Shadow Hunter (11 page)

The burst transmission of digital data from the satellite would be recorded on magnetic disk, then fed through a processor to be printed out in real time.

‘As soon as you've got the stuff printing, I need you out of the room, I'm afraid,' Philip reminded them briskly.

Smallbone and the operator Bennett nodded at him sullenly.

‘I'm sorry. Not my idea. Orders from CINCFLEET,' Hitchens lied smoothly. ‘Everything set now?'

‘Sir,' Smallbone acknowledged.

Hitchens peered at his watch for the third time in a few seconds. He couldn't conceal his nervousness and spun back into the control room.

Cavendish was raising the forward search periscope.

‘ESM?' Hitchens snapped.

‘Negative, sir. No contacts.'

The Electronic Support Measures mast was the first to be raised whenever they closed with the surface. Its sensors were designed to detect radar transmissions from ships or aircraft, transmissions that could spot their periscope or radio mast.

Cavendish completed his all-round look.

‘No visual contacts, sir. Sea-state five.'

Hitchens studied his watch again. 1814 precisely.

Philip stomped back to the wireless room. The diskdrive chattered as it filed the data.

‘Transmission complete, sir,' Smallbone reported.

Philip turned on his heel and called into the control room.

‘Officer of the Watch, down periscope, and take us deep again.'

Hugo Smallbone shuffled awkwardly out of the radio room, and stood outside the door, hands clasped behind his back as if at parade-ground ease.

‘I'll press the tit for you then, sir?' Bennett growled.

‘Yes, please.'

The rating did so, then scuttled from the room with exaggerated haste as the printer began to pour forth its data. Philip slipped inside and closed the door.

Lieutenant Commander Pike stepped into the control room having just completed his rounds. He spotted the wireless operators hovering awkwardly outside in the passageway.

‘So, he's really doing it,' he murmured to the OOW.

‘Didn't doubt the captain's word, did you, sir?' Cavendish retorted.

Pike raised one eyebrow in reply.

‘Ten down. Keep two hundred metres,' ordered Cavendish. ‘Steer oh four oh. Revolutions for eighteen knots.'

He looked at the control room clock. Just over half an hour until the end of his watch.

For Sunday's evening meal, the galley offered corned beef salad or ‘oggies' – Cornish pasties – and chips.

Philip ate early, the steward bringing him a tray to his cabin. He wanted to be finished with his meal and with sifting the signals by the time the watch changed at 7 pm. It was the time he'd chosen to make the pipe; to give the men their first clue as to what he planned.

The signals were easy to sort. The intelligence reports he'd pass to the watch leader; the family messages and the summary of the world news he'd give to the first lieutenant for distribution. Those he placed to one side. He slid the messages for other submarines included in the burst transmission into the bin at his feet.

In front of him was the message he'd dreaded, the one he'd had to prevent the crew from seeing.

FLASH 201814Z OCT.

FOR: EXEC. OFF. HMS TRUCULENT.

FROM: FOSM NORTHWOOD.

RESTRICTED.

NEED IMMEDIATE EXPLANATION WHY YOU FAILED TO MAKE RENDEZVOUS 1600Z TODAY. ESSENTIAL YOU COMMUNICATE HF/SSIX SOONEST.

They'd addressed it to Tim Pike, trying to by-pass him. Sent it without special code, so the whole fleet could see it. Clumsy. By making it so open they'd hoped to get the message through. They were wrong. It merely showed they had yet to realize what they were up against.

He smiled but with little satisfaction. He had no wish to take on his masters. Circumstances had forced him into it.

He carefully folded the signal and placed it inside the wall safe.

He waited until ten minutes past the hour, so the men would be settled in their mess decks or at their watch posts, then he stepped briskly into the control room, checked the navigation plot and the power settings, and unhooked the microphone that would broadcast his words throughout the boat.

‘Do you hear there? Captain speaking. Just an update on our situation,' he began, hoping the tremble in his voice would not be noticeable. ‘We're well clear of the Faroes-Shetland Gap now, and very shortly we're going to put on a bit of speed. Our destination is still somewhere in the north Norwegian Sea, but I can't be specific at this stage.'

