HMS Truculent.
Commander Philip Hitchens had seldom experienced claustrophobia, but now the cabin felt as narrow as a coffin, as HMS Truculent hummed towards the Atlantic depths.
For eight hours after leaving Devonport, Philip had hardly left the control room. Inshore waters were the most dangerous, and avoiding collisions took maximum concentration. He didn’t trust the watch; all young men, their minds wandered when he wasn’t around.
They’d kept at periscope depth in the Channel; the sea was calm and visibility good. The sonar produced a jumble of tanker traffic, confused by echoes from the sea-bed, but he could see the ships clearly enough through the periscope up to five miles away.
Keeping busy had served another purpose, too; to distract his mind from the nightmare of the past three months, a personal nightmare of duplicity, the depth of which he had yet to fathom.
Now it was evening. South of Ireland, they were away from the shipping channels. Time to leave it to the watch. He withdrew to his cabin, to his solitary hell. Once there, he sat hunched at the foot of his bunk like a child. It was the furthest he could get from his work-table, from the framed photograph of Sara. Every time he looked at her picture, the shock, the misery, the pain engulfed him anew.
Betrayal! The word echoed in his mind like a slamming door; not just her – the bastard Russians, too!
He’d thought of putting the photograph in a drawer so as not to look at her, but ruled it out. Everything had to stay normal; no one must know. His cabin was also his office, visited by others. Family photographs were like icons in officers’ quarters. Their absence would be quickly noticed.
He couldn’t stop thinking of her. The night before they’d sailed he’d stayed on board, unable to sleep, knowing she was seeing that man again. She’d promised it was to say goodbye, to tell him they’d never meet again. But did he believe her? Could he believe anything she said, any more?
As for Simon – he couldn’t imagine, didn’t dare think, what his future would hold now. His son was the one restraint on what he planned. But he was at a good school; they’d see him right. Nothing must stand in his way.
There was a debt to be settled, vengeance for a past wrong, a terrible wrong which transcended all other considerations.
‘Captain, sir! Officer of the Watch!’
The tannoy loudspeaker above his desk startled him.
He leapt up from the bunk and clicked the microphone switch.
‘Captain!’
‘Sound room’s got a sonar contact. They think it’s a trawler, sir.’
‘I’m coming now.’
His cabin was just yards from the control room. He was there within seconds, glad of the distraction. Trawlers were the bane of submariners’ lives in coastal waters. Fouling their nets could mean the early end of a patrol.
He headed for the navigation plot. The submarine’s position was being provided by SINS, the Submarine Inertial Navigation System, a gyroscopic device that had proven remarkably accurate.
The navigator and officer of the watch was Lieutenant Nick Cavendish, a twenty-five-year-old on his first patrol with Truculent.
‘Depth?’
‘Seventy metres, sir. Thirty metres under the keel.’
‘Should be okay at this depth. What’s the contact’s bearing?’
‘Ten degrees on the starboard bow. Range unknown.’
He stared at the chart. They were approaching the edge of the continental shelf west of Ireland. A few more hours and the sea bed would drop thousands of metres, giving them all the water they could want to avoid hazards trailing from the surface. The chart showed no obstructions for miles.
‘I need more sea room. They’re bloody long, those trawl wires. Officer of the Watch, come round to 210.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Helm! Port thirty. Keep course two-one-zero.’
Best to take no chances; trawl nets were undetectable until their hawsers scrapped the acoustic tiles off the casing, by which time it was too late.
‘Anything else on sonar?’
‘One other surface contact up to the north-west, very distant. Sounds like a tanker. No submarines, sir. And none expected for the next twenty-four hours, according to the intelligence sitrep.’
Philip shot a glance round the control room. In the centre, the oiled steel periscope shafts glistened in their deck housings. About a dozen men, ratings in blue shirts, officers in white, were concentrating as the boat manoeuvred. The planesman at the one-man control console operated the stick that ‘flew’ the submarine through the water, marine engineers monitored gauges for the trim valves and propulsion system, and seamen, some of them not much more than eighteen, peered at the amber screens of the tactical systems.
