H.M.S. Unseen

by Patrick Robinson

  But he was an important Vice President, because the Chief Executive had made him so. He had handed over for his attention every single left-wing issue that needed addressing. The veep was the main man in matters of welfare, black education, urban improvements, the environment, and peace talks in all of their forms, especially if they involved the Third World. The President was not afraid to delegate, and in Martin Beckman he had an extremely capable, loyal man who willingly represented him at all the solemn, tiresome gatherings he wished to avoid.

  Martin, who had never married, was tireless. He sought no glory for himself and briefed the President often and meticulously on all matters he thought required the attention of the top man. Which was basically why this Presidency had steered clear of almost all trouble for the past five years. And why Martin Beckman was about to head off, with a full staff, to a world peace conference being held among many nations in London—including the regimes of Iraq, Iran, Libya, Syria, and China. This was a group the American President could just as easily have hung up by the thumbs, never mind talked peace with.

  But it was a highly acclaimed achievement by the British to have organized such a conference. Basically it included the major Commonwealth countries, the nations of Europe, the Middle East, the old Soviet Union, the United States, Japan, Brazil, and Argentina. The Third World was not included, but all the Arab nations were, because this was essentially a discussion about money, and oil, and trade. It sought to clarify the idea of peace based on economics. More cynically stated, it represented the oldest bedrock of modern civilization: How can the rich keep the poor under control, without going bust in the process?

  Martin Beckman had been nominated to chair the conference, and he rightly regarded it as a great honor. The President was delighted, and his second-in-command would travel to London with the kind of backup usually reserved for a Presidential state visit. Mr. Beckman would travel with a major staff of twenty-four people, plus two Democratic Senators, one from California and one from New York. Their London headquarters was already in place at the United States Embassy in Grosvenor Square. It was the most widely publicized gathering of international statesmen for years.

  The entire American team would make the journey together in the brand-new intercontinental Presidential jet, Air Force Three, a lavishly modified Boeing 747. Colonel Al Jaxtimer, a former B-52 Air Force pilot in the Fifth Bomb Wing out of Minot Air Force Base, North Dakota, would fly the aircraft, assisted by his longtime copilot Major Mike Parker and his regular navigation officer Lt. Chuck Ryder. The three had flown many missions together, and in accordance with the new U.S. Air Force policy would fly the Presidential jet as a team for a period of two years.

  For the peace mission they would fly from Andrews Air Force Base direct to London Heathrow. They would be met by the U.S. ambassador to the Court of St. James, who would travel with Martin Beckman in an open limousine, given a clear day. It was anticipated that a vast throng of twenty-first-century British peace marchers would line the route to the left of the north-running road through Hyde Park, to clap and cheer the Vice President of the United States, the man upon whom so many hopes were pinned. The farseeing man who seemed to hold the hope of the modern world in his hands.

  The actual President of the United States, and his national security advisor, privately thought that the whole lot of them, including the Arab-sympathizer Martin Beckman, were out of their minds.

  But, sane or not, the United States delegation to the four-day Peace Conference of Nations took off in Air Force Three on the morning of Tuesday, February 21. And the journey was everything Martin Beckman had hoped, a beautifully smooth Atlantic crossing, an impressive reception at the airport, and a rapturous welcome from the cold green lawns of London’s Hyde Park, where thousands turned up and lined the route.

  The great swelling sound of their anthem, “Give Peace a Chance” could be heard a mile away. Martin Beckman waved in greeting, visibly moved by the long-lost sounds of his youth, as the haunting bittersweet words of the song drifted up through the bare trees. He found himself thinking, irrationally, My God, I just wish John Lennon could be with me right here. What a moment for all of us who believed then, when no one else did. He was right, too. It was a moment, the highest moment in a privileged life. Martin Beckman, the world’s best-known liberal, might even take a run at the presidency in 2008.

