Seek and Destroy

by John Glasby

  Donovsky came back, walking slowly, the other man trailing close behind him. He stood in front of them and spoke quietly: “The submarine is due to arrive within ten minutes. I want each of you to keep a sharp look-out You all know what to do when the time comes.”

  The men nodded slowly. Inwardly, Carradine felt a growing sense of defeat. He was here, but there seemed nothing he could do. How could one man prevent what was sure to happen here within the next few minutes? He glanced at the rest of the men on either side of him. Try to hold them up with the rifle he had slung over his shoulder? The idea was so ludicrous that it would have been laughable had the situation not been so serious. He racked his brains for some idea, no matter how fantastic, no matter if it meant giving up his own life, if he could prevent those nuclear warheads being landed and taken back to that launching site. He looked past Donovsky, out to the flat, oddly featureless expanse of the sea where it stretched away to a seemingly limitless horizon. Nothing whatever broke that smoothness. Maybe the submarine had been unable to reach this place; he rejected the thought as soon as it crossed his mind. That was nothing more than wishful thinking on his part. Whatever he did it would have to be something more positive than that.

  A sudden shout from one of the men jerked his head around. He narrowed his eyes as he stared in the direction of the man’s pointing finger. His breath caught at the back of his throat. The smooth, sleek and unmistakable shape of a submarine, surfacing from the ocean depths, was clearly visible against the horizon, the moonlight gleaming faintly off the polished metal hull.

  Donovsky took charge at once, snapping orders to the men with a machine-gun speed. Everything on the beach went with military precision, each man knowing what was expected of him. Donovsky himself had moved back to the water’s edge, holding the heavy signalling lamp in his left hand while he flashed the coded signal out to sea.

  Desperately, Carradine looked about him for some sign that Henkel had got through and a trap had been laid. There was nothing. No MTB boat out there to take care of the submarine. What sort of international complications might occur if that happened? Possibly even if Henkel had done his tuff and informed Washington of what had happened, even if they had checked the story with London and knew he was telling the truth, they would decide they could do nothing.

  That was one possibility he had wondered about while he had been lying up there on the fringe of the jungle, with the tropical sun beating down on the back of his neck, but he had tried not to consider this possible, had bolstered up his courage and endurance with the thought that whatever happened, the suffering, Merton’s death, and Henkel’s courage, would count for something in the long run. Now, it seemed, his first thoughts on the subject had been close to the truth. Washington either could, or would, do nothing. He was on his own now and his position was growing more precarious with every passing minute. Very soon now, the submarine would move in closer once they had verified the signals they were receiving and the boat which he had seen being loaded on to the first truck, would go out to meet them. Then the transfer would take place, the submarine would go back to Russia, the nuclear warheads would be taken to that well concealed place in the jungle, and the balance of power would abruptly swing away from the NATO Alliance in this important area of the world.

  Wearily, he lifted his head, almost as if looking for some sign from heaven that his efforts had not all been in vain. He expected nothing. His mind scarcely registered the fact that there was something there. It almost passed unnoticed before he swung his gaze back once more, narrowing his eyes to make it out more clearly. The moonlight had glinted briefly on something high in the sky to the west. He felt sure he had not been mistaken. There it was again.

  Now, he could just make out the faint drone of heavy and powerful engines. The bomber came in on a long run, gliding down over the sea. When it was almost directly over the spot where the submarine lay, something tumbled from the belly of the plane. Carradine felt the pupils of his eyes contract painfully as the flare burst. The expanding sphere of actinic brilliance lit everything on the sea and threw long shadows around the group on the beach, picking out details clearly.

