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

by Herzel Frenkel

  There were two stone buildings on shore, small and desolate with no signs of any recent life there. He hoped the entire island would be this way.

  Satisfied with the surroundings Avri commenced the task at hand - to repair the boat and eliminate any evidence of the collision with the Russian submarine.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There was a storage compartment underneath the sole at the rear of the main cabin. Here, in the cool space bellow the waterline, Avri kept small quantities of material for fiberglass repairs. There were a couple of two-gallon cans of polyester resin, four quarts of white gel-coat, two quarts of wood varnish, a few square yards of fiberglass mat and cloth, an assortment of sandpapers, wax and polishing compounds, brushes and rollers, mixing bowls and cleaning solvents. Everything, in fact, that was needed for a decent repair job.

  Avri worked quickly. He was short on time, but the rupture in the hull had to be properly prepared for the repair to be undetectable. He cut and filed the jagged edges and the rough corners until the hole was smooth all around and the edge tapered inward. It was almost twenty inches across and shaped like a pear. The job was not as hard as it was unpleasant. The fiberglass dust itched and irritated his sweating skin to a red rash. He knew it would be like this for the rest of the day and there was nothing he could do about it. After the area was cleaned with solvent, it was ready for surgery. He chose a piece of thin Formica board, about two feet long by eighteen inches wide, waxed it well and placed it over the hole on the outside of the boat. Using wide masking tape to hold the Formica in place, he taped it all around. He was lying on the deck throughout, his head and shoulders hanging over the toe rail.

  Getting out of this position and having his head above his feet again was indeed a great relief. He now mixed about a quart of gelcoat with a few grams of a purple liquid catalyst marked "accelerator". He looked around to make sure that everything was ready for the next step: brushes, cleaning solvent, clean rugs and wood spatulas. He then measured twenty grams of hardener and mixed it well into the gelcoat. Using a soft bristle brush he laid the thick paint-like gelcoat onto the Formica board from the inside of the boat. He laid a very thick layer of gelcoat over the entire patch area using long smooth strokes. He had to wait at least a half an hour before laying a second layer of gelcoat.

  When the gelcoat part was finished, Avri inspected it closely against the black backing of the Formica board. It looked well and evenly covered and he was satisfied.

  Using alternate layers of mat and woven glass fiber material he patched the hole, building up the surface until it matched the thickness of the original. It required a total of eleven layers to do that.

  It was almost seven o'clock in the evening when Avri finished his work, cleaned up the tools and stored everything back in place. Bruised, exhausted, but satisfied with a job well done, he took off his clothes and dipped into the bay water, floating lazily in the tranquil sea letting the cool water soothe his aching body. He summed up his injuries and it added up to a total wreck; his ribs were still tender, his head pounding and the wound still painful, his hands and arms itching from the glass fiber. Floating womb-like in the water, he could actually feel the pain seep away. Avri stretched these moments of pleasure for another fifteen minutes, washed himself with a bar of saltwater soap, and swam back to the boat.

  After a light meal and over a good cup of coffee, he sat by the table staring thoughtfully at the Russian antenna. He contemplated its mission, its purpose, and the people who operated it and the reasons for any of it being here. It was a kind of meditation, though intellectualized and spurious, rendering neither solution nor understanding, yet highly suited for a tired mind and a cool evening.

  That night Avri Keren was sound asleep before nine o'clock.

  * * * * *

  With no antenna to be repaired, Captain Poliakov decided there was no reason for staying even one more minute within the Turkish lagoon. He lifted his head and straightened his neck rendering him two inches taller, at least. Captain Poliakov needed and created this gesture as he thought it gave him gravitas, and enhanced his self-esteem. The officers were too tired to be enthralled by this, except Major Grisha Kaganovich, the Chief, who, in contrast to the young graduates who comprised the bulk of the officers, was an old salt. Grisha, like the Captain, had worked his way up, and, consequently, respected his Captain.

  "Recall the men, gather all equipment from the deck and be ready to sail within thirty minutes," Captain Poliakov looked at his watch and continued, "It is 0605 now. At 0625 first lieutenant Kroog will bring all sailors from the shore after checking, personally, that no incriminating evidence of our visit here is left behind. I myself shall inspect the deck, and at 0635 we dive and sail out. I want the ELINT equipment tested before we submerge. I want a status report on water, fuel and batteries by 0615. Comrade Kashenko," he turned to the senior navigation officer, "you will have our waypoints ready for me at the same hour."

