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

by Herzel Frenkel

  He filled the plastic bags with the acid. Vinegar was abundant and he used that first. He sealed each bag and placed it in the cans, just over the nail, careful not to puncture it. Now he used adhesive tape to seal each can.

  "The bombs are complete," he proudly declared. "Now we are ready for them".

  Sophia looked, astounded and amazed at this guy, "You mean this stuff will work too?" she laughed.

  "You'll see. You will see."

  "I'm going over to the Galatea. There are other things to prepare. Will you check the guns, see if they are clean and ready. You do know how to do this, don't you?" He smiled and left the room.

  Sophia picked up her Marlboro radio as soon as his head disappeared down the hatch. There was some discussion about his proposed chemical bombs. A quick call to Tel Aviv and a brief discussion with the University confirmed that this guy knew his chemistry.

  "The stuff has a terrible stink and is lethal, too. He only has to get it into the sub, spread it about in a few places. Good luck".

  * * * * *

  Captain Poliakov was eager to reach the sailboat. The Greek fishing boat he had just appropriated from the old couple would be of great help. The submarine had a serious disadvantage; it shouldn't be in this area. The Greek boat, on the other hand, was natural to these waters.

  It was dark outside. The Slavianka had been at periscope depth for half an hour now. Captain Poliakov was awaiting the rendezvous with his new patrol boat, the one he had commandeered from the Greeks. There was no remorse, no guilt. There was no peacetime for a submarine, it is always at war, and all was fair in war. The boat was expected to join the sub for refueling, and possibly relaying whatever information it had.

  "Com-ops to ops-center". The call echoed all over the intercom system. The communication officer came running and saluted as he faced the Captain.

  "I need you to set up a communication link with our new patrol boat. I want one installed there when it arrives. This is about to happen now".

  The tech group returned to the submarine shaken and wet. They didn't manage to finish the installation. The sea was too rough for this kind of work. They had to use both their hands just to avoid being swept away.

  The Captain decided it was best to forego the boat and dive below the storm. Indeed it was for the best. He was going to get that sailboat with his sub. This was the way he knew best, the only way he knew.

  The summer storm which had compelled the Galatea to return to the bay was bad news for the Greek boat. There were three Russian sailors aboard. They were totally unfamiliar with storms as there are no storms for a submarine. Submarines are not built for storms, their stability is poor and the only way for a sub to handle a stormy sea is to dive. The boat was bobbing lightly next to the submarine's tower, the technicians installing the radio set in her cabin. But the wind had strengthened and the rocking had become too violent. It was impossible to continue working.

  The technicians returned to the sub. The sea was now becoming too rough for the submarine itself to stay above water. The Slavianka dived and the Greek boat motored at full speed for shelter at the island of Fourni to the north. It was a two hour trip and the sea was growing rougher by the minute. They had no map and they couldn't navigate to a different shelter, they only knew that Fourni lay straight ahead. They continued on course to the place whose name they could hardly pronounce. The waves came from the West, pounding at their Port side, flooding the little boat with water. The engine worked fine. They were bailing out water with a plastic bucket, taking turns at this Sisyphean chore. The horizon was gray, heavy with rainclouds. They were navigating by a small compass one of them happened to have. It was one of those tourist gift versions, and it was all they had.

  The Israeli trawler, the one bought by the Israeli Ambassador, followed the Greek boat after she had left the submarine. They lost sight of her as the weather worsened, and called for the missile boat to take over.

  INS Ashdod (Israeli Navy Ship Ashdod) had been disguised as a commercial ship, a ferry, to be precise. The plywood structure which had been pre-fabricated back home, was attached to the hull, hiding the bridge, guns and missiles. The rear deck carried plywood trucks and cars like any ferry would have. This guise had worked successfully on previous occasions, and it did now, too. The INS Ashdod tracked the Greek boat on radar. They saw her sailing straight for the island of Fourni, heading for the barren South shores. It was a perfect coast to wreck a boat on. It had no beach, it was all rocks and reefs. With the wind howling at forty-five knots and waves towered to twelve feet that boat was heading toward certain disaster. The INS Ashdod watched and waited. She was not in the business of rescuing the Russian Navy.

