H. M. S. Unseen (Admiral Arnold Morgan Series #3)

H. M. S. Unseen (Admiral Arnold Morgan Series #3)

by Patrick Robinson
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H. M. S. Unseen (Admiral Arnold Morgan Series #3) by Patrick Robinson

The most highly efficient and lethal underwater ship ever built, H.M.S. Unseen, vanishes into the depths while on a training mission, baffling British and American military intelligence including wily National Security Adviser Admiral Arnold Morgan.

One year later, the Concorde, the world's safest and most secure domestic plane, disappears without a trace over the North Atlantic. Days later the brand new Starstriker jet vanishes. Both appear to be random inexplicable accidents until Air Force Three, carrying the vice-president of the United States, is blown from the sky.

Morgan devises a chilling theory. Not only is Unseen still out there, but it's been modified to become the most dangerous anti-aircraft weapon at sea. And the admiral is convinced that only one man could have masterminded it: The world's most cunning'and reportedly dead'terrorist spy, Iraq's Commander Benjamin Adnam. But what Morgan doesn't know is that the fanatically religious military terrorist has a chilling agenda of his own'a plan that will bring these two intense warriors face to face. . . and only one will come out alive.

Performed by David McCallum on four cassettes.

Author Biography: Patrick Robinson was born in Kent, England. He has worked as a journalist and in publishing, and is the author of a number of nonfiction titles, including Admiral Sir Sandy Woodward's account of the Falklands War, One Hundred Days. Mr. Robinson has homes in Ireland and on Cape Cod.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780060996383
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date: 12/28/1999
Series: Admiral Arnold Morgan Series , #3
Edition description: Export Edition
Pages: 544
Product dimensions: 4.25(w) x 1.00(h) x 6.80(d)

About the Author

Patrick Robinson is the author of seven international bestselling suspense thrillers, including Nimitz Class and Hunter Killer, as well as several nonfiction bestsellers. He divides his time between Ireland and Cape Cod.

Read an Excerpt

May 26, 2004

The light was fading along Haifa Street, and it was almost impossible to spot any Westerners in that seething, poor section of Baghdad. Men in djellabas, long loose shirts, occupied much of the dirty sidewalks, sitting cross-legged, smoking water pipes, selling small items of jewelry and copper. On one side of the main thoroughfare, dark narrow streets ran off toward the slow-flowing Tigris River.

Tiny car workshops were somehow crammed along there between the cramped decaying houses. The stifling smell of oil and axle grease mingled with the dark aromas of thick, black, sweet coffee, incense, charcoal fires, cinnamon, sandalwood, and baking bread. Not many children wore shoes, and the dress was Arab.

He should have stood out a mile, wearing a smoothly cut, grey Western suit, as he hurried out from the inner canyon of a green-painted garage. The club tie should have given him away; certainly the highly polished shoes. But he turned around as he walked out, and he embraced the elderly, oil-coated mechanic with warmth and affection. And he stared hard into the man's eyes-an unmistakable Arab gesture, the gesture of a Bedouin.

No doubt, the man was an Arab, and he caused few heads to turn as he headed back west toward Haifa Street, cramming a length of electrical wire into his pocket. He seemed at home there in that crowded, sprawling market, striding past the fruit and vegetable stalls, nodding at the occasional purveyor of spices or the seller of rugs. He held his head high, and the dark, trimmed beard gave him the facial look of an ancient caliph. His name was obscure, foreign-sounding to an Arab. They called him Eilat. But,in the circles that knew his trade, he was formally referred to as Eilat One.

He made just one more stop, at a dingy hardware store 40 yards before the left turn onto the Ahrar Bridge. When he emerged ten minutes later, he was carrying a white box with a lightbulb pictured on the outside, and a roll of heavy duty, wide, grey plastic tape, the regular kind that holds United Parcel packages together all over the world.

Eilat kept walking fast, sometimes straying off the sidewalk to avoid stragglers. He was thickset in build, no more than five feet ten inches tall. He crossed the bridge into the Rusafah side of Baghdad and made his way up Rashid Street. In his left jacket pocket there was a small leather box containing Iraq's national Medal of Honor, which had been presented to him personally that morning by the somewhat erratic President of the country. The coveted medal counted, he feared, for little.

There had been something in the manner of the President that he had found disturbing. They did not know each other well, but there had been an uneasy distance between them. The President was known for his almost ecstatic greetings to those who had served him faithfully, but there had been no such display of emotion that morning. Eilat One had been greeted as a stranger and had left as a stranger. He had been escorted in by two guards and was escorted out by the same men. The President had seemed to avoid eye contact.

And now the forty-four-year-old Intelligence agent experienced the same chill that men of his calling have variously felt over the years in most countries in the world-the icy realization that no matter what their achievements, the past had gone, time had rolled forward. The spy was being sent back out into the cold. Or, put another way, the spy had gone beyond his usefulness to his master In the case of Eilat One, he might simply have become too important. And there was only one solution for that.

Eilat believed they were going to hill him. He further believed they were going to kill him that same night. He guessed there was already a surveillance team watching his little house, set in a narrow alley up toward Al-Jamouri Street. He would be wary, and he would be calmly self-controlled. There could be only one possible outcome to any attempted assassination.

Still walking swiftly, he reached the great wide-open expanse of Rusata Square. The streetlights were on now, but this square needed no extra illumination. A 50-foot-high portrait of the President was floodlit by more voltage than all the city streetlights put together. Eilat swung right, casting his eyes away from the searing dazzle of his leader, and he pressed on eastward toward the great adjoining Amin Square, with its mosques and cheap hotels.

