H.M.S. Unseen

by Patrick Robinson

  And he sent immediately for his destroyer escort squadron commander, COMDESRON, Captain Chuck Freeburg, and his Group Operations Officer, Captain Amos Clark from North Dakota. The three men ordered coffee and pondered the charts. It was no problem to arrive off the Omani coast in plenty of time; the question was whether to take the entire force, or just peel off three destroyers or frigates and send them on alone.

  Admiral Barry thought they might need fixed-wing aircraft as well as helos for such a search. This would mean the whole force would move over to the western reaches of the Arabian Sea. That decision was up to him, and he made it quickly. Everyone would go to help find the Royal Navy submarine that was causing so much angst at headquarters. “Jesus,” said Captain Freeburg. “Right here we got the CNO and COMSUBLANT acting on information from Arnold Morgan. That’s not big. That’s monstrous. Guys, we better find this sucker.”

  The trouble was the sheer size of the new search area. Basically the Americans would have to take a NW/SE line 500 miles from the strait, and conduct their search in a seascape of almost 200,000 square miles. The fixed-wing aircraft would be crucial to the operation, and the carrier itself would need to operate from the center of the area.

  Admiral Barry made his course adjustments and reduced the speed of his flotilla. Meanwhile, nearly 3,000 miles to the southwest, Commander Krause searched in vain for a sign of the vanished Unseen. But there was nothing.

  On the morning of May 4, the first two Lockheed S-3B Viking ASW aircraft roared off the deck of the Ronald Reagan, heading in toward the Omani coast, cruising at 300 knots. Both of these Navy ASW aircraft could carry four Mark 5 depth charges, or four Mk 46 torpedoes. But today their mission was not to destroy, just to locate.

  Like Columbia, they found nothing. And they searched for three days in relays. But on May 7, one of them picked up a radar contact 400 miles to the south of the strait. The Viking came in low and dropped sonobuoys, but the contact had long since disappeared. To the trained Navy pilot, that meant one thing…the submarine was snorkeling when it picked up the radar of the aircraft, which caused it instantly to slip away beneath the surface. But the Viking pilot was definite. He had it. The clue was strong, the contact was snorkeling 180 miles east of the Omani port of Al-Jawarah.

  The Americans knew two facts. They had interrupted and hopefully prevented the submarine’s full battery-charge, and from now on it must be continuously harassed. Unseen must come to periscope depth again soon, probably within 100 miles. Art Barry’s pilots were ready. They got it again, surprisingly, 110 miles to the north, and this time they had a guided-missile frigate within strike range: Captain Bill Richards’s 4,000-ton Oliver Hazard Perry-Class USS Ingraham, patrolling 15 miles to the east.

  Right now Unseen was 90 miles east of the southern tip of the island of Masirah, and again she picked up the Viking’s radar and instantly vanished below the surface. It was early in the afternoon, and the Americans knew the submarine would be forced back, within hours, to charge that battery. And, on his way in, at high speed, was Captain Richards, the former XO of the destroyer O’Bannon, his face still terribly scarred from flying glass from the same nuclear blast that had destroyed the Thomas Jefferson.

  He ordered Ingraham to her maximum 29 knots and the sleek, heavily armed frigate, with her crew of 206 at battle stations, came swiftly into the main search area, just to the north of Unseen’s last known.

  The Americans now had a hot datum. They had two radar fixes from the Viking. They knew the submarine’s speed of advance, 5 knots, and they knew her course, zero-four-zero, which would probably go to zero-zero-zero as she struggled north, now in desperation, toward the Gulf of Oman, gateway to Gulf of Iran. Essentially they had 270 miles to catch her before she turned into more populated narrow waters, patrolled by the navies of Oman and Iran.

  Captain Richards had an excellent intelligence assessment from Langley. “Your target has acoustic characteristics of Brit U-Class. Mission: hunt to exhaustion, board, POSIDENT submarine, arrest crew. Shoot only in self-defense.”

  Tactics for the frigate commander were clear. He must use every available asset to flood the quite limited area with fixed-wing, helicopter, and surface-ship radar. That way Unseen could not come up without being detected. That way Captain Richards could home in for the final moves in this elaborate and lethal game.

