H.M.S. Unseen

“Why were you all so anxious to track them?”

“Because submarines are very, very dangerous, and very, very sneaky. You just don’t want ’em wandering around on the loose when no one knows where they are. You have to keep an eye on them. If there’s one thing that makes me real nervous, it’s a submarine that’s somehow gone off the charts.”

“Like that British one?”

“Well, not really,” he said quickly. “The Royal Navy thinks that one is wrecked on the bottom of the ocean. And we have to accept that. But I’d like them to find it.”

Kathy looked at him quizzically. “Well, my darling, I don’t know who you were seeing this morning…but I’d say your private thoughts had most definitely become business.”

They both laughed. And he put his arm around her shoulders as they strolled leisurely the rest of the way to the harbor and watched the gulls wheeling in a noisy cloud at the stern of the departing evening ferry to Helensburgh.

“That’s where we’re going tomorrow,” he said. “On the new car ferry. We’re visiting an old friend of mine… we’ll sleep late, then spend the afternoon getting there.”

It was a pity the weather suddenly changed, but the clouds were beginning to roll in from the southwest, right across the Mull of Kintyre and the Isle of Arran, darkening the waters of the Sound of Bute, Rothesay, and the Clyde. By the time Arnold and Kathy reached the hotel it was raining lightly, and the water seemed misty.

It was not much better the next day. In fact it was probably worse. The rain was steady, and they sat in sweaters and raincoats, outside on the upper deck of the ferry, under an awning. “This is a most beautiful part of the world,” said Kathy. “Is the weather always so miserable?”

“Mostly,” replied the admiral. “A lot of people have summer homes up here on the lochs, but you couldn’t give me one. I remember the time I was here. It wasn’t much different from this the whole two weeks. And it was summer.”

“But it is so beautiful. I expect they forgive the climate.”

“I expect they do. There is a certain way of life up here — you know, golf, sailing, shooting, fishing. And there is a kinda coziness about log fires and whiskey, which is what they love. But it’s goddamned hard work, if you ask me. Just a place to visit. Give me a warm sunny bay anytime.”

“So speaks the world beach expert, who hasn’t had a vacation since 1942,” said Kathy, giggling.

“Jesus. I wasn’t even born in 1942.”

“Precisely.”

“It’s unbelievable, the insolence I have to put up with. You sure we oughtn’t to get married? So I can keep you in order.”

“Quite sure, thank you. Unless you want to use that contraption in the leather case that Charlie’s carrying over there, and tell the President you’ve decided to bag his job and take to the hills.”

“Heh, heh, heh. Come on, we’re outta here…this is Helensburgh. Let’s get in the car…”

They drove the black Mercedes off the ferry into the rainswept streets of the little Scottish town, with the Secret Servicemen right behind in the big Ford Grenada. The admiral did not require a map to pick up the A814. He found it with the ease of a man who had done it before, and headed north up the eastern bank of the Gareloch. “This is British submarine country,” he said. “Right there, that’s the Rhu Narrows…used to be a very narrow channel leading up to the base at Faslane, where the Brits kept Polaris. They widened it for Trident.”

Kathy stared out at the black waters. Just the thought of a submarine running down there gave her the creeps, and she thought of what Arnold must have looked like thirty years ago, perhaps standing on the bridge in his uniform, bound for the dark, cold wasteland of the North Atlantic.

Arnold, too, was preoccupied, looking at the waters of the loch. But he was wondering about a trainee submarine commanding officer, who had also spent time here, learning the craft which had caused the United States Navy so much heartbreak. I just wish I knew whether that little bastard was alive or dead, he thought. That way I might have a better idea whether Unseen was alive or dead.

They drove on in silence for a while until they reached the small town of Arrochar, way up at the head of Loch Long, 15 miles from Helensburgh. There the admiral announced a course change onto the A83 through the forest, all along the foothills of The Cobbler, a craggy Scottish mountain that has marked the way home for submariners for generations.

“We’re making a westerly course, now,” the admiral told Kathy. “For about 16 miles, then we run down the coast of Loch Fyne to Inverary. I’ll show you a castle there that belongs to the Duke of Argyll. We’ll go and take a look while the guys check into The George; that’s a local pub.”

This took about an hour, driving around to find a suitable vantage point to see the famous four round towers of the castle, and the Secret Servicemen took even longer to organize their phone linkups. They decided to have dinner at the pub restaurant in two shifts, one at 1800 and one at 2100, since two of them would be on duty at all times of the night.

Kathy and the admiral finally arrived at the big white Georgian house on the shores of Loch Fyne at 1730. It was still raining, and they were greeted by a tall, elegant-looking man of about sixty, with greying hair and a beautifully cut country suit.

Impeccably mannered, he turned to Kathy, and said: “Hello, I’m Iain MacLean, and I am delighted to meet you.”

“He sells himself short, Kathy,” interjected Arnold Morgan. “He’s really Admiral Sir Iain MacLean, former Flag Officer of the Royal Navy’s Submarine Service, and in the opinion of some people, the best submariner this country ever had.”

The two men shook hands warmly. They had not met for several years since the Scotsman had served a stint in Washington. But they had been in phone contact during the Jefferson investigation, in which the retired Royal Navy officer had played a pivotal role, as the Teacher who had actually taught Benjamin Adnam how to command a submarine.

At this moment the introductions were cut slightly short, because the front door was opened by a classic- looking Scottish country lady, just as a pack of three black lunatics burst around the side of the house in a rambunctious trio of tail-wagging Labrador bravado. The first two, Fergus and Muffin charged forward and climbed all over Kathy, but the third one, not much more than a puppy, with feet like saucepans, took a cheerful rush at the American admiral, leapt up, and planted his muddy paws right in the middle of his white Irish-knit sweater.

“Iain! Iain! For God’s sake get those bloody dogs under control. They’re supposed to be trained gundogs, not street hooligans,” called Lady MacLean, but it was too late for that.

By now Admiral Morgan had decided to grab the puppy and lift him up; that way he could get a better grip on him, despite having his face licked. Kathy, who had dogs of her own, coped extremely well, and Sir Iain apologized.

“Don’t bother apologizing to me,” said the national security advisor. “I love these guys, what’s this one called?”

“He’s new. I call him Mr. Bumble. Annie thinks he’s an absolute bloody menace.”

“Well he is a bloody menace,” said Lady MacLean. “This morning he went into the loch, then rushed through the drawing room straight over one of those sofas. It took me an hour to clean it.” Then she laughed, and added, “By the way, I’m Annie MacLean…Arnold, lovely to see you again…and you must be the beautiful Kathy?”

It was second nature to this very senior officer’s wife to put younger people totally at their ease. She had spent a lifetime doing it, as a captain’s wife, a rear-admiral’s wife, and finally as a vice-admiral’s wife: being charming to the wives of lieutenants, knowing their husbands were terrified of Iain.

But she made it all very easy, and the butler, the red-bearded Angus, came out and took the luggage, before showing the Secret Servicemen to a small downstairs room next to the kitchen, where they could have some tea and watch the television during the early part of the evening.

Then Annie took Kathy into the big kitchen with her, while the two retired admirals made their way to the great wide drawing room with its perfect southern aspect over the loch.

“Christ, Arnold, she’s an absolute stunner,” said Sir Iain softly as they settled into the sofa Mr. Bumble had done his resolute best to destroy that morning. “Matter of fact, I’m slightly afraid she might be a bit too good for you.”

Arnold Morgan chuckled. He had always been extremely fond of the droll, aristocratic Scotsman, and he had