Shadow Hunter (12 page)

‘In this case . . .'

‘Hitchens may have taken steps . . .' Bourlet completed the sentence. ‘Pah! How on earth can we say that? We're assuming the man's behaving rationally and irrationally at the same time. God, this is ridiculous. It's like blindman's-bluff in a lunatic asylum!'

A silence fell, and both men turned their eyes to the top of the chart, the Barents Sea and the Kola Peninsula. The Kola Inlet harboured one of the largest concentrations
of warships anywhere in the world, including nearly fifty per cent of the Soviet Union's entire submarine fleet. If Philip Hitchens was bent on revenge, that was where
Truculent
would be heading.

‘The special mission he had, sir? To simulate mine-laying. Can I get it absolutely clear? Did he have warshots on board? Live mines?'

‘Mmmm. Four of them, I'm afraid. Just a normal weapons load.' Then, after a pause, ‘You think he could persuade his WEO to lay them?'

‘He might. The point about the Moray mine is that it's designed to be laid in an inert condition
before
a war starts, and wouldn't actually be activated until the start of the conflict. As you know, sir, it can be activated by a sonar transmission from a submarine, a surface ship, or an aircraft, anytime up to a year after being laid.

‘He'd have to prepare his groundwork. But as long as no one suspected he'd lost his marbles, he might just convince his WEO they had orders to lay the mines in peacetime.'

‘Believing the weapons wouldn't be activated until there was a crisis . . .'

‘Exactly, sir.'

‘Now the crunch question. Could Hitchens activate the mines?'

Andrew swallowed hard. He'd remembered a detail from Philip's career.

‘I've a horrible feeling he could, sir. He trained as a sonar officer. Knows that sonar system inside out.'

Bourlet stared at him unblinking.

‘Then he's got to be stopped.'

Suddenly the Admiral stood up and pulled his uniform straight.

‘Come on. We're going down the Hole.'

With that he marched for the door; Andrew pulled himself to his feet and followed.

Outside, the night had become crisp and clear, with a half-moon high in the sky. As they hurried down the slope, two young WRNS coming towards them saluted smartly. Admiral Bourlet didn't give them a second
glance. Unusual for him – he had a reputation as a bit of a lecher.

At the control post at the bottom of the entrance ramp, the Royal Marines security guards checked their identity badges and cleared them. The two men hurried through the heavy steel blast doors, and down to the first level airlock. The atmosphere in the bunker was kept at positive pressure to protect the occupants from chemical weapon attack, or nuclear fallout.

Four flights down, they entered the long corridor that led to the Operations Control room. The OPCON was dominated by a giant wall-screen; rows of computer terminals were manned by operators wearing headphones. This was the control centre for Exercise Ocean Guardian; all NATO naval operations in the Eastern Atlantic were directed from here.

Bourlet passed through it into the smaller Royal Naval control room beyond. The three men on duty scrambled to their feet.

‘Relax,' he ordered. ‘This is Commander Tinker, captain of the
Tribune
. He's here helping me with the
Truculent
problem. Now, what I'm about to say is Top Secret – UK Eyes Only. Not a word outside this room, understood? None of those NATO people must know.'

‘Sir.' The three men nodded.

‘We appear to have an SSN not responding to signals at the moment. Don't know why,' he lied. ‘We've got to find that boat and discover what's up. Now what've we got in the
Truculent
's area?'

The duty officer tapped at his keyboard and a map appeared on his screen.

‘
Illustrious
is north of the Faroes, sir, with three escorts,' he announced, reading off the data. ‘But
Truculent
's probably 200 miles east of her. Bit too far for her helicopters to do anything useful. Two more ASW frigates are working a screen nearer to Iceland, so they'll not be much use either. Nor will the three
“O”
Class subs in the northern North Sea. The one boat that could help is the submarine
Tenby
; she's right up off North Cape.'

‘What about maritime air?'

‘One Nimrod MR2 from Kinloss is doing a search just inside the Arctic Circle. Currently tracking a
Victor III
and a
Tango.
A second Nimrod is on barrier patrol between the Faroes and Shetlands. We could divert her, if we knew where to look.'

