Sea Leopard

by Craig Thomas

  Hyde released the trigger, and inhaled. His breath sobbed and rattled, but it entered his lungs, expanded them, made him cough. He swallowed phlegm, and crouched down breathing quickly as if to reassure himself that the mechanism of his lungs now operated efficiently. When he could, he yelled at the hidden Petrunin.

  "Tough shit, mate! Nice try!"

  Silence. He waited. The man behind him was making a hideous noise that somehow parodied snoring, or noisy eating. Otherwise, silence. He looked at the girl, and thought he could see her breasts rising and falling in a regular rhythm. He hoped it was not an illusion, but he could not, as yet, summon the strength or the detachment to investigate. Silence.

  Eventually, he raised his head. Beyond the trees, three tiny figures were moving away. One of the dots supported a second dot. The one in the lead, striding ahead, Hyde took to be Petrunin, his mind already filled with images of his skin-saving passage out of the country. A small airfield in Kent, after he had arranged to be picked up by car and driven down the M1. Hop across the Channel, then Aeroflot to Moscow direct.

  Hyde lay back exhausted, staring up at the bright sun in the almost cloudless, pale sky. He began laughing, weakly at first, then uncontrollably, until his eyes watered and his back and ribs were sore and his shoulder ached.

  He heard a noise, and sat up. The girl was wiping her head with a dirty handkerchief, pulling grimacing faces, seeming surprised at the blood that stained the handkerchief. Hyde wiped his eyes, and lay back again. The sky was empty, except for the sun. He waited — he decided he would wait until he heard a dog bark, and then raise his head and check whether it was indeed a portly matron out exercising a runt-sized, pink-bowed dog in a tartan overcoat.

  * * *

  Clark looked up at the ceiling of the wardroom pantry with an involuntary reaction. A forkful of scrambled eggs remained poised an inch or so from his lips. The cook had disliked his insistence on eating in the pantry rather than the wardroom proper, but the rating now seemed almost pleased at his company. What was it Copeland had said? They "ll have to be careful, like small boys scrambling under a barbed wire fence into an orchard. Lloyd could get his trousers caught. Clark smiled. Evidently, they had found the hole they had blown in the net, but not its exact centre. The starboard side of the Proteus had dragged for perhaps a hundred feet or more against some obstacle, some bent and twisted and sharp-edged remnant of the net, and then the fin had clanged dully against the net, jolting the submarine, which had then altered its attitude and slipped beneath the obstruction.

  Clark registered the scrambled egg on his fork, and opened his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. The food was good, and it entirely absorbed his attention and his energies. He picked up his mug of coffee, and washed down the mouthful of egg. He was eating quickly and greedily and with an almost sublime satisfaction. The responsibility was no longer his. "Leopard" worked. Immediately, his concussive readiness had drained from him while he lay slumped in the aft escape chamber, and he had gone into a doped and simple-minded superficiality of awareness and sensation. He realised how dirty he was, how much he smelt inside the immersion suit, how hungry and thirsty he was, how tired he was. A junior officer had escorted him to the wardroom. By that time, food had become the absolute priority, after removing his immersion suit. They gave him the disguise of his overalls to wear until he had taken a shower.

  What was happening, in the control room and outside the submarine, was of no interest to him. He could not, any longer, have recited the instructions he had given Lloyd when he first boarded the Proteus. Some tape in his mind had been wiped. He could not have seen the loose relay in the back-up system now, without having it pointed out to him.

  "Like some more, sir?" the cook offered, holding the saucepan out towards him.

  Clark grinned, and patted his stomach. That'll do, I think, don't you? Very good."

  "Thank you, sir. More coffee, sir?"

  "Please."

  The senior rating brought the jug of coffee towards the table where Clark sat. Then he seemed to wobble sideways and lurch against the stove. A stream of dark coffee flew from the jug, cascading down one of the walls — at least, Clark knew that would be what the coffee would do, but the lights went out before he could observe it happen, and he was flung off his chair and bundled into one corner of the pantry. His head banged sickeningly against some jutting piece of kitchen furniture, and he rolled away from it, groaning. He sat up, rubbing his head, his ears ringing with the concussion and the noise that had accompanied the shudder of the submarine, as the emergency lights flickered on, then the main lights came back almost immediately after.

