Shadow Hunter (19 page)

Nick fixed the microphone to his headset.

Suddenly the plane banked to the left and dived towards the sea.

‘Sheeit!'

Nick grabbed for a hand-hold.

‘Three ships in front!' called the pilot.

The journalists peered through the glass, seeing nothing but the grey sea flecked with foam.

Then both cameramen moved at once, eyepieces jammed to their faces. They'd seen the long lines of the wakes.

‘Got them!'

The pilot dived and turned, skilfully keeping the American warships ahead of the plane's nose. Five hundred metres from the water, he levelled out, overshot and began a long slow bank round to make another pass.

Nick was no expert, but he knew a carrier when he saw one.

‘Is that the
Eisenhower
?'

‘No. The
Eisenhower
's much bigger. That's the
Saipan
. Amphibious. For invasion. With her are one
Spruance
and one
Ticonderoga
.'

Nick felt uncomfortable at the ease with which his
nation's navy had been detected and identified by the Soviets.

‘One more pass. Okay?'

‘Yep.'

This time the Bear had slowed considerably. It banked over the
Ticonderoga
cruiser with its boxy superstructure housing the long-range, high-performance Aegis radar, and its deck covered with round hatches concealing Tomahawk and Standard missiles.

On the flight-deck of the
USS Saipan,
Nick counted six large helicopters. They flew low enough to see the deck crew gazing up at the circling plane.

‘Those guys'd go ape if they knew a US TV team was up here,' he thought to himself.

‘Enough?' Valentin's voice in the headphones.

‘Well, I wouldn't mind . . .'

‘But this is nothing. Don't you want to see your big ship?'

‘Sure. Okay, we got enough here.'

The pressure was knee-buckling as the pilot pulled the TU-95 up steeply. A tighter, more intense vibration came from the engines as the propeller pitch sharpened, blades biting harder into the air to give them power for the climb.

Nick looked round. The radar operators ignored their screens, watching everything the Americans did.

‘How d'you know where to look?' Nick asked into the microphone that pressed against his lips.

‘National Technical Means.'

‘What's that?'

‘You don't know? You Americans invented the words.'

‘Okay, but I didn't. I'm no expert.'

The pilot found that hard to believe. The Americans must surely have given special training to the man given the unique chance to fly in a Soviet warplane.

‘Satellites. We have a radar satellite. Shows everything, even us.'

‘So you don't need to use your own radar?'

‘That's right. If we did, your sailors would know we were here.'

‘They know now!'

The plane levelled from the climb. The pilot's fix for the
Eisenhower
was twenty minutes out of date. He'd guessed where she should have steamed to, but was wrong. There was no sign, not even a wake. He wouldn't get a new fix from the radarsat for another ten minutes. It would look bad not to be able to find the big ship before then.

The radar operators turned back to their scopes, hands reaching for the control knobs.

‘Soviet Naval Aviation TU-95!'

The voice in the earphones was Texan. Nick's cameraman looked round at him and frowned.

‘This is US Navy Tomcat on your port wingtip. Please acknowledge! Over!'

Heads whipped round to the left.

‘Sheeit!'

Just beyond the end of the wing a dull-grey fighter floated upwards, US Navy markings emblazoned on the side. Inside its long perspex canopy, two sinister black visors and oxygen masks were turned towards them.

‘Soviet TU-95 – you're approaching a US Navy aircraft carrier. Please maintain a distance of five miles from the ship. Acknowledge. Over.'

‘US fighter plane,' Valentin's voice answered, high-pitched with tension. ‘This is international airspace. Keep your distance! Over.'

‘
Soviet aircraft
–' The Texan voice sounded tired. ‘
The US carrier has a hot deck. For your safety, please make a left to maintain five miles from the ship. Acknowledge. Over
.'

Nick braced himself for a sudden change of course, but there was none. The Tomcat rose and banked away, ostentatiously showing off the racks of missiles under its wings.

Suddenly the
Bear
lurched to the left. From the right came another Tomcat, streaking past their nose, scarcely feet away.

