‘They’d know. On the boat. The other officers would realize something was wrong, and sort him out, take command or whatever.’
‘Eventually, yes. But how long would it take, sir? I’m no expert, but if Philip just appeared slightly odd, it wouldn’t be enough reason for the executive officer to take over. If Pike misjudged it, he’d be on a charge of mutiny.’
‘Mmmm,’ the Admiral growled. ‘What could you get away with on your own boat, Andrew?’
Bourlet stopped pacing. Fixing both hands on the desk, he leaned bulldog-like across it. The broad band of his Admiral’s insignia glinted gold against the dark blue of his uniform sleeves. He’d commanded surface ships as a younger man, never a submarine.
‘What d’you mean exactly, sir?’
‘If you took it into your head to sink half the Soviet Navy, could you do it? Could you actually launch the torpedoes?’
Andrew smoothed down his thick, dark hair, and frowned, taken aback by the question.
‘Well, that’s the job of the weapon engineer.’
‘Of course. But could you convince him to do it?’
Andrew reflected for a moment.
‘It’d be bloody difficult. If we were firing a live round against a real target – there’d be a dozen men involved at least. It’d be war. Everyone on board would have to know.’
‘Could you, as captain, convince them to do it?’ Bourlet pressed. ‘Tell them you’d received secret orders, a personal briefing, CO’s eyes only? Something of that sort?’
Andrew expelled his breath through pursed lips, then shook his head.
‘It’d be pretty impossible, sir, with the Harpoons or torpedoes. There’d have been signals, targeting data and so on. That stuff wouldn’t be CO’s eyes only.’
‘Then we shouldn’t have too much to worry about . . .’
‘But if he’s got mines on board. That could change things . . .’
Bourlet winced at the confirmation of his own fears.
The intercom on his desk buzzed twice. He pressed a key.
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Sub duty ops officer to see you, sir. Says it’s very urgent.’
Andrew got to his feet.
‘Do you want me to wait outside, sir?’
Bourlet held up a hand.
‘Send him in.’ Then looking up at Andrew, he went on, ‘Stay here. This may well be relevant.’
The duty operations watchkeeper entered, the same lieutenant who’d been directing Andrew’s efforts at Stornoway earlier that afternoon.
‘It’s Truculent, sir. We think we may have had a trace of her.’
The young man’s face was flushed – alarmed even.
‘We’ve been comparing the SOSUS data with the radar surface picture from a Nimrod at about 1700 this afternoon. The SOSUS detected a Soviet fishing vessel heading for Murmansk, apparently in company with a trawler. Two surface vessels. But the Nimrod radar only saw one. The factory ship. No other trawler. We suspect the other noise was a submarine using a decoy, and Truculent’s the only one it can be, sir. Nothing else in the area.’
Bourlet shot a glance at the clock.
‘God preserve us! That was four hours ago. You’re absolutely certain?’
‘Only explanation we can think of, sir.’
‘Still no signals from her?’
‘’Fraid not, sir. And we’re repeating our signal to her every hour on the broadcast and on the SSIX. She can’t be listening.’
‘Well, let me know instantly if there is anything.’
The operations officer left, and Admiral Bourlet turned to a large chart of the north Atlantic which covered one wall.
‘Sod it! He could be anywhere within a hundred miles of the barrier by now. Even further by the time we get a Nimrod up to look for him. Sod Phil Hitchens! And sod bloody Sara Hitchens!’
Bourlet had been Flag Officer Submarines for two years, and had his eye on the promotion ladder. His tenure of office at Northwood had passed with remarkable smoothness. This sort of crisis was something he could do without.
The system was supposed to spot unstable personalities and weed them out before they could do harm. Hitchens had slipped through the net; ultimately that would be seen as his responsibility.
‘What the hell’s he up to, eh? What exactly did he say to that tart of a wife, before he sailed?’
‘I don’t think he said anything. She just sensed he was going to do something. I know what she means, sir. I’ve known Phil for longer than Sara – we joined the Navy at the same time, shared a cabin at Dartmouth. He – he can be pretty intense at times. Most of the time, in fact, when I think about it. I don’t have many memories of him being really relaxed, having a good time, that sort of thing.’