He walked more slowly, tucking his white box under his arm and staying to the right, hard against the buildings. The traffic was heavy, but he had no need to leave the sidewalk, and unconsciously he slipped into the soft steps of the Bedouin, moving lightly, feeling in the small of his back the handle of the long, stilettobladed tribal knife, his constant companion in times of personal threat.

He followed the late shoppers into Al-Jamouri Street and slowed almost to a stop as he reached an alleyway beside a small hotel. Then he quickened again and walked straight past, with only a passing glance into the narrow walkway, with its one dim streetlight about halfway along. He saw that the alley was empty, with two cars parked at the far end. They were empty, too, unless the passengers were curled up on the floor. Eilat had excellent eyesight, and he was good at remembering pictures in his mind.

He stopped completely, standing, apparently distracted, outside the hotel, looking at his watch, checking the passersby, watching for someone who hesitated, someone who might slow down and stop, just as he had done. Twenty seconds later, he moved into the alley and walked slowly toward the narrow white door that opened through a high stone wall and led across the courtyard into the Baghdad headquarters of Eilat One.

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H. M. S. Unseen (Admiral Arnold Morgan Series #3) 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 16 reviews.
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Highly Recommended
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LewPohl More than 1 year ago
I first discovered Patrick Robinson when I bought a paperback Nemitz Class at a yard sale. What a fantastic surprise . . . techno-thriller like I hadn't seen since the earliery Tom Clancy novels. . . you know, like before Clancy branched out into ghost-writer francises? I love spy versus antispy plots. In HMS Unseen, Ben Adnam [sp?] is a Jason Bourne-type professional killer/manipulator, lethal with a paper weight and a nose-bone smash into a sentry's brain. Ben, a former Israeli navy commander [though born in Iran] turned Islamic terrorist commander has Iraq, Iran, and the western powers closing in on him. He's cornered, no place to hide in the world. I had no idea how Robinson was going to finish this story, but Robinson did it -- leave it, and Ben, to Arnold -- plausible and satisfying. The plots are gripping, the characters,at times are militarily stodgie and sometimes James Bond "shaken, not stirred" lavish for a career navy dude. Robinson's overall sequences -- not the minutia about whether or not AK-47s might or might not have silencers,-- are what makes reading a Robinson novel a compelling adventure. I've read nearly all of Robinson's novels, starting with Nemitz Class through Hunter Killer. DiMercurio and Buff, excellent sub warfare authors, apply submarine service terms like "HDR masts", "BQQ-5", "DSUV 61" or "slot buoys". My point is. . . these specialists in sub warfare bog down into too much, it slows the reading. I really have had a tough time sticking to reading about pipes, bulkhead hatches and bowplane indicator "bubbles". Okay, but not the overall excitement of a Clancy-type novel that tickles the imagination of readers who enjoy international intrigue chess matches. Robinson's Admiral Arnold might be rude and irrascible, but the story line plots pitting Arnold against Chinese, Russians, North Koreans, radical Islamists are fun, suspenseful to the end and wonderful companionship. I really hate when each novel ends. Military leaders recommend Robinson's books for military personnel of all services. The story lines at times have been prophetic, they read like today's headlines. Robinson stages his plots as if he's got a radical Islamic advisor/informer whispering in his ear.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
The sheer unbelievability of Ben Adnam is not the main downfall of this book. That is reserved for the absolute lack of research carried out about the Armed Forces involved. To name but a few problems; 1.The correct military signals term for a genuine situation is 'NODUFF,' not the one used in the book. 2.The two soldiers murdered on St Kilda could not belong to the RASC. The RASC ceased to exist under that name in 1965 when it became the RCT. 3.The regimental number of the corporal would have him joining the Army some time in the mid sixties, so even had he joined as a junior he would be at least 54 years old having served some 39 years. 4.The British Army have used diesel Land-Rovers since the late eighties. 5.The St Kilda installation would be checked over by a REME Control Equipment Technician (Ecky Tech) who would be a sergeant at most, officers do not carry out these inspections - they are not trained for it. 6.The maximum speed of a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter is 184MPH not the 250MPH claimed in the story. In fact the absolute helicopter speed record is less than 250MPH. Mr Robinson has fallen into the trap of relying on a (very eminent)seaman for background detail on the British Army. Not checking out about the helicopter was just negligent (not what Ben Adnam would consider professional at all)- that piece of data took me just 25 seconds to root out via the net.
Guest More than 1 year ago
An action pact thriller you will want to read time and time again. You will follow an Iraqi terrorist through an adventure of international deceit and destruction. A book of strategic warfare and deception that will keep you on the edge of your seat page after page from cover to cover.
Guest More than 1 year ago
A fantastic conclusion to an all too real possibility. A classic tale of good versus evil. H.M.S. Unseen brings to head, a story of one man's mission to destroy the U.S. and the country who tried to have him eliminated. An excellent read that you will not be able to put down once you have begun the fanatasic ride.
Guest More than 1 year ago
H.M.S. Unseen is my first Patrick Robinson novel. Reviews I have read compare him to Tom Clancy. By no stretch! Although Mr. Robinson's writing ability is apparent, his story line does not approach the authenticity of a classic Clancy tale. As a matter of fact, a third through the book I became overcome with exasperation; the anti-hero too perfect, all others (in the free world) simple minded incompetents! Clancy's fiction is awesomely believable, even to the technically knowledgeable. Moreover, why a novel has to contain obviously excessive detail and filler subplots just to be over 500 pages is something I fail to understand. Criticism of too unreasonable a change later in the story in the anti-hero's otherwise super human flawlessness, is also something I find legitimate. Nonetheless, I felt compelled to finish the book, such is the quality of the writing.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago