The Chase: One Courageous Skipper Battling The Perilous Evil Out To Destroy Him. (Sea Action & Adventure) (6 page)

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 two Turks downstairs were going through the cabin carefully but thoroughly. They opened lockers and lifted floorboards. One of them tapped the water tank on the left with his open palm, and then, with a puzzled expression, hit it again.

"What is it you're looking for, Major?" Avri asked, partly to distract their attention from the water tank.

"Antiques. Old antiques," He answered. "Foreigners steal antiques from the sea in Izmir Bay. It is Turkish territory, but foreign boats take old antiques to America. Much money. Very old antiques."

The sailor at the water tank called something to the Major and he stepped down into the cabin and crouching beside the tank. His eyes followed the black plastic hose, tracing it back to the galley sink. He got up and headed to the sink where he operated the foot pump putting his hand under the tap. As the cool water splashed onto his hands he turned to his sailors, gesturing to them to finish up. He wiped his hands on the back of his trousers as he walked up into the open cockpit.

Thank thee, oh Neptune, great Lord of the Sea,
Avri prayed silently as he saw the Turkish one boat fleet depart,
thank you that the major was not thirsty
. How on earth could he possibly explain carrying seawater in his tanks?

He could still hear the Turkish boat, not too far away, as the cool breeze gently filled the sail. Avri uncleated the jib sheet, letting the Genoa fly its natural position, on the lee side.

Major Kharim Mardhin was it? Or Badhirin? He didn't even leave a business card
. He giggled in slightly hysterical relief, his laughter rolling over the once again serene water.

The Galatea joined in with Avri’s relief, happy with the breeze as she heeled lightly at three and a half knots, her bow pointing west, to Samos.

First lieutenant Sasha Gushin reported, eagerly this time, for his duty at the navigation station at exactly 1000
hours local time. He was finally alone at the station, anxious to establish communication with his head office in Kerch. He covered the five yards from the door to the instrument bay in four great strides, leaping into the swivel-chair in front of the console, his hands reaching for the control knobs even before his body settled into the chair. Time was short. Setting the equipment for this stealthy communication was quite intricate. He turned the satellite navigation network selector to "AUX" position, switched on the CHAYKA unit and selected "AUTOMATIC" operation mode. He watched the latitude indicator as he switched to frequency band D. The confirmation message appeared instantly on the display - SSS-00-03. He was now in communication mode, over network number three, with his base Lubyanka Square in Moscow. He dialed in his identification code, SSS-29-12. Affirmation came on immediately, SSS-11-03.

Sasha spent not more than three long minutes at the console, before switching it off. Despite the precautions he’d taken, one was never really truly alone on the cramped submarine.  He didn’t wish to have to explain his peculiar actions at the instrument panel. Using a set of predestinated codes, he notified the Lubyanka office of the N.K.V.D. that the Slavianka was to be declared a priority subject, that there was no immediate danger, and that he would try to establish Morse communication during the third-quarter of the night.

He then switched all controls to their normal position and returned to his routine tasks.

The submarine reached Patmos Island before sundown. Maintaining a depth of twenty fathoms she had cautiously headed toward the rocky shore North of Scala. On arrival, the crew busied themselves, preparing an inflatable boat for landing. The fuel tank was filled, the outboard motor checked and a few bits of fishing gear added for characterization. Everything was now ready and they waited for darkness.

Captain Poliakov was in his cabin with Chief Grisha and a dark-haired sailor named Pyotr. The Captain had chosen the sailor many months ago for special shore duties.

Pyotr was strong, agile, decisive and resourceful. Unlike most of his blonde, pale-skinned comrades, he had a dark complexion and short, curly black hair that betrayed his Tatar origin. He would, however, be quite inconspicuous in this region of the world. He had performed several, as the Captain called them, "shore jobs" in the twelve months since he had joined the Slavianka. He was young and he liked these missions.

Both Pyotr and the chief were wearing non-descript, somewhat worn clothes and rubber sandals. They listened carefully to the instructions. Each of them had about a thousand dollars’ worth of Drachmas in one pocket, and an old fisherman's knife in the other. The Captain got up and brought a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka and three odd glasses from a chest above his desk.

"Na zdorov'e," he greeted, raising his glass to eye level, pointing at them.

"Na zdorov'e," they echoed his salute.

The three of them downed their vodka in one gulp. The Captain shook their hands as they walked out toward the bow. The collapsed dinghy was being pushed out through the forward hatch and then inflated. The outboard motor was fastened to the transom and the fuel tank secured to its floor. There were no weapons on board and no Russian equipment or markings. It would be a bad idea indeed to advertise their origin while landing illegally on a Greek island. Within fifteen minutes the dinghy was well inflated and ready to go.

Pyotr pushed off from the submarine. The gray craft bobbed gently on the leisurely Aegean summer waves as they floated away into the dark sea. The motor started effortlessly and they pointed the boat toward the little rocky coves north of Scala Bay. The shore was barely visible in the early moonlight. Pyotr looked back, just in time to see the top yard of the Slavianka’s crippled antenna tower sinking down into the Aegean water.

They were all alone now; their success rested entirely upon their training and skills. Pyotr's limbs quivered slightly. He was tense and alert.

The sea was dark - as were the skies above. Grisha turned the motor down every few minutes to listen for the sounds of the approaching terrain ahead. It was not long before they heard the rumble of the long waves breaking over the rocky coast, the unmistakable sound of the shore. They sailed closer with the motor idling.

Pyotr was kneeling on the bow, holding a wooden oar in one arm and jabbing the dark waters ahead in search of the rocks. It wasn’t necessary, as he found out a short minute later.

A solid wall of dark stone suddenly loomed from the night about ten feet ahead. Layers of white foam spread over the sea as the waves yielded to the rocks. They turned north and skimmed the coast for a landing spot. It was nearly a half an hour before they found a suitable place; a flat platform of solid rock, like a natural jetty, only a foot or so above the water. A narrow track headed into the hills, and, best of all, there was no sign of life anywhere around.

Pyotr jumped ashore as Grisha guided the bow at low speed onto the land. The rocks beyond were wet and slippery, covered with a thin layer of slick algae. Pyotr climbed slowly, crawling froglike towards the coastline ahead, sinking his fingers firmly into crevices and cracks in the rocks, anchoring himself against the swirling waves that threatened to wash him off to sea. He managed to make it to dry land, falling only twice in the process. He was bruised and bleeding lightly from a gashed arm, but he paid the injuries no heed. Finding a suitable rock, he tied the boat line securely. Grisha joined him shortly after, pulling himself ashore with help of the rope. They then pulled the boat ashore together, timing their efforts with the oncoming waves. The slippery rock made it easy to slide the boat. They carried the dinghy onto the dry land and hid it in a small gorge on the slope of the hill.

Silently they started hiking into the headland. Pyotr had to slow down once in a while to let the Chief catch his breath. He had respect and admiration for the old man and he showed it in every possible way.

Things were going well. Almost too well. They reached the outskirts of the village by 2300 hours. There was not a sound to be heard. The village lay quietly in the soft moonlight. They walked silently along the narrow lanes hugging onto the whitewashed sidewalls minding to keep out of the moonlight. There were no sidewalks at all, the entire street spanning only six feet wall to wall. The directions they were given were easy to follow and they reached the house without difficulty. Pyotr leapt over the fence and walked to the front door.

He was just about halfway to the entrance when he noticed his assailant. A hazy shade approached from the right, which he noticed a few seconds too late. He didn't even have time to turn his head when he was hit on his right thigh. It was a hard blow. He was hurled four feet away before hitting the ground. Instinctively, as he anticipated a terminal blow of some kind, he reached for the gun that he packed in the small of his back. He wasn't about to be finished off so easily. He rolled a half a turn on the ground as he pulled out the gun. Swiftly, he pointed the pistol to his right as he cocked the weapon. His finger started squeezing the trigger while his eyes were still searching for the target. Three feet away and two feet above him there was a white head, a gorgeous pair of horns and two large eyes staring at him. A full size Greek version of a Billy goat was watching him with not a trace of animosity. Slowly he got up, restored the gun and his composure and walked watchfully to the house.

It took the Greek a long five minutes to answer Pyotr's tap. He opened the door in striped pajama pants and a gray shirt. The Greek recognized Pyotr from another “shore job”
of last winter. He unlocked the gate for the chief and they all went into the house.

