israeli military guys hate their organizations being penetrated. Especially by a country like Iraq. I shouldn’t be surprised if they do our dirty work for us in the end.”

  He walked over to his chart desk and stared again at the map of the northeast coast of Turkey. Once more he stuck the prong of his dividers into the now-worn pinhole at the Turkish port of Trabzon. The other end he placed on the resort harbor of Sinop. “Two hundred and thirty-five miles,” he muttered. “With a coastal road joining the two towns.”

  He glared now at the coastal navigation chart, noting the jutting point of Sinop, the most northerly headland on this stretch of coast, so close, so conveniently close, to a deep-water submarine waiting area. “That’s where they picked Adnam up.”

  “Sir?” said Bill.

  “Oh, nothing. Just imagining Adnam’s point of departure. If your man Tomas drove him that night, I’ll bet there was a moored yacht missing from Sinop harbor a coupla days later. I gotta feeling about that place.”

  The British Airways flight from London touched down at Istanbul’s International Airport late afternoon, September 7. Admiral Sir Iain MacLean stepped out of the first-class cabin, accompanied by a steward carrying his old dark leather suitcase. They made their way briskly to the immigration desks, where Lieutenant Commander Bill Baldridge waited.

  The admiral’s passport was stamped quickly, and they were escorted through customs and into the car Bill had hired from the hotel.

  Baldridge had also arranged for a corner table in the hotel restaurant, where the two could speak privately. They were due to board the Turkish pilot boat around lunchtime the following day, when they would join HMS Unseen as she sailed up from the Sea of Ma
rmara to the Bosporus. The admiral said Unseen was scheduled to clear the Dardanelles at 2100, and would make ten knots toward Istanbul throughout the night and morning, a distance of 150 miles.

  Before they went down to the dining room, the admiral presented Bill with a double-CD pack of Georges Bizet’s opera Carmen. The recording was sung by Agnes Baltsa and José Carreras, with maestro von Karajan conducting the Berlin Philharmonic. “Bill, Laura gave me this for you. It’s the one you wanted and apparently asked for on your first visit. She said to say sorry it took so long, but she had to order it specially.”

  Bill, who had not the slightest idea what Sir Iain was talking about, made a sharp recovery, and asked him to thank her very much. “I couldn’t get this recording in the USA,” he said. “It was good of her to go to so much trouble.”

  He placed the CDs on his bedside table, and left, joining the admiral outside the elevator. On the way he asked the question which had been concerning him for several weeks. “Sir, if the Turks sweep the Bosporus with radar, from one end to the other, as they claim, does this mean we can’t come up to periscope depth without running a risk of being detected? I mean, that mast on the Upholder will leave a damn great wake—surely they’ll spot us easily, maybe without even using radar, if they are alert.”

  “Yes. They do sweep the surface of the Bosporus pretty thoroughly. And since I want to stay at PD for much of the way, we’ll have to box a bit clever.”

  “Sure will. But what do we do? What did Adnam do?”

  “He almost certainly did what I intend to do. He got into position in a southwesterly holding area in the Black Sea, and he waited for a good-sized freighter to show up with the kind of cargo to suggest it was going right through. Then he took a range on its stern light to get on the correct angle, and distance, and he tucked right into its wake, about a hundred yards behind. He set engine revolutions to match speed, and followed it through.”

  “Gottit. His periscope wake obscured by the much bigger wake of the freighter?”

  “That’s it.”

  “We gonna do that?”

  “We are.”

  “Jesus. What if he stops suddenly, or goes off course, through water deep enough for him, but too shallow for us? We’ll either run straight up his backside, or hit the bottom.”

  “We will if we are not careful. But we are going to be careful. That’s what Ben Adnam must have done. That’s what we’re going to do.”

  “Is Jeremy Shaw up to this?”

  “Oh yes, he’s extremely good. And he’s used to doing precisely what he’s told. I know his Teacher. Actually I taught his Teacher. And he was young Shaw’s boss for a good many years. Those old Navy habits die hard, thank God.”

  “When do you want us in position?”

  “Well, I think we should vanish from sight an hour north of the Bosporus. Just so no one has the slightest idea where we are. The Turks will see us come through on the surface, but as the light starts to fade, we will disappear.

  “Then, I’d like to be at our Black Sea station, set up and ready, periscope depth, just before dark, around 1930, about thirty-five miles north of the Bosporus entrance. Just so we have enough light to identify a freighter making ten knots in the correct direction, hopefully going right through to the Med.

  “We’ll get in behind him. Then we can snort down to the entrance, at PD, get a good charge into the battery, and hope the merchantman doesn’t see us. He probably won’t, because the light will have gone completely within a half hour of our picking him up. With a bit of luck.”

  Bill shook his head, and smiled. “Guess I’m talking to the von Karajan of the deep.”

