H.M.S. Unseen

Five minutes later the two men settled into more comfortable chairs and began a discussion that might have sounded eccentric among other Naval officers. But not between these two.

Admiral Morgan cited the two entirely separate circumstances that had seen “the Brits groping around on the bottom of the ocean.” He outlined his view that the apparently deceased Commander Adnam might not be quite so dead as all that. And that, in his opinion, shared by some very influential others, it was possible that the Iraqi commanding officer might right now be at the helm of the lost HMS Unseen.

He then cited two other circumstances he considered to be absolute impossibilities. The first was that Unseen had somehow been missed by the Royal Navy after an exhaustive ten-month search, and had in fact sunk. ”Not possible, not even likely; she’s out there somewhere. Stolen.”

Admiral Mulligan nodded gravely. Then he nodded some more after Admiral Morgan explained his theory that Concorde’s disappearance was, if anything, even more mystifying than Unseen’s. The question he wanted to run by the head of the United States Navy was this: “Do you think it’s possible that the fucking Iraqis have somehow converted a submarine into an antiaircraft guided-missile boat that knocked Concorde out of the sky, bang in the middle of the North Atlantic?”

Admiral Morgan waited for the big ex-Trident commanding officer to laugh. But Joe Mulligan did no such thing. He stood up and walked around the room, a deep frown on his face. Then he said, “If it was any nation other than Iraq — which knows zero about submarines — I’d have to say yes. But, Arnold, they don’t even own one, and they never have owned one. They could not possibly produce a team capable of operating one. Nor could they possibly manage the modifications. Have you considered the possibility they may have had someone do it for them? It’s just a simple missile system. It’s not brain surgery or anything.”

“Joe, I had, but I came up with no answers.”

“Well, let’s think of it now. But before we do, let me run this by you. Antiaircraft missiles on a submarine are not entirely unknown, although there’s never been a diesel boat with the kind of firepower you’re talking about. But there was one…back in the seventies.”

“There was? Who did it?”

“The Brits.”

“They did?”

“Uh-huh. It was kept very low-key. But it was carried out by an old friend of mine, Royal Navy two and a half, Harry Brazier, Lt. Commander H.L. Brazier. Lovely guy, smart as hell…painted his submarine, an old A-Class boat, with white letters SSG 72 on the fin.”

Admiral Morgan chuckled, slurped his coffee, and said, “Go on.”

“Well, the Royal Navy converted that boat, HMS Aeneas she was called. They somehow fitted an old Blowpipe system to the front of the fin. Harry told me all about it. They called it SLAM — submerged launch air missile. The captain aimed it through the search periscope…they had to come to just above PD…fired it from a mounting, a kind of big, bulbous tower which came above the height of the fin. I remember he once showed me a photo…told me they had to remove the gun on the forecasing because of the top-weight.

“There were four missiles inside that tower, pressurized to keep out the water. It was only a modification to the land, handheld Blowpipe. And it didn’t pack that much of a wallop. The missile only went about 3,000 yards, but they thought it might knock a helicopter out of the sky. Harry told me it was dead easy to do. The only difficulty was making it seatight. But the Vickers engineers did it, and it worked. That boat could come up, slam a helo out of the sky, and vanish without trace. You were essentially left with a guided missile that had been fired from nowhere.”

“Do you think the Iraqis could have stolen Unseen and made such a conversion in some other place?”

“I very much doubt it. A missile system that would launch a weapon 10 miles into the air and still keep going, maybe for a total of 40 or 50 miles, would need a pretty good-sized launcher, and a very sophisticated fire-control system. To fit it, you’d need some serious engineering, and deep skills. You’d need high-tech workshops, heavy- lifting gear. All the trimmings. But if you had the system, on board a big supply ship, and a place to work, I don’t think it would be impossible. If you could find a way to engineer it into place in secret.”

“As I recall, Joe, the Iraqis still have that Stromboli-Class replenishment ship they bought new from the Italians. I forget her name, but she displaced nearly 9,000 tons loaded…she was pretty useful. I suppose a rendezvous between the Stromboli and the submarine is not out of the question…it’s just a matter of where they could have got the conversion done.”

“Guess so, Arnie. But it’s still a hell of a long shot. I assume you’ve checked the Stromboli’s whereabouts and activities.

“Yes. She’s out. And I know it’s a long shot. But there ain’t no short shots…right now I’m into long shots. Maybe they got ahold of another ship.”

The CNO laughed, but he was still very serious. He was about to speak again when the President’s national security advisor stood up, and said swiftly, “Joe I don’t wanna waste your time. But let me ask you one final question, bearing in mind that I think we have just outlined the mere possibility that Ben Adnam might be out in the Atlantic with the most lethal submarine ever built…the world’s first terminally deadly antiaircraft submarine.”

“Well, you have, Arnie. Go on.”

“What’s the worst thing that could ever happen, this week?”

“Dunno.”

“Come on, Joe. Think. Right now let’s assume Commander Adnam is moving east across the North Atlantic, where he’s been hiding. And now he’s on the move, heading for the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, right out by 30 West. He’s running slowly, 500 feet below the surface. What’s the worst thing he could do?”

“You mean start knocking passenger airliners out of the sky?”

“No, Joe. Not any old passenger airliner.”

The big man hesitated for a few moments…then he said, quietly, “Jesus Christ. Starstriker… ”

“Yes, Joe. Starstriker.”

“My God, Arnie. That’s a big ole bone to chew on. You think it’s possible?”

“Not really. I’m still hung up on the sheer unlikelihood of Iraq being able to make that missile conversion. Besides, there’s not a damn thing we could do about it. The Royal Navy’s Upholder is like the Russian’s Kilo, you can’t hear it at all, unless it’s careless. What could we do? Send out the Atlantic Fleet to hunt it down? They might try for a year and still not find it. No, Joe, I’m afraid it’s too way-out…no facts…just supposition. And you and I can’t operate like that…not on blind guesswork involving a thousand-to-one shot.”

“Guess not. But it sure as hell was an interesting discussion…You leaving now?”

“Yup. See you Thursday, Chief…bright and early…and by the way, it might not be that bad an idea to fire up SOSUS to keep a wary eye out for the lost British Upholder. You never know…they’re pretty good up there in those waters.”

“We’ve done all that, and we got the Brits to hand over her signatures. Hey, before you go…there’s just one thing else I recall about Aeneas. That Blowpipe program was not done for the Royal Navy…it was done for the navy of another nation who paid for the whole development in cash. Harry said the Royal Navy merely borrowed the submarine for the missile-firing trials and took the money.”

“You don’t happen to remember which nation it was, do you? Maybe they lent the plans to someone recently.”

“No, Arnie. Harry was never told that. But he always thought it might be Israel.”

0700. Thursday, February 9.

Dulles International Airport, Washington, D.C.

Marie Colton, the svelte, dark-haired forty-five-year-old deputy head of Boeing’s Public Relations Department, had been in action since 0500, overseeing the transformation of the biggest room in the airport. The deadly-serious, inwardly driven California divorcee, must have walked about 300 miles throughout the first-class area before her boss, the tall, laid-back Midwesterner, Jay Herbert, arrived on the scene at 0705.

At that point, Marie was ordering a group of flower arrangers around as if she were in an armored Panzer division, moving forward on Leningrad. You could not see the carpet for blooms, petals, leaves, and cut stalks. In the background, a six-strong team of long-haired electrical madmen was wiring up an interplanetary sound system to a couple of speakers the size of the Lincoln Memorial.