The Chase: One Courageous Skipper Battling The Perilous Evil Out To Destroy Him. (Sea Action & Adventure) (4 page)

It was a difficult job for a crew of two; it was almost impossible for a single sailor. It would be difficult to sail the boat, and to control the spinnaker simultaneously. Never before had he hoisted this sail single-handed. In fact, no one does. Kostas and Avri used to hoist the spinnaker when they were out by themselves racing dolphins across nameless bays.

"Well, this is a real race," he said to his Galatea as she gathered knots over the water. "It's you and me, girl, against the ugliest Red submarine you have ever seen. You better get our asses out of here, baby, because this one is for real".

With the spinnaker sheet wound tightly around the winch, he adjusted the other sails.

Surprisingly, it was looking fine, absolutely A-Okay, and he prayed it would keep that way. The Galatea was now racing before the wind at ten knots, spraying up water on both sides of her bow and laying a long and turbulent wake all the way to the Turkish coast. She was listing fifteen degrees to Starboard with no roll at all.

It was hard work. Flying a spinnaker is a rather tricky job. The colorful parachute-like sail has a constant tendency to either collapse out of air and flap like a rag in the wind, at times winding itself to oblivion around the forestay, or blowing off to lee, filling too much wind on one side of the boat and listing her so far that the sail itself dunks into the water. This unfortunate maneuver, a broach, usually ends up in a broken mast. It mostly occurs at high speed.

Avri Keren dared only short glances at the compass, a quick look around and back to the sail. It required his full concentration and fast reactions. At this pace it would be less than two hours before they reached Agathonissi, if he could only last that long at the helm, if they could last that long.

On the Southwestern corner of the island, there was a tiny fishing village of Horis. He intended for the solitude of the narrow bay that lay on the Eastern shore, its entrance open to the South. The bay blended smoothly with the low landscape and was almost invisible from the sea. The water was shallow in and around the entrance - a subterranean topography that should prove impassable for the submarine. The bay was uninhabited and should afford him a shelter for a while to fix the hole in the bow.

Maybe the Russians will lose interest
, he told himself with little conviction.

He could only guess at the time or distance that had passed; he couldn't afford to look at the instruments. He figured it had to have been at least twenty minutes since they started this race which would put him some three to four miles away and still about forty miles to the isle of Horis. It was quite a feat that they had lasted that long and he was proud of them both. His constant fear of broaching almost displaced his dread of the Russians. The tension and stress had started to wear him down. He shifted his weight to his left foot and changed his posture slightly to relieve his tense back muscles. His hand was sore from holding the spinnaker line, his eyes stinging from salt-water splashes. Yet, he did not allow himself to relax even for a moment.

The Galatea plunged forward steadily, galloping through the sea to the constant refrain of splashing water and pounding waves. Occasionally, sheets of green water would leap from under the bow and sweep the deck all the way to the cockpit, only to return to the sea in small streams through the scuppers.

The wind was steady and the boat barely rocked. Avri only hoped it would stay that way. He kept the wind slightly on Port. As long as it didn’t shift, he could manage to keep her from broaching.

At times the whole affair seemed to him like a surreal concert. The wind was whining in the rigging, the waves beating against the hull. From the stern came a constant background murmur of eddies and the hardware shrilled in and out of rhythm like the brass section. At times, the symphony made Avri feel like a conductor upon a podium but then reality would intrude, roughly jerking him away from his daydream. He surveyed the rigging, sweeping his look quickly across the sails and over the mast. It looked good. The strain was high, but the Galatea withstood it with powerful grace. He thought of her designer and the craftsmen who had built her, and thanked them with all his heart.

A sudden gust cut his thoughts short. He was a second too slow easing the spinnaker sheet. The sail twisted wildly to the right and down, pulling the boat with it. She listed further and further to lee, passing the twenty-five degree mark, and going on. Avri let go of the sheet completely and caught the railing - just in time to stay on-deck. The boat turned slowly into the wind dangerously increasing her list.

Both headsails were getting closer and closer to the water. The Galatea was about to broach in a few seconds. With the strength that a man gains only in distress, Avri pulled himself up and forward to the Starboard side of the cockpit. The boat had rolled over the forty degree mark by now. He let out a loud cry as he strained every muscle of his body to reach up front. It was close - but it didn't seem he’d make it.

By now the toe rail was cutting through the water. The edge of the deck was actually under racing water. The boat was sailing on her side. The spinnaker was loose and flying high but the jib was just skimming the water and about to dunk in, bringing the mast down with it.

