The Chase: One Courageous Skipper Battling The Perilous Evil Out To Destroy Him. (Sea Action & Adventure) (5 page)

The bright summer sun spread over the azure Aegean Sea like a blessing, rising early from the Turkish hills on the east. The tide frolicked cheerfully into Horio bay, waves rebounding off the secluded beach and creating a mosaic of shades across the water. The wavelets leapt back and forth between the old quay and Galatea's hull like children at play, drumming softly on the white fiberglass as they bounced back from the boat.

Avri Keren heard the soft swish of the waves and felt the gentle rock of the boat while he began his languid journey from sleep. He looked at his watch and stretched lazily in the bunk. It was just before five o'clock in the morning. He felt warm, and at peace after the rigors of the day before, and savored the opportunity for a few minutes of utter indolence… 

It was nearing six o'clock when he was up and about, feeling fresh, and ready to cast off on his way to Samos. He had a shave and a cool shower, a cup of fresh coffee and there was still some left for later. He was wearing a clean set of clothes - a somewhat shabby pair of blue jeans and a striped blue shirt, which he didn't bother to button.

The Volvo diesel purred steadily as Avri navigated out of Horio Bay back into the open sea. He was heading for the village of Samos, the main village of that island, where he knew he would find a well-equipped marina, provisions, and most importantly - a telephone.

Once he cleared the opening of the bay, he laid the tiller gently to Starboard until she steadied on 335º. The morning breeze picked up gradually as he bent the Genoa. He shut the diesel off and trimmed the sails. The Galatea heeled gently 10º as she sailed steadily at 4.5 knots.

Avri had spent another ten minutes fine-tuning the sails to his exact liking. She picked up another half a knot and he was pleased. It never occurred to him that the extra speed might not necessarily be from his meticulous sail adjustment, but rather that the wind had strengthened. He held her steady on course and engaged the automatic steering. The wind vane would now keep her on her course all the way.

Avri walked forward to the bow and inspected yesterday's repair job. He was very pleased. Only a very close examination would reveal the surgical marks. Back in the cabin he reheated that last cup of coffee and took it, along with the Russian antenna, to the cockpit. It was a long sail to Samos. He needed to pass the Pithagorio Channel in daylight. He knew the Samos harbor quite well, and didn't mind entering the marina in the dark. The Channel, also known as the Samos Straits, was rough and dangerous though, rocky on both banks, and the current was strong, irregular and unpredictable, varying greatly with the tide. The wind, though not as strong, was gusty, and erratic as a boat that passes by the canyons and hills of the Turkish coast. The channel was fifty yards wide. Sailing by way of the Samos Strait would, however, mean a full day's shortcut to Samos harbor. The strait was still more than ten hours away.

The cockpit was a comfortable place to be in when everything on-board was fine. Avri was nested in his favorite corner, on the wind side and staring pointlessly at the Russian antenna. By all reason, he should have dumped it many miles ago. Now it wasn’t too late either. But Avri cooked up many reasons for not throwing that thing overboard:

-
If the Russians catch up with me, not having it may be even more dangerous
,

-
It is too valuable a piece of engineering to be lost
, and so on, with many more very logical arguments he had cooked up.

The main reason, probably the only reason, for keeping the antenna never crossed his mind - pure professional interest. The same impetus that never let him leave a problem unsolved, to abandon a challenge unassailed.

Now he had to find a good place to hide the antenna, a well-protected place to keep the antenna from any damage, yet safe enough to defy the most severe search. A yacht has plenty of storage places. Every nook and cranny is used as a cupboard or a storage bin. Yet all these places would be obvious to any searcher.

I must find a place for this thing,
he thought anxiously,
this is the wrong part of the world to be carrying this kind of hardware
. It was not only the Russians he was thinking about; the Turks would also be intensely curious as to why an Israeli citizen was floating around with a piece of cutting-edge military hardware. He would probably be a very old man by the time he'd explained it to their satisfaction. These were two very good reasons why the antenna must not be found.