  "All right?" he asked.

  The cook was wiping coffee from his apron, and rubbing his arm. He still had the empty jug in his hand.

  "What happened, sir?"

  The Proteus was maintaining course and speed, as far as Clark could apprehend.

  "Mine." Someone in Pechenga was thinking fast. He got to his knees, head aching, and the second mine threw him forward as the submarine rolled to starboard with the impact of the explosion. Darkness, slithering, the clatter of utensils, the groan of the hull, the terrible ringing in his ears, the thud of the cook's body on top of him, winding him, then the lights coming back on. He felt the Proteus right herself through his fingertips and the rest of his prone body. Over the intercom, Lloyd requested an all-stations damage report immediately. The senior rating rolled off Clark and apologised.

  "Okay, okay. I think I'll just go see what's happening." The cook appeared disappointed at his departure. "You okay?"

  "Yes, thank you, sir."

  Clark left the wardroom pantry, his body tensed, awaiting a further explosion. He entered the control room at the end of the short corridor from the living quarters, and immediately sensed the mood of congratulation. Proteus had not been seriously, hamperingly damaged.

  "Contact at green three-six closing, sir." Someone had got the Soviet ships moving in double-quick time.

  "Increase speed — nine knots," he heard Lloyd say.

  "Nine knots, sir."

  "Net at two thousand yards."

  "Contact at red seven-zero also moving. Range one thousand."

  "Contact at green eight-two closing, sir."

  The hornet's nest had been poked with a stick. Clark realised that the Russians needed less luck in the confined space of the harbour than they needed out in the Barents Sea, and then they had found a crippled Proteus.

  "Contact at red seven-zero making for the net, sir."

  "Contact at green three-six closing, sir. Range seven hundred."

  Lloyd saw Clark from the corner of his eye. Clark waved to him, and grinned. Lloyd returned his attention at once to the bank of sonar screens in front of him. Moved by an impulse to see the equipment he had repaired actually functioning, Clark crossed the control room softly, and exited through the aft door. The "Leopard" room was directly behind the control room.

  As he closed the door, he. heard Lloyd speak to the torpedo room after ordering a further increase in speed.

  Torpedo room — load number two tube."

  They would make it. Just, but they would make it.

  The door to the small, cramped "Leopard" room was open. Clark, as he reached the doorway, was instantly aware of the rating lying on the floor, and the officer slumped against one of the cabinets containing the main system. And he recognised the dark-jerseyed man who turned towards the noise he had made, knocking on the door-frame in the moment before he had taken in the scene in the room.

  Valery Ardenyev. It was him. Clark knew he had killed Hayter and the rating.

  Seven forty-three. He saw the clock above Ardenyev's head as he took his first step into the room and the Russian turned to him, a smile of recognition on his face. Ardenyev's hand moved out, and threw the switch he had been searching for before Clark disturbed him. As the switch moved, Clark knew that "Leopard" had been deactivated. The Proteus moved through the outer harbour of Pechenga, registering on eve
ry sonar screen of every Soviet ship and submarine.

  "I knew it had to be you," Clark said in a surprisingly conversational tone, warily skirting the rating's body near the door. Ardenyev had apparently killed both of them without a weapon.

  "I didn't reach the same conclusion about you." Ardenyev's back was to the control console of the "Leopard" equipment, protecting the switch he had thrown. "Perhaps I should have done." The Russian shrugged, then grinned. "It won't take long. I only have to keep this stuff—" he tossed his head to indicate "Leopard", — "out of action for a few minutes."

  "Sure." Clark shook his head, smiling. "You're beaten. We're on our way out, you're alone on an enemy submarine. What chance do you have?"

  "Every chance, my friend. That's the Soviet Union a few hundred yards behind you —"

  Clark sprang at Ardenyev, who stepped neatly and swiftly to one side, bringing his forearm round sharply across Clark's back. The American grunted and collapsed across the console, his hand reaching instinctively for the switch above him. Ardenyev chopped the heel of his hand across Clark's wrist, deadening it, making the hand hang limply from his forearm. Then Ardenyev punched Clark in the kidneys, making him fall backwards and away from the control console, doubling him up on the floor. Ardenyev leaned casually against the console, watching Clark get groggily to his knees, winded. "You're tired, my friend," Ardenyev observed. Mistily, Clark saw the red second-hand of the clock moving jerkily downwards. Fourteen seconds since Ardenyev had thrown the switch. He staggered, then tried to lean his weight against the Russian and hold on to him. Ardenyev rammed his knee into Clark's groin, and then punched him in the face. Clark fell backwards again, groaning. He did not want to get up, and did not feel he had the strength to do so. The clock just above Ardenyev's head obsessed him. Twenty-two seconds. Proteus must almost have reached the net.

  He seemed to feel the submarine hesitate, and saw the attentiveness on Ardenyev's face. He heard a noise scrape down the hull. The net—

  The mine exploded beneath the hull, rocking the submarine, blinking out the lights. In the darkness, Clark struggled to his feet and groped for the Russian, feeling his woollen jersey, grabbing it, striking his hand at where the Russian's face would be. He felt the edge of his hand catch the man's nose, below the bridge, felt Ardenyev's breath expelled hotly against his cheek as he cried out in pain, and grabbed the Russian to him in the dark. The room settled around them.

  Ardenyev thrust himself and Clark against one of the cabinets. A sharp handle dug into Clark's back, but he hooked his leg behind Ardenyev's calf and pushed. The lights came on as they rolled on the floor together. Clark drove his head down into the Russian's face, but the man did not let go of his neck. Clark felt his throat constrict, and he could no longer breathe. He tried to pull away from the grip, but it did not lessen. Blood ran into Ardenyev's mouth and over his chin, but he held on. The fin of the submarine scraped beneath the holed outer net, the submarine jerked like a hooked fish, shuddering, and then Proteus was free.

  Clark's thoughts clouded. Ardenyev was interested only in killing him. Nothing else mattered. He beat at Ardenyev's face and neck and shoulders, his punches weak and unaimed and desperate. Consciousness became more and more fugged and insubstantial, then Ardenyev's grip on his throat seemed to slacken. Clark pulled away, and the hands fell back on to Ardenyev's chest, lying there, curled like sleeping animals.

  Clark looked at his own hands, covered with blood, bruised, shaking. In one of them he held something that only slowly resolved in his watery vision until he was able to recognise it as the R/T set from his overalls pocket, the one he had used to communicate with Lloyd. He leaned down over Ardenyev's chest, listening. He avoided looking at the man's battered face. He had slapped the R/T set against Ardenyev's face and head time after time with all his remaining strength, as if the movement of his arm would pump air into his lungs.

  Ardenyev was dead.

  Clark clambered up the cabinet, then lurched to the control console, flicking the switch back to "On". "Leopard" was activated. It was seven forty-five. "Leopard" had been switched off for almost two minutes. Long enough for Proteus to have been spotted, not long enough for her to be attacked.

  He sensed the increased speed of the Proteus through the deck, as she headed for the open sea. He avoided looking at Ardenyev's body. He dropped the blood-slippery R/T to the floor and hunched over the console, wanting to vomit with weakness and disgust and relief. He rubbed at his throat with one hand, easing its soreness. He closed his eyes. Now, he wanted only to sleep, for a long time.

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to thank particularly my wife, Jill, for her strict and expert editing of the book, and for her initial suggestion that I attempt this story.

  My thanks, also, to GH who acted as captain of the submarine HMS Proteus, and to the Royal Navy, without whose assistance, given so freely and willingly, I could not have completed the book. Gratitude, too, to TRJ for coming to my assistance in developing the "Leopard" anti-sonar equipment on which the story hinges.

  As usual, I am indebted to various publications, particularly to Breyer & Polmar't Guide to the Soviet Navy, Labayle & Couhat't Combat Fleets of the World, and The Soviet War Machine, edited by Ray Bonds.

  Any errors, distortion or licence for dramatic purposes is my responsibility, not that of any of the above.

  About the Author

  Craig Thomas has been described as "a master storyteller" and "one of the finest action writers working today". His fourteen best-selling novels have consistently attracted praise and that sincerest form of flattery, imitation, since he is generally credited with creating the genre of the 'techno-thriller' with his novel FIREFOX (1977).

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