Those who caught the captain’s eye looked away quickly. They didn’t like him much, the men of Truculent, but they respected him, and that was what mattered. He’d need that respect when the crunch came in a few days’ time.
Across the room at the weapons control console, the weapon engineer officer, Lieutenant Commander Paul Spriggs was talking to a rating. Hitchens liked Spriggs; the man was crisp and concise in the way he handled his men, everything by the book. Spriggs would be vital to him at the end, a WEO who wouldn’t question orders.
Philip hovered by the chart table, pulling out the sheet for the north of Scotland and the water between Iceland, the Faroes and the Shetlands. Known as the GIFUK (Greenland, Iceland, Faroes, UK) Gap, this was NATO’s underwater front line, a strategic barrier through which Soviet submarines should not be able to pass undetected on their way to the central Atlantic.
A ridge of sand, mud and rock ran between the land masses, along which the US Navy had laid a string of hydrophones known as SOSUS, SOund SUrveillance System, able to detect the passing of almost any submarine. Sonar-equipped surface ships and aircraft patrolled above, to complete the barrier.
Truculent was taking part in Exercise Ocean Guardian, which involved over a hundred NATO ships and submarines, practising the reinforcement of Norway and control of the Norwegian Sea.
‘Are we going tactical on the transit, sir?’ asked the WEO. ‘See how many Yank skimmers we can zap before they get a whiff of us?’
‘Certainly not!’
Heads turned at the sharpness of Philip’s reply.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Spriggs mumbled. ‘Thought that was the plan.’
‘No,’ Philip repeated softly, conscious of his overreaction. ‘We’ve got to avoid any risk of detection. We’re blue at first, as you know. But then we go unlisted.’
Paul Spriggs frowned. He’d attended the pre-patrol briefing in the Northwood headquarters of Flag Officer Submarines, along with the captain and the first lieutenant; that briefing had certainly put them playing ‘blue’ (NATO) first, but by midweek they were due to switch to ‘orange’ (enemy). There’d been no mention of their going ‘unlisted’. That meant some sort of secret mission, usually intelligence gathering deep inside Soviet waters.
‘Will you be briefing us on that, sir?’ he asked edgily.
Hitchens felt his face begin to flush. They were staring at him.
‘Yes, WEO. In due course,’ he answered curtly.
He stepped into the sound room adjoining the control room. Cordell, the tactics and sonar officer, was listening intently on headphones. Three ratings sat at panels controlling glowing green video displays. Here, the myriad sounds of the deep detected by hydrophones spread round the bulbous bows were translated into vertical patterns and gradations of light, unintelligible to the uninitiated. One of the ratings stood up from his seat and crossed to a cabinet to change the laser disc on which every sound detected was recorded in digital code.
‘Got a hiccup with sonar 2026, sir.’
Lieutenant Sebastian Cordell had removed his headphones.
‘Processor’s gone barmy. The CPO’s going to change a board, see if that cures it.’
The 2026 was the processor for the second sonar array, a yellow plastic tube over a hundred metres long, filled with
hydrophones, towed a thousand metres behind the submarine. The computer for analysing the sounds it detected was highly sophisticated, and had developed a fault.
‘How’s that fisherman doing? Still tracking it?’
The possibility of the trawl net slipping like a sheath over the nose of the boat haunted Hitchens.
‘We think she’s passing clear astern, sir. Shouldn’t be any risk of fouling now.’
‘Thank God. You’ll keep me informed on the 2026? I want a report on it.’
‘Of course, sir.’
People seemed to be staring at him. He’d keep moving; didn’t want them reading his face to see what he was thinking.
He passed back through the control room, heading aft, telling the officer of the watch he was making his rounds.
He sensed a conspiracy around him. Of silence. They knew about Sara!
They’d heard gossip ashore. Must’ve done. In the pubs. Perhaps some had even heard that sod of a chief petty officer boasting about how he’d screwed the captain’s wife!
