Shadow Hunter (35 page)

* * *

Philip Hitchens was summoned immediately the bow sonar on
HMS Truculent
detected the
Victor III
.

He'd not been able to sleep anyway. In the red-light glow of his cabin, panic had engulfed him in successive waves. This was the day when everything would be decided, one way or the other.

He cut their speed to three knots. The plot on the Action Information Console showed the Soviet hunter/killer crossing their path about five miles in front of them, heading south.

The towed array was picking up the heavy sounds of large surface ships belonging to the Soviet anti-submarine task force strung out along the unmarked western perimeter of the Barents Sea, well to their north. Intelligence reports had listed the
Moskva
and the
Kiev
as being in the task force, but identification was impossible; the sounds were being distorted by reflections from the uneven sea-bed.

This was the moment Philip had been dreading, the moment when the hunters began closing in from all sides.

They weren't going to find him, however; no one was going to stop him doing what he had to do.

Hatred for the Russians, and anger at the misery they'd inflicted on his family, surged inside him, but he suppressed it, forcing himself to concentrate on the immediate threat; the
Victor
might hear them if they got much closer.

Philip ordered a turn to port, taking them northeast,
and increased their speed to ten knots. It would give them sea-room.

Thirty minutes later their Paris sonar-intercept sonar detected distant ‘pings' from transducers dipped by helicopters from the Russian carriers. Too far away to be any threat. Yet.

The
Victor
was well south by now, so they headed southeast again, back on course for the Kola Inlet.

At 0700 Sebastian Cordell took over the watch from Nick Cavendish, who looked relieved to be escaping the control room.

‘Bugger's jumpier than ever this morning,' he confided.

Cordell glanced uncomfortably at Hitchens, who hovered by the AIO console, checking the display and the speed and depth gauges.

‘Morning, TAS. Nick filled you in?'

The voice was strained, artificially brisk.

‘Yes, sir. I'm just going to check on the sound room, with your permission, sir.'

‘Yes, please.'

Sebastian scuttled forward, glad to be away from Hitchens.

‘Morning, Chief. What's the equipment state?'

‘Hundred per cent, sir. So far as I know,' CPO Hicks reported. ‘I've just come on watch, sir.'

‘How many contacts have we got?'

‘About a dozen, sir. Most of 'em merchantmen. Three Sovfleet warships to the north, between fifty and a hundred miles. We lost the
Victor
on the LOFAR, but picked up a transient from the south about ten minutes ago. Could have been the
Victor
's rudder moving. She was due to turn about then; have to, or she'd ground on the coast.'

‘Well done. So she's probably coming back our way again?'

‘If she does, she'll be nose-on this time. More difficult to hear.'

‘Okay, Hicks. Anything else close to us I should know about?'

‘Couple of freighters within twenty miles, sir. One's
heading west so we won't be tracking him much longer. The other's ahead of us. Big single diesel. One shaft. Four blades.'

Hicks pointed to the green waterfall display, and a ribbed smudge on the left of the screen.

‘Fundamental frequency 4.7 Hz. Shaft revs 282 per minute. Could be one of their big supply ships heading back into Murmansk. Might find some useful broadband noise close up.'

‘Mmmm. You're working well this morning, Hicks. How much of this is on the AIO?'

‘Thirty mile radius, sir.'

Back from the sound room, Sebastian was studying the screens of the Action Information Organization. The senior rating aligned the display with the compass points to superimpose chart data on it.

‘Depth's two-seventy metres here, sir. We're at two hundred. Oceanographics give an initial detection range of four miles, sir.'

Automatic analysis of the water conditions around them predicted the maximum distance at which they could be detected by the most sensitive sonar known. The nearest contact was well beyond that range, but Sebastian wasn't happy.

‘Aircraft. That's what we've got to worry about.'

Hitchens was standing in the bandstand, watching him.

‘I'm worried about the
Bears
and
Mays,
sir. This close to their coastline, the sky could be full of them.'

‘What d'you suggest we do about it?'