"Kondos, this is Grisha," Pyotr introduced the Chief as they sat in the roomy kitchen, waiting silently for fresh coffee to boil in a long handled
finjan
. They were sipping the sweet Greek coffee in small porcelain cups as Grisha explained the situation to their host. The Greek listened without interruption. He knew they were Russians and had been collaborating with them for quite a few years now. He did it for the money and the thrill. He had some confused ideology, which had to do with the political situation in the country, none of which made much sense. The true reason lay in his boredom, his uninspiring future, the fairly convenient existence and an essentially weak character.

Twelve years ago, he was recruited into a network of operatives, which was organized by the USSR to provide assistance to any of their forces. They were not spies, nor agents. They were more like secret little helpers, gofers and suppliers. He now refilled their cups and explained his plan.

"We must cover all these islands now - Ikaria, Samoa, Agathonissi, Gaidaro, Lipso, Leros and Phrmako. That makes seven in total." He counted them on his fingers. "Gaidaro and Samos I can cover by phone. The others - no."

He looked at the Russians, to make sure they understood, and continued. "Today is Thursday, yes?"

They nodded. He resumed as if talking to himself. "The ferry comes in at ten o'clock in the morning. I'll go to Lipso and Leros. That will be about two or three o'clock, yes? Then I hire a boat to go to Pharmako. I'll be back home on the Friday ferry and take my boat to Arki, which is only eight miles from here".

He looked up at them again and summed things up. "I will telephone some friends on other islands. Tomorrow, noon, my men will do the searches, and finish looking for the white yacht which came last two days. Like you said - a fiberglass boat with bad accident in the hull. When they find her, they call me and also they will make sure she doesn't go away, yes?"

"Very good" said Grisha, "and if you have any information, come with your boat to the north side of the island, three miles east of the old volcano. The submarine will be waiting for you every six hours on the hour, day and night.

"Good," said the Greek as they got up.

The Russians left, Pyotr watching out for the goat. They walked noiselessly through the silent streets and back into the hills. All went well,
almost too well,
Grisha thought.

The boat was still there and the engine started with no problem. They headed north and Pyotr turned the throttle to half-speed. They were hardly fifty yards off the rocks when the prop hit the reef. It was as if the engine had blown up. The boat stopped instantly, the engine jerked all the way out of the water, and Grisha could see that the entire propeller and half the shaft were gone. He heard a short cry and turned his head to Pyotr. The young sailor was clasping his right arm with his left hand, trying to stop the gush of blood that was spouting between his fingers into the dark sea. Even through his pain and shock, Pyotr was amazed at the old man's agility as he pushed forward, applying a piece of cord as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. All he could think of, as the old man was helping him to the bow and laying him on the floor was -
where the hell did he get the cord?

Grisha leaned back on the pliant rubber sidewall, calmly marshaling his thoughts. Pyotr was on the floor, barely conscious and clearly needing medical attention. No engine, away from their submarine, and only an hour away from sunrise. He snapped the oars into their locks, assumed rowing position, and started rowing with steady, powerful strokes. The bottom of the boat screeched as it skidded over the reef until they were out in clear water. A single light was glowing in the deep darkness, low over the water. The Slavianka was waiting for them, motionless. He rowed hard and steadily with no rest, his massive arms powering them towards home. Alternating his attention between the light and the eastern horizon he rowed none stop, pulling the oars with all his might. A faint orange sunlight appeared over the flat hills and he rowed even harder. He was about fifty yards from the submarine when two sailors jumped into the water and reached him swimming briskly.

They hardly lost a stroke as they relieved his painfully sore arms from the oars. He sat on the sole of the rubber dinghy, unable to move, watching gratefully the Slavianka come closer. He thought he could feel her warmth as they approached their steel home.

The morning sun had just climbed into a clear Thursday sky as the Slavianka sneaked back into the Aegean water.

* * * * *

Kondos was busy on the telephone for the rest of the evening. Telephone connections between the islands were not entirely reliable and it often required a lot of dialing and shouting to get the words across. In some cases no direct line was even available, and he had to leave a message at the local taverna or at the Post Office.