  At 2205 the rogue submarine was forced to periscope depth by her dying battery. Again she put up her snorkel mast, because by then she was gasping for air—air to flow through the diesel generators while she tried to restore her electric power. Unseen was like a drowning whale, and the American harpoonists picked her up instantly on the radar screen of their patrolling helicopter. The U.S. pilot began tracking the submarine, reporting her every move back to Ingraham.

  Captain Richards reacted swiftly, ordered his sonar active, and sent his own helicopter in to assist. Unseen picked up the American’s electronic beam immediately, but her latest fifteen-minute battery charge was insufficient. The battery had been just about dead flat a half hour previously. Time was running out for the stolen submarine.

  Lieutenant Commander Alaam ordered Unseen deep. But he knew it must be for the last time. The submarine was simply running out of power, and the American frigate was very close. Unseen was caught in the classic chess position—Morton’s Fork—when the rook checks the king but threatens the queen at the same time. If Unseen stayed deep, it would run out of power completely. If it came to periscope depth, the Americans would force it deep again or blow its mast away. If it came to the surface, the Americans would capture them all and execute them. There was no escape. Lieutenant Commander Alaam must have known. This was checkmate.

  Captain Richards knew his opponent was trapped.

  Five minutes later, at 2255, Unseen’s lights and other systems suddenly wavered. Lieutenant Commander Rajavi reported the battery was at zero percent charge. Flat, that is. So flat you could barely see it sideways. And shortly before 2300 Lieutenant Commander Alaam ordered Unseen to periscope depth to try to snorkel for the last time.

  Captain Richards, 4,200 yards off her starboard beam, picked her up before the submarine’s diesels had even started. And he ordered his Italian-built OTO Melara 3-inch gun into action. Sixty seconds later they had blown off the top of Unseen’s ESM mast, ending all communications. They had blasted the periscope, rendering the submarine “blind,” and they had obliterated the snorkel mast, making further recharging impossible at PD.

  And now Unseen was finally forced to the surface. She came rising out of the dark Arabian Sea, the water cascading down her hull, but there was no sign of her crew. The American helicopter circled the submarine and, with the aid of flares, photographed her unique missile system from several angles. But the pilot reported no activity.

  The frigate commander ordered two Mk 46 torpedoes to be readied in tubes one and two. Then he sent an immediate communication to the Flag, explaining that Unseen is stopped on the surface with a flat battery, no communications and no periscope. Engines not running, so probably all hatches shut. He believed boarding might be difficult. The crew has not surrendered, nor even come to the bridge. Indeed, it appears to be battened down inside the hull. Captain Richards was afraid the crew might just scuttle her. However, he confirmed he was quite prepared to press on and break into her, using whatever explosive was necessary, then neutralize the crew. He would await further instructions.

  Admiral Barry considered this was one for the hierarchy and sent an immediate signal to SUBPAC, who appeared to be running the operation. The three American admirals, Morgan, Mulligan, and Cattee, separated by thousands of miles, spoke tersely on the conference line.

  “Look, I’m not sure we need this bullshit,” said Admiral Morgan. “We know exactly who these guys are. We know where they got their ship, and we know what they’ve been doing. We also know they’re Iraqi. We’ve got their goddamned former commanding officer just up the road calling the shots for us.”

  “Righ
t.” Admiral Mulligan concurred. “And boarding is dangerous. These maniacs might just blow the ship apart with a lot of our guys on the casing. I really do not want to run those sorts of risks, because they are not necessary…my decision, therefore, is that we should bang it out right now, before the fucking thing breaks loose again.”

  “Agreed,” snapped Morgan. “Go to it, Alan.”

  The message relayed via the satellite to the Ronald Reagan was, as ever, crisp. “Cancel existing ROE. Sink your contact.”

  The order reached Ingraham before 2330, and there was still no sign of life from the crew trapped in HMS Unseen. Captain Richards again sent the helo up for one final look, and something amazing happened. A figure showed up on the submarine’s bridge and began rattling away at the U.S. Navy helicopter with some kind of a machine gun. It was like writing a suicide note. And the pilot wheeled away, heading for the deck of the missile frigate.