  The submarine headed for the Greek bay. Captain Poliakov was still chasing the sailboat. They dived to fifteen fathoms and stayed off land. He didn't trust the maps well enough to sail close to the shores. He would get close enough once they reach the island.

  The sailboat crew had been bailing water for six hours non-stop now. They were tired. It was usually men who fail when the sea gets rough, not the boats. These three mariners where cold, and battered, and totally exhausted. They bailed at shorter and shorter shifts, doing nothing but breathing and cursing on their off shifts. It was almost noon time but visibility was as poor as ever.

  All at once the rocks appeared from the bottom of the sea. Like Titans from ancient myth they loomed from within the waves. The rocks seeming to roar like wild beasts as they devoured the boat. It consumed all with a huge blow and one powerful grip. Nothing was left. One sailor was shredded to bits on the sharp rocks; the second was pulled down to the deep abyss of the sea. The third sailor was hurled way up by a giant wave over the rocks. He landed on the rough terrain, bruised, but alive. Unconscious.

  The Captain of the missile boat witnessed the scene through his powerful binoculars. He assumed the one on the rocks may have survived. He had no intention of risking his people on this rugged territory. He decided he would report it to the Greek authorities, in due course. Not before they are well on their way home.

  The masquerading missile boat turned sharply to the West, banking hard to Port, speedboat style, all four Maybach engines roaring at the top of their thirteen thousand horsepower lungs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  The Slavianka reached the Greek bay at midnight. A full moon hovered over the Western horizon. The sea was rough, the Meltami raging at full force. It was impossible to launch a rubber dinghy; it would be lost before the first sailor scrambled onto it. It would be extremely unwise to enter the bay with the submarine - not in this weather; not in any weather. So she put off there, at the entrance, waiting. Captain Poliakov didn't know if the Galatea was in there or out at sea. Either way, it was a good place to wait for her.

  Alex Karlikov, the Communication officer, was determined to follow his orders, to execute them the best he could, under the current circumstances. The orders came directly from Naval Intelligence, the people he genuinely worked for. Sink the sub, save the people. First, he had to disable the self-destruct system. It was an arrangement designed to actuate a set of valves and regulators, flooding the sub and disabling its controls. Once activated, it was next to impossible to halt. Following this, he’d have to render the torpedoes inoperative.

  He didn't hesitate at all. This was the reason for his being there in the first place. He was the Naval Intelligence operative, the stooge, стукачом, a stool pigeon.

  The self-destruct system was designed to be activated from the Captain's desk and required two keys to turn it on. One key was held by the Captain, attached to his pistol holster. The second was held by the Chief. A third key, a redundancy measure, was given to Sasha Gushin, the Second Navigation officer.

  Yet, all their controls were terminated in one electrical cabinet, the one containing fire extinguishing, alarm systems and navigation circuits. It was mounted at the rear section of the submarine, behind the battery compartment. The self-destruct circuits were not marked. One
had to know where they were, and Alex Karlikov certainly knew. The circuits were well protected - one incautious cut and all hell would break loose, alarms screaming, warning light blazing and all further attempts blocked. It had to be done right on the first time. Alex went over the whole procedure one more time; it had been over a year since he had last familiarized himself with the process back at Naval Intelligence. He was ready though, and snapped into action. He worked quickly but confidently. Seven minutes later the Slavianka could be sunk by the command from his navigation station.

  He stretched to relieve the tension in his back when he noticed a movement at the door. A young sailor entered, rushing toward him. Evidently he had seen enough to understand, and he jumped at the officer with flying fists and flaming eyes, yelling "стукачом, stukatch". Alex stood fast, waiting for the sailor to come close. The right fist was a fraction of an inch from his face when he dodged to the left, plunging his fist into the sailor's stomach. The man folded like a jackknife, gasping for air. Alex hammered at the back of his head with both hands, relieving the sailor of the need to breathe, forever. The young body was still quivering as he tossed it behind the row of battery-fluid containers.

