H.M.S. Unseen

by Patrick Robinson

  He paddled the Zodiac out into deeper water before lowering the engine and running swiftly to the east, across dark Village Bay, out into the open North Atlantic, toward the main Western Isles, and, 100 miles beyond, the Scottish mainland fishing village of Mallaig.

  9

  BEN ADNAM CLEARED THE OUTER REACHES OF Village Bay just before 2100 on the night of Thursday, March2. It was still calm, but there was an unmistakable Atlantic swell. However, the waves rolling in from his starboard hip were fortunately long, with smooth tops, and the Zodiac could quarter across them with ease.

  The commander was more than happy with the conditions, even though they would take his full concentration for hour after hour. He was, after all, warm, dry, relatively comfortable, and so far as he knew, not immediately wanted by anyone. It was his former submarine they were after. Ben just had to keep heading east in the dark, keeping a sharp eye out for fishing boats, and restricting his speed to a relatively easy 15 knots. He was well practiced at keeping his speed down, and he wore a lean smile in the night as he steered along course zero-nine-seven, going for the Sound of Harris, 40-odd miles distant.

  The Zodiac was a very good boat, and it zipped effortlessly through the mild hills of the Atlantic. It steered easily, and Ben could check the GPS without cutting his speed.

  At 2300 he ate another sandwich, leaning back in his seat, staring into the dark and listening to the perfect running beat of the outboard engine, as the Zodiac climbed the retreating swells, flew along the tops, then raced downhill into the troughs.

  Less than an hour away Ben would enter the central seaway through the islands that form the outer Hebrides. This is the Sound of Harris, which separates the Isle of Harris to the north from the sprawling archipelago of North Uist to the south.

  The Sound of Harris is around 5 miles wide at its narrowest point, but it is scattered with small islands and hunks of rock too big to be ignored but too small to be named. Commander Adnam would have to be very careful in the sound, because though the tide would be quite full, the chart showed it was studded with dangerous obstructions, difficult to see, particularly those just beneath the surface.

  The Zodiac drew only about a foot when it was running fast, on the “stump” of the engine’s wake, but he could not risk losing his propeller, and Ben hoped there would be some moonlight south of Harris, to light his way through the rocky seaway.

  And in this he was lucky. The moon was high at midnight as the GPS link flicked to 57.48N, 07.15W. He knew that the tiny uninhabited island of Shillay, a 116-acre slab of granite that marks the southern entrance of the sound, lay somewhere to starboard. He elected to run southeast for a couple of miles in the hope of seeing it, and after eight minutes he picked it out on the freezing moonlit ocean, a half mile off his starboard beam, jet-black vertical cliffs rising out of the water.

  He thanked Allah for the GPS, and slowed the Zodiac to a halt. The three hours running had used seven gallons, and he tipped the entire contents of one of the army cans into the tank, knowing he could run for another three hours before refueling again. Then he pressed forward once more, heading southeast, where the northern headland of the island of Berneray awaited him 6 miles farther on.

  He passed the headland shortly after 0030, then braced himself for the really tricky part of the run through the sound—picking his way through the cluster of tiny islands southeast of Killegray that guard the eastern entrance. There is often a buildup of ocean swell right there, and the islands are low and hard to see in the dark. Ben elected to keep well southeast, and when he saw the island range in sight, they were a lot closer than he had expected. He crept past them carefully, and met with relief the wide expanse of the Hebrides Sea, which separates the Western Isles from Skye. Almost immediately the ocean seemed to flatten out.

  He was not unfamiliar with these waters, because of his months in the Royal Navy, and he knew that the Hebrides are to Scotland very much what the Great Barrier Reef is to eastern Australia, sheltering the mainland from the winter rage of the open ocean. One way or another, he was glad to be in calm seas with a full gas tank, west of the historically romantic Isle of Skye, headquarters of the powerful MacLeod Clan. And as he turned more toward the south he found himself singing quietly, that most haunting of Scottish airs, an air he had once learned by heart from local people around the Royal Navy submarine base of Faslane, which had been his home long ago…

  Speed bonny boat, like a bird on the wing,

  “Onward” the sailors cry;

  Carry the lad that’s born to be king,

  Over the sea to Skye.