The solution came to him neither like lightning nor through brain wracking strain. It just flowed in, naturally and smoothly like a summer wave. He disassembled the antenna into two major components of about equal size, which he carried over to the water tanks. The two tanks were located a bit abaft the galley, one to Port and the other to Starboard. Last year, he and Kostas replaced the original P.V.C water tanks that fouled the water and installed new stainless steel ones. The new tanks could not be molded to follow the compound curvature of the hull like the plastic ones did, so they were made rectangular, sacrificing few gallons of volume off each tank. The unused spaces underneath the water tanks would make a perfect hiding place for that hardware. He filled two four-gallon Jerry cans with fresh water and drained the remaining into the sea. Once empty it was possible to unbolt and remove the tanks. He placed the antenna parts, wrapped in cloth, in their new storage place, replaced the tanks and bolted the clamps tight. As an extra precaution he pumped in about half tanks full of seawater. Empty water tanks wouldn't make much sense. It would also make them too easy to budge.

Back on deck Avri checked the course and the sails. The wind had turned a bit to the West and was now squarely on port. It had increased to fifteen knots and the boat was doing six. He would reach Pithagorio channel between five and six o'clock in the afternoon, so he should be sailing the channel in daylight.

The wind veered gradually to the North as the afternoon matured. It was nearly five o'clock when he first saw the rocks of the channel. It was quite hard to distinguish the passage amongst the rocks, but Avri recognized the particular arrow-shaped rock on the Turkish coast that marked the channel. He sailed in a direction that appeared to be straight into the rocky hills. He was still an hour away from the channel and the boat was losing her speed as the wind turned further to the North, Samos Island and the Turkish hills blocking whatever wind there was left. He started the diesel, thrust the throttle up to 1500 R.P.M., and as the boat was getting up to five knots, furled the sails. He rolled the sails neatly in their place, tying them up securely, yet in a way that would allow him to hoist them quickly should the engine fail.

The Galatea reached the Samos Straits at a bad time. The current flowing through the channel was fast, coming in from the North, rushing rapidly between the island and the shore. The water rippled on the surface and white foam formed around the rocks. Avri estimated the current speed to be at least three knots. Upstream, where the channel was narrower, it was much faster.

He pushed the throttle to 2500 R.P.M., entering the channel at six knots. With the current flowing at four knots he would be traveling through the straits at a mere pace of two knots. He stood up on top of the cockpit seat to get a clearer view of the way ahead keeping the boat on a tight course through the very middle of the water. They would be fine as long as they continued heading directly into the current. He must not allow the boat to veer to the left or to the right or else she would lose the flow of the tide, be thrown aside and lose steerage in the water. She would then swirl around like a piece of driftwood and like most driftwood, end up on the rocks.

From his perch atop the cockpit seat, he watched the water intensely, looking for any irregularity in the water, variation in the direction of the flow, disorder in the stream, a rush of unexpected side current or swirling turbulences. Even the tiniest of changes may be the beginning of a disaster. His fingers locked tightly around the tiller and his reactions were quick and precise, his lips tight and his face tense.

They were doing fine, so far. It seemed that they had passed the halfway point, with enough daylight still to complete the passage. They had come to the last turn in the channel, a sharp twist to the East, after which it was a straight run of less than a mile to the open waters of Adasi Bay.

It was there that he lost control. The boat turned fast to port as the bow was pushed by the current swirling off the Turkish coast. She had turned at least forty-five degrees before he reacted. The boat was gathering speed as she yielded to the current and headed now directly for the rocks on the Greek side. There was no way he could wrestle the water so, against all his natural instincts, he thrust the tiller all the way to Starboard, further turning the boat as fast as he could. The boulders on the shore passed rapidly before his eyes as the boat turned swiftly, heading closer and closer to the rocks. In an act of last resort, he pushed the throttle all the way to full speed, still heading into the rocks. The engine roared as the Galatea plunged forward.

There was nothing further he could do now except brace himself as the boat heeled hard to Starboard. They were hardly four yards from the rocks, the bow soaring over the frothing water. The dark, jagged rocks grew larger as the boat sailed closer. Avri was preparing for the worst when she completed her turn and started to sail away from the rocks. He eased the tiller a little to keep the stern away from the rocks, then turned hard again to complete the twirl that started fifty seconds and two hundred heartbeats ago. 

She was now pointing northeast again, her bow plowing into the oncoming current. The engine was revving at 2200 R.P.M. as the Galatea was regaining the water she lost in that last ordeal. It was nearly dark when they reached, for the second time, the turn at the end of the pass. Avri was ready now. He pointed the bow further to the east, actually heading into the Turkish coast. He now passed the middle of the channel, holding the tiller fast. Only when he felt the slight vibrations on the helm as the water direction changed, did he ease off and turned into the opening, in the direction of Adasi bay where the water was calm and the rocks were far away.

Soon they were sailing north by west, gently crossing through the middle of the moonlit gulf like a smuggler of olden times. The current was still fast and he could feel the water rushing over the rudder.

Avri stayed at the helm for the next two hours. The wind was very low and almost head-on, he would have to motor all the way. He was hungry and thirsty and tired, willing to trade a sail for a cup of coffee...

By ten o'clock that night, he gave in. They were far enough into sea to allow a rest. He turned off the diesel and they drifted into a total silence. The boat rolled gently in the calm waters. A full moon ploughed a silvery furrow across the sea. Avri stepped down into the cabin and prepared a hearty meal and a pot of strong coffee.

Around midnight, in two or three hours, the breeze would likely pick up to a useful wind and they could sail again.

Captain Poliakov and Grisha, his Chief Engineer, were alone now in the empty cabin. The Captain was tired. He was tired of playing a game whose rules he no longer understood, using equipment he couldn’t comprehend, running missions he didn't fathom, shuffled about on this chess board by Moscow-based admirals he had never met. This navy had changed too fast for him. He had been sailing, underwater and under the Red flag for over forty years now, and both environments were beginning to feel increasingly overbearing. The navy headquarters had turned into an alien territory, with not a single familiar face with whom to share a bottle of Cognac on a blue night. At times he envisioned himself riding a huge sea-mine, one wrong move and he would sink all the way down, never to rise again, and it didn't matter who made that wrong move - Captain Valarie Nickolaiev Poliakov, the mine or the sea.

Now someone had made that wrong move. He wasn't quite sure who was it, and who was at fault. Either way, it rarely mattered in the grander scheme of things these days. If headquarters found out that he had lost the antenna, his career would be over in as little time as it took to get him out of the submarine.

Not that he would mind getting off the sub and into a comfortable desk job at navy HQ in Odessa. He would even settle for retirement in some bleak fishing village or aboard a small freighter on the Black Sea. But none of these prospects were real. He knew it. The only option would be a long and a humiliating investigation with a very ugly verdict. It was not an ending he deserved nor was he about to let it happen.

Captain Poliakov was resolved to do all he could, anything and everything to recover the equipment and eliminate whomever possessed it, to completely eradicate the incident from the memory of the sea.

His thoughts drifted, drawing plans for his own future, or the lack of it, should he fail to recover the antenna.

"This is a lousy situation, Grisha," he turned to his Chief and comrade. "We must act fast and effectively. Headquarters must never find out about this hellish embarrassment. We must do on our own, without any help from the navy. You and I, Grisha, we must stick together on this one. You're all I’ve got, Grisha, you're all I have."

Grisha sat down slowly on the firm couch. He and the Captain had gone many, many miles together, since the early days of Soviet subs, through this cold war and a few hot ones. They were among the last remnants of the Second World War veterans left in the Soviet Navy. He was always sure they would serve together until the end. He had never envisioned such an end.
I must not let it happen,
he thought and looked up to his Captain.

"Don't worry, Valerie," he said, calling the Captain by name, as he had always called him when they were by themselves with a bottle of Cognac. "We’ve seen much worse and lived to drink about it. We shall make it this time, too. We haven’t lost this battle yet."

His calm demeanor reassured the Captain, as it always had, and the Captain brought out a bottle, as he always did.

"It is almost thirty hours since we hit the yacht," said Grisha, well into his second brimming glass. "She could be anywhere within a hundred and eighty mile circle, or over two hundred miles if the wind is right. There must be at least fifty Greek islands and two hundred miles of Turkish coast within this range. Where do we start the chase Valerie? In what direction?”

"Oh stop it, Grisha. You can do better than this. There aren’t fifty islands in the whole Aegean Sea. And Mister Sailor will not go for a Turkish port, or, at least, it's not very likely that he will. Unless, that is, she is a Turkish boat," he hesitated a bit, and then continued, briskly “but you said she is British-made, didn't you? Then it's not likely to be Turkish owned. Too expensive for the Turks."

They were quiet for a while. The Captain filled the glasses again and continued. "It's like hunting down any other ship, Grisha. We've done it before and we haven't lost too many, have we?"

"No, indeed we have not, Valerie Nickolaiev. You have a pretty good record on that, Captain," he said, and he waved his glass
na zdorov'e
.