He swallowed to moisten his throat, and turned away from the men in the control room so they couldn't see his face.

‘I have to tell you that our orders have been changed since we left Devonport. It may well be that we no longer take any part in Exercise Ocean Guardian – that's not
quite clear yet. The thing is, there's a bit of tension brewing between the Russians and NATO, and . . . er . . . we've been put on alert for a very special and very sensitive mission. Can't tell you anything about it at all at the moment; CINCFLEET has classified it Top Secret – Commanding Officer's eyes only. But, I
can
tell you what was on the BBC World Service news this evening – I've just had the summary through on the satellite.

‘Earlier this morning there was an incident some way north of here, involving helicopters from the US aircraft carrier
Eisenhower
and a Soviet cargo ship called the
Rostov,
carrying MiG fighters. The Russians are apparently accusing the Yanks of threatening their ship. Mr Savkin, the . . . er . . . Russian leader, made a very provocative speech this afternoon, accusing NATO of all sorts of things, particularly slagging off this exercise that we're involved in.

‘Now, it's not entirely clear what he's up to, but CINCFLEET isn't taking any chances. So, I've been given my orders. I hope to be able to give you some details in a day or two, but in the meantime please just take my word for it that whatever we do, there's a good reason for it. That's all.'

He made to hang up the microphone, but snatched it back again.

‘Just one more thing. The video tonight, according to the first lieutenant's list, is
Gorky Park.
That's all.'

At the chief petty officers' table in the ratings' mess, CPO Hicks turned to Gostyn, the propulsion chief, knife held up in mid-air.

‘What the fuck was that all about?'

‘Not good news. Not good at all.'

In the wardroom six officers sat round the table, stunned into temporary silence. All eyes turned to Tim Pike.

‘You heard the captain. I can't talk about it, can I?' he growled uncomfortably.

* * *

Rear-Admiral Anthony Bourlet paced like a caged rat up and down the floor of his office overlooking the main gates at Northwood Royal Naval Headquarters. Andrew watched him uncomfortably.

‘This is bloody ridiculous! Something must have gone wrong with the boat. I can't believe a commander in Her Majesty's Navy would deliberately flout his orders and take off into the wide blue yonder on a personal vendetta! A man would have to be mad to do that.'

‘That's just the point, sir. He may be. Some sort of breakdown.'

‘They'd know. On the boat. The other officers would realize something was wrong, and sort him out, take command or whatever.'

‘Eventually, yes. But how long would it take, sir? I'm no expert, but if Philip just appeared slightly odd, it wouldn't be enough reason for the executive officer to take over. If Pike misjudged it, he'd be on a charge of mutiny.'

‘Mmmm,' the Admiral growled. ‘What could you get away with on your own boat, Andrew?'

Bourlet stopped pacing. Fixing both hands on the desk, he leaned bulldog-like across it. The broad band of his Admiral's insignia glinted gold against the dark blue of his uniform sleeves. He'd commanded surface ships as a younger man, never a submarine.

‘What d'you mean exactly, sir?'

‘If you took it into your head to sink half the Soviet Navy, could you do it? Could you actually launch the torpedoes?'

Andrew smoothed down his thick, dark hair, and frowned, taken aback by the question.

‘Well, that's the job of the weapon engineer.'

‘Of course. But could you convince him to do it?'

Andrew reflected for a moment.

‘It'd be bloody difficult. If we were firing a live round against a real target – there'd be a dozen men involved
at least. It'd be war. Everyone on board would have to know.'

‘Could you, as captain, convince them to do it?' Bourlet pressed. ‘Tell them you'd received secret orders, a personal briefing, CO's eyes only? Something of that sort?'

Andrew expelled his breath through pursed lips, then shook his head.

‘It'd be pretty impossible, sir, with the Harpoons or torpedoes. There'd have been signals, targeting data and so on. That stuff wouldn't be CO's eyes only.'

‘Then we shouldn't have too much to worry about . . .'

‘But if he's got mines on board. That could change things . . .'