  His eyes scanned the room as he exclaimed sharply - "dismissed".

  Immediately everybody was thrown into his duties, hurrying to get their jobs done on time. Grisha, the Chief, stayed on to talk to the Captain. He was the Captain's most entrusted man, the only officer whose loyalty was without question and the only one with whom Captain Poliakov could share his thoughts and worries. They were about the same age, both of the same fraternity of W.W.II veterans who survived both the Nazis and Stalin. They both had to fight for survival in this age of atomic submarines, electronics and bright eager young officers who were very loyal to the government and the party.

  Wordlessly, the Captain asked Grisha to stay behind as the rest of the officers left the chamber.

  First lieutenant Sasha was the last officer to leave the room. He was obviously busy with his thoughts as he strolled through the narrow passage. Both the Captain and the Chief followed the young officer with their eyes, fatherly appreciating the strain these young men must take. Little did they know that his worries were of a different kind altogether.

  Sasha, the Second Navigation officer was, in fact, a Naval Intelligence agent assigned to the sub, serving the K.G.B. It was universally accepted that there would be a K.G.B. agent on board but no one knew who it was. Captain Poliakov suspected there might be one, but never found any particular suspect. Sasha himself was quite sure there was one more agent besides himself, a second agent, operating independently and unknown to him. Only after his first year aboard did he stop searching and guessing about that other agent.

  He was now thinking fast for his time was running short. Thirty-five hours ago the submarine hit a sailing yacht, lost its ELINT millimeter wave antenna and Captain Poliakov did not report any of it to Navy headquarters. Moreover, the young K.G.B. agent assumed the Captain had any intention of doing so in the future. Sasha figured that he had dithered long enough, now he must act, he must notify his home office.

  He hurried to the navigation station, which was just behind the bridge and across the hall from the communication room in a chamber all by itself. The chief navigator, third lieutenant Sergey Kashenko, was leaning over the large navigation table which occupied the center of the room, busily marking a 1:100,000 naval chart. The chart, originally printed by the British Admiralty had proved extremely useful during the sail into the lagoon and he had no reason to doubt its accuracy now. He was marking the waypoints and calculating their time of arrival as Sasha walked in and proceeded to the instrument bay. He was the wizard of all these sophisticated equipment - inertial navigation, CHAYKA (the Russian version of LORAN) a western LORAN-C unit. The CHAYKA navigation console had a five-position selector knob used for tuning in on one of four networks. The fifth position was marked AUX and was assumed to have been left for future expansion. Sasha went through a series of well-rehearsed procedure. He turned the selector switch to AUX then switched on the CHAYKA unit, selected OPERATION MODE - AUTO and frequency band - D. This was a totally meaningless combination of control setting - except for Sasha. This was his special way of
communicating, via a secret communication satellite, with the K.G.B.'s listening post at Kerch, on the shore of the Black Sea.

  He was in receiving mode, attempting to verify communication with the satellite. The LAT position display, which normally indicates the LATITUDE of the vessel in degrees, minutes and decimals of minutes, should show SSS, the last digit indicating the channel over which the link is established.

  Communication with the K.G.B was, of course, a complete secret aboard the Slavianka. Sasha had been provided with an automatic communication setup whereby a choice of pre-selected messages could be transmitted. These included identification codes, status affirmation and four distress level codes. The non-automatic communication was to be performed by Morse code using a button marked LAMP TEST as a key.

  This time he failed to make contact. It was very frustrating and he was at a loss as to how to proceed. The LAT display showed a consistent 765-43.21, a set of numerals indicating that all units and subsystems are functioning properly and that communication was unobtainable for reasons not associated with equipment aboard the Slavianka. Evidently the narrow walled inlet exhibited a barrier for the communication, the steep rocks creating a massive shielding effect.

  Kashenko, the chief navigator, was about to finish his task. Sasha sensed his movements and hastily switched all units to their normal position. Due to the same shielding effect, he couldn’t get any navigation help from his equipment either. The inertial system though, being autonomous and independent of outside signals was operating and true: LAT. 36º48.2’ N LONG 37º33.4' W. He jotted the figures on the Navigation Log Form and handed it to Kashenko.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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, tyi
ng 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.