  Donovsky was yelling something at the top of his voice, waving his arms wildly as he ran back across the beach. Carradine gripped his rifle more tightly as the men began to scatter and run for the trucks. Overhead, there was the powerful, synchronised clamour of the engines as the bomber swung around in a tight circle. Then it was heading in again and this time there was a deadly purpose behind its approach which Carradine could sense a few moments before the depth charges tumbled from the bomb bays of the plane and splashed into the water in a pattern around the submarine. He felt the muscles of his stomach tighten convulsively as he waited for the inevitable explosions. They came as a series of muffled, oddly faint thuds. Then the sea around the submarine suddenly erupted in a ring of waterspouts that lifted high above the deck. Tons of water cascaded down on it, hiding it temporarily from view. When he could see again, the bow was lifted clear out of the water at an incredible angle. It was impossible to see whether any damage had been done, but it seemed incredible that such titanic underwater explosions could have hammered against that hull without cracking it like an eggshell in places.

  As if in answer to the questions that were running through his mind at that moment, the bows lifted even higher until they were pointed directly at the star-strewn heavens. Then, slowly and smoothly, the Russian submarine slid down beneath the waves and vanished from sight.

  As the plane roared overhead like some vengeful angel of doom, Carradine was aware that Donovsky was yelling fiercely at him from the cab of the leading truck. Quite suddenly, he realised that he was the only one standing there, that all of the others had climbed back into the trucks and the engines were revving up fiercely. He waved an arm to indicate that he had understood, turned as if to run towards the last truck in the line, waited until he was hidden by its bulk from the eyes of anyone who might be watching and dived for the cover of the rocks. At any moment, he expected to hear a shout from one of the vehicles, now beginning to turn and move off in the direction of the main road. But no sound came and less than five minutes later, there was silence on the lonely stretch of beach, silence except for the fading thunder of the bomber as it headed back in the direction from which it had come. Of the submarine, there was no trace. Not even the oil slick which usually discoloured the surface of the sea whenever one was sunk. It had undoubtedly gone to the bottom, taking with it the nuclear warheads which had been destined for the missiles at the launching site. Somehow, he had the feeling that the Reds would hesitate before they sent any more now that they were aware that the Americans knew of the presence of the launching site on their very doorsteps.

  *****

  Ten days and several thousand miles later, Carradine thrust his long body back in the chair in front of the polished desk, his hands resting loosely in his lap.

  “So they managed to sink that submarine after all,” said the man behind the desk musingly. The sharp eyes rested on Carradine’s face for a long moment, then the other leaned back and lit a cigarette, watching the blue smoke curl lazily towards the ceiling. Outside the window, the roar of London’s busy traffic could just be heard in the distance. "I think we can take it that the launching site will lose much of its military significance now that its presence and position is known to the world at large. As for our friend Donovsky, it wouldn’t surprise me greatly if he isn’t in Russia at this moment, having been recalled to explain his conduct.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t like to be in his shoes right now, sir,” said Carradine with a faint smile.

  “The usual treatment,” nodded the Chief. He flicked the ash carefully from the end of his cigarette. “They do not treat failures with kid gloves as we are inclined to do over here. Sometimes, I think that is why they make such deadly opponents. When a man is eternally facing a death sentence, he makes sure that every mistake is made by the other side. Perhaps I am bei
ng a little too lenient in this respect.”

  “In what way, sir?” inquired Carradine softly.

  “Well, let us consider your own particular case, Carradine. Your orders were to locate Gunther Henkel and the means by which the nuclear warheads were to be smuggled into South America. They included nothing about stealing these people’s secret code books and thereby placing yourself and the success of your entire mission in jeopardy.”

  “In the circumstances, there seemed nothing else I could do, sir.” It was a lame excuse, as far as the Chief was concerned, but it was the best he could contrive. “I am sure that the South American Governments will be only too pleased to co-operate with us now that this has been brought into the open in this way.”

  “In the event, everything seemed to have turned out remarkably well.” The Chief paused, looked mildly across at Carradine, resting one hand on the top of the desk. “I suppose you will be looking for a spot of leave after this little episode?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t come amiss, sir,” Carradine answered.

  “Very well.” The Chief gave a brief nod. “But be careful. It may interest you to know that Donovsky had been tipped off about you almost from the beginning, by a woman. Could it have been Valentina Veronova?” There was an almost cherubic smile on his face as he spoke.

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