"You win the pursuit by using your brain and not your throttle, Grisha. You use imagination, logic, and intuition. We must get close to that guy. We must creep under his skin. We must feel his heartbeat, we must taste his sweat. Only then shall we know where he's going. We will be aware of his plans even before he does."

Their spirit soared higher now that the level of Cognac in the bottle had fallen lower.

"Come, Grisha, get the chart and let's become acquainted with Mister Sailor out there".

"He must have been scared to death when he hit us," Grisha uttered as he brought out the roll up chart.

"Now, let's see,” said the Captain. "You said that the antenna might have somehow gotten stuck in his hull. So, let’s assume it did. Now, Mister Sailor could have tossed it overboard or he could have saved it. Let’s presume he saved it, either as a souvenir or for sale. Such things can fetch a nice bundle, I guess".

"You see, Grisha," he said unrolling the chart, "I don't know if he realized what exactly it is, but I'm sure he realized it to be quite sophisticated in nature. Being a sailor he probably figured he hit a submarine, so he gathers it is military equipment. Now, if there are any markings on that thing, then Mister Sailor knows by now that it is Russian. I do assume that there were markings on the antenna”

"So he knows it’s probably important," the Chief agreed. "and he knows it came from a submarine and he knows it's Russian. So what shall he do? What would you have done"?

The Captain Poliakov scratched his shaven chin a while. "He will probably sail into the nearest harbor where he can fix the boat and find a telephone".

"Why a telephone?" Grisha asked.

"Because he would want to share the news with somebody. A friend, a wife, whomever. He must share it. People cannot keep such an incident to themselves."

"Isn't it a rather long shot, Captain."

"It's a gut feeling I have, Grisha. It may be true or it may not. I think it is a probable course of events. Anyhow, the telephone is a possibility. At any rate, I am sure he is sailing to a port now, a marina or a harbor - and not just for shelter."

"Besides," he added, "I'm sure he'll feel much safer in a busy port than some deserted bay".

"You do make sense, Valerie Poliakov. You really have a feeling for this poor guy".

"Well, Grisha, you work out the chart and make out a list of all possible locations. I'll join you as soon as I have taken the Slavianka out of here."

The time was exactly 0635 when the fore hatch was bolted shut and the submarine began diving. They sailed out of Bargylia and into Mandalya Bay following the very course they sailed in. Navigating slowly in the still waters, they watched the sonar and observed the chart very carefully. Within an hour, the Slavianka was sailing safely through the gulf of Mandalya at periscope depth of ten fathoms. When she reached the line connecting Pharmako Island to the North with Gumussluk on the coast, the Captain left the bridge and the submarine resumed its normal routine. Her depth was adjusted to cruising depth. The antenna tower was set into operation, propulsion was switched back to the diesels and command to the duty officer.

When the Captain returned to his cabin, Grisha was ready with charts, naval almanac, pilot book and a list of inhabited Greek islands.

"These are the ‘possibilities’," he handed the Captain a list. There were more than twenty-five marked names.

The Captain examined it with interest, calling out some of the islands he recognized. "Kios, hmm, that's across the Gulf of Izmir, isn’t it?"

Grisha nodded positively.

"Oinousai, Samos, Ikaria," the Captain continued without comment, "Patmos, Leros, Kalimnos...”

"Are any of them serious a candidate?"

"Yes," said Grisha. "I've checked the facilities - civilization, boat yards, telephones and such". He looked up at the Captain. "These two are our best chances, Patmos and Samos".

The Captain listened intently as Grisha went on. "Patmos is a large island directly west of here. The main village, Scala, is old and rather undeveloped. It does, however, have telephones, two small boatyards, two hotels and a few tavernas on the waterfront".

"How far is it?"

"It's twenty eight miles from here. It's a straight sail, though the wind direction is not favorable for our sailor".

"Samos is the second island that meets the requirements” he continued. "There is the port of Tigani on the eastern shore, which is too old and primitive, but Port Vathy on the North of the island is perfect".

"It is twenty five miles north of here," he continued in response to the unasked question. "Sailing isn't easy from here to Samos. It is a ninety miles sail though he could risk it through Samos Strait and save some fifty miles".

He looked up from the charts facing the Captain. Once more, the old Captain would have to make the ultimate decision.

The Captain frowned, scratching his chin again, as he looked at the chart.

"Don't we have friends at Patmos?" he asked. Grisha nodded affirmatively. "Then Patmos it shall be".

The Chief looked at his watch. It was 0745.

"O.K." he said. "Let's get the poor bastard".