H.M.S. Unseen

anything.”

“That’s how it feels from here at the moment. We’ve now been conducting our search for six weeks, and we’ve found absolutely nothing. It’s bloody expensive in time and money. It preoccupies the submarine service, in return for which we are all being pilloried on a daily basis. The training captain in Devonport knows his career is on the line…and I have to say, I think mine is as well. The Royal Navy has not lost a submarine since the Affray in 1951.”

“Yes. It’s a goddamned bad business. You guys only took five weeks to find the Affray, and that was with equipment half a century behind what we have now.”

“And Arnold, it’s all made worse by the unmistakable fact that we have not found her, and we ought to have found her. Privately, truly between you and me, I’m just beginning to think something pretty bloody odd might be going on.”

“I’ve been thinking that since around April 5.”

“You would, cynical bastard. But I could not allow myself that luxury. Not with my whole department under fire. And, of course, we’ve had all this grief from the Brazilians. Where’s my submarine? Where are our people? What kind of an operation are you running? This is a disgrace. We hope you don’t expect us to pay for this. Not that they paid much for her anyway…$50 million for a submarine that cost $300 million plus.

“Of course the damned media don’t understand anything about a deal like this, and how damned difficult it would be to stop the Brazilians going to sea anyway. It is their submarine, after all, and it’s awfully hard to tell a foreign Navy their chaps are incompetent, even if they are. Which in this case they actually weren’t.”

“Hmmmmm. Let me suggest something to you, Dick. I expect you know that when we lost that aircraft carrier nearly three years ago, we had reason to think it was hit by a nuclear-headed torpedo delivered from a Russian Kilo.”

“No. I did not know that.”

“Then I must ask you to please make sure this conversation never gets repeated. That particular Kilo was, in effect, stolen from the Russian Navy, although there was no suggestion of violence. For weeks, the Russians swore it had sunk in the Black Sea. And they were telling the truth as they knew it. But when the dust cleared, it had not sunk. It had been removed. And I’m very afraid we might be looking at something similar right here.”

“Jesus…Arnold, my heart is telling me that such a thing could not possibly happen in the Royal Navy, in which I have served all of my working life. But there is a small voice in my mind that is saying yes it could.”

“I’ve been hearing that same voice for several weeks, Dick,” replied the American. “Just because I know how good you guys are. I know how thorough a job you’re doing. I know that modern sonars are excellent at sorting out what’s on the bottom. And you are telling me you had your own sea trainers in that boat and that the Brazilians weren’t that bad anyway. I know all that to be true. So where is the sonofabitch?”

Both men were silent. Then Admiral Morgan spoke again. “Dick, this is the most secret information I have ever uttered to a foreigner. But when we ran the mystery of the Jefferson to ground, we came up with an Arab terrorist, trained as a submarine officer in Israel, and here in Scotland, where he passed your Perisher with flying colors. He was a submarine genius, and he obliterated a United States aircraft carrier.

“According to the Mossad, he’s dead. But I could not place my hand on my heart and say I know he’s dead. And I suspect neither could the Mossad. I’m scared shitless the bastard’s still alive. I’m scared shitless because he’s familiar with the U-Class…and I’m really scared shitless that he’s out there, driving HMS Unseen.”

Rear Admiral Sir Richard Birley sucked in his breath between his teeth, an involuntary gesture made at the enormity of the American’s words. “Where do you think he’s going?”

“That I don’t know. But if he’s taking weapons on board somewhere, I guess we have to face up to the possibility that he might be planning to slam a few more warships, ours, yours, whoever. He’s a Fundamentalist, working for Iraq. He hates the West…he’ll do anything to strike against us. We’ve already established that. But I can’t see him going home to Iraq. They simply do not have deep enough water to operate a submarine.”

“Do we begin a search?”

“I don’t know how. Your Unseen is like the Kilo, only even quieter. Can’t hear it. Can’t see it. I don’t know where to start. And I’m afraid to instigate anything. I just can’t advise the President to start looking for a submarine all over the goddamned oceans of the world when it might just have had a battery explosion and destroyed itself in the English Channel.”

“No, I suppose not. But it didn’t, did it?”

“No, Dick. No it didn’t. And the only ray of hope we have is there’s not really much he could do with it.”

“No.”

“I presume she has no weapons on board?”

“True.”

“And the Iraqis have nothing that would fit?”

“I very much doubt it. Nor any trained crew to drive it…much less handle weapons.”

“Then there’s not much left. I guess he could fill it with explosive and blow it up somewhere it could hurt the U.S.”

“You mean something like the Statue of Liberty?”

“Well, I dunno really. But I guess he could make a hell of a big bang somewhere.”

“Seems a hell of a lot of trouble for a bomb. There are many better ways, easier ways, to make a major bang. I must say, it’s a baffling scenario.”

“Which means, Dick, we better think about it real deeply, right? Keep me posted, won’t you?”

Three hours later Admiral Morgan and Kathy arrived back at RAF Lyneham, where the KC 135 was ready to fly them all to Prestwick, way up on the western coast of Scotland, just south of the great championship golf links of Royal Troon.

They arrived at 1530, and the admiral insisted on driving the Navy staff car himself with just Kathy on board. The four Secret Servicemen rode in a separate car right behind, with the communications equipment. And they headed north, as the admiral put it, line astern, up the A78 coast road, which winds along the spectacular shoreline of the Firth of Clyde until it heads back toward Glasgow along the south bank.

But the admiral was not going that far. He drove 42 miles all along the water’s edge, then pulled into a small country hotel on the outskirts of the little port of Gourock, which stands on the headland where the Clyde makes its great left-hand swing down to the sea.

“We’re anchoring here for the night,” he told Kathy. “The guys in the back have already made their security arrangements. You and I are going for a little walk; been sitting down all day.” They were shown immediately to their suite, which had a sensational view right across the water to the point of land where the Argyll Forest reaches down to the sea at the tiny fishing port of Strone.

They watched a ferry moving lazily across the calm surface, and out beyond there was a big sailing yacht, heading northeast, with a light, chilly southwester billowing the mainsail. Farther east, a black-hulled freighter steamed steadily toward Glasgow. Admiral Morgan stood by the window, staring distractedly at the idyllic scene before him.

They pulled on big sweaters and walked out into the late-afternoon sunlight, making their way along the shore for about a half mile before the admiral stopped and pointed directly across the deserted water. See that gap over there, between the town on the left?…that’s Dunoon…and the headland…right there on the right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s the entrance to the Holy Loch, the old American submarine base. That’s where we ran a Polaris squadron from…straight up there. Kept the world safe for a lotta years…right through the Cold War.”

“You were there for a while, weren’t you?”

“Sure was. Must have been thirty years ago. I was the sonar officer in a nuclear sub. We were only here for a couple of weeks…went right out into the Atlantic…right up to the GIUK Gap. It was deep cold water…watching for the Russian boats…tracking ’em…recording ’em. None of ’em ever got far without us knowing.”

“What’s the GIUK Gap?”

“Oh, that’s just the narrowest part of the North Atlantic…the choke point formed by Greenland-Iceland and the UK. The Russian Northern Fleet boats have to go through there to get out into the rest of the world…and they have to go through there to get back. That’s why we patrolled it all of the time.”