Cordell was thrown. Hitchens sounded unsure, humble even.

‘Well, sir, some sharp manoeuvring. Sprint and drift. To throw them off, just in case they've got a line on us.'

‘Yes. Carry on. You have the ship. Call me if there are any new contacts.'

With that he stepped from the bandstand and abruptly left the control room.

Surprised to find himself so suddenly in charge, Sebastian hurriedly checked the chart and the AIO again.

‘Steer zero-four-five. Revolutions for eighteen knots!'

The ratings at the engineering panel repeated the order back to him. He was going to put more distance between
Truculent
and the invisible
Victor
that could now be heading directly for them.

Just for a few minutes, then he'd alter course again. And again. Weaving and circling in a pattern so random no airborne tacnav would be able to follow him. He hoped.

Philip hurried to the officers' heads. His bowels were rumbling volcanically.

After relieving himself he returned to his cabin for the shave he'd not had time for earlier. His hands shook uncontrollably, and he nicked his neck with the razor.

He knew he should eat; there was a long day ahead. But the thought of food made him retch. He'd forgo breakfast. Drink some tea. That might help.

His brain felt paralysed by the conflict of his thoughts.

Revenge was the passion that had taken control of him again. To get back at the bastard Russians for seducing his wife, for murdering his father, and for forcing him to betray his country for a lie.

But was he right to believe his father dead? The KGB's efforts to prove him alive, had they
really
been a trick? After all he'd believed them at first, totally. The evidence – the letters, the photograph –
had
convinced him. Then he'd discovered how they'd used Sara and her knowledge of his vulnerability, his obsession with the fate of his father. An obsession powerful enough to blind him to reality.

Every piece of their evidence could have been fabricated. But he couldn't be certain.

What if his father really was in Helsinki waiting for him? If Philip set the Moray mines in the Kola Inlet, as he intended, several hundred Russians might die, but so would his father.

How the hell could he decide? Two hundred metres below the surface of the icy, grey-green waters of the Barents, isolated from his own people, isolated even from the bloody Russians, it was too late to ask for clarification. Too late for a lot of things. Too late to return to base and
pretend there'd been a communications failure. Too late to save his career. No, he had to press on, give the Russians what was coming to them.

A sharp rap on the door frame made him jump.

‘Yes?'

‘May I speak to you, sir?' It was the first lieutenant.

‘Yes. Yes, of course.'

Tim Pike slid the door shut behind him and stood awkwardly.

‘I'm anxious that you should brief me on our mission, sir,' he blurted out. ‘We're in hostile waters; I'm your deputy, sir. Not knowing why we're here or where we're going puts me in an impossible position.'

His short, ginger beard quivered as he spoke, his grey eyes staring at a point above the commander's head.

‘I've told you, Tim, that the orders are top secret. For my eyes only. That's still the situation. Nothing's changed.'

‘But there will come a point, sir, when a large sector of the ship's company will have to be told your orders. You can't operate the boat on your own, sir.'

‘I'd caution you not to be impertinent, Lieutenant Commander.'

Their eyes met. Pike saw that behind the arrogance, Hitchens was afraid.

‘May I sit down, sir?'

Philip gestured to the bunk, and turned away to fumble with a pen on the desk. Pike was right; he'd have to tell them something soon. But what?

‘And there's another thing, sir. I hesitate to mention it. Don't want you to think I'm prying. But there's been some talk on board that you've been having some problems at home. Now, I don't know if that is the case, sir, but sometimes it helps to talk . . . .'

‘How bloody dare you! Spreading malicious gossip about your Commanding Officer? That's an offence under Queen's Regulations. I'll put you on a bloody charge if you don't watch it!'

‘Sir, I've not spread any gossip . . .'

‘Well, who has? I want their names. Come on!'

He thrust the pen towards Pike.

‘Write them down. All of them!'

‘Sir, you're being unreasonable. You must understand – the men are uneasy. This patrol has been unorthodox, to say the least. The secrecy with the communications routines, the need to avoid contact with our own side as much as with the Soviets, the mystery about our ultimate mission – it doesn't make for a happy ship.'