How would he have described it? Bonking? Poking?
Anger made his head swim. He put out a hand to steady himself as he made his way to the tunnel that crossed the top of the reactor to the machinery spaces beyond.
When the penny had dropped just a week ago, it was like a blow to the stomach. He’d taken Simon, home for the weekend, shopping in Plymouth for construction kits to take back to school.
Strolling down Market Avenue, Philip had vaguely recognized CPO Terry from years before. He’d remembered the face, but not the name – until Simon called out, ‘Hi Reg!’ He’d sounded so pleased. The CPO had grinned at Simon, then glanced uncomfortably at Philip.
Surprised the boy should know Terry, it had been a minute or two before he’d asked about it.
‘Just someone I know . . .’ had been Simon’s reply.
He’d felt panicky, suddenly aware how little he knew about his son’s life. The boy was away at boarding school for most of the year, and when he was home for the holidays, Philip was more often than not away at sea. But why should he know Reg Terry?
He’d pressed him to say where they’d met.
‘At home. He used to come and see us sometimes, me and Mummy.’
A door had suddenly opened into a world he knew nothing about.
Philip reached the airlock and turned the bar-bell handle that withdrew the heavy bolts securing the outer door. He was almost exactly in the middle of the submarine, forty metres from the dome of the bow-sonar, forty more from the end of the cowl that housed the silent propulsor at the stern.
He closed the outer door behind him and opened the inner one. He was now standing on top of the reactor. Beneath his feet the controlled uranium reaction generated enough power to serve a town of 50,000 people, the potential of the nuclear radiation to destroy his body cells held back by thick lead shielding.
There was no sound from the thousands of gallons of water being boiled into high-pressure steam below him. Millions of pounds had been spent on research into silencing the powerful pumps that circulated the cooling water through the reactor core, pumps whose reliability was essential to the life of the submarine.
He passed through into caverns packed with the machinery that drove his boat and generated the megawatts needed for its electrical systems.
Those who saw Philip greeted him smartly. The work of the men ‘back aft’, essential to the silent operation of the boat, was not considered as ‘macho’ as that of the weapon crews ‘forrard’. Philip was conscious some COs tended to ignore the mechanical end of the boat, which was physically separated from the forward section by the reactor compartment. They may not like him, but he wouldn’t be guilty of that.
Did these men know about Sara? What if they did? He must act normally, show no sign of weakness. His authority mustn’t be questioned.
In the officers’ quarters forward, Lieutenant Commander Paul Spriggs had returned to the cramped cabin he shared with the wiry first lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander Tim Pike. The first lieutenant was second in command – the executive officer and ‘general manager’ of the boat.
‘Tim, at the ops briefing at Northwood . . . ,’ Spriggs began.
‘Mmmm?’ Pike put down the nuclear propulsion manual he’d been studying for forthcoming promotion exams. ‘What of it?’
‘They said “free play”, didn’t they? Defined areas of sea, but we can do whatever we like within them?’
‘Well, they didn’t say we couldn’t. But it’s supposed to be a fast transit up to the Lofotens.’
‘Yea, but if the opportunity’s there, it’s okay. That’s what I said to the old man, but the silly sod jumped down my throat.’
‘What? Our own dear warm-hearted Captain? You astonish me.’
‘He was really narked. Then he went stomping off on an inspection.’
‘Must be that time of the month. Mind you, they could have said something different to him afterwards. He had another session with FOSM later.’
‘Did he? I didn’t know. That fits what he said, that we’re going unlisted.’
‘Unlisted?’ Pike frowned.
‘You didn’t know either?’
‘He . . . er, hasn’t seen fit to brief me yet.’
‘Bloody hell, Tim! You’re his second-in-command!’
Pike smoothed the ginger stubble he called a beard, his pale grey eyes betraying the wounded pride that came from being deputy to a man who trusted no one.
‘I’m sure he’ll tell us “in due course”, Paul.’
‘ “At the right time”, you mean.’
‘ “When we need to know”.’
‘You’ve been reading the rule book again!’