  There were still the torpedoes to take care of. With these disabled the Slavianka would be one thousand and fifty tons of useless steel. A toothless shark. He moved swiftly to the front control room. The silent killers were tucked into their launch tubes on the side walls of the front chamber. The torpedo control circuits were in two locked steel cabins. Alex had the keys, courtesy of the N.K.V.D., but once more he had to first use his skill and knowledge to neutralize the alarms.

  Only on the way back did he notice the cut in his arm, deep and bleeding profusely. He picked a copper bar and gripped it hard in the vice on the work bench. It didn't stop the bleeding, but it would make for a good explanation.

  The poor electrician was not ready. Not ready at all. Alex stormed into the chamber, bleeding all over the floor and screaming murder. He pointed at the guy and accused him of leaving the copper bar in the vice, causing his injury. The sailors and the officer on site were too distracted by the bleeding and yelling to listen to the unlucky electrician, or to question the reason for the communication officer being in the front shop. After all, there was no communication gear up there.

  The Chief was in the MIC station, with the Captain. They were waiting, which is par for the course in submarines. Their newly acquired Greek boat was late returning. There was no radio installed on it, and the sea was rough. The Captain stared at his watch - it was five hours since they left.

  "How much fuel do you think they have?" he questioned the Chief.

  No one answered. No one knew.

  The Captain decided he had waited long enough and ordered a rubber dinghy to be launched to assess the situation. Six sailors had the boat already prepared. The waters were rough, though sailable and they took out to sea, sailing by the light of the moon, nervously surveying the darkness with weary eyes.

  They headed southwest, expecting to reach the island in about ninety minutes. Every once in a while they idled the motor and listened for things feared or imagined. The wind was almost head on and, as such, there was no way they could hear the missile trawler following them three miles behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  "It seems they are headed for that tiny island," the Captain of the Israeli missile boat turned to the Mossad agent standing next to him on the bridge.

  "Yes, it appears so," he answered calmly, bringing up a small radio set. He clicked the button and waited for response. None came. "We have an operative on that yacht. A good one. I want to let her know about the visitors".

  They sailed for another half an hour without further dialogue.

  "Aren't you going to try that magic radio of yours again?" the Captain asked "Maybe she didn't get the message".

  "No such thing," the guy smiled. "It is a digital and works via satellite. She has a little indicator informing her of any messages. She will respond when she can".

  "That's an unusual way of operating. When I call someone I do expect an answer". He was somewhat annoyed by, what seemed to him, to be a clumsy way of handling the situation.

  The Mossad guy noticed his irritation and explained, "We are not an army. Each operative is out there alone, all by themselves. You have to take into account that she may not be free for calls. It is likely that her radio has had to be concealed. She will notice we are trying to call and she'll come up when she can".

  The Captain nodded and returned to the radar screen.

  The girl on the yacht called back some twenty minutes later. "I am on the shore now," she explained. "The man is on his boat. We are leaving this bay in a few minutes. I am not sure of his plans but I am staying close. Over!"

  "Good to hear. We are about an hour from you, following a dinghy from the sub. Friends are on the other side of the island watching over you all the time. You can trust them. Over and out".

  The small cottage was easy to set alight. Flames flared up as she ran for the yacht, and grew to a full blaze by the time Avri motored out of the bay. He had decided to burn the shed down so no others could pollute the treasured memories of his Greek friends. The Galatea hit the waves as soon as he cleared the entrance. The wind was strong and steady, and the waves pounded the stern restlessly. It was quite rough and not comfortable at all.

  "Are you OK?" he shouted over the wind.

  Sophia sat there, resting against the same bulkhead that had knocked Avri unconscious some ten days ago. She waved her hand. He thought he could see a smile too.