Bourlet winced at the confirmation of his own fears.

The intercom on his desk buzzed twice. He pressed a key.

‘Yes? What is it?'

‘Sub duty ops officer to see you, sir. Says it's very urgent.'

Andrew got to his feet.

‘Do you want me to wait outside, sir?'

Bourlet held up a hand.

‘Send him in.' Then looking up at Andrew, he went on, ‘Stay here. This may well be relevant.'

The duty operations watchkeeper entered, the same lieutenant who'd been directing Andrew's efforts at Stornoway earlier that afternoon.

‘It's
Truculent,
sir. We think we may have had a trace of her.'

The young man's face was flushed – alarmed even.

‘We've been comparing the SOSUS data with the radar surface picture from a Nimrod at about 1700 this afternoon. The SOSUS detected a Soviet fishing vessel heading for Murmansk, apparently in company with a trawler. Two surface vessels. But the Nimrod radar only saw one. The factory ship. No other trawler. We suspect the other noise was a submarine using a decoy, and
Truculent
's the only one it can be, sir. Nothing else in the area.'

Bourlet shot a glance at the clock.

‘God preserve us! That was four hours ago. You're absolutely certain?'

‘Only explanation we can think of, sir.'

‘Still no signals from her?'

‘'Fraid not, sir. And we're repeating our signal to her every hour on the broadcast and on the SSIX. She can't be listening.'

‘Well, let me know instantly if there is anything.'

The operations officer left, and Admiral Bourlet turned to a large chart of the north Atlantic which covered one wall.

‘Sod it! He could be anywhere within a hundred miles of the barrier by now. Even further by the time we get a Nimrod up to look for him. Sod Phil Hitchens! And sod bloody Sara Hitchens!'

Bourlet had been Flag Officer Submarines for two years, and had his eye on the promotion ladder. His tenure of office at Northwood had passed with remarkable smoothness. This sort of crisis was something he could do without.

The system was supposed to spot unstable personalities and weed them out before they could do harm. Hitchens had slipped through the net; ultimately that would be seen as
his
responsibility.

‘What the hell's he up to, eh? What exactly did he say to that tart of a wife, before he sailed?'

‘I don't think he
said
anything. She just sensed he was going to do something. I know what she means, sir. I've known Phil for longer than Sara – we joined the Navy at the same time, shared a cabin at Dartmouth. He – he can be pretty intense at times. Most of the time, in fact, when I think about it. I don't have many memories of him being really relaxed, having a good time, that sort of thing.'

‘Bit of a bore, you mean?'

‘He has been called that, sir. Some people find it difficult to tolerate his seriousness; he can be quite obsessive, particularly when it comes to the Soviets. Something of a cold warrior.'

‘Nothing much wrong with that. Don't trust the bastards meself, despite the Gorbachev reforms and all Mr Savkin's charm. Still, holding views like that is one thing; planning to start your own war is quite another.'

He stared up at the chart again.

‘Come over here and tell me what you think he's up to.'

Bourlet pointed to the Faroes-Shetland gap.

‘From there to the Kola, what're we talking about? Twelve hundred miles?'

‘Something like that, sir.'

‘How long would it take him? A couple of days?'

‘That'd be pushing it. He'd sprint a bit, but then probably want to drift so he could use his sonar. Doesn't want to go crashing into anything on the way.'

‘Unless he's feeling suicidal.'

‘Well, even if
he
is, the rest of the crew won't be, and they'll want to observe normal procedures. They'll stick to the water they were allocated at their briefing.'

‘So that gives us
some
idea of where to look.'

‘They're pretty big areas, but we can make a guess at it.'

‘We'll have to. Now, what'll he do about communications?'

‘My guess is he'll stick a mast up from time to time and take in a satellite. He'll want the intelligence data, if nothing else.'

‘In that case our signal to the first lieutenant might have got through by now.'

‘Unless . . .'

The same thought had just struck them both. If
Truculent
's crew listened to just one transmission they would immediately know their captain was disregarding orders, and they'd be justified in seizing command. Hitchens must have thought of some way to prevent that.