  And, like Scotsman all over the world, he saw clearly in his mind the most famous image in the long and bloody history of that country, that of twenty-four-year-old Flora Macdonald and her men, rowing the Catholic Charles Stuart—Bonnie Prince Charlie—to safety, across these very waters, after the crushing defeat of the Jacobites at the Battle of Culloden, on Drummossie Moor, in 1746.

  From his position at 0100 it was 25 miles to the coast of Skye, and he considered that if Flora and her men could row it, his Zodiac ought to make it without much trouble. He pulled down his hood, tucked behind the Perspex windshield to kill the wind, and pressed forward on a course of one-six-five. Two hours later he was right off Neist Point at the top of Skye’s Moonen Bay, and thus far he had not seen a ship.

  Ben eased his speed and tipped the contents of both remaining gasoline cans into his almost empty tank. That would give him 10 gallons for the final three hours it would take him to cover the 48 miles down to Mallaig, from where Lieutenant Commander Alaam had chartered the Flower of Scotland four days previously.

  He’d make it, of that he was sure, and once more he pushed open the throttle, settled the Zodiac into its cruising position, and began his run down the long dark coast of the sprawling 400,000-acre Isle of Skye.

  It was 0500 when he crossed Soay Sound in the shadow of the towering Cuillin Hills, which rolled down to the sea on his port side. Ben could barely see them, but he could feel them somehow blocking out the horizon to the northeast. Twelve miles ahead he would see the lighthouse at the Point of Sleat, and from there it would be a straight 5-mile run across the Sound of Sleat to the port of Mallaig, which was, of course, one fishing boat light.

  Ben knew there were clear identifying marks on the Zodiac that linked it to the Flower of Scotland, and he wanted to make the port before daylight. For all he knew it might be crawling with police and coast guard in search of the missing fisherman. He picked up a red marker buoy a half mile outside the harbor and followed the lights in, carefully filling his Army gasoline cans with seawater and lowering them over the side before he arrived.

  Right outside the harbor wall he cut his engine and rowed in with his paddle, staying right in the shadow of the moored boats. Then he made for a mooring at the far end with a small rowboat attached. He tied up the Zodiac and transferred his bags to the 10-foot wooden dinghy, jumped aboard, and rowed the 100 yards to the stone jetty, fastening off the painter with a bowline on a ringbolt.

  Then he climbed the steps to the dock side, which was lit by one small streetlight. It was the first time he had stood on inhabited land since Unseen had left Bandar Abbas five months previously. Carrying his two bags, Ben found himself in an unspoiled little fishing port, a total jumble of fish-curing sheds, fishing baskets, herring boxes, netting, and gear. Out close to the approach road was a big steel rubbish bin, half-full of cardboard boxes.

  Commander Adnam ducked in behind it, and with huge reluctance began to pull off the wonderful cold-weather Iranian Navy clothing that had protected him for four days. He doused himself liberally with deodorant talcum powder, which was all too plainly an essential part of his kit. In the other bag he had a dark grey, heavily wrinkled suit, clean shirt, tie, socks, and shoes. He had no coat, no scarf, and no hat, and the temperature was about 4 degrees above freezing, with a light wind. Nonetheless he could not wander around the West Highland town looking like Scott of the Antarc
tic, and reluctantly he packed his foul-weather gear into one of the bags, jammed it into one of the cardboard boxes, and crushed it down to the bottom of the trash bin. Then he picked up the other bag and began to walk into the town, toward the railway station, hoping it was not Sunday. He had lost count of the days of the week, but his guidebook told him there was a restored winter train service on weekdays leaving Mallaig for Fort William at 0800, in a little over one hour.

  The walk seemed as cold as the desert at night at that time of the year. But Commander Adnam could deal with that. He quickened his pace, followed the signs to the station, and was gratified to discover it was Friday morning, March 3. He was also cheered to find a low, hot radiator in the waiting room, and he thankfully sat on it, having purchased himself a single ticket 130 miles south to Helensburgh. It was 35 miles to Fort William, where he would change trains.