  During the conference, London was a city under martial law. The negotiators used the great forum of the Guildhall for their deliberations, which more or less brought the financial district to a standstill twice a day, since the Prime Minister had authorized the Army to throw a cordon around the building in readiness for a terrorist attack by the Irish Republican Army. In London this was a likelihood as powerful as ever, after the total failure of the latest round of peace talks and, in the IRA’s view, the total failure of the British Prime Minister to control the intransigence of the Ulster Unionists.

  All the world’s major embassies were under guard from the police and the military, as were London’s leading hotels. You could have mistaken the Connaught for Catterick Barracks. There seemed to be enough uniformed soldiers outside the Savoy and the Grosvenor House in Mayfair for a winter Trooping the Color. The U.S. military, in plain evidence on the great steps of the embassy, made the west side of the square look like West Point.

  No one could remember security like it. But Britain’s Anti-Terrorist Squad believed an attack was not only possible, it was likely. And their general view was that if any delegate, anyone, from any nation was injured by a bomb, the reputation of the capital city of England would be forever tarnished. Worse yet, the Anti-Terrorist Squad would get the blame. Thus no chances were being taken. The world’s delegates for peace would carry out their duties protected by those who believed that real strength came from hard-assed military training, top-class battle equipment, wary eyes, and a big stick.

  The conference itself was a brilliant success. The press reported it nonstop. It led every television newscast, the newspapers were filled with interviews from delegates, and the discussions which took place in the great forum were reported diligently. Even the private deliberations between nations were accompanied almost immediately by a press release. All over the world, the firm but understanding voice of Martin Beckman was heard. Matters of great moment for the Third World, and indeed the survival of a free world, without war, were debated long and hard.

  They tackled the most vexing subjects of the previous decade. The crippling burden of Third World debt, which, at the turn of the millennium meant that every single person in the Third World owed a total of $400 to the Western banks. For three years now there had been suggestions that the Third World must ultimately be forgiven those debts, in some way, because most of them simply could not pay. Not if they were also to run their countries. There were penniless African nations whose repayments each year added up to more than their GNP.

  Naturally the question of corruption came up, how these African dictators were running around in Rolls Royces, stealing Western aid, and hiding it away in Swiss banks. But Martin Beckman stood up in his seat for the only time in the conference and made the most impassioned plea, almost begging the nations to require their banks to forgive at least half of the debt. He ended his speech with words that were heard around the world. “It is not just a matter of corruption, it is a matter of humanity, a plea for someone to listen to their plight, a plea to someone to respond to the heartbreaking conditions, a plea to end, in the name of God, these areas of stark, human misery.”

  He got his way, too. All of the delegates agreed to recommend that their governments attack the problem, forcing banks to listen to reason: that it was not all the fault of the poor nations. Much of the problem could be laid at the door of the banks themselves, for making highly injudicious loans to those who plainly could not repay, worse, did not understand the terms correctly. Martin Beckman was on the verge of making himself a significant piece of modern financial history.

  They also
worked on the burgeoning grain mountains, examining ways to ship the vast tonnage of surplus cereals from Europe and the United States to the Third World. They hammered out a rota system that other nations would contribute the shipping and freight costs to match the contributions of the governments that supplied the wheat, oats, and barley.

  They tackled the world oil-distribution problems. At least they tried to. But there was a certain reserve about the Middle Eastern nations, most of whom had recently mortgaged years of “futures” in order to buy warships and aircraft. China, whose voracious appetite for automobile fuel was reaching gluttonous proportions, stayed out of this discussion, despite Martin Beckman’s assertion that they were currently using more refined oil than the U.S.A.

  Nonetheless it was tacitly agreed that all nations at the conference would resolve to ensure that the world’s tanker routes would remain open for free trade, for the greater good. Iran, the nation that strategically controlled the Strait of Hormuz, voted yes for this only after Martin Beckman made another speech suggesting that any blockade of the Gulf would cause untold hardship to the sick and the elderly and the children of the poorer European nations.

  “This is a conference about humanity, for humanity,” he said. “I am quite certain that all the nations here would wish to proceed in that spirit…I do not think anyone in this room would approve any nation making oblique threats to cause hardship for any of our fellow men. Not here, Iran. This is a forum for peaceful coexistence among nations…and I defy you to vote against a resolution for the peaceful trade routes of the world’s principal fuel.”

