Shadow Hunter

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘Jesus! What a shambles! I don’t think the PM’ll swallow much of this. She’s already looking for someone to blame,’ Waverley concluded miserably. ‘What’s the latest on the search for Truculent?’

  ‘Nothing new, sir. The Nimrods haven’t made contact again, and at present Tenby’s not in the frame yet. Ironic that the name of the sub we’re sending to look for Hitchens should be the same as the ship in which his father died.’

  ‘God! If he ever finds out, it’ll probably drive him clean round the bend!’

  * * *

  The Arctic Circle.

  The mountainous spine of Norway turned a sinister grey as the RAF HS.125 executive jet flew steadily north. When the sun dipped below the horizon, the snow-covered tips of the peaks glowed pink. Directly below them the water in the fjords looked inky black.

  Andrew felt restricted by the narrow cabin. They’d been flying for over three hours and he was desperate to stretch his legs. Even to stand up meant stooping to prevent his head striking the roof.

  The landscape below had been dramatic to watch for a while, but the more he gazed down at the vast expanse of the Norwegian Sea stretching away to the left, the more pessimistic he became about the difficulties involved in finding the Truculent.

  The captain eased his portly frame through the cockpit door. A surprisingly elderly man, Andrew thought, in his late fifties at least. A former fighter pilot, perhaps, who couldn’t live without flying, but who’d grown too old for fast jets?

  ‘More coffee, Commander?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Andrew answered. ‘It just makes me need to pee, and the heads you have on board isn’t the easiest to get in and out of!’

  The RAF man grinned. ‘We just call it “the can”. Not a lot of room, I agree, but the plane’s a delight to fly. Want to come up front?’

  Andrew followed the pilot forward and ducked through the doorway. The second officer grinned a greeting. There was no room to enter the cockpit, so he just leaned in, supporting himself on the doorframe. The control panel was dominated by a multi-coloured radar screen in its centre.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Tromso. Should be there in about twenty-seven minutes,’ the second officer announced. ‘They said they were expecting you. Mentioned a Sea King.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Going to join a ship, are you?’

  ‘Yep. A submarine.’

  ‘Rather you than me, on a night like this.’

  ‘Heard a weather forecast, have you?’

  ‘Force five, I’m afraid.’

  Andrew grimaced. He disliked helicopter flights at the best of times, but to be lowered on a wire towards a conning tower, which was wobbling about like a wooden toy? Not pleasant.

  ‘What does that radar screen show you?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘It’s mainly for weather. Storm warning, but it maps the ground if you point it downwards.’

  He indicated the green and yellow shapes interspersed with blue.

  ‘That’s the fjord where we sank the Tirpitz,’ he pointed. ‘Tromso’s just on the shoreline. We’ll start our descent in a couple of minutes.’

  Andrew nodded, and studied the multitude of dials for a while. Then the radio crackled and the captain pulled earphones over his head. Andrew made a gesture of thanks and returned to the main cabin.

  Cross-winds buffeted them as the main wheels touched the runway. Andrew peered towards the terminal building, where two helicopters were silhouetted against the lights of an open hangar. Then he strained to study another shape further away.

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s a Nimrod,’ he muttered. ‘What’s the RAF doing here?’

  The HS.125 jolted to a halt. Andrew unbuckled his belt and zipped up his holdall. The whine of the jets died as the pilot cut the engines. From the cockpit came the sound of switches being turned off, and the giros spinning to a standstill.

  ‘Did you see that?’ the pilot called over his shoulder. ‘One of ours. Nimrod. Probably got a technical hitch.’

  Andrew suspected its presence at Tromso was more significant than that. He stretched out his hand to shake the pilot’s.

  ‘Well, goodbye, and thanks for a nice flight.’

  ‘Is that bag all you’ve got? No other luggage?’ the RAF man asked.

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Just staying overnight then, are you?’

  ‘I’ve everything I need in here. S’long now.’

  Andrew hurried off the plane, anxious to avoid further questions. On the tarmac was an officer in the grey-blue uniform of the Norwegian Air Force.

