“Shallow water work involves a complete culture change, because so many things are completely different. For a start, your long-range sensors are useless, so you often receive no warning of approaching danger. As you know, charts and surveys get out of date. You must have the best and the latest, and make full use of them. Because, when you are operating close to shore, you are no longer sweeping like the cavalry across a wide uncluttered plain, you are groping about in the forest, like a bloody infantryman. So you have to know your ground.
“That entails extremely accurate navigation — to five meters vertical, and fifty meters horizontal. Inshore, you’ve got to use your eyes. And remember, above all, you’ve lost the advantage of high speed, particularly to escape, if you’ve been careless. You simply can’t go fast, with the bottom that close.
“And something else you may not know, Bill — you make twenty knots at two hundred feet, and you’ll leave a clear wake on the surface for all to see.
“Only stealth, stealth and cunning, above anything you have ever done before, will keep you safe.”
The American officer had never heard anyone speak like that. The admiral who faced him came from a different culture all right. A different world, and one which might ultimately lead to the master’s finest pupil, perhaps to the man who had found a way to destroy the
Laura sighed gently. Her mother smiled the smile of the deeply tolerant. Unlike the American, they were very familiar with this particular lecture. And the admiral, visibly warming to his theme, pressed on, his focus now on the dark, swirling waters of the Bosporus.
“It’s a nasty little stretch,” he muttered. “Not very wide for much of the way. And not very deep. There are parts which are very, very shallow for a submarine, right on the limits. Also it’s busy, almost all of the time, with deep-draft freighters going each way.
“The channel is divided into two lanes, and of course you keep right. Overtaking is prohibited. And running south it’s often bloody difficult to stop. Imagine a seven-knot current in the narrowest bit.
“Err to starboard, and you’re on the putty. Err to port, and you’re likely to have a head-on collision. In the most dangerous part, it’s too shallow to go deep, under an oncoming freighter. Also there’s a problem with a couple of wrecks, and I have my own doubts about the charting of the bottom. The soundings are a bit far apart for my taste.”
At this point, the senior submariner began adjusting the dessert spoons and forks into a zigzag shape next to a mayonnaise dish.
“Remember,” he said, pointing to the tablecloth with his knife. “You are navigating underwater, in the pitch dark, and there is a big S-bend about one third of the way down from the Black Sea…right here…parts of that are especially narrow. On either side there are shoals less than fifty feet deep.” He tapped the mayonnaise dish sharply with his fish knife. “If you stray out of your channel, which is less than a couple of hundred yards wide, you’ll hit the bank, and find yourself stuck on the surface, hard aground, in full view of everyone. And that would be very moderate news indeed.
“Assuming you get through the S-bend, the south-going channel really closes in, immediately afterward, to its narrowest part, less than two hundred yards across. And that’s obviously where the current is at its worst, as the water surges through the bottleneck.
“Running on down under the second bridge, there’s a damn great sandbank, bang in the middle of the south channel. The bottom comes up to eighty feet, which makes it impossible to duck under anything larger than a motorboat. And, to make it worse, there are already two bloody wrecks on that bank — one of them only forty-five feet down.
“Looking at the chart, I would prefer to pick my moment, to hurry down the deeper north-going lane, if I could time it between the oncoming freighters and tankers. But that’s bloody dangerous, as you know.
“Also the entire exercise is illegal. Under the Montreux Convention, the Turks don’t allow it. For any warships, of any nation. And they have a perfect right to stop any warship of any nation which has not given due notice, weeks in advance, of their intention to transit the Bosporus.
“You still want to know why people have heart attacks at the very notion of going through the Bosporus underwater? Because, it’s not just bloody difficult and bloody dangerous, but if Johnny Turk catches you he’ll be bloody-minded, to say the least.”
“Are you telling me it really is impossible?”
“Not quite, Bill. But you need a master submariner for the job. Of my generation there are probably three, Admiral Elliott, whom you met. Me, just. And possibly Captain Greenwood, who’s apt to get over excited, but he might make it.”
“And how about your best-ever Perisher?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s Ben, isn’t it?” asked Laura.
“That’s Ben.”
“But why are you asking about him?”
“Later,” said her father. “Bill will explain to you.”
Laura smiled, plainly not considering that particular prospect akin to a sentence of death. “Very well, then,” she said. “Mrs. Laura Anderson, mother of Flora and Mary, will reserve her answers for private interrogation by the United States Navy sometime after ten o’clock in the admiral’s study.”
“That, by the way, means that my daughter thinks you and she are going to sit by the fire and drink my best vintage port,” said the admiral. “Like the Turks with the Bosporus, I like to keep a firm hand on the stopper.”
“Guess so,” said Bill. “You could get your cattle rustled real quick from what I can see.”
Laura debated giving the American a cozy nudge with her elbow, but decided against it, on the grounds that her watchful mother would regard such an action as flirtatious for a married lady.
The admiral himself moved the subject forward, inquiring whether Bill had time for a day at sea. “This is one of the best submarine training areas in the world, particularly for shallow waters.”
“Admiral, I’d really appreciate that. It’s funny how insular our profession can be…we all share the same goals…but we get so far apart.”
“Fine. I fixed it yesterday. We’ll need an early start. Get on board by nine.”
The remainder of dinner passed quickly. The Kansan glanced at his watch and saw that it was after ten, and Laura caught him doing so. “I think the U.S. Navy may be tiring,” she said, pushing her chair back. “I’ll just help Mum for a few minutes, then I’ll be in to face my cross-examination. There’s a decanter on the drinks trolley, pour a couple of glasses of that port, before Daddy confiscates it.”
Bill Baldridge did as he was told. He thanked the admiral for a delicious dinner, and wished his hosts a good night. They arranged to meet for breakfast at 0715 the following morning.
Inside the book-lined study, Bill found the port, poured two glasses, and sat by the fire. Laura arrived after ten minutes, her hair freshly combed, and wearing fresh lipstick. She sat elegantly in the opposite armchair, crossed her slender legs and said, a bit too softly, “Okay, Lieutenant Commander, I’m all yours.”
Bill found himself wishing, profoundly, that this was indeed so. But before him sat the lady who might help him find the man who might have vaporized the
He decided to tell her the reason for his visit, and he began carefully. “Laura,” he said, “as you know there was a most terrible accident on one of our aircraft carriers a week ago. We do not, however, think it was quite that simple. We think a Middle Eastern power blew up the carrier. We think the missile which destroyed it was a torpedo, tipped with a nuclear warhead, and fired from a submarine. There are very, very few men who could have accomplished that. I think Commander Benjamin Adnam may have been the driver.”
“Ben! But he’s an Israeli. His home is in Tel Aviv. America is the great supporter of Israel. Why would anyone wish to attack their own most loyal ally?”
Bill shook his head. Then he said, “Tell me about him, Laura. What kind of man was he?”
“Well…he was only five feet nine, more heavily built than you, with jet-black curly hair, trimmed pretty tight. His eyes were dark, almost black. He did not have that swarthy Middle Eastern complexion; his skin was coffee- colored, soft, looked as if he never needed to shave.
“When I first met Ben I thought he was the best-looking man I had ever seen. I was in love with him, you