  Thus the guardians of the Strait were shamed into joining the unanimous vote for free and open tanker routes, wherever the tides ebb and flow on the planet earth. Martin Beckman arrived in London a hero of the Left. As he prepared to depart for Washington on Sunday morning February 26 he was a hero of the people. And not just the people of Great Britain and the U.S.A. He was a hero of the people of the world. His was the voice of decency and reason, a man whose clearly defined basic goodness came through to all the delegates who dealt with him.

  Certainly the world leaders present recognized that he spoke with enormous authority, as the Vice President of the most powerful of nations. But Martin Beckman never mentioned what his nation might or might not do. He came to the conference with an air of modesty, and, despite being lauded by the international press on an almost hourly basis, he departed with the same humility. Which was a considerable achievement, because it seemed that every member of the crowd that had thronged the eastern edge of Hyde Park to see him arrive, thronged into the precincts of London’s airport to see him depart.

  The security was massive as the American delegation arrived at Terminal Four, but thousands and thousands of students still packed the viewing galleries and the fences along the perimeter to watch the gleaming new Boeing of the U.S. Presidency take off for Washington. And as it did so, above the roar of the four giant Pratt and Whitney engines, there could still be heard the anthem of the Doves, swelling out across the airport. The unforgettable words of the slain John Lennon rose into the winter sky, lilting, beseeching, over and over, turning the commercial sprawl of Heathrow Airport into a sacred cathedral on this cloudless Sunday morning. “ALL WE ARE SA-A-YING…is GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.”

  260900FEB06. 53.20N, 20.00W. Depth 300.

  Course 180. Speed 9.

  HMS Unseen, fully refueled and stored, had been running quietly south from the frozen shores of Iceland for four days, snorkeling for the shortest possible periods. And now, 470 miles due west of Galway, the CO ordered the submarine to periscope depth once more.

  The crew raised the big communications mast and sucked down the critical message from the satellite. Unseen was back underwater cruising south by the time the commanding officer decrypted it.

  TARGET 3. AIR FORCE THREE VP-U.S. ABOARD. ETD/LHR 1100GMT. EN ROUTE WASHINGTON DIRECT, GCR,VIA WAY POINTS BRAVO, GOLF, KILO, NOVEMBER, PAPA, QUEBEC, AND X-RAY. SQUAWKING IFF CODE THREE, 2471.

  The Sunday morning air traffic was busy, but not so busy as on a weekday. Transatlantic jetliners were using four of the northerly routes across the ocean, stacked four high. This meant that a big passenger aircraft from one of the European capital cities was passing overhead every nine minutes, flying at around 420 knots at 33,000 feet minimum. Sometime after 1210(GMT) Unseen would begin her target search…for the only one using IFF Code 2471.

  The time passed slowly in the black submarine, but it came back to periscope depth and went to full alert shortly after 1200 (GMT). At 1233 they saw her IFF code on the radar screen, their first detection.

  “Squawk Code 2471, sir. Bearing one-zero-zero. Range 224 miles.”

  At 1235: “Range 204, sir. Track and CPA assessed. Distance off track 34 miles.”

  “That’s too tight. I’m going to make a fast run south,” snapped Ben Adnam. “…10 down…150 feet…make your speed 18 knots. I want to be back up and looking by 8 miles to CPA.”

  The submarine drove down under the Atlantic waves leaving no mark on the choppy surface. The planesman leveled off at 150 feet; then Unseen accelerated, running flat out through the deep, eating up the distance, but risking detection as her electric motors powered her forward.

  At 1245 the Americans caught her, picked her up on SOSUS, the great underwater electronic network that scans the oceans on behalf of the United States. It was a quiet day at the U.S. listening station at Keflavik, way out on Iceland’s southwestern peninsula, and the urgency in the voice of the young operator was surprising.

  “I’m getting something, sir, not engine lines, but it’s a noise source of some kind…probably flow noise. I don’t think it’s weather.”