  They were out at sea. He turned the boat south and followed the coast, carefully. He was familiar with the coastline and knew it was clear of rocks, but he nonetheless remained vigilant. He sailed for about twenty minutes, rounding off the small cape at the entrance to a tiny cove, just south of the bay they had just left.

  Avri was familiar with the place and it fitted his plan well. The water there was more than a hundred feet deep. He anchored at the far corner and they waited. The smoke from the burning cottage could be seen over the low hills to the north. The wind was strong over at the open sea but the little bay was well sheltered.

  The Israeli commandoes, the Shayetet, were spread thin over the eastern hills, lying low and watching.

  The rubber dinghy entered the Greek bay. The cottage was a smoking ruin and there was no Galatea to be seen in the bay. They ventured a wide sweep around and noticed her mast swinging behind the hill. They hailed the Slavianka over the radio and relayed the situation.

  Back at the Slavianka, Captain Poliakov surveyed the maps. He spotted the cove and reckoned it was a good place to trap that white sailboat. Avri hoped they would feel that way.

  The submarine grew bigger as she sailed into the cove. The navigation officer ensured the Captain it was deep enough for her.

  The sailboat was there, in front of them as they entered the inlet. The target of their long pursuit anchored at the far end of the bay just waiting for here predator. The Captain ordered a second dinghy to be launched, commanding ten of his sailors to capture the sailor and retrieve the antenna. Some of his crew forgot all about that hardware by now.

  The Israeli missile boat was standing off behind the bay, concealed by the terrain, monitoring the situation. Danny was on shore with his men.

  Avri was rowing his tiny dinghy as hard as he could, approaching the Slavianka from behind. Two sailors were on deck, watching their crewmates approach the sailboat. Avri sneaked up on them from behind, his steps muffled by the murmur of the diesels. He smashed the oar onto the first sailor’s head, and thrust it hard at the stomach of the second. They both dropped into the water. The sub was clear – or at least the deck was.

  He moved fast and dropped six of his homemade bombs down the main hatch. He heard two of them pop up. At least two. He ran forward and dumped five more cans down the fore hatch. The aft hatch received the last four of his chemical bombs.

  Two sail
ors managed to climb out, only to drop dead into the water. No others came out. He assumed they were all dead.

  Avri jumped back into his dinghy and put on a set of diving gear he had taken from the Greek's cabin. The air tight scuba equipment provided for gas-free breathing within the toxic atmosphere inside the submarine. Once down, he searched frantically for the flooding valves. He couldn't read Russian, not a single word, and he didn't know what to look for. He had never been inside a submarine, or even been near one. So he decided to open all the valves. Any valve he came across. That took some time.

  Meanwhile, the Russian sailors reached the Galatea. The first two boarded the boat and were surprised to find no one there. They inspected again and informed the Captain – "there is no one here. She is empty".

  Captain Poliakov was puzzled, but only for a moment. He realized this was a submarine style battle of wits, warfare of deceit and trickery. He ran to the side and stared at his Slavianka. There was no one there, and this was wrong. He was about to call his men when the shots started. From somewhere near the shoreline came the muzzle-flash of a gun. No one was hit but the bullets whined close. He, along with his sailors, ducked for cover. Bullets kept coming every time they tried to get up. The Captain speculated that there was only one gun on the shore, so he called his men to split in two groups and assail the shooter.

  Three sailors paid for that mistake with their lives.

  One of his sailors drew his attention to the submarine. He couldn't believe his eyes. There was a man there, wearing a diving gear, getting off his Slavianka. The man was clearly in a hurry as he jumped off the deck. A minute later he was motoring away in a small rubber boat, sailing around to the opposite shore. As he watched closely he thought he could see gentle circles of water forming around the sub's fuselage, spreading all over the bay. A sailor called out the words the Captain didn’t dare to speak, "she is sinking. My God, she is sinking". Indeed, the Slavianka was sinking by the minute. It was lost. They had no boat to return to.