  Captain Richards gave the final orders. “Fire tube one.”

  Seconds later an Mk 46 MOD 5 blasted out of the frigate and set off in a dead straight line toward Unseen, which was now wallowing 4,050 yards off the frigate’s bow. It hit with a dull explosive thump as the torpedo punched a killer hole into the pressure hull. Unseen, and her Iranian crew, were gone inside a minute, sunk in water almost 3 miles deep. No one lived for more than thirty seconds. And no one in the Middle East would ever know, how and what had happened to the terrorist missile boat.

  On board Ingraham everyone knew what had happened, that in the course of their mission they had sent probably 50 men to their graves. No one dwelt upon the humanity of their actions, only on their sense of duty, that high and mysterious anthem of fighting men. And their world quickly fell into tune with it.

  Meanwhile, back on board the Ronald Reagan, Captain Barry took some delight in the fact that not all U.S. carriers are prey for marauding diesel-electric submarines. “We had a bead on her from the moment we stepped up to the plate…that sucker never moved without us knowing,” he told Amos Clark. “In the end we only needed a couple of good ASW search aircraft and a good frigate, and they were dead at first base.”

  “Yessir. The only time the rules change a bit is when you don’t know the fuckers are out there. Sneaky little bastards.” Art Barry reflected on the incontrovertible fact that all surface group commanders hate submarines. Especially nonnuclear boats.

  His signal back to SUBPAC confirmed the destruction of HMS Unseen, sunk 145 miles off the coast of Oman shortly before 2400 on May 9. No wreckage. No survivors. No U.S. casualties.

  The photographs wired back to HQ via the carrier arrived in the late afternoon. And after a brief study of them, the two Washington-based admirals headed home with copies, a Navy helicopter delivering Admiral Mulligan to the Pentagon, and Arnold Morgan to Langley, Virginia, where Ben Adnam was going into his fourth week of being debriefed.

  He had held up night and day, through question after question, checks and rechecks, until the words of the Iraqi Naval officer were either proven true or false. Thus far he had not faltered, and the CIA was becoming more and more impressed by him. Especially Frank Reidel, who had deep experience of field officers, having been head of the Far Eastern desk for several years.

  The photographs of Unseen, personally brought to the interrogation room by Morgan himself, showed, of course, the incredible sight of the missile launcher behind the fin. And upon this the admiral felt Adnam’s story lived or died. Everything else fell into place, he knew that. But the question remained, that system.

  He sat down to grill personally the former pirate CO of Unseen, and he kept going for four hours.

  “How heavy was it?…what kind of crane did you use?…what was the name of the supply ship?…how many people did it take?…who were they?…where does Iraq get ahold of such engineers?…who trained them?…where are the holding bolts situated?…what kind of seals did you use?…was it pressurized inside?…where did you test it?…how many missiles did you take on the journey?…did you intend to commit more crimes against civil aircraft?…who liaised with you in London on the two departure times of Concorde and Air Force Three?

  The admiral tried every trick known to the master interrogator. And, as the former director of the National Security Agency, that was a substantial number of tricks. But Ben Adnam held firm. He answered every question. He knew every answer. By 2200 there was no doubt in Admiral Morgan’s mind. Iraq had perpetrated the atrocities, under the guidance of their hero, and Iraq must be taught a lesson. The issue would be to find one sufficiently severe.

  The admiral called it a day, or a night, just before 2300. He had left his own car at Langley, parked in the director’s private space, as always, and drove himself to Kathy’s house, which was less than 4 miles away, across the American Legion Memorial Bridge into Maryland.

  She was waiting up for him, as promised, and poured him a large rum on the rocks, as he marched wearily through the door and crashed into a large armchair without even taking his coat off.

  “I am beat. Nearly,” he said. “And I still love you. Even after dealing with more bullshit than a field of longhorns.”