‘Bit of a bore, you mean?’
‘He has been called that, sir. Some people find it difficult to tolerate his seriousness; he can be quite obsessive, particularly when it comes to the Soviets. Something of a cold warrior.’
‘Nothing much wrong with that. Don’t trust the bastards meself, despite the Gorbachev reforms and all Mr Savkin’s charm. Still, holding views like that is one thing; planning to start your own war is quite another.’
He stared up at the chart again.
‘Come over here and tell me what you think he’s up to.’
Bourlet pointed to the Faroes-Shetland gap.
‘From there to the Kola, what’re we talking about? Twelve hundred miles?’
‘Something like that, sir.’
‘How long would it take him? A couple of days?’
‘That’d be pushing it. He’d sprint a bit, but then probably want to drift so he could use his sonar. Doesn’t want to go crashing into anything on the way.’
‘Unless he’s feeling suicidal.’
‘Well, even if he is, the rest of the crew won’t be, and they’ll want to observe normal procedures. They’ll stick to the water they were allocated at their briefing.’
‘So that gives us some idea of where to look.’
‘They’re pretty big areas, but we can make a guess at it.’
‘We’ll have to. Now, what’ll he do about communications?’
‘My guess is he’ll stick a mast up from time to time and take in a satellite. He’ll want the intelligence data, if nothing else.’
‘In that case our signal to the first lieutenant might have got through by now.’
‘Unless . . .’
The same thought had just struck them both. If Truculent’s crew listened to just one transmission they would immediately know their captain was disregarding orders, and they’d be justified in seizing command. Hitchens must have thought of some way to prevent that.
‘In this case . . .’
‘Hitchens may have taken steps . . .’ Bourlet completed the sentence. ‘Pah! How on earth can we say that? We’re assuming the man’s behaving rationally and irrationally at the same time. God, this is ridiculous. It’s like blindman’s-bluff in a lunatic asylum!’
A silence fell, and both men turned their eyes to the top of the chart, the Barents Sea and the Kola Peninsula. The Kola Inlet harboured one of the largest concentrations of warships anywhere in the world, including nearly fifty per cent of the Soviet Union’s entire submarine fleet. If Philip Hitchens was bent on revenge, that was where Truculent would be heading.
‘The special mission he had, sir? To simulate mine-laying. Can I get it absolutely clear? Did he have warshots on board? Live mines?’
‘Mmmm. Four of them, I’m afraid. Just a normal weapons load.’ Then, after a pause, ‘You think he could persuade his WEO to lay them?’
‘He might. The point about the Moray mine is that it’s designed to be laid in an inert condition before a war starts, and wouldn’t actually be activated until the start of the conflict. As you know, sir, it can be activated by a sonar transmission from a submarine, a surface ship, or an aircraft, anytime up to a year after being laid.
‘He’d have to prepare his groundwork. Bu
t as long as no one suspected he’d lost his marbles, he might just convince his WEO they had orders to lay the mines in peacetime.’
‘Believing the weapons wouldn’t be activated until there was a crisis . . .’
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘Now the crunch question. Could Hitchens activate the mines?’
Andrew swallowed hard. He’d remembered a detail from Philip’s career.
‘I’ve a horrible feeling he could, sir. He trained as a sonar officer. Knows that sonar system inside out.’
Bourlet stared at him unblinking.
‘Then he’s got to be stopped.’
Suddenly the Admiral stood up and pulled his uniform straight.
‘Come on. We’re going down the Hole.’
With that he marched for the door; Andrew pulled himself to his feet and followed.
Outside, the night had become crisp and clear, with a half-moon high in the sky. As they hurried down the slope, two young WRNS coming towards them saluted smartly. Admiral Bourlet didn’t give them a second glance. Unusual for him – he had a reputation as a bit of a lecher.
At the control post at the bottom of the entrance ramp, the Royal Marines security guards checked their identity badges and cleared them. The two men hurried through the heavy steel blast doors, and down to the first level airlock. The atmosphere in the bunker was kept at positive pressure to protect the occupants from chemical weapon attack, or nuclear fallout.
