H.M.S. Unseen

away, heading for the deck of the missile frigate.

Captain Richards gave the final orders. “Fire tube one.”

Seconds later an Mk 46 MOD 5 blasted out of the frigate and set off in a dead straight line toward Unseen, which was now wallowing 4,050 yards off the frigate’s bow. It hit with a dull explosive thump as the torpedo punched a killer hole into the pressure hull. Unseen, and her Iranian crew, were gone inside a minute, sunk in water almost 3 miles deep. No one lived for more than thirty seconds. And no one in the Middle East would ever know, how and what had happened to the terrorist missile boat.

On board Ingraham everyone knew what had happened, that in the course of their mission they had sent probably 50 men to their graves. No one dwelt upon the humanity of their actions, only on their sense of duty, that high and mysterious anthem of fighting men. And their world quickly fell into tune with it.

Meanwhile, back on board the Ronald Reagan, Captain Barry took some delight in the fact that not all U.S. carriers are prey for marauding diesel-electric submarines. “We had a bead on her from the moment we stepped up to the plate…that sucker never moved without us knowing,” he told Amos Clark. “In the end we only needed a couple of good ASW search aircraft and a good frigate, and they were dead at first base.”

“Yessir. The only time the rules change a bit is when you don’t know the fuckers are out there. Sneaky little bastards.” Art Barry reflected on the incontrovertible fact that all surface group commanders hate submarines. Especially nonnuclear boats.

His signal back to SUBPAC confirmed the destruction of HMS Unseen, sunk 145 miles off the coast of Oman shortly before 2400 on May 9. No wreckage. No survivors. No U.S. casualties.

The photographs wired back to HQ via the carrier arrived in the late afternoon. And after a brief study of them, the two Washington-based admirals headed home with copies, a Navy helicopter delivering Admiral Mulligan to the Pentagon, and Arnold Morgan to Langley, Virginia, where Ben Adnam was going into his fourth week of being debriefed.

He had held up night and day, through question after question, checks and rechecks, until the words of the Iraqi Naval officer were either proven true or false. Thus far he had not faltered, and the CIA was becoming more and more impressed by him. Especially Frank Reidel, who had deep experience of field officers, having been head of the Far Eastern desk for several years.

The photographs of Unseen, personally brought to the interrogation room by Morgan himself, showed, of course, the incredible sight of the missile launcher behind the fin. And upon this the admiral felt Adnam’s story lived or died. Everything else fell into place, he knew that. But the question remained, that system.

He sat down to grill personally the former pirate CO of Unseen, and he kept going for four hours.

“How heavy was it?…what kind of crane did you use?…what was the name of the supply ship?…how many people did it take?…who were they?…where does Iraq get ahold of such engineers?…who trained them?…where are the holding bolts situated?…what kind of seals did you use?…was it pressurized inside?…where did you test it?… how many missiles did you take on the journey?…did you intend to commit more crimes against civil aircraft?…who liaised with you in London on the two departure times of Concorde and Air Force Three?

The admiral tried every trick known to the master interrogator. And, as the former director of the National Security Agency, that was a substantial number of tricks. But Ben Adnam held firm. He answered every question. He knew every answer. By 2200 there was no doubt in Admiral Morgan’s mind. Iraq had perpetrated the atrocities, under the guidance of their hero, and Iraq must be taught a lesson. The issue would be to find one sufficiently severe.

The admiral called it a day, or a night, just before 2300. He had left his own car at Langley, parked in the director’s private space, as always, and drove himself to Kathy’s house, which was less than 4 miles away, across the American Legion Memorial Bridge into Maryland.

She was waiting up for him, as promised, and poured him a large rum on the rocks, as he marched wearily through the door and crashed into a large armchair without even taking his coat off.

“I am beat. Nearly,” he said. “And I still love you. Even after dealing with more bullshit than a field of longhorns.”

Kathy O’Brien looked wonderful. Her long red hair, just washed, fell about her shoulders. Her slim figure was encased in a dark blue silk housecoat. She wore no makeup except lipstick, and Arnold Morgan was once more amazed that she could care about him. She handed him his drink and kissed him, told him to get up and take off his coat and anything else that might make him happy. She put on some music and told him, in answer to his request, that, no, he could not have a roast beef sandwich.

“First of all, they’re not good for you to eat all the time. And secondly, in anticipation of your late arrival, I have prepared a nice late dinner for us.”

“Dinner! Jesus, it’s the middle of the night.”

“Pretend you’re Spanish, El Morgano.”

The great man laughed. “Do you know I’ve never been there, but I’ve always heard those crazy pricks have their dinner at midnight and then stay out drinking wine till about four.”

“That’s right. But they don’t start work until ten, and they have a two-hour siesta after lunch. They go back to the office from about four in the afternoon to eight.”

“Guess it works for them. You don’t hear of many Spanish Secret Servicemen though…they’re probably eating or sleeping or drinking…anyway what do we have?”

“Dining room, Barbarian…I don’t serve picnics, as you well know.”

The admiral dragged himself up, reluctant to move, but Kathy had candles lit in the elegant room beyond, which contained only antique furniture and four small oil paintings.

“Sit, and pour us some wine…I’ll be right there.” Three minutes later she came in with some perfectly cooked veal piccata, thinly sliced in a lemon-based sauce, accompanied by spinach and new potatoes. In the middle of the table was a wooden board containing a small baguette, real French brie, no butter, and big white seedless grapes. The wine was a five-year-old white Burgundy from Sancerre.

“Jesus, this was well worth waiting for. Will you marry me?”

“No,” she said cheerfully. “Not while you’re still employed. But I do love you.”

The admiral took a large bite of veal and a swallow of wine. “That does it,” he said. “I’m resigning, soon as I finish this.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “Now tell me about your day, and the inquisition of Commander Adnam.”

Despite the clear overtones of massive secrecy involving the entire scenario, it was plainly impossible for it to be kept from the lovely Mrs. O’Brien, who had been present when Ben’s name had first come up, a year ago, and anyway, as Arnold’s secretary, had taken so many calls regarding the capture of the terrorist she had lost count. Anyway, she was as bound by the secrecy laws as her future husband. And she was equally trusted.

“Well, he seems to want to stay here.”

“In a casket?”

“No, as an employee. He makes the point, like most major spies who are captured, that he has information that is priceless.”

“And has he?”

“He sure does. But he’d need such a thorough change of identity I’m not sure it’d be possible.”

“Arnold, that could never work. Think of all the families he’s destroyed, just in the Navy. Think of all those people on Concorde. How about all the families of Martin’s staff? How about the memory of Martin? And Zack Carson, and Jack Baldridge. It would be like hiring the Boston Strangler.”

“I know it would. But this guy has knowledge. Real knowledge. In my view he may be the most valuable agent anyone has ever caught, including all those faggot Brits who worked for Moscow.”

“You’re not supposed to use that word anymore. It’s politically incorrect,” she replied with studied seriousness.

“Not when they were lifting each other’s shirts,” he replied, chewing the veal, and drinking the white Burgundy with relish. “I’m in the past tense. An old, dead faggot is an old, dead faggot.”