H.M.S. Unseen

program they all faced. And he tried to stay calm. But it was hard to cast from his mind the overwhelming magnitude of their crime. There they were, sitting bang in the middle of the historic harbor of Sir Francis Drake, the very cradle of the Royal Navy, having stolen one of their submarines and killed all of the crew. Three hours from now Commander Adnam was planning summarily to murder two British officers and probably a couple of petty officers. My God! he thought. If we are caught, they will execute every last one of us.

But he fought back his fear and his natural instinct to escape from there at all costs as he listened to the cool, measured words of his leader. Not for the first time, Lieutenant Commander Rajavi decided that Benjamin Adnam was, without doubt, the most cold-blooded man he had ever met.

Two hours later, neatly dressed in Brazilian Naval uniforms, four hands, in company with a young officer, waited on the casing for the arrival of the Sea Riders. They spotted them through the cabin windows of the harbor launch, speeding down the well-marked channel west of Drake’s Island, toward Unseen at 0750. Two more officers, plus a lookout, were on the bridge, all in Brazilian uniforms. Five minutes later the launch was alongside, and the young officer on the casing saluted, wishing the Royal Navy men “Good Morning” in an Iranian accent which Ben hoped would be assumed to be Brazilian.

The launch headed back to the dockyard, and one by one the four Royal Navy men came on board, making for the open hatch on top of the casing. There was an 8-foot steel ladder inside, and the leader, Chief Petty Officer Tom Sowerby, made his way expertly downward, his final steps on this earth. As his right foot hit the ground three of the Iranians grabbed him, with a hand clamped tight over his mouth to stop him crying out as Ali’s knife cleaved into his heart. Lt. Commander Bill Colley, next on the ladder, never realized what was happening below until it happened to him as well.

Eight minutes later, all four of the Royal Navy men had joined the pile of zipped-up bodies in the torpedo room. It was 0759, and Commander Adnam was preparing to leave British waters.

At 0800 sharp, he ordered the Brazilian ensign hoisted on top of the fin. The diesel generators were still running sweetly as they slipped the buoy, and Ben ordered, “Half astern,” then “Half ahead” as he turned HMS Unseen away from Plymouth, making coolly for the western end of the breakwater, and freedom. No one, in all of the great sprawling Royal Navy base, had the remotest idea that anything was other than normal.

The men accompanying Lieutenant Commander Rajavi on the bridge were surprised at the sight of Rame Head as they ran fair down the channel, keeping the big red buoys to starboard. The headland, steep-sided, solid rock, no trees, with a small chapel on top, looked even higher by day, visible for almost 20 miles. Ben Adnam’s engineering officer had the big electric motor running steadily, with the diesels working to provide the power.

Below in the control center, the CO studied the operations area where Unseen was scheduled to work that day, and headed for the northeast corner of the “square,” a couple of miles west of the Eddystone Lighthouse. There was almost 200 feet of water under the keel, and, with all signals now correctly sent to home base, he ordered the submarine to dive. The great black hull slid down beneath the cold gray waves, leaving behind a mystery that would rival that of the Marie Celeste, and which would last for many, many months.

Commander Adnam was in perfect position. He was in precisely the area he was supposed to be. He wanted to test his team in some under way drills in precisely the same way the Sea Riders would have been testing the Brazilians. In the following few hours he worked the Iranians through the electrical and mechanical systems, the sonar, the radar, the ESM, the communications, the trimming and ballasting, the hydraulics and air systems, even the domestic water and sewage systems. He checked the periscopes and low-light aids, sometimes running easily at nine knots, occasionally stopping in the water to give his Officer of the Watch experience at trimming this new and strange submarine. More than half of the time was spent snorkeling, making certain the ship’s battery was well topped-up. Sometimes the commander offered quiet advice to the younger men, sometimes he pushed them harder. But there was never an edge to his voice. He was always conscious that a tired crew might make mistakes, but not so many as a tired and frightened crew.