  ‘Commander Tinker? I’m Major Mjell, the Station Commander. Welcome to Tromso.’

  His Norwegian accent seemed to dip in and out of the words like a wading bird.

  ‘Thank you. I’m glad to be here.’

  ‘We should hurry. The weather will get worse. Even now the helicopter pilots are not sure they can land you on your submarine. We might have to try tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m ready now. Let’s get a move on. I must get aboard tonight. Is the helicopter ready?’

  ‘Yes, but there is someone you must speak with first. Please to come to my office.’

  He hurried across the tarmac to the far end of the terminal. The wind was icy and cut through the thick navy blue pullover Andrew was wearing.

  ‘Ah, that’s better. It’s warm in here. Now I’ll leave you three alone for five minutes. That should be enough?’

  Andrew saw a whey-faced young man in a flying suit rise from a leather armchair to greet him. His shoulder insignia marked him as an RAF Flight Lieutenant.

  ‘Five minutes should be fine,’ the pilot acknowledged in a strong Scots accent, then introduced himself. ‘Alex McCringle. I expect you saw the grey beast on the tarmac?’

  ‘Nimrod MR2, unless I’m much mistaken.’

  ‘Exactly. Just come off patrol. This is my AEO, Stan Mackintosh. He’s the boss. Northwood told us to land here so we could report to you.’

  ‘Picked up some curious activity which they said you’d want to know about,’ Mackintosh explained.

  ‘Oh? Did they say why I’d want to know?’

  Andrew was curious to know how much the RAF had been told of the Navy’s problems.

  ‘Said it was to do with the exercise Ocean Guardian? You’re involved in a special operation code-named Shadowhunt? Playing the part of the Soviets, trying to track one of our submarines?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  He could tell they hadn’t been convinced by the cover story.

  ‘Odd sort of operation, when Northwood doesn’t even know where its boats are,’ the AEO needled. ‘Anyway, let me tell you what we got.’

  The flight lieutenant spread a chart on the office table. His finger drew a square shape over the sea about two hundred miles west of Trondheim in southern Norway.

  ‘We began a box search of this area at about one o’clock this morning. Beautiful clear night. Getting worse now, though. Anyway, we dropped a sonobuoy barrier looking for a Victor which the Norwegians had been tracking. Well, we found it but he wasn’t on his own. He was chasing one of yours, a bloody Trafalgar.’

  He pointed northeast on the chart.

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘We tracked them for a bit, then suddenly your boy got wise and slowed right down. The Victor didn’t realize what had happened at first, but then he slowed up too. We lost your boat at that point. They’re bloody quiet when they’re not rushing about, the Trafalgars. The Victor must have lost him too, because he suddenly went active! Practically deafened us!’

  ‘Pinged him, did he? They don’t often do that.’

  ‘Exactly. Must have been pretty bloody eager to keep tabs on your boy, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, they don’t often get a chance like that. We’re normally too careful for them. But this time. . . .’

  Andrew searched for the right words, that would give nothing away.

  ‘This time it’s different tactics,’ h
e added cautiously.

  ‘Well, the sooner you get back to the old ones, the better, I reckon!’

  ‘So what happened after that?’

  ‘We never picked up the T-boat again. Nor did the Russian. He went pinging around in all directions, up and down, changing depths, but he never found him again. Northwood told us to try to track your man; we dropped buoys all over the place, but he’d gone. And that’s it, Commander. Any use to you?’

  ‘Very much so, thank you. Now show me again on the chart exactly where you lost her.’

  The AEO pointed and Andrew made a note of the co-ordinates.

  ‘So where are ye off to now, then?’ McCringle asked, making no effort to restrain his curiosity. ‘Hunting the Shadow underwater, are ye?’

  ‘That’s right. Trying out some new equipment . . .’ Andrew lied.

  ‘Hidden in that wee bag, is it?’ he joked, pointing at Andrew’s holdall.

  ‘’Sright. Don’t need much space for a floppy disc . . .’

  ‘Well, we’ll see how good it is, then. We’ve been told to stick around here for a few more days. See if we can be of some help. My fiver says we’ll find him again first!’