Pike shrugged. ‘I’ve been through this before with Hitchens. Made an issue of it once. Wasn’t worth it. He went out of his way to be bloody to me for weeks afterwards.’
‘You don’t surprise me. But tell me: you’ve worked with him longer than I have – how do you rate him as a skipper?’
‘He knows his stuff. And he’s the one with the most gold stripes. That’s what matters when the chips are down. If I had a run-in with him, the men with scrambled egg on their hats would back him up to the hilt. They’d drop me like a lump of shit!’
* * *
Friday 18th October.
Vice-Admiral Feliks Astashenkov looked round cautiously as he entered the arrivals hall at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport. He was not in uniform and had flown from Murmansk under a false name. The plane had developed an engine problem at the start of its taxi run; the passengers had had to wait on board for three hours while an Aeroflot mechanic repaired it.
As one of the Vlasti, the ‘powerful ones’, he was unused to such demeaning treatment. The Deputy-Commander of the Soviet Navy’s Northern Fleet was entitled to better than that. But the message from the Soviet leader, delivered to his home by a courier, had insisted on maximum secrecy for their meeting.
At Murmansk Airport a KGB guard had recognized him. It was inevitable that someone would. He’d slipped the man ten roubles, told him he was Moscow-bound for a weekend with his mistress, but that his wife thought he was on a fishing trip. The policeman had passed the note across his mouth. His lips were sealed.
The silence he’d bought was to keep the journey secret from the Northern Fleet Commander, Admiral Andrei Belikov, rather than from his wife. Belikov was just a vassal of Admiral Grekov, Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Navy, who’d been at odds with Nikolai Savkin, the new Soviet leader, from the moment he’d taken over.
They told Astashenkov he’d be met at Sheremetyevo and taken to the rendezvous. He elbowed his way through the crush, impatient at the willingness of his countrymen to accept such conditions. Astashenkov felt apprehensive. He’d been given no reason for this unorthodox summons to Moscow. He’d met the General Secretary on several occasions, admired his energy and reforming zeal. Nikolai Savkin was of his own generation, a man with the vision to press on with change even though the b
irth pains of the new, competitive Soviet Union had become intolerable to many of his countrymen.
Comrade Savkin was in need of friends, no doubt about that. Was that why he’d been summoned? But why him? It was in the factories and the Politburo that Savkin’s support was waning. The armed forces had stood back from the arguments over the economy. And why call for him at this precise moment, when a massive fleet of NATO warships was assembling a few hundred kilometres from the Soviet coast for ‘manoeuvres’? At a time like this he should be at his headquarters in Severomorsk, studying intelligence reports, ready to take action if the ‘exercise’ turned into something else.
‘Comrade Vice-Admiral . . .’
The touch on his arm was casual, as if someone had merely brushed against him.
‘Please follow me.’
It was the courier who’d delivered Savkin’s message. Dressed in a brown parka with a fur-lined hood, he moved through the crowd slowly enough for Astashenkov to follow with ease. Not once did he turn his head to check; to anyone watching, the two men would appear unconnected.
They stepped outside. It was after eight in the evening and dark, and the October air had a nip of frost. The Admiral spread the gap between himself and his escort. Ahead was the car park; Astashenkov fumbled for keys, as if he had a vehicle of his own to go to.
The messenger stopped by a battered yellow Volvo estate and opened the door on the driver’s side. Astashenkov paused, placed his overnight bag on the ground and began to feel in his inside pockets, while looking around to see if he was being observed. The passenger door of the Volvo was pushed open. He climbed in.
They drove for nearly half-an-hour, the courier making it plain he had no wish to talk. Astashenkov had spent several years of his career in Moscow, but the part of the city through which they travelled was unknown to him. He suspected that the driver was making the route circuitous in order to confuse him.
They stopped in an old quarter. He followed the driver into what would once have been the townhouse of a prosperous merchant. Feliks was mystified; all this subterfuge for a meeting with the Soviet leader? What was going on?
Shadow Hunter Page 2