  At 0730 the train pulled into the station from a siding, Mallaig being the end of the line. It was warm and quite busy, but Ben Adnam found an empty corner. He guessed accurately that it would not remain empty for long since it was a Friday morning and there were people on board plainly going to work in Fort William. With his dark beard, rumpled suit, and no coat, he hoped he would be mistaken for a penniless Highland poet or some kind of a wandering minstrel. Anyway, he did not think he much resembled the usual image of a terrorist foreign Naval officer who had just wiped out three of the most important transatlantic jet aircraft on behalf of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Nonetheless, he did feel uncomfortably conspicuous.

  Ben Adnam had never traveled as far north on the West Highland Line, but he had been to Fort William once with an old girlfriend. Actually, she had been his only girlfriend, and he remembered it as if it had been yesterday. He remembered, too, the old Scottish garrison town, standing rock-steady in the shade of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain peak in the British Isles.

  They had stayed in a lovely hotel, Ballachulish House, which dated back to the eighteenth century, and overlooked Loch Linnhe and the Morven Hills. Fort William held many memories for Ben Adnam, and he tried not to think of them, for they represented another world, to which he no longer belonged. They were days of remembered laughter and love. But after a brilliant, if unorthodox career, there was but one preoccupation for him. And it overwhelmed every other concern he had. Survival. Nothing else.

  The train pulled out of Mallaig station on time, heading south, then east, across the top of Loch Shiel and on into the Highlands. It reached Fort William before 0900, and the Glasgow train was waiting. Ben grabbed a copy of The Scotsman from the kiosk and found an empty compartment. The train left immediately, but he saw nothing of the first fifteen minutes of the journey, because it took him that long, searching diligently, to ascertain there was, as yet, no mention of missing trawlers or soldiers.

  That task complete, he took the opportunity to clean himself up properly in the men’s room, before going back to his seat. He was at last free to stare out of the window at the breathtaking scenery as the train ran along the River Spean, with the great pinnacle of Ben Nevis 4,500 feet above them to the right. After 15 miles they turned down the Glen, all the way along the eastern shore of Loch Treig and through the mountains to Rannoch Moor. From there it was southward all the way, right down the northern end of Loch Lomond, and past Loch Long to the Gareloch. The route took them right past Faslane, the Rhu Narrows, and into Helensburgh.

  The final miles were laden with memories, and the commander thought of his months there, of long-lost colleagues, and perhaps, most of all of his Teacher, Commander Iain MacLean, the cleverest man he had ever seen in a submarine—the stern, beady-eyed martinet who had taught him how to sink a big warship and how to evade the most relentless of pursuers. He tried, as he always tried, to fight away the memories of the great man’s daughter, the soft-spoken Scottish beauty who, to his everlasting regret, he never had time to love, far less to marry.

  Helensburgh Station looked the same, gray and dour. A few passengers were waiting for the Glasgow train, but basically the place was deserted. It was midday when it arrived, and Ben was one of only five people disembarking. It was a little warmer there, certainly warmer than it had been out in the Hebrides Sea earlier in the morning, and Ben Adnam was heading for what they still called in that area, a gentleman’s outfitter.

  He stepped out into the small resort town, which slopes up from the Clyde, and the wide streets seemed little changed. He knew precisely the shop he required, and he was inside and out again with two dozen pairs of undershorts and socks, plus ten shirts, and a half dozen ties. He next headed for a country sports shop down a small narrow throughway off Upper Colquhoun Street, and in there he purchased a thick Scottish sheepskin coat, two cashmere sweaters in olive green and dark red, a cashmere scarf, and a trilby hat. To this he added two country tweed jackets, two pairs of dark grey trousers, and two pairs of cords, one tan and one dark green. Shoes were more difficult, but he went for a couple of pairs of brown loafers with thick leather soles and a pair of black brogues. He wore one of the sweaters, and the sheepskin and the trilby and, feeling considerably better, stepped out again into the cold, headed for the Royal Bank of Scotland, having just punched a serious hole in his last £1,500. At that moment he wished he had not been quite so generous to Captain Mackay, who had, unwittingly, wasted it anyway.