‘Christ! Somebody tell those guys there are US citizens in here!' the cameraman yelled in alarm.

The radio had gone silent. There was no point in posturing any more. Each side knew what the other was about.

The nose went down. The rush of air past the fuselage grew louder as they gathered speed.

‘The
Eisenhower
is straight ahead. Soon you will have your pictures,' Valentin barked through the intercom. He sounded angry. ‘They are very aggressive, your pilots. This is international airspace!'

Nick opted to say nothing.

Having failed to deflect the Tupolev from its course, the Tomcats settled one on each wingtip, indicating unmistakably that if the Russian showed the slightest sign of hostility towards the
Eisenhower,
they'd blow him out of the sky.

Ahead, the carrier came in view. The plane levelled off and dropped its speed. Nick guessed they were at about two thousand feet, but it was difficult to tell. The Tomcats dropped back to watch for the Tupolev's bomb-doors opening, ready to rip open the Russian plane with their 20mm Vulcan cannon.

‘I will pass to the left of the ship, turn in front, and pass back on the other side,' the pilot told them, calmer now.

‘She sure is big,' Nick whistled.

‘Ninety-thousand tons. Eighty-five fighter planes on board. Nuclear weapons, too. Your navy has fifteen ships like that, our navy has none. They are a big threat to us.'

The microphone in Nick's headset was recording every word.

Fighters of different types were packed on the forward deck, wings folded, leaving the angled flight-deck clear for operations. Two machines were poised for launch on the steam catapults.

Past the ship, the two Tomcats closed in again, like guards pinioning a prisoner. The
Bear
attempted a turn but abandoned it just short of a collision.

‘American Navy fighters! You are flying dangerously close! Please move away. This is international airspace. Acknowledge! Over.'

Neither fighter flinched from its wing-tip position. The radio was silent.

‘American warplanes! You are violating the
international rules of air safety. You have put my aircraft in danger!'

Silence. The cameraman grinned. The shots were terrific – big close-ups of the US markings. The foreshortening effect of the zoom made it look as if the wingtips were touching. In one of the Tomcats the navigator was taking pictures with a stills camera.

‘Soviet aircraft!'

The Texan drawl was back.

‘Okay, guys; this is where we say g'bye. We're five miles from our mother. Keep at least this distance, and we won't have to meet again. Have a good day now, y'hear. Over.'

The two Tomcats banked and accelerated away in perfect unison. From underneath came a third fighter, pulling up ahead to let them know he'd been sitting on their tail all the time, missiles armed.

‘You have enough pictures now? Our time is up, I think.'

Nick looked at his watch. It was nearly noon. Time to head back to Kola.

* * *

Patsy Tinker put an armful of carrier bags on the back seat of her car and closed the door. She was pleased with her purchases; it was high time she had some new things, and if Andrew complained about how much she'd spent, she'd say it was compensation for his disappearing again so soon after returning home.

She started the engine and crunched the gears, then looked over her shoulder as she eased out of the parking bay. She paused to let a silver-coloured Volkswagen Golf pass, then pulled out behind it.

Hang on, wasn't that Sara? She vaguely remembered the Hitchens had a silver VW.

‘Keep an eye on Sara', Andrew had said. Okay, she'd follow; if Sara was going home, she'd drop in for a chat.

But the car turned up one of the Victorian terraces that led to the Hoe, then turned left, and left again into the
close dominated by the modern tower of the Holiday Inn. There was one parking space free, which she took.

Patsy hesitated. She hadn't meant to follow Sara like a spy. Sara might be meeting a man.

She drove past the hotel and found a space. Sara was walking slowly up towards the Naval War Memorial on the Hoe.

Patsy got out, pressing herself against the car to avoid a dusty, red Ford Escort that pulled into the bay ahead.

Climbing the slope, Sara suddenly felt dizzy, her leaden limbs and dull headache the result of too little sleep for the past few nights.

Why had she come, she asked herself? Retracing her past? Trying to make sense of it? She'd walked here with Simon when he was younger.

She glanced back at the Holiday Inn, remembering the view from the sixth floor. She'd had a lot of fun with Gunnar in the hotel's big double beds, but now she was paying the price.