  His supervisor moved swiftly over to check it out. There were still no machine-originated lines coming up, but it was a very definite noise. And it was not a fish. That left the only other fast-moving creature under the sea.

  The supervisor strained his eyes for five minutes, searching for a clue. Shaft count? Blade count? Not a whisper. No telltale pattern came up on the screen.

  At 1256 (GMT) the marks faded, then died altogether, as HMS Unseen slowed down and began to head back to the surface.

  The supervisor moved away, told the operator to stay sharp, and immediately sent a signal to Fort Meade, Maryland.

  ELEVEN-MINUTE TRANSIENT UNDERWATER CONTACT AT1245GMT. POSITION 50N, 20W—ACCURACY PLUS/MINUS 200 MILES. INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR CLASSIFICATION OTHER THAN POSSIBLE FLOW NOISE. ZERO CORRELATION ON FRIENDLY NETS.

  The signal was on Admiral George Morris’s desk by 0800(EST). The director had been there since 0700, and he read the message carefully, simultaneously hitting the secure line to the White House, directly into the office of the President’s national security advisor.

  At 1258 the radar operator in Unseen, then at periscope depth, was scanning the skies to the east. Within thirty seconds he had reestablished the track and the CPA. “Target approaches 49 miles. Distance off track 20.”

  “SURFACE! BLOW ALL MAIN BALLAST.”

  Unseen climbed malevolently out of the Atlantic, smashing her way through the waves, green water surging over the casing, the missile launcher stark against the empty skyline, as the radar tracked the incoming Air Force Three, bearing home the peace champion from the Peace Conference of Nations.

  “Speed 420 knots, sir.”

  “Range now 42 miles, sir.”

  “Check surface picture. Anything out there, inside 12 miles?. Nothing? Perfect.”

  “We have adequate firing solution within the parameters, sir.”

  “Target holds course and speed. CPA unchanged…entering the missile envelope, sir.”

  Commander Adnam nodded, checked his watch. “COUNTDOWN?”

  “Sixty seconds, sir.”

  At 1302:20. “MISSILE LAUNCH!”

  Unseen’s third SAN-6 Grumble Rif blasted off from the deck of the ex–Royal Navy diesel-electric. With fire roaring from behind, it streaked into the skies, climbing to 2,00
0 feet in three seconds, where it should have accelerated, but instead, summarily blew itself to smithereens, showering the ocean with flame, sparks, and shrapnel.

  “MALFUNCTION, SIR! MISSILE HAS SELF-DESTRUCTED.”

  But the CO had seen the sudden unaccountable destruction, and the heavy cloud of smoke that hung high above his ship. With the launch aborted, he ordered the fire-control team to program and launch missile four.

  At 1303:20 it fired, screaming into the sky with a perfect vertical takeoff, reaching 33,000 feet in under twenty seconds, and angling across to the Closest Point of Approach, toward which Air Force Three was making 420 knots, 15 miles out.

  Colonel Jaxtimer saw it through the clear skies, or at least he saw the vertical smoke trail way out in front. The ex–Air Force bomber pilot reacted instantly. He was trained for this, and he was ready, and he knew what he was seeing. His broadcast waveband was open to Shannon, ready for the 20 West way point, and he hit it instantly. “MISSILE! This is a guided missile!”

  As he spoke the SAN-6 changed course and came straight at the Presidential Boeing. Al Jaxtimer saw it, and he was still on the line to Shannon ATC. He hit the decoy button, knowing it to be near-useless in a head-on attack, then hauled on the stick, trying to evade. But the big Boeing was not built to be a fighter plane. And the Shannon operator heard the colonel cry out, “JESUS! MIKE!” as the big Russian-made weapon came screaming in, smashed into the area right below the nose, exploded, and blew Air Force Three apart, along with everyone who flew in her.

  In the control center of Unseen, the words were simple, and they signified a task accomplished. “No contact on radar bearing, Captain.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Nice recovery. Open main vents. Take her deep, 300 feet. Make your speed nine when you’re down there. Course zero-four-five.” It was precisely 1305 (GMT).

  0805. Office of the National Security Advisor.