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.
CHAPTER SIX
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 subm
arine 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".
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was an hour before midnight and the air was cool and calm. Avri climbed up to the cockpit carrying a cup of coffee. It was a bit chilly outside, so he used his free hand to button up his shirt. The moon was three-quarters full, floating high in the clear southwest skies; the sea was calm and clear as a mirror. The water to his Port was shining in the moonlight, yet it was pitch black on the other side.
Once in a while, low summer clouds would cover the moon, laying a dark, soft blanket over the water.
Avri sat there in the dark, his thoughts drifting in the restful silence. He knew he was dozing off and it was alright.
He woke up suddenly and uneasily. From the darkness came a sound, a low murmur. It faded out for a short moment and then reappeared, coming in from over the water. He looked around into the darkness, but couldn’t see a thing. He was not sure of the direction the sound was coming from either. His watch showed a few minutes past midnight. The sound grew louder and clearer, but he still couldn't tell its direction. At times he even looked up into the starry sky in search for whatever it was.
And then, suddenly, it became obvious that this was the sound of a motor, a boat over the water. It was impossible to tell how far away it was, and with no background noise for reference, it seemed to be coming from all directions. He looked around for a light of any kind but there was none. The sound became clearer in detail, more distinct, as if approaching him. The Galatea had her navigation light on, shining from atop her thirty-eight foot mast. He looked for the other’s light. There was none. Yet the engine noise became clearer. It sounded like a rather husky diesel.
It's probably a fishing boat or a local Caique, he thought relieved, but why the hell doesn't he turn on his lights?
After a while, as the sound came close enough to be more distinct, he changed his analysis somewhat. It's a fast engine, a fast diesel, eight or even twelve cylinder; definitely not a fishing boat. It was very steady with a heavy hum in the background. Very powerful and modern.
A disturbing thought flashed through his mind like lightning, but he dismissed it just as fast – no, it couldn't be a submarine engine. It's too small, and too loud...
He looked about, his eyes sweeping the deck and cockpit just to make sure nothing remained connecting him to the encounter with the Russian submarine.
He could hear his heart beating loudly, and feel his pulse pounding throughout his arteries. He wished he could; he even tried to reason things out. Usually it worked. Usually he could reason rather than panic. He could do this for others, too. A dull but hammering pain in his head echoed his heart beats, emanating from the very same spot where he hit the bulkhead, some fifty hours ago.
And then he saw the vessel emerging from the darkness to his Port. She was approaching up wind, gliding smoothly through the still water, her engine was idling, purring softly as she approached. Avri could see a number painted in white on her dark bow - 256. The new arrival was about sixty foot long and carried a red Turkish flag on her short mast. Two soldiers were operating a fourteen-inch searchlight, which they now pointed at the Galatea. The light bathed her bow, swept over the fore deck and the coach roof and settled on the cockpit, flooding it with its harsh white light, and blinding Avri painfully.
It was only the sight of the Turkish flag that prevented him from heaving his cup of coffee at the damn beam. The boat was only thirty yards away now, sweeping a turn to approach the Galatea alongside on Port.
"Biz Turk Sahil Guvenlik teskilatiyiz," someone called gruffly over a grainy loudspeaker, and in Turkish.
Avri stood up slowly and waved his arms, trying to convey his ignorance of the language.
"Dis is de Turkish cost gar. Stand and not move".
The searchlight blinded him totally. He could tell by the sounds that they were tying up on his Port. Her engine revved up and down a couple of times while the Turkish helmsman maneuvered for an engagement, rocking the Galatea softly. And then came a faint nudge as the two boats touched together. Mercifully, they turned off the searchlight and Avri regained his vision. He looked at the Turkish boat and was relieved to see rubber fenders well placed between the hulls.
"Well," he thought, "at least they are good seamen."
Three sailors wearing dark blue fatigues, rubber soled boots and carrying short Berretta sub-machine guns boarded the Galatea. They took position on the deck, obviously being salted seamen. The searchlight was turned on again, only this time it was aimed at the mainsail, flooding the boat and the sea with its cold light.
A smartly uniformed man in his early forties stepped aboard and faced Avri. He was wearing brass rank on his shoulders. There was no mistaking his authority.
"Binbaşı Kharim Badhrin," his handshake was strong and firm, "Major Kharim Badhrin, Turkish Coast Guard".
"Avri Keren, owner and skipper of the Galatea."
"Are you in trouble, skipper Keren?" asked the Major in a friendly yet authoritative manner.
"No, no. Not at all," Avri said with some relief. He pointed at the limp sails and said, "I am just waiting for the wind to pick-up."
"And you come from where, skipper Keren?"
"Well, from Rhodes basically. I have been sailing around for a few days now, Major."
"You will permit us to look in the boat? Yes? Skipper Keren?"
His heart skipped a beat. His thoughts raced frantically as he nodded faintly in response.
Two more soldiers boarded the Galatea.
"You will call the crew please, Skipper Keren," He said pointing his hand toward the cabin.
"No one here, Major" Avri said, "I am sailing alone."
"Aha" said the Major and barked some new orders to his men in rapid Turkish.
Two soldiers stepped down into the cabin. A third one walked up to the foredeck. He knelt down by the anchor well and examined its interior nudging the chain with much noise and fuss.
Avri was quite confident of his repair job and was sure the soldier would not detect the reconstruction under these circumstances. Still, he thought, if I was unfortunate enough to hit a submarine in mid-sea...
The soldier at the fore deck stood up and called something to the Major waving his arms. His gesture relieved Avri a great deal.
The Chase: One Courageous Skipper Battling The Perilous Evil Out To Destroy Him. (Sea Action & Adventure) Page 5