‘Andrew, what do you think?'

‘Anybody got a chart?' Tinker asked wrily. ‘One of those paper things. I can't work from a screen!'

The duty officer pulled one from a drawer and handed him a pair of brass dividers.

Andrew calculated. It would be five hours after
Truculent
crossed the SOSUS barrier before the Nimrod could be on station. One hundred and fifty miles was the most the boat could have covered in that time.

He measured the dividers against the latitude marks on the side of the chart, then laid the points on the paper.

‘If he's taking a straight line towards North Cape, the Nimrod'll have to lay a barrier a hundred miles wide to have a chance of finding him.'

‘Get those co-ordinates and ask the Air Commander if we can divert his Nimrod,' Bourlet ordered. ‘Now, what else is there on the ground?'

‘The Americans' main force is still well to the west, sir, but they've got a
Los Angeles
boat way up north under the ice, keeping an ear open for the Russian BNs.'

‘Mmmm.'

‘The Norwegians might be able to help, sir. They've got a couple of
Oslo
frigates on anti-submarine duty off Trondheim Fjord.'

‘No. The Norwegians couldn't keep a birthday party secret, let alone this sort of problem. No.
Tenby
looks our best bet. She's playing “orange”, isn't she?'

Bourlet directed his question at the duty officer. The lieutenant commander nodded.

There had to be something he could do, Andrew thought. He knew Philip better than any of them. He might be able to talk sense into him if he could just get near enough.

‘Just a thought, sir,' Andrew ventured, beckoning the Admiral to move out of earshot of the others. What he
was about to suggest would commit him further than ever. He was glad Patsy couldn't hear him.

‘Go on,' Bourlet growled.

‘If I could get on board
Tenby,
' he whispered, ‘and we managed to track
Truculent,
I could call them on the underwater telephone. Might be able to get Philip back on the rails. If not, at least I could alert the crew.'

‘It'd also avoid our having to brief
Tenby
by signal, which wouldn't be bad. Mmmm. Got any other commitments at the moment?'

‘Just shore leave. Patsy'll probably threaten divorce, but I think I can cope with that.'

‘Won't be the first time, I'm sure. That's not a bad plan. How would we get you on board?'

They turned back to the duty officer.

‘We want to get Commander Tinker on board
Tenby.
How do we do it?' Bourlet asked.

The lieutenant commander pointed to his computer screen, showing the northern tip of Norway.

‘Tromso would probably be your best bet. We could order
Tenby
to approach the coast. There's a Norwegian Air Force base there with Search and Rescue helicopters.'

‘How long to get to Tromso from here?'

‘Depends what you're flying in, but about four hours in something like a 125, I'd say.'

‘Mmmm. I'll need to clear this with the C-in-C, but it sounds the right plan. Get it started, will you? Alert
Tenby
that we may need to change her plans, and keep her close to Tromso. Don't give her any details or explanations at this stage. And check with the Norwegians, to make sure they can give Andrew a lift. Finally, book a 125 for tomorrow morning. I'll confirm everything later this evening, after I've talked to the boss.'

The duty men saluted as the Rear-Admiral and Andrew left.

‘Got a cabin booked in the Wardroom?' Bourlet asked, after they'd stepped out into the crisp night air.

‘Yes. I wasn't expecting to get back to Plymouth tonight, whatever happened.'

‘Give my apologies to your wife. Feel free to blame me
for everything. I'm quite used to it. And, look: let the Wardroom hall-porter know where you are, 'cause I'll want another word. I'm just going down the road to Admiralty House. The C-in-C's having a dinner party, but he knows what's going on and is expecting me to call. I shouldn't be more than an hour.'

Andrew watched Bourlet's squat figure stomp up the ramp towards the main gates, then he turned left towards the accommodation blocks of the ‘Wardroom' – the shipboard term the Navy used for the officers' mess, which at Northwood amounted to a good-sized hotel.

‘You're much too late for dinner, sir, but they'll do you a sandwich if you're quick,' the hall porter greeted, looking at his watch.