The weather was glorious, for a change – an autumn sun bathed the Portland stone of the monuments in mellow gold. As she reached the crest of the hill, she felt a breeze on her face, warm for October.

Ahead, the waters of the Sound sparkled in the sun. A white-sailed yacht made its way towards the marina, its wake stretching to the farthest shore.

Sara turned to look up at the weathered bronze statue of Sir Francis Drake, then bent her head to read the inscription. She'd been here so many times before, but had never read the words.

‘Hello, Sara!' exclaimed Patsy, catching up with her. ‘Fancy seeing you!'

Sara jumped.

‘Patsy . . .' she gasped. ‘You startled me.'

‘Sorry. Didn't mean to. Such a lovely afternoon, I was passing and thought I'd stop to admire the view. You too?'

‘I suppose so.'

Sara avoided Patsy's eyes. She found her self-confidence intimidating.

‘Are you heading for the lighthouse? Perhaps we could walk together.'

‘Why not,' Sara shrugged.

‘Look, if you'd prefer to be on your own . . .'

‘No . . . ,' she answered, puzzled at the sudden solicitude. ‘Has Andrew told you?'

‘You mean . . . , about you and Philip? A little. Just that there'd been a row.'

Sara gave a short, sharp laugh that caught in her throat.

‘That could be an understatement,' she half-whispered.

They crossed the grass towards Smeaton's Lighthouse. A few couples had spread rugs on the turf to protect themselves from the moist ground while they enjoyed one of the last warm days of the year.

‘D'you know, for years I thought that was a real lighthouse?' Sara remarked. ‘I used to bring Simon here and tell him that at night the light shone right out to sea, to guide the sailors home – guide his daddy back to us. I never came here at night until recently . . .'

‘It was real once.'

‘Oh?'

‘It was out on the Eddystone Rock for a hundred-and-twenty years. Then the rock began to crumble, so they brought it here and built a new Eddystone light on firmer ground.'

‘Being a teacher, you'd know that sort of thing,' Sara sniped.

Patsy felt her scalp prickle. She and Sara had never liked each other much.

‘Philip's gone to sea again, I gather.'

If Sara wasn't going to raise the subject, she would.

Sara stopped and eyed Patsy suspiciously, her face grey, her eyes red and ringed.

‘This meeting's no accident,' she snapped. ‘Who sent you?'

‘No one sent me,' Patsy replied, edgily. ‘Andrew said things were a mess – suggested I should say hello if I happened to see you. That's all.'

‘How much of a mess, did he say?'

‘Look, all he said was that you'd been seeing someone else, and that Philip had found out and was devastated. That's all.'

Sara looked away, embarrassed.

‘He didn't say who?'

‘Nothing like that, no.'

They began walking again, heading for a vacant bench by the lighthouse.

‘I'm not really allowed to talk about it,' Sara said. ‘I think it's an official secret.'

‘What on earth do you mean?'

Sara chewed at her lower lip.

‘I've been incredibly stupid,' she whispered. ‘I can't believe how stupid I've been. You know, when I was nineteen, there was one sort of girl I used to really despise. Half drunk at a party – some boy with his tongue down her throat and his hand up her jumper. You knew that within the hour she'd be on her back and the next night it'd be with someone else. Well . . , they all think
I'm
like that now!'

‘Nonsense! Who thinks that?'

‘Philip. Andrew. The police.'

‘The
police
?'

‘Oh God, I shouldn't have said that. They're probably an official secret too.'

‘You're not involved in anything . . .
criminal,
are you, Sara?' Patsy whispered anxiously.

‘Criminal? I don't know. I hadn't thought of it as criminal.'

Sara looked round, checking no one was within earshot. Patsy found herself doing the same. They both ignored the nondescript, brown-haired man in a fawn windcheater sitting on another bench some twenty yards to their right.

‘There were lots of men. I used to get so bloody
lonely
. . .' Sara's voice had become so soft as to be almost inaudible. ‘One of those men worked for – a foreign government.'