Free H.M.S. Unseen by Patrick Robinson Page B

some Arabic, but Ben spoke mostly in Farsi, using phrases he had learned especially for this talk. “Most of you,” he began, “are already familiar with the workings of a Kilo-Class submarine, and you will understand that I have deliberately selected officers who have worked in specialist areas—I mean, of course, those who have been in charge of propulsion, electronics, generators, sonar, hydrology, communications, navigation, and hydraulic systems.
    “The submarine I shall acquire for our mission will be one with which you are not familiar, and in anticipation of that, we have constructed here this full-scale model. In the coming three weeks I want each of you to familiarize himself with the workings of this submarine. Every switch, valve, and keyboard. And when I say familiarize I mean that I would expect you to go on board the real submarine in the pitch dark, find your area of operation, and work your systems without error, and possibly without light.
    “It is likely that during the course of the next four weeks some of you will not measure up, and we may have to replace you. That, however, will be up to you. This is a time of extensive study, note taking, and memorizing. Pure concentration. I have selected each one of you because I know you have the precise characteristics this mission demands.
    “It will not be without its dangers, but I am confident in our skills, and I am confident in the abilities of each one of you. Now perhaps we should go and make a tour of the model.”
    January 6, 2005.
Office of the National Security Advisor.
The White House, Washington, DC.
    The national security advisor himself, Admiral Arnold Morgan, was in deep conference, studying satellite photographs with Admiral George Morris, director of the National Security Agency, located in Fort Meade, Maryland.
    “What the hell’s that, goddammit?”
    “Er, a building, sir. A large building.”
    “I can see that, for Christ’s sake. What kind of a building is it? Looks like a fucking indoor football stadium. What the hell’s it doing in a Navy dockyard? Eh?” Then warming to his theme, as he was always prone to do, the admiral added, “Fucking Arabs taking up football? Nah, bullshit…they ain’t big enough. Betcha you couldn’t find a halfway decent lineman in the whole Middle East. Come on George, what kind of a building is it?”
    “Sir, at a guess, I’d say it was a concrete dry dock for a submarine, but it has another big building on its left-hand side. Which seems to have a steel roof judging by the sun glinting off it. I have no idea what’s inside, because there are massive doors at the seaward end with a thick concrete wall at the landward end.”
    “Hmmm. But let me ask you this. If it’s gonna be a dry dock, how come it’s not connected to the water? Look…you can see the land runs right across the entrance.”
    “Yessir. I do see that. But these buildings are pretty complicated, and I would guess they are fitting all the flooding systems right here where this excavation is. I’d say they would remove the strip of land along the shore, right at the conclusion of the project. That way the submarine could just float in and settle; then they just pump the water out.”
    “Correct.”
    The two men had worked together for years. Lifelong Naval officers, they were as different in character as it was possible to be. Morgan, tough, hard-looking, irascible, brilliant, rude, and, curiously, admired by many, many people. Morris, an ex–Carrier Battle Group commander, was soft-spoken, lugubrious in delivery and appearance, thoughtful in the extreme. He had followed Morgan into the position as director at Fort Meade, and his biggest problem was that Morgan frequently believed he was now doing both jobs. But the concentrated attention the president’s chief security advisor focused on the ultrasecret Fort Meade operation gave the place a greater importance than it had enjoyed for many years.
    “I wonder why the hell