  ‘If you do, I’ll happily pay you ten times that.’

  ‘You’re on!’

  They shook on it.

  ‘When do you plan to fly again?’

  ‘Tomorrow at eight,’ said Mackintosh. ‘They’re flying in a Here from Kinloss with a load of sonobuoys – we’ve almost run out.’

  The door clicked open. Major Mjell poked his head round.

  ‘You must go now to the briefing room, Commander. It’s the last chance to get off tonight.’

  ‘Good luck,’ McCringle called as Andrew followed the major out.

  He followed the Norwegian out onto the tarmac again. The wind was even stronger. They passed the HS. 125, refuelling for the return journey, and walked on towards the big, brightly lit hangar with the two helicopters parked outside.

  ‘This is the regional search and rescue headquarters,’ Mjell explained. ‘The Coastguard use it too.’

  Warm air enveloped them as they stepped inside the flight office.

  ‘Klaasen,’ announced the pilot, introducing himself.

  ‘Tinker.’

  The three-man aircrew for the Sea King were dressed in drab green immersion suits that would keep them dry if they ended up in the sea.

  The loadmaster took a quick look at Andrew, assessing his size, and took from a rack a larger rubber suit in dayglo red.

  ‘You’ll be familiar with this equipment, Commander?’

  Andrew pulled down the heavy zip and stepped into the legs of the suit. Floppy black rubber boots encased his feet. He forced his arms into the sleeves, taking care not to rip the soft rubber at the end which made a watertight seal with his wrists.

  ‘We need the suit back,’ Klaasen reminded him drily. Andrew knew how expensive they were. ‘After you’re safely on board the submarine, we’ll lower a bag for you to put it in. And the life-jacket too.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Andrew slipped the life-preserver over his head and pulled up the strap under his groin.

  ‘Now, if you’re ready, I will start my briefing.’

  The aircrew stood in a semicircle and checked their watches. Klaasen spoke in Norwegian for the first minute, outlining the flight plan. Then he broke into English.

  ‘The rendezvous with the Tenby should be seventy kilometres west from here. It will take about half-an-hour to the area, and then we have to find her. She should be surfaced, but we have not been able to contact her on VHF. Some hills are in the way. We can try again in the air.

  ‘The sea is high and the wind getting stronger, so we’ll put you on the fin. We lower a guideline first, so that they can pull you to the right place as you go down. You use the same system, I think?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve had the misfortune to go through this several times!’

  ‘Then we’ll waste no more time. We can go to the aircraft now, and the loadmaster will give you the safety brief. You have heard it all before, but we insist.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  Major Mjell gripped him by the hand and wished him luck.

  Andrew clambered into the helicopter, and felt his way into one of the aluminium-framed canvas seats that lined the fuselage. Klaasen flicked the power switch and a red light came on in the roof, just bright enough for Andrew to make out the layout of the interior.

  ‘The door close while we fly. I open when the pilot finds the ship.’ The loadmaster’s English wasn’t up to the standard of the pilot’s. ‘When I say, you unfix seat belt and sit on the floor. Very careful, it’s a long way down. Then I put cable harness on you, you know?’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Andrew answered patiently.

  ‘Emergency exits.’ The loadmaster pointed to the door itself and to two other panels in the fuselage sides. ‘If we go in the water, you must wait until the rotor stops, otherwise . . .’

  He made a sign of slitting his throat.

  ‘Let in the water first. Then swim out as it sinks. Then pull life-jacket. Not to inflate before leaving aircraft.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Fine.’

  The pre-flight briefings made Andrew more nervous than the flight itself. It was all pointless anyway. Few people survived helicopter crashes – they all knew that.

  With a muffled roar the twin jet engines lit and built up their revs to a high-pitched whine. The loadmaster gave him a thumbs-up sign, which Andrew returned. Then with a bowel-churning grind, the gearbox was engaged and the rotors began to turn.

  It was almost pitch black inside the helicopter. From time to time as they flew, the loadmaster pulled out a flashlamp and shone it along the bare pipes of the hydraulic system, checking for leaks.