‘Are you challenging my authority?'

Philip's voice had risen in pitch. Pike looked at the redness in his eyes, the veins standing out from his neck. Was this rage? Or panic.

‘Well?'

Now it was Pike's turn to be afraid. Was this the moment to take command?

He funked it.

‘No, sir,' he muttered. ‘I'm not challenging your authority.'

Philip subsided, relieved.

‘Just as well,' he said drily.

‘Just trying to help, sir. Do my job.'

‘Mmmm,' Philip grunted, his temper now under control. ‘Well . . . , don't think I haven't realized the difficulties you're all facing.'

He struggled to decide how much to say.

‘You see, things are looking pretty bad, with the Russians. There may be some action. That's why I can't say much yet. Don't want to alarm the men. We're going in close . . . , that's all I can say. Very close to the Soviet submarine bases. You know what weapons we have on board. I hope it won't be necessary to use them. But I don't know how things'll turn out.'

‘How will you get your final orders, sir. On the broadcast? The trailing wire antenna?'

‘There'll be no more orders. I already have my rules of engagement.'

Pike was stunned. He could tell that Hitchens knew he'd said too much.

‘That'll be all, Tim. What I've just said is in confidence. Just for you. Not to be passed on. Understood?'

‘If you say so, sir.'

‘I do. Now carry on.'

The conversation had disturbed Pike deeply. Already had his rules of engagement? Christ! That meant the decision to fight or not to fight was down to Hitchens, and Hitchens alone. Close contact with the Russians needed a CO with a cool head and a rational mind. The way Hitchens had just behaved had revealed no sign of either.

He headed for the wardroom and breakfast. Suddenly, the submarine banked sharply and Pike had to steady himself. Why the manoeuvre?

Breakfast could wait. He made for the control room. Sebastian Cordell stood in the bandstand, gripping the rail and calling out orders.

‘Steer one-eight-zero! Keep 260 metres. Revolutions for twenty-five knots!'

‘Why so deep? What's going on?' Pike demanded.

‘Active sonobuoys. Someone's pinging us. I just called the captain. He said I should ask you. He didn't sound very well, sir. I think he was throwing up. He left the key down and I could hear him.'

‘I see.'

Pike studied the Action Information screen. Depth of water 300 metres.

‘I hope to God the inertial nav. system hasn't drifted. It can get pretty shallow around here.'

‘We've a bearing on the buoy, sir!'

‘Yes?'

‘Zero-three-zero, sir! Range two-thousand-eight-hundred yards.'

‘Steer two-one-zero! I'll shake the buggers off,' Cordell muttered. ‘Take a depth sounding. The sods know we're here now. Making a bit of a noise won't matter much. Ident on the sonobuoy?'

‘CAMBS, sir,' came a voice from the AIO.

Pike and Cordell stared at one another open-mouthed. CAMBS was one of their own.

‘A Nimrod? Up here? Must be forward-basing on the sodding Kola Peninsula!' Cordell exploded. ‘I don't get it. We're right inside a Soviet ASW area, and there's a
bloody Nimrod operating. If things are as tense as the captain says, the crabs'll be shot down!'

Pike ran his hand over his beard. The boy had never spoken a truer word, if only he knew it.

‘As the captain says'. That was the trouble. Everything they knew down there came from just one source; the captain. And God alone knew how reliable
he
was!

‘And why's the Nimrod gone active? Does he
want
us to know he's there?' Cordell blustered.

‘Maybe he does,' mused Pike under his breath.

‘Thirty metres under the keel, sir!'

‘I'd like to go deeper.' Sebastian's face glowed with excitement. ‘The crabs' CAMBS may still be able to separate us from the echoes off the sea bed. Just a little bit closer to the mud and we'll be invisible.'

‘Too risky at this speed,' Pike cautioned.

‘Cut the speed to five knots?'

‘Okay.'

‘Keep two-seven-five metres. Revolutions for five knots!'

The helm responded and the deck tilted downwards.