H.M.S. Unseen

by Patrick Robinson

  It hit at 2018, detonating with a massive underwater explosion, which strangely made little sound in the air. And hardly a ripple disturbed the calm water immediately beside the dam. But the force of the underwater blast shook the giant structure to its foundations, as cracks like lightning bolts ripped 40 feet into the concrete. But it held firm, and as the waters subsided there was complete silence again, save for the pounding feet of Tariq Rashid, running back to the safety of the western guardhouse to report what little he had seen or heard.

  By then Staff Sergeant Ali Hasan was on his feet outside the building yelling, demanding to know what the hell was going on. Tariq could not help much there, and as he struggled to explain the dull, muted thunder, his words were cut short by a second stunning impact on the wall, well below the surface. Both men felt the reverberations of the thud on the soles of their boots. And then, again, there was silence. No attacking fighter-bombers screamed through the sky. There had been no sense of a rocket attack, or any attack. The area was undisturbed, and the lapping of the wavelets on the shore was lost against the low gusting of the wind.

  Then the third SLCM nosed into the dam wall, right into the gaping hole on the north side, before it blew. And again the force of the exploding warhead lasered those lightning-bolt cracks deep into the structure, right through this time. The two Iraqi soldiers, backing away from the obvious tremor along the great wall, could not see, but one giant jagged crack ran 100 feet diagonally down the south-facing wall…the one that now held back 3 cubic miles of water.

  Staff Sergeant Hasan, joined now by Second Lieutenant Rashid Ghazi, was just saying that there seemed to be no military explanation, that there must be some kind of an earthquake, when Mike Krause’s fourth cruise missile blasted into the underwater cavern on the north side of the dam. It blew, with spectacular impact, a gigantic breach in the dam, 150 yards across. Millions of tons of concrete finally gave way to billions of tons of water. The 100-foot-high wave surged through the gap with unimaginable force, then began to crash down in slow motion, 500 feet, to the quietly flowing river below. And, of course, it kept coming, one of the biggest reservoirs in the world, followed by an entire lake, the waters rushing in behind, from a deep mountain lake bed more than 6 miles long.

  On both sides, the great wall held firm for a span of around 50 yards. It was the middle that was missing, and the 3 Iraqi soldiers stared toward the east, in terror at the clear wrath of Allah. And they turned to the direction of Mecca, knelt before their God, and prayed for guidance.

  Below them, the friendly River Diyala had become a raging, cascading torrent, 40 feet higher than normal, roaring down its course, southeast, toward the Tigris 100 miles away. Toward the fertile southern farmlands south of the city of Baghdad. Toward the factories down in the industrial delta of Iraq.

  1857 (EDT). June 2. The CIA safe house in the

  Woodley district of Virginia, south of Washington.

  Lieutenant Commander Baldridge, Admiral Morgan, and Commander Adnam were sharing a pot of coffee and preparing to watch the seven o’clock evening news. The only news they had was that the missiles had been launched and the submarines were on their way home.

  And an aura of gloom began to descend as the summary of the content was given, and no mention was made of the havoc they expected to have broken out in the Middle East.

  “I know these media bastards are parochial in outlook,” growled the admiral, “but this is ridiculous.”

  As 1915 came and went, still no mention. At 1920 Arnold Morgan was about to call the station, but restrained himself.

  At 1922, there was an interruption. “We’re just breaking away from that story for a moment because of a breaking news event…” said the commentator with heavy emphasis. “There are reports of some kind of a natural disaster in Iraq…Baghdad is reported to be under 4 feet of water at the northern end of the city…we have conflicting reports right now…but one of them suggests the great dam on the Tigris, the Samarra Barrage has breached…however, we have another report suggesting it is the northern dam in the Kurdish mountains, the Darband-I-Khan, that has burst…right now we have no further information. Communications seem to have been heavily disrupted…but we will keep you informed of what appears to be a huge disaster in Iraq…now back to the gay rights march in LA.”

  Arnold Morgan walked across and shook the hand of Bill Baldridge, and that of Ben Adnam.

  But the Iraqi seemed very preoccupied. In fact he was wondering how the floodwater was rising in a little stone house off Al-Jamouri Street, the one in the dark, narrow alleyway next to the hotel.

  He hadn’t seen it for two years, since May 26, 2004, the night the Iraqi President’s men had come to murder him. Since then the full moon had risen above the desert twenty-six times. It had been two years, and one week. He had just missed the anniversary, which was a pity because he liked anniversaries. But Eilat smiled. Perfect, he thought. Almost.

  EPILOGUE

  COMMANDER BENJAMIN ADNAM WAS GIVEN A UNITED States passport on September 18, 2006. It bore the name Benjamin Arnold, and detailed his birthplace as Helensburgh, Scotland.

  For the mission against the Iraqi dams he was paid the agreed upon $250,000. With this he made a down payment on a medium-sized white Colonial-styled house quite near the Dunsmores in Virginia, on the west side of the Potomac. He purchased an unobtrusive dark green Ford Taurus and began work in the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia.