  The two aircrew were bulky, anonymous shadows against the amber glow of their instruments; for the next thirty minutes his life lay in their hands.

  He thought of home. Patsy. The children: Theresa, Mark, and Anthony struggling to cope with boarding school.

  A change in the engine pitch; his heart beat faster.

  He cursed himself for being so nervous. Eyes closed, he thought of the task ahead. The Nimrod could cover a greater area than a submarine, although its small sonobuoys lacked the sensitivity of the bigger, more powerful systems in the Tenby.

  The tail of the machine dipped, slowing down, it banked right, then left, spreading the search. The loadmaster extended his hands forward and swayed from side to side, indicating the roughness of the water below.

  For a good ten minutes they hovered or flew slowly backwards and forwards.

  Suddenly the loadmaster touched Andrew on the knee and gave him the thumbs up. They’d found his boat.

  The nose dipped, the machine banked and sped in a new direction. Three minutes later Klaasen eased it back into the hover. The loadmaster crouched by the door and wrenched it open, letting in an icy blast. Then he busied himself with the winch, unstrapping the harness, checking the cable and controls.

  Klaasen manoeuvred the machine inch by inch. The loadmaster beckoned. Andrew unclipped his belt and slid forward onto the floor, clutching his holdall firmly. The loadmaster slipped the harness over his head. He tightened the strop under his arms and winched the cable taut.

  Ahead and below was blackness. Then he saw green and red navigation lights, close together. A boat. A pencil of light from the helicopter pierced the dark, picking out white wave-crests in its search.

  It found the smooth, shiny curves of the submarine. The beam followed the casing forward, a sparkle from the foam breaking across the steel, then the fin reaching up. On the top, the pale dots of faces looking up.

  He had to land on that? Jesus, it looked so small! As he watched, the periscope and radio mast slid down into the fin so as not to obstruct his descent.

  The loadmaster lowered a thin handline, weighted at the bottom. Through his microphone, he directed the pilot until the line was grabbed by a sailor on the bridge
. Then he secured the line to Andrew’s harness.

  He was ready? Andrew nodded and pulled the rubber hood over his head. It was wet down there and bitterly cold.

  A final thumbs up; Andrew felt the winch cable jerk the strop tight under his armpits. He sat on the ledge, legs over the edge. The downdraught from the rotor tugged at the loose folds of his survival suit. A firm push in the small of his back and he was in mid-air.

  The cable jolted and jerked. The winchman lowered him a few metres at a time. Arms by the side; that’s what they always tell you. Do nothing; just hang there; leave it to the other guys. It was an act of faith. It had to be.

  The wind tugged at his feet; he felt salt spray on his face, or was it rain? Something pulled him sideways against the wind. He remembered the handline.

  Suddenly his shins cracked hard against metal. He gasped at the sharp pain. Rough hands grasped his legs, then his waist. The edge of the bridge grazed his buttocks; he was down. The steel grating felt firm underfoot, and the chest-high rim of the conning tower supported his back.

  He lurched against it. The submarine rolled like a plastic duck.

  ‘Welcome to Tenby, sir,’ the burly rating shouted in his ear.

  ‘Thanks!’ Andrew yelled, trying to beat the din of the machine overhead. ‘There’s a bag to come, and they want this kit of theirs back!’

  He slipped the harness off and the rating held the strop to one side to show the winchman it was clear. Within seconds it was gone.

  ‘Best take the gear off here, sir!’

  He unstrapped the life-vest, then struggled with the zips of the survival suit; the rating helped him. In a few moments he was free from the gear and, ducking, began to make his way below. A young officer greeted him at the top of the ladder. As he climbed down inside the tower, a warm blast of air came up to greet him, carrying a familiar smell of machinery and cooking.

  He emerged into the control room. A ring of faces greeted him.

  ‘Hello, I’m Peter Biddle.’

  The CO looked no more than a boy, smooth-skinned, fair-haired, waxy pale from the rolling of the boat. Andrew checked the gold bars on his epaulettes to be sure.