H.M.S. Unseen

his office on the old secure line into the Kremlin. The Russian officer greeted him in English with polite reserve, concerned, as he always was, that when Morgan called there was trouble, somewhere, for someone.

“Arnold, a nice surprise to hear from you. And how are things at the hub of the world’s last remaining superpower? Not so good today, ha? I am very sorry, Arnold. He was a very special man.”

“Yeah, Vitaly. It’s too bad. Left a big gap here. Everyone liked Martin.”

“But what about the aircraft, Arnold? My God, it was nearly new, wasn’t it? What went wrong?”

“Who knows, old buddy? Damn thing just crashed.” The American was struggling to get out of this drift in the conversation. He wanted only to check on the whereabouts of the two missing Russian submarines. But Rankov was making that awkward.

“But how did it crash? There’s nothing up there to collide with, right? That’s three bad crashes, all unexpected, in the past five or six weeks. All unexplained. What’s going on, Arnold? Is that what you called about?”

The admiral knew he was walking a road that would cause him to level with Vitaly Rankov, and although he did not particularly wish to do so, he was not unduly bothered by the prospect. Rankov was the former head of Soviet Naval Intelligence, and he knew about secrets. Also he might be able to help. The two men had cooperated before.

Nonetheless, Admiral Morgan elected to keep his powder dry. “It was not exactly what I called about, Vitaly. But I would appreciate you marking my card if you could.”

“Very well, Arnold. How can I help?”

“According to our surveillance, there are two Russian submarines we cannot see or hear. I don’t want to know specifically where they are or what they’re doing. But I want to ask you to tell me roughly where they are, unless, of course it’s a state secret, and then, of course, I’ll understand.”

“I doubt it, these days. Which two?”

“Northern Fleet Typhoon TK-17. Northern Fleet Delta IV K-18.”

“Wait a minute.”

Admiral Morgan held on the line, drawing little submarines on his writing pad, as he usually did in times of stress. But in less than four minutes the Russian was back.

“The Typhoon’s in the Pacific, way south of the Bering Strait, heading for Petrapavlosk. You’ll probably pick her up there on overheads tomorrow. The Delta IV’s in refit in the Baltic. Covered dry dock in St. Petersburg. That’s why you can’t see her. What else? I am anxious there should be no misunderstanding between us.”

“Not much really. Pretty routine inquiry.”

“Arnold, dear Arnold. On the day after your Vice President is killed in the crash of no less an aircraft than Air Force Three, probably the best-maintained passenger jet in the world…you get up at God knows what time to call me to ask about a couple of submarines that are doing no harm to anyone, especially the one that’s in hospital? I have leveled with you, my friend. Now you must level with me; otherwise, a very useful friendship for both of us will begin to lose its foundation.”

“Crafty Russian motherfucker,” murmured Morgan, but not quite softly enough, not on the new crystal-clear international phone lines. He heard at the other end a roar of laughter from the giant ex — Soviet international oarsman.

They both laughed, and Morgan knew he had to say something, although he was not sure precisely what that ought to be.

Admiral Rankov saved him a lot of trouble. “Arnold, you don’t think someone shot those aircraft down, do you? And if the answer’s yes, you couldn’t possibly think it was us, could you?”

“Vitaly, I do think someone shot them down. But I never thought you had anything to do with it. I now know you could not have had anything to do with it.”

“Why? Because the two submarines are now accounted for?”

“Yes.”

“Then you believe the aircraft were shot down by a missile launched from a submarine?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. Who has such a submarine? Not us.”

“Nor us. But someone has. You haven’t fitted a surface-to-air system on someone else’s boat, have you?”

“If we have, no one’s told me.”

“Well, Vitaly old buddy, the last time there was an almighty calamity, the one involving our aircraft carrier, you’ll recall it all started with a missing submarine of yours.”

“I’m unlikely to forget that.”

“Well, if you have anything in the North Atlantic and it happens to trip over a diesel-electric boat with engine lines from a couple of British Paxmans, do me a favor, will you? Sink the sonofabitch, before it knocks out another airliner.”

“Arnold, is this classified information? I presume you do not wish a word of this to get out?”

“Vitaly. It’s as secret as any secret I have ever confided in you. Don’t let me down, will you?”

“I would not dream of it, my friend. Basically you are telling me that someone stole or hijacked the Royal Navy’s Upholder-Class boat that went missing a year ago? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Correct.”

“And he’s somehow converted it to have an antiaircraft missile, and now he’s out there, causing havoc?”

“Correct. And remember, if they can hire one of yours, they can surely steal one from the Brits.”

Admiral Morgan could not, of course, see it, but there was a broad smile beginning to decorate the Russian’s face. “Arnold, what kind of security do you have on Air Force Three? You do, of course, have missile jammers, decoys, and not just some kind of chaff?”

“No, we never went that far.”

“Arnold, I’m surprised. You really want to get that security beefed up. It’s a damned dangerous world out there. As you once told me, old comrade, stuff happens.”

“All right, Rankov. All right. I’m hearing you. Don’t give me a difficult time. I’ve got enough trouble. But if you should see or hear anything in the area between 20 West and 30 West on the jet flight paths, lemme know, will you?”

“Absolutely. I’ll put our two North Atlantic patrol submarines on alert right away. Just one thing, though, before you go…”

“Uh-huh?”

“Remember…stuff happens.”

012130MAR06. 57.49N, 9.40W. Depth 300. Course 90.

Speed 8. Unseen runs quietly east in deep water.

Commander Adnam’s task for his Iranian paymasters was over, the revenge of the Ayatollahs on the Great Satan complete. Three strikes. An eye for an eye. And now the former Israeli commanding officer was alone in his cabin, wondering whether he would find his reward of the final $1.5 million in his bank account. The Iranians had paid the first $1.5 million in three installments, without a murmur. The question was, would they now cut him loose? Or, more likely, have him assassinated and save the cash? I know what I’d do if I were the head of the Iranian secret service, he said to himself. I’d execute Benjamin Adnam forthwith.

He sat with his loaded service revolver on the small table before him, his big desert knife sheathed on the belt beneath his jacket. He was writing a letter to his trusty navigation officer, Arash Rajavi. It read as follows:

My Dear Arash,

We have traveled far together in the short time of our acquaintance but, as you know, for many reasons I have to leave you. This letter is to confirm what you already know, that I enjoyed serving with you, and regard you as potentially a great submariner. I do believe this is a very good boat and will do much to further our cause.

During your long journey home, please try to remember all that I have taught you. Keep your speed down to less than 8 knots all the way, run close to the coast of Ireland, get into the Bay of Biscay, staying inshore all the