  Kathy O’Brien looked wonderful. Her long red hair, just washed, fell about her shoulders. Her slim figure was encased in a dark blue silk housecoat. She wore no makeup except lipstick, and Arnold Morgan was once more amazed that she could care about him. She handed him his drink and kissed him, told him to get up and take off his coat and anything else that might make him happy. She put on some music and told him, in answer to his request, that, no, he could not have a roast beef sandwich.

  “First of all, they’re not good for you to eat all the time. And secondly, in anticipation of your late arrival, I have prepared a nice late dinner for us.”

  “Dinner! Jesus, it’s the middle of the night.”

  “Pretend you’re Spanish, El Morgano.”

  The great man laughed. “Do you know I’ve never been there, but I’ve always heard those crazy pricks have their dinner at midnight and then stay out drinking wine till about four.”

  “That’s right. But they don’t start work until ten, and they have a two-hour siesta after lunch. They go back to the office from about four in the afternoon to eight.”

  “Guess it works for them. You don’t hear of many Spanish Secret Servicemen though…they’re probably eating or sleeping or drinking…anyway what do we have?”

  “Dining room, Barbarian…I don’t serve picnics, as you well know.”

  The admiral dragged himself up, reluctant to move, but Kathy had candles lit in the elegant room beyond, which contained only antique furniture and four small oil paintings.

  “Sit, and pour us some wine…I’ll be right there.” Three minutes later she came in with some perfectly cooked veal piccata, thinly sliced in a lemon-based sauce, accompanied by spinach and new potatoes. In the middle of the table was a wooden board containing a small baguette, real French brie, no butter, and big white seedless grapes. The wine was a five-year-old white Burgundy from Sancerre.

  “Jesus, this was well worth waiting for. Will you marry me?”

  “No,” she said cheerfully. “Not while you’re still employed. But I do love you.”

  The admiral took a large bite of veal and a swallow of wine. “That does it,” he said. “I’m resigning, soon as I finish this.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said. “Now tell me about your day, and the inquisition of Commander Adnam.”

  Despite the clear overtones of massive secrecy involving the entire scenario, it was plainly impossible for it to be kept from the lovely Mrs. O’Brien, who had been present when Ben’s name had first come up, a year ago, and anyway, as Arnold’s secretary, had taken so many calls regarding the capture of the terrorist she had lost count. Anyway, she was as bound by the secrecy laws as her future husband. And she was equally trusted.

  “Well, he seems to want to stay here.”

  “In a casket?”

  “No, as an employee. He makes the point, like mo
st major spies who are captured, that he has information that is priceless.”

  “And has he?”

  “He sure does. But he’d need such a thorough change of identity I’m not sure it’d be possible.”

  “Arnold, that could never work. Think of all the families he’s destroyed, just in the Navy. Think of all those people on Concorde. How about all the families of Martin’s staff? How about the memory of Martin? And Zack Carson, and Jack Baldridge. It would be like hiring the Boston Strangler.”

  “I know it would. But this guy has knowledge. Real knowledge. In my view he may be the most valuable agent anyone has ever caught, including all those faggot Brits who worked for Moscow.”

  “You’re not supposed to use that word anymore. It’s politically incorrect,” she replied with studied seriousness.

  “Not when they were lifting each other’s shirts,” he replied, chewing the veal, and drinking the white Burgundy with relish. “I’m in the past tense. An old, dead faggot is an old, dead faggot.”

  Kathy giggled at the admiral’s unfailing, irrepressible aim at any subject. Then she said, more seriously, “I suppose you don’t need reminding that you did not really catch Ben Adnam. He came here unaccompanied of his own accord, and effectively gave himself up. Plainly, he could have killed Bill, and he might have gotten Laura. But she says he never intended to kill anyone. He just wanted to get in touch with you. He’s probably regretting it right now.”

  “The problem for all men like him, Kathy, is they end up having nowhere to turn. No one wants ’em. No one needs ’em. In the end, the only country that does want them is the one they have always worked against. Just because of what they know.” He paused for a moment. Then he said, “Men too deep in national intelligence can often become outcasts, because, finally, they just have no one to talk to.”

  Kathy gazed at him quizzically. Then moved adroitly. “Are you really planning to use Ben on a long-term basis?”