  Ben had always retained a bank account in Scotland, under the name Benjamin Arnold, and he made a point of keeping a minimum of £20,000 there, in case of an emergency, such as the one in which he found himself. No one at the bank knew him any longer, and he had to provide identification in order to collect 1,000. He checked the balance of the account, which was correct, and inquired briefly if there had been any mail addressed to him in the past three months. There had not, nor had he expected there to be anything. Since the Iranians had made a valiant attempt to blow him to pieces on board the Flower of Scotland, he considered it unlikely they would have deposited his final payment of $1.5 million. He was right about that. They hadn’t.

  He left the bank, once more feeling a sense of desolation, and wandered through the town in search of a cab. That took him ten minutes, and by the time he arrived to spend the weekend at an old haunt from his Faslane days, the Rosslea Hall Hotel in Rhu, it was almost 1300.

  At that precise time, a Royal Army Service Corps sergeant, George Pattenden, was stumping around the military camp on the island of St. Kilda making one loud and noisy demand, “Right, then. Well…where the fucking ’ell is everyone, then?”

  Back on the beach, Captain Peter Wimble, R.C.T. was still holding the landing craft in the shallows near the church in readiness for the two soldiers, Lieutenant Larkman and Corporal Lawson, to move down the beach ready for evacuation. This was unusual in itself because everyone knew by radio the ETA of the landing craft, and thus far in his two-year tour of duty in the Hebrides, Captain Wimble had never yet arrived without the two departing men already standing on the beach ready to go.

  On this Friday lunchtime, Sergeant Pattenden had leapt onto the beach and yelled. When no one showed up, he had, with considerable bad grace, walked up to the camp and been mildly surprised that the lights were all on, the generator was still running, but the jeep had gone, and of the lieutenant and the corporal there was no sign.

  “Funny,” he had muttered. “That’s bloody funny. Where the fuck are they?” His irritation was plain, since it was obvious his landing party could not return to base at Benbecula without the men they had come to take off St. Kilda. Larkman and Corporal Lawson could not just be left behind with limited supplies.

  At its longest stretch, the southwestern shore, the island stretched for 3 miles, from Soay Stack to the tip of Dun. At its widest point, from Gob Chathaill on that long shoreline, east to the Oiseval, the island measured almost 2 miles. But its coastline was a largely unapproachable panorama of towering black cliffs, riddled with caves, no beaches, and fairly high mountains in the interior. It was not a desperate place to search, if you had a half
dozen Land Rovers. But Sergeant Pattenden knew they had virtually nothing. And in Army terms that meant they would have to walk, and there were only two hours of daylight left.

  The sergeant headed back down to the beach to report the situation, and the young captain, a friend of Chris Larkman’s, immediately ordered the landing craft to be made fast at the jetty farther along the bay. Then, he said, two parties of three men each, would begin a search, one on the Ruaival side of Village Bay, the other up on Oiseval.

  They kept going until 1630, when it became hopelessly dark, then returned aboard, radioing to their Hebrides HQ the distressing fact that Lieutenant Larkman and Corporal Lawson were missing. Everyone knew the weekend was shot to pieces. There would be no going back until Chris Larkman and his corporal were found. Everyone had the most terrible feeling of foreboding, because there was really nowhere they could be unless they’d gone over the edge of a cliff.

  Captain Wimble decided they would be more comfortable at sea, and all six men spent the first night in the landing craft anchored off in the bay.

  In the morning, back alongside, they set out once more to scour the Atlantic island.

  By lunchtime the situation was judged to be critical, and two Army helicopters were dispatched from Benbecula. They combed the area for two hours, searching above the walking troops, clattering along the shoreline, gazing at the cliffs through binoculars, using infrared sensors. By dark, which fell at 1640, there was not a sign of the missing men, or their Land Rover, and the two choppers had to return to base for more fuel.

  Back in the huts the search party had sleeping bags, food, and supplies. Plus a new Land Rover that had been brought over in a second landing craft. The Army also replaced the fuel cans borrowed by Commander Adnam. But, with a heavy heart, Captain Wimble accepted that Chris Larkman and Corporal Lawson were dead, although he had no idea what had become of them. But he knew Chris, and he knew that something terrible must have happened. The ex–Rugby player from Hampshire was a very solid citizen in Wimble’s view, and Lawson was a cool, experienced, cockney soldier. It was, to Captain Wimble, inconceivable that either of them could have done anything ridiculous. He just could not imagine what had happened. Neither could anyone else.