  A new position was created for him—Special Advisor to the associate director of Central Intelligence. This was Frank Reidel, Langley’s link between the Agency and the military. Commander Adnam moved into an office adjacent to that of Reidel, a short walk from the CIA’s Middle Eastern desk, to which the former terrorist was seconded on a permanent basis. The normal strict vetting procedures for employees of the CIA were dispensed with, on special orders from the White House.

  Adnam had requested that he be permitted to use the rank he had earned in the Israeli Navy. Admiral Morgan ensured this was granted, and he was thenceforth referred to in the Agency as Commander Arnold.

  On the first Thursday of each month he attended a private briefing on Middle Eastern Developments, inside the White House with the President’s national security advisor.

  His salary was $150,000 a year, but Morgan negotiated him out of an annual lump sum in excess of $1 million that the Iraqi had demanded. It was agreed that at the conclusion of ten years service he would receive a bonus of $2 million. In return for this, Morgan insisted that all the incriminating documents be returned from the Swiss bank. And he sent special agents to Geneva to pick them up.

  As Arnold Morgan had guessed, Benjamin Adnam’s insights into the mind-sets of the Middle East were extremely valuable. Within a matter of weeks, it was plain that he would make a major contribution in helping the Americans to ease the political crosscurrents, to calm the warring factions among the sheikhs and dictators, in the turbulent, oil-rich crucible of the Middle East.

  For himself, Ben found a peace he had never known. Away from the frontiers of hands-on terrorism, separated from the high-risk work of intelligence field agent, he settled into his smooth, suburban American life with considerable ease. For the first few months, he made few attempts at befriending colleagues, but concentrated on living quietly at home, reading and watching the news and international current affairs on television. For the first time, for as long as he could remember, he was off the front line, and no one was hunting for him. At least in America they weren’t.

  For the moment, Ben Adnam was content to keep the lowest possible profile, and to thank his God he was out of the lethal world of international terrorism.

  On one Autumn morning he was jolted into the reality of that judgment. Reading the New York Times, he caught sight of a story that detailed a long police chase and a minor gun battle in the Kilburn area of northwest London. It involved the IRA and the capture of a suspected cache of explosives and guns. The shoot-out had
lasted only ten minutes, and only one man was hit, quite badly. His name was Paul O’Rourke, aged twenty, from County Waterford. They charged him under the Act of Terrorism, while he lay in hospital with a collapsed right lung.

  Ben shook his head. “To be prepared to die for a cause”…and he pondered the years ahead, and how he would deal with civilian life, should the Americans permit him that permanent luxury. He had, of course, one further score to settle. That of Iran, and their brutal, if ill-planned attempt on his life. Not to mention the $1.5 million they still owed him.

  One day the Iranians would pay for that. And, confident now of the goodwill of his new masters, Ben picked up the telephone and requested a private talk first thing in the morning with Admiral Morgan. Perhaps now is the time, he thought. The time to come clean with the national security advisor, perhaps to consolidate his position even further.

  At 0900 the following day he was sitting in the West Wing, recounting in graphic detail to Arnold Morgan that the big American cruise missiles had slammed the wrong country in revenge for the dead Americans in the destroyed airliners.

  He could not know how the ferocious White House admiral would react to the revelation that he had been used as a pawn in the Iraqi’s grand scheme of vengeance. But he felt that Morgan would look beyond the obvious deception, and perhaps begin to ponder again the question of a big strike against Iran. The Iraqi dams had, of course, avenged the deaths of 6,000 U.S. Navy personnel in the aircraft carrier. The demise of Iraq was justifiable simply on those grounds, and that country’s proven aim of producing weapons of mass destruction.

  He edged Morgan along the thought process that Iran’s day would surely come. Of that he was certain. In the end they would step out of line on the international oil stage of the Gulf. And then he, Arnold Morgan, could move in for the strike against the Ayatollahs that had been so long coming.

  It was clear to both men that Commander Adnam’s days of illusion were over. Where once there had been hope and idealism, there was now an empty place. What remained was the skilled, unique military mind of the world’s most successful Islamic terrorist. And Morgan had bought that mind at a bargain price.

  They were together for less than one hour, and when he left Commander Adnam was certain he had been correct in clarifying the situation. Correct in his assessment that the American admiral would appreciate knowing, finally, the full truth. And they shook hands formally at the conclusion of the meeting.

  However, Commander Adnam had misjudged his man. Admiral Arnold Morgan was furious. Furious at being outwitted by the scheming terrorist every step of the way. Furious that he had once more been hoodwinked during the interrogation. And really furious that he had moved major U.S. muscle against a country that had known nothing of the acts of terrorism against the passenger aircraft. Admiral Morgan was about ready to murder Ben Adnam, and not just figuratively. It was not on the basis of some terrible attack of conscience toward any of the troublesome nations of the Middle East. But because he was sick and tired of being made to feel a damned fool in front of “this crooked fucking towelhead.”