Four flights down, they entered the long corridor that led to the Operations Control room. The OPCON was dominated by a giant wall-screen; rows of computer terminals were manned by operators wearing headphones. This was the control centre for Exercise Ocean Guardian; all NATO naval operations in the Eastern Atlantic were directed from here.
Bourlet passed through it into the smaller Royal Naval control room beyond. The three men on duty scrambled to their feet.
‘Relax,’ he ordered. ‘This is Commander Tinker, captain of the Tribune. He’s here helping me with the Truculent problem. Now, what I’m about to say is Top Secret – UK Eyes Only. Not a word outside this room, understood? None of those NATO people must know.’
‘Sir.’ The three men nodded.
‘We appear to have an SSN not responding to signals at the moment. Don’t know why,’ he lied. ‘We’ve got to find that boat and discover what’s up. Now what’ve we got in the Truculent’s area?’
The duty officer tapped at his keyboard and a map appeared on his screen.
‘Illustrious is north of the Faroes, sir, with three escorts,’ he announced, reading off the data. ‘But Truculent’s probably 200 miles east of her. Bit too far for her helicopters to do anything useful. Two more ASW frigates are working a screen nearer to Iceland, so they’ll not be much use either. Nor will the three “O” Class subs in the northern North Sea. The one boat that could help is the submarine Tenby; she’s right up off North Cape.’
‘What about maritime air?’
‘One Nimrod MR2 from Kinloss is doing a search just inside the Arctic Circle. Currently tracking a Victor III and a Tango. A second Nimrod is on barrier patrol between the Faroes and Shetlands. We could divert her, if we knew where to look.’
‘Andrew, what do you think?’
‘Anybody got a chart?’ Tinker asked wrily. ‘One of those paper things. I can’t work from a screen!’
The duty officer pulled one from a drawer and handed him a pair of brass dividers.
Andrew calculated. It would be five hours after Truculent crossed the SOSUS barrier before the Nimrod could be on station. One hundred and fifty miles was the most the boat could have covered in that time.
He measured the dividers against the latitude marks on the side of the chart, then laid the points on the paper.
‘If he’s taking a straight line towards North Cape, the Nimrod’ll have to lay a barrier a hundred miles wide to have a chance of finding him.’
‘Get those co-ordinates and ask the Air Commander if we can divert his Nimrod,’ Bourlet ordered. ‘Now, what else is there on the ground?’
‘The Americans’ main force is still well to the west, sir, but they’ve got a Los Angeles boat way up north under the ice, keeping an ear open for the Russian BNs.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘The Norwegians might be able to help, sir. They’ve got a couple of Oslo frigates on anti-submarine duty off Trondheim Fjord.’
‘No. The Norwegians couldn’t keep a birthday party secret, let alone this sort of problem. No. Tenby looks our best bet. She’s playing “orange”, isn’t she?’
Bourlet directed his question at the duty officer. The lieutenant commander nodded.
There had to be something he could do, Andrew thought. He knew Philip better than any of them. He might be able to talk sense into him if he could just get near enough.
‘Just a thought, sir,’ Andrew ventured, beckoning the Admiral to move out of earshot of the others. What he was about to suggest would commit him further than ever. He was glad Patsy couldn’t hear him.
‘Go on,’ Bourlet growled.
‘If I could get on board Tenby,’ he whispered, ‘and we managed to track Truculent, I could call them on the underwater telephone. Might be able to get Philip back on the rails. If not, at least I could alert the crew.’
‘It’d also avoid our having to brief Tenby by signal, which wouldn’t be bad. Mmmm. Got any other commitments at the moment?’
‘Just shore leave. Patsy’ll probably threaten divorce, but I think I can cope with that.’
‘Won’t be the first time, I’m sure. That’s not a bad plan. How would we get you on board?’
They turned back to the duty officer.
‘We want to get Commander Tinker on board Tenby. How do we do it?’ Bourlet asked.