With the last ounce of power in him, he reached the halyards on top of the cabin, pulling himself up on the lines, and, with his last effort, yanked the halyards out of their cleats. The lines, now released, wound out with a long whine, snapping out of his hand. The sails flew out and collapsed into the water as the boat stopped to a halt. The heavy list stopped too and the world leveled fast to an even keel. Avri wasn't ready for this sudden jar and found himself soaring toward the Port wall of the cockpit. He had no strength left in him to stop the plunge, and he crushed on the hard fiberglass structure. His right ribs hit the hard seat coming knocking the wind out of his lungs completely. He was gasping for air and tormented with pain as he heard a loud racket from above. It sounded like huge bird, an albatross flapping it huge wings. Above him he could feel rather than see the main sail sweeping across in a terrible jibe. As the boat turned toward the north, the main had caught the wind on its back side, causing the sail to fly with all its force across the boat. He closed his eyes awaiting the boom’s abrupt stop at the other side. With such a force it was likely to bring the mast down in two pieces, or at least fly the heavy boom off the boat, wrecking the mainsail or tearing up the control sheet.

* * * * *

He struggled with all his might to get any air into his winded chest. It was as if the world had turned airless. Avri opened and closed his mouth like a stranded fish, grasping for air in little swallows.

He was still struggling for breath when the boom completed its swoop above his head, stopping harshly on the other end of its swing.

The noise was loud and ugly. Ropes snapped, shackles and blocks were flying like bullets. The vang snapped, breaking itself loose from its guide groove on the bottom of the boom. The mast vibrated loudly at a very low frequency, the sound amplified by the cabin, the whole boat playing a giant cello in Neptune's infuriated orchestra.

The jarring noise expired almost instantly. The whole commotion was over in less than ten seconds. The Galatea was floating stagnant in the water, not going anywhere. Both headsails hung loosely at her sides and into the water like a weary boxer at the end of a ten round match, out of breath with his arms hanging limply at his sides.

As he started breathing again, taking in small, painful gasps of air, Avri vowed he could hear the Galatea's heart pounding wildly as she halted there, bolt-upright and motionless. It appeared to take them both a good quarter of an hour to catch their breath and bring their heartbeats back to normal levels.

With his hand supporting his aching left side, Avri rose to survey the damage. The boat, the sails, the mast and the boom, they all seemed alright. He fished the spinnaker out of the water and laid it along the foredeck. His rib cage was aching terribly but he knew the pain would be unlikely to dissipate soon, so there was no use waiting here. He also pulled the jib out of the water, cursing loudly.

He realized his best bet would now be to proceed using the motor. Neither he nor the boat were in a shape for sailing right now.

The engine, like most equipment on the Galatea, was well chosen to suit the boat and her skipper - an, orange colored Volvo Penta Diesel, twenty horsepower, two-cylinder engine. When he bought her, he selected a diesel for safety and dependability. He chose a Volvo for quality and service, and a twenty horsepower - strong enough to move the Galatea at five knots, yet small enough to be hand-cranked should the batteries fail.

The engine started at the touch of the button. The boat gathered speed as he pushed the throttle a quarter forward. A few minutes later, as the gauge settled on two knots and the engine warmed up a bit, he pushed the throttle up to 2200 RPM. Soon they were sailing at five knots, heading for the small island of Agathonissi. Avri stared anxiously at the compass and the horizon, alternatively, eagerly waiting for the island to appear on the skyline. Five knots was full speed for the boat while motoring. She was capable of up to twelve knots when on sails.    

Agathonissi Island emerged low on the distant horizon. It appeared like a low mist, a bit dark and hard to discern amongst the low clouds. It was still some two or three hours away.

He was aiming at the long, deserted and nameless bay at the south of the island, planning to repair that nasty gash in the bow for besides being odious, it would surely raise a lot of questions to which he was not prepared to answer.  

The entrance, and the bay itself, fused seamlessly into the landscape, making it impossible to distinguish from the sea. The chart exhibited three pointed hills nestling in the back of the bay. The entrance laid about a half a mile to the west.

It couldn't be more than an hour
, he thought, timing the ordeal.

A few minutes before noon, they were close enough to the shore to navigate solely by the coast. The land was flat and empty. He sailed closer to the shore and then northwest, parallel to the coastline, searching for the bay.

The narrow entrance emerged all of a sudden, though expectedly. A short minute ago there was nothing there, and then it materialized from the low land.

He turned on the depth sounder and, as he turned slowly into the bay, pulled back the throttle to 800 RPM. The chart showed a narrow channel running along the left bank, with a depth of three fathoms and a sandy bottom. Although there would be no real danger to the boat in running aground, it was definitely not a suitable time for it to happen.

He passed the entrance dead slow, keeping a wary eye on the depth sounder. After a hundred yards, the water widened and he sailed into large, almost circular, cove, with an old stone quay at the far eastern side. He turned right and docked alongside its western edge.

The quay was as ancient as the surrounding landscape. He tied at the old stone bollards and stepped happily over to the smooth dock. By 1520 that afternoon the Galatea was safely secured. Two anchors on her Starboard side, one fore and one aft, , ensuring they could take to sea in any wind or tide condition.

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. 

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.