Three times he took her deep, insisting his men grow accustomed to the diving angles. Twice, in midafternoon at the southern end of his ops area, he ran her on the surface, which Lieutenant Commander Rajavi regarded as one of the most reckless decisions he had ever witnessed. What if anyone should see us? At one point late in the afternoon, he actually ventured to ask if the CO considered it possible that there might be a hunt on for them. “Would you not feel safer, sir, at periscope depth?”

“There is no danger,” replied the commander. “If there were, I would not be on the surface.”

At 1930 he sent in his Check Report to the operating authority, Captain SM2 in Devonport, half an hour early. He was 90 miles from his diving position, and now he turned the ship toward the southwest, running throughout the night on course two-two-five, heading for the northwestern coast of Brittany, snorkeling constantly, keeping the battery well charged. They went deep only twice in the small hours, once when they detected a threatening sweep of British military radar, and once for a large merchant ship close by.

At 0700 the following morning Commander Adnam sent in his second Check Report, the last one. By then he was, of course, well beyond his ops area, but naturally it was assumed the signal was sent from Unseen’s correct, designated place in the ocean.

By 1800 that evening, when his Diving Signal was due to expire, he would be 180 miles away from Unseen’s designated area of activity. But by then, he would be running deep down the Atlantic, 120 miles west of the big French Naval base at Brest. Ben Adnam would take no chances there.

301725MAR05. Second Submarine Squadron

Operations Center.

Lt. Commander Roger Martin, the staff officer, Operations, had just about had it for the day, coping as he did with the frenetic mass of tiny problems that made up this unenviable job. Aside from the endless stream of Orders coming across his desk, he had also been coordinating all the plans for exercises among the boats in the squadron. Not just the workup boats; Lieutenant Commander Martin was dealing with the exercises for all of the squadron boats based in the vast Devonport dockyard.

He took a deep swig of tea, checked his watch, and prepared to hand over for the night to the duty staff officer, Lt. Commander Doug Roper. He checked his list over again, as he always did when there were boats at sea, ensuring that every anticipated Check Report and Surfacing Signal was recorded on the State Board complete with times when ships were due to make contact.

By now he could see the fair-haired athletic figure of Lieutenant Commander Roper striding along the corridor, and he greeted him cheerfully. “Hello, Doug, we’re more or less in order here…except for Unseen. She’s not actually late…but her Diving Signal does expire at 1800, and she’s been well ahead of time with communications for the past couple of days. I was just beginning to wonder…still, Bill Colley was her senior Sea Rider today, and he did mention he might give the Brazilians an extra hard time out there. He reckons they’re slipping behind with their program. Perhaps he’s keeping them at it until the last minute.”

“Probably,” replied Lieutenant Commander Roper. “Still, you always wonder when they cut it fine. I’ll keep a close eye on the situation.”

“Okay, old pal. I’ll be off now…have a good night.”

Doug Roper was a very ambitious officer, aged only thirty-one. He was not yet married, and money from his family timber business in Kent had enabled him to buy a flashy, low-slung, white sports car. In a predominantly middle-class operation like the Royal Navy this might have caused some envy, but this lieutenant commander was universally popular, and in addition to having a keen and profoundly watchful mind, he worked extremely hard.

He studied the sheets he had been handed and checked his watch. It was 1740. He checked for Unseen’s Surfacing Signal. Nothing. And for no accountable reason, alarm bells began to go off in Doug Roper’s head. Time was running out. If Unseen continued to live up to her name for much longer, he was going to become the busiest man in Plymouth.

He realized that Lieutenant Commander Colley might just have forgotten to send the Surfacing Signal. But he knew when she was supposed to be on the surface, and by now she should be on the surface, close to Plymouth. Maybe, thought Roper, she’s had a total communications breakdown, and is right now running through the harbor, trying to contact anyone in sight to pass her signal by light, VHF or word of mouth. But somehow he doubted that.