  And the Iraqi was not four yards down the drive of the White House before the national security advisor was storming through the White House, on his way to talk to the President. Their conversation lasted five minutes. Admiral Morgan briefed the Chief Executive carefully, then said with icy indifference, “Sir, I’ve had enough of him. He’s gotta go.”

  “I could not,” replied the President, “agree more. Please don’t mention his name to me, ever again.”

  “Nossir,” he replied. And returned to his office.

  It was 2200 that evening when two CIA cars and a private government ambulance pulled into the driveway of Commander Adnam’s house. Three armed Marine Corps marksmen took up sniper positions, and Arnold Morgan walked through the front door alone. Ben Adnam was reading in the living room.

  “Commander,” said the American, “it is my duty to inform you that we have no further use for you.”

  “Sir?” replied the Iraqi, betraying nothing.

  “We have decided to dispense with your services on the grounds that we do not trust you, and you may become an embarrassment to the U.S.A.”

  “Does this mean you intend to execute me, after all, for my crimes against humanity?”

  “It would, with any other prisoner of your category, Commander. But you are somewhat different.”

  “I see. But I imagine you have men with rifles trained upon me as we speak?”

  “Yes, Ben. I do. Your time is, shall we say, limited.”

  “I think I misjudged you today. Perhaps I should never have told you the truth.”

  “Perhaps not. But this day would have come anyway.”

  “Are you going to tell them to kill me now?”

  “No, Commander. Strange as it may seem, I have respect for you. Not for your callous murder of so many people. But for the professional military way in which you did it. As such I am going to offer you an old-fashioned form of chivalry in your departure.”

  Arnold Morgan reached into his coat pocket and drew out a big, wooden-handled military service revolver. Loaded. And he placed it on the table between them.

  “You understand, Commander, that your death in the next ten minutes is inevitable?”

  “Yessir. I do. And I am not regretful. I have no further heart for a fight. I have nowhere to go. No one to speak to. My options have run out.”

  “So, Ben, if I may call you that again, I am offering you an honorable way out, in the tradition of a serving officer. And now I am going to leave you. I wish you good-bye, and in a way I’m sorry. But not in other ways. I will turn my back on you briefly, but if you should even look at that revolver before I am gone, the honorable option will be gone. My men will shoot you down like a cheapskate little terrorist, which I believe would not do you justice, not in your mind, nor indeed in mine. I hope you follow me? Because I regard this as personal, between us.”

  Ben Adnam nodded. But he never moved. And the Admiral left. The commander heard the CIA cars reach the end of the drive. He did not, however, hear the admiral disembark and stand with two agents beneath the tall trees on the edge of the road.

  They all heard the veranda door slam. They heard the slow dignified footsteps walk down the wide wooden stairs, and the soft tread of the Bedouin across the gravel. And then there was silence for three minutes, before the unmistakable crash of a single echoing gunshot in the silence of the night.

  When Arnold Morgan’s men went in with their flashlights, the big zip-up plastic bag, and stretcher, they found the body in a damp leafy corner of the garden. Commander Benjamin Adnam, the side of his head blown away, was still in kneeling position, facing 90 degrees on the compass, due east…toward a distant God, in a distant heaven, somewhere out by the shifting desert sands of Arabia.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  FOR THE THIRD TIME, ADMIRAL SIR JOHN WOODWARD was my principal technical advisor in the construction of a novel. H.M.S. Unseen, a stealthy Royal Navy submarine, now being leased to an overseas government, was chosen for the title as it represents the central area of the book.

  The Admiral was obliged to use all of his considerable ingenuity to convert it into precisely the kind of boat we required for the plot. He was also obliged to “invent” a missile system which would (a) stand some chance of working, and (b) not take us too far into the realms of the impossible.

  Loyally, my supersonic flight advisor said it would never work, could not achieve its objective. The Admiral disagreed…maybe not today…but in six years?

  Their good-natured disagreement, conducted over several high-tech weeks, has, I hope, brought H.M.S. Unseen (the novel) home with suitable grim reality, and I thank them both.

  My thanks, too, to my two Scottish advisors (rural, geographic, and social), Penelope Enthoven and Olivia Oaks. For insights and religious advice concerning the Muslim faith, I am indebted to the kindly and patient Syed Nawshadmir (Ronnie), originally from Dhaka, Bangl
adesh, and now of Dublin, Ireland.

  —PATRICK ROBINSON

  About the Author

  Patrick Robinson lives in Dublin, Ireland, and on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. He is the bestselling author of three novels: Nimitz Class, Kilo Class, and H.M.S Unseen.

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  ALSO BY PATRICK ROBINSON

  One Hundred Days

  (With Admiral Sir John “Sandy” Woodward)

  True Blue

  Nimitz Class

  Kilo Class

  Credits

  Cover illustration © 1999 by Danilo Ducek

  Designed by Ruth Lee

  Maps by Justin Spain

  Copyright

  H.M.S. Unseen is a work of fiction set in the near future. The premise of the novel and description of the naval operations and protocol are grounded in fact. However, certain liberties have been taken in the interest of creating a compelling narrative.

  H.M.S. UNSEEN. Copyright @ 1999 by Patrick Robinson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.

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