The lieutenant commander pointed to his computer screen, showing the northern tip of Norway.
‘Tromso would probably be your best bet. We could order Tenby to approach the coast. There’s a Norwegian Air Force base there with Search and Rescue helicopters.’
‘How long to get to Tromso from here?’
‘Depends what you’re flying in, but about four hours in something like a 125, I’d say.’
‘Mmmm. I’ll need to clear this with the C-in-C, but it sounds the right plan. Get it started, will you? Alert Tenby that we may need to change her plans, and keep her close to Tromso. Don’t give her any details or explanations at this stage. And check with the Norwegians, to make sure they can give Andrew a lift. Finally, book a 125 for tomorrow morning. I’ll confirm everything later this evening, after I’ve talked to the boss.’
The duty men saluted as the Rear-Admiral and Andrew left.
‘Got a cabin booked in the Wardroom?’ Bourlet asked, after they’d stepped out into the crisp night air.
‘Yes. I wasn’t expecting to get back to Plymouth tonight, whatever happened.’
‘Give my apologies to your wife. Feel free to blame me for everything. I’m quite used to it. And, look: let the Wardroom hall-porter know where you are, ’cause I’ll want another word. I’m just going down the road to Admiralty House. The C-in-C’s having a dinner party, but he knows what’s going on and is expecting me to call. I shouldn’t be more than an hour.’
Andrew watched Bourlet’s squat figure stomp up the ramp towards the main gates, then he turned left towards the accommodation blocks of the ‘Wardroom’ – the shipboard term the Navy used for the officers’ mess, which at Northwood amounted to a good-sized hotel.
‘You’re much too late for dinner, sir, but they’ll do you a sandwich if you’re quick,’ the hall porter greeted, looking at his watch.
Andrew realized suddenly how hungry he was. The only meal he’d had all day were the sandwiches the RAF had provided on the flight to Scotland.
He’d intended to ring Patsy right away; he took a step towards the coin-box telephone on the wall opposite, then hesitated. She’d have to wait, or he’d miss the only meal he was going to get; the way things were goin
g, he couldn’t be sure when he’d see the next one.
Rear-Admiral Bourlet had sent his driver home for the night, so took the wheel of the black Granada himself. Admiralty House was less than a quarter of a mile down the road, a substantial red-brick house at the end of a tarmac drive.
A white-jacketed steward emerged from the front door, and pointed to a parking space.
‘If you’d care to wait in the study, sir, I’ll tell the Admiral you’re here. They’re just finishing their coffee, so you’ve picked a good moment,’ he chirped as he ushered Bourlet into the house.
The Commander-in-Chief of the Fleet was two ranks higher than he was, but as far as Bourlet was concerned, Stewart Waverley should never even have made Vice-Admiral. The man wasn’t so much a sailor as a politician, with his eye on the First Sea Lord’s job followed by a seat in the House of Lords.
He waited five minutes in the small study. Shelves lined with volumes of Who’s Who, directories of key personnel in the media, and recent political biographies confirmed Bourlet in his prejudices about the man.
‘Hello, Anthony,’ Waverley greeted curtly. ‘Hope this won’t take long. I’ve got the editor of the Telegraph here this evening. What news of the Truculent?’
He was tall and elegant in a white dinner jacket, his straight, dark hair held in place by a sheen of oil. His breath smelled of claret and good brandy.
‘The news is bad. For God’s sake, don’t give it to the Telegraph.’
Waverley scowled in irritation at the unnecessary piece of advice.
‘There’s been no word from her,’ Bourlet continued, experiencing a perverse pleasure that what he was about to say would spoil the C-in-C’s evening.
‘But we think she’s been detected. Crossing the SOSUS array between the Faroes and Shetland, about five hours ago. Pretending to be a trawler. I’ve diverted a Nimrod to look for her.’
Waverley blanched.
‘What . . . what on earth’s going on in that boat?’
Bourlet explained further, and watched the C-in-C’s expression freeze as the implications sank in. When he’d finished, Waverley leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
‘This is appalling!’ he exploded, after what seemed like a full minute of silence.
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