Andrew realized suddenly how hungry he was. The only meal he'd had all day were the sandwiches the RAF had provided on the flight to Scotland.

He'd intended to ring Patsy right away; he took a step towards the coin-box telephone on the wall opposite, then hesitated. She'd have to wait, or he'd miss the only meal he was going to get; the way things were going, he couldn't be sure when he'd see the next one.

Rear-Admiral Bourlet had sent his driver home for the night, so took the wheel of the black Granada himself. Admiralty House was less than a quarter of a mile down the road, a substantial red-brick house at the end of a tarmac drive.

A white-jacketed steward emerged from the front door, and pointed to a parking space.

‘If you'd care to wait in the study, sir, I'll tell the Admiral you're here. They're just finishing their coffee, so you've picked a good moment,' he chirped as he ushered Bourlet into the house.

The Commander-in-Chief of the Fleet was two ranks higher than he was, but as far as Bourlet was concerned, Stewart Waverley should never even have made Vice-Admiral. The man wasn't so much a sailor as a politician, with his eye on the First Sea Lord's job followed by a seat in the House of Lords.

He waited five minutes in the small study. Shelves lined with volumes of Who's Who, directories of key personnel in the media, and recent political biographies confirmed Bourlet in his prejudices about the man.

‘Hello, Anthony,' Waverley greeted curtly. ‘Hope this won't take long. I've got the editor of the Telegraph here this evening. What news of the
Truculent
?'

He was tall and elegant in a white dinner jacket, his straight, dark hair held in place by a sheen of oil. His breath smelled of claret and good brandy.

‘The news is bad. For God's sake, don't give it to the Telegraph.'

Waverley scowled in irritation at the unnecessary piece of advice.

‘There's been no word from her,' Bourlet continued, experiencing a perverse pleasure that what he was about to say would spoil the C-in-C's evening.

‘But we think she's been detected. Crossing the SOSUS array between the Faroes and Shetland, about five hours ago. Pretending to be a trawler. I've diverted a Nimrod to look for her.'

Waverley blanched.

‘What . . . what on earth's going on in that boat?'

Bourlet explained further, and watched the C-in-C's expression freeze as the implications sank in. When he'd finished, Waverley leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

‘This is appalling!' he exploded, after what seemed like a full minute of silence.

‘I'll have to brief the First Sea Lord; he'll need to tell the Secretary of State tonight. This thing's going to explode. The PM'll be horrified. I'm having lunch with her at Downing Street tomorrow. Wants me to tell her all about Ocean Guardian. The Russians have lodged a formal complaint, calling it “provocative”. You'll have heard on the news all that business about the Americans buzzing a Soviet merchantman bound for Cuba with MiG-29s on her deck? And the furious speech Savkin made this afternoon?'

‘I haven't heard any news – been a bit busy . . .'

Waverley didn't hear him, his mind running on what he would say to the Prime Minister.

‘If we've got a rogue submarine heading into the middle of all this, it'll be like tossing a lighted match onto an oil spill. You will find her, won't you?'

‘Sir, I don't know. If Hitchens doesn't want to be found, he'll make it bloody difficult for us. We've got to face it, unless we can divert every ship and plane involved in Ocean Guardian to help with the search, we may not be able to stop him doing whatever he intends to do.'

‘Good God, man! We can't do that! The whole world would know what's happened. A
Royal Navy
nuclear submarine out of control? A
British
officer threatening a private war with the Soviets? This must never get out! You've
got
to stop him! I'm making you personally responsible for the operation. Set up a small command staff, give it a code name, and use your judgement. I'll look after the politicians – leave them to me. You just get Hitchens back in line!'

Waverley stood up. His hands were trembling.

‘And now I've got to go back and entertain my guests without the editor of the Daily Telegraph suspecting anything!'

Andrew dropped three coins into the payphone, and dialled. He looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven o'clock.

‘Hello?' Patsy sounded breathless when she eventually answered.

‘Hullo, darling. It's me. Were you in the bath or something?' he asked.