  “Who’s he?” grunted the admiral. “U-boats?”

  “No, sir. He’s the conductor on the CD Laura sent me. One of the best ever. Maestro Herbert von Karajan.”

  “Oh yes, I see. Of course. I’m not much good at opera, really. But it’s good of you to say so, even though it’s not true. I’m just a retired officer volunteering for a job no one else wants.”

  “As the personal choice of the Flag Officer of the entire Royal Navy Submarine Service, sir.”

  “Yes. Of course, I used to be his boss, too. He’s probably trying to get his own back.”

  Dinner was subdued. The topic of conversation was anchored in their own anxieties about the perilous task they faced tomorrow. Bill had never been involved in a crash-stop in a submarine, and he finally summoned the courage to ask the admiral how it worked. He did not mention the real question he wanted to ask—what do we have to do to avoid slamming right into the freighter’s massive propellers?

  “It’s only dramatic if you’re not ready,” replied the admiral. “Which makes your sonar team even more critical than usual. They have one vital task—to issue instant warning of any speed change, the slightest indication that the freighter is reducing its engine revolutions.

  “Which means they have to keep a close check on the freighter’s props. If she slows, we’re talking split seconds, otherwise we will charge right into her rear end, which is apt to be rather bad news.

  “If the water’s deep enough, we will slow down, dive, and try to duck right under him. If it’s not, and there’s a bit of room out to the side, we’ll go for the gap. If there’s not enough water, no room to the side, and we’re late slowing down, I think you’ll probably end up at Jeremy Shaw’s court-martial. If any of us survive it, that is.”

  “Christ,” said Bill. “Are there any procedures I ought to know about if we have to stop in a hurry?”

  “There are a couple of things. All the time we are close to the freighter, we will want to be at diving stations. But we must be on top-line to shut down to a specially modified collision station.

  “None of us knows much about the water density changes, and we have no idea if we’ll be in vertical swirls. So we may need old-style trimming parties. That means our watertight doors have to be open for them at all times, so the men can go for’ard or aft at high speed to help keep the boat level.

  “I have had several talks with Jeremy Shaw, and I have recommended he posts bulkhead sentries throughout. Everyone will be on permanent standby. However, when we broadcast ‘crash-stop,’ the bulkhead doors will not be shut and clipped. They’ll be open for the trimming parties.”

  Bill chewed his kebab thoughtfully, and then took a long swallow of red Turkish wine. He had never operated in a diesel-electric submarine, but he knew the basic collision procedures. In any tricky situation, the bulkhead doors should be kept shut and clipped in order to contain fire, or onrushing water if the submarine crashes or is holed. He knew too the terrifying dangers, especially if they were running deep.

  The admiral remained sanguine, chatting away cheerfully about hair-raising scenarios below the surface of the Bosporus. “Actually, Bill, I’m hoping we’ll get a bit of practice quite early on if the freighter stops to pick up a pilot at the northern end. We’ll be right up his backside at that point, with the current sweeping us down the channel. Then we’ll find out how quick we are, and how easy it is to hold the trim, when two and a half thousand tons of steel traveling at ten knots suddenly slows down.”

  Bill took another swig of wine, and they remained in the dining room for only another few minutes before returning to their rooms and turning in for the night. “Possibly my last night,” Bill said as he shut and clipped the bulkhead door of room 1045.

  He opened the CD pack, and took out the two slim, sealed plastic holders and the glossy libretto booklet. No obvious message there. No note from Laura. He tipped up the outer box. Nothing there either. Then he began to leaf through the booklet.

  He found it stapled to page 105. It read very simply:

  I am back in Edinburgh now, and feeling a bit desolate not being able to talk to you. Please, Bill, look after my father, and for God’s sake look after yourself. I don’t think I could bear it if anything should happen to you both.

  She signed it, “Laura” and placed a small line of three crosses
beneath her signature.

  But beneath the note were greater depths. Outlined in a pink highlighter were three lines sung by Carmen in the divine duet with Carreras during the ninth scene of Act One—translated from the French: “It’s not forbidden to think! I’m thinking of a certain officer who loves me, and whom in my turn, I might very well love!”

  “That Bizet,” said Bill. “A guy with real perception.”

  After a night disturbed by nerve-racked dreams, he felt unaccountably full of energy when finally he packed his bag and headed downstairs to meet the admiral. He paid both accounts with a credit card, and they headed down to the docks in a cab.

  The ride out through the harbor, south along the Sea of Marmara, afforded them a spectacular view of Istanbul, the great pointed minarets of the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, and the Topkapi Palace. The specter of the giant Bogazi Road Bridge, which spans the Bosporus three miles upstream from the Golden Horn, shimmered in a light heat-mist this morning as cars streamed across, two hundred feet above the water.