* * *
The north Norwegian Sea.
Midnight, Tuesday.
The Gulf Stream sweeps its warm water round the northern tip of Norway, keeping the fjords free of ice in the winter months, almost as far east as the entrance to the White Sea.
Off North Cape, Europe’s most northerly outpost, the current flows eastwards at a steady half-a-knot carrying with it the smaller marine life like shrimps and krill that form the smallest components in the food chain, and create much of the background noise underwater.
HMS Tenby, 5,000 tons of steel packed with electronics, machinery and men, dipped in and out of that current deep below the surface, trailing her sonar array hundreds of metres astern. She was travelling at ten knots and heading east, hoping to hear Truculent coming up behind, but with no certainty the boat hadn’t already passed her, further out to sea.
‘I don’t bloody well believe it!’ growled Andrew Tinker, folding the signal in half and tossing it onto the wardroom table.
‘May I?’ inquired the commander, reaching across.
‘Yes. See what you think of it. Sodding signal makes no sense to me at all.’
Biddle whistled softly.
‘Shit! That’s a bit strong! Phil Hitchens recruited by the KGB? Are we sure this isn’t a joke?’
Andrew stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited for Biddle to finish reading.
‘Huh! The cheek!’ exploded Biddle. ‘This bit at the end – “Decided you should know this, not because it materially affects your task, but to impress upon you the seriousness of the situation”.’
‘Bourlet’s a pompous ass!’ snapped Andrew. ‘I can just hear him dictating this crap! Does he think we’re treating it as a game?’
He dropped into a chair and took back the signal.
‘You know, something I’ve realized in the last few days is that you can know someone for twenty years – think of them as a close friend, even – and yet not really know them at all. I’m stating the obvious, but it’s sad, isn’t it?’
Biddle nodded. It was approaching midnight and he was dog-tired.
They’d sped north and east after losing contact with Truculent earlier in the day. Every hour or so they’d risen to periscope depth, to receive messages from the satellite.
Two Nimrods were laying Jezebel barriers far to the north and east of North Cape. Tenby’s instructions were to stay close to the Norwegian coast, listening in Norwegian waters where the Nimrods couldn’t search without prompting awkward questions.
‘If you wanted to deliver a Moray mine to the Soviet Navy, how would you do it?’ demanded Andrew.
‘Explosively!’
‘Seriously, how can Phil do it? Without the conscious support of his crew?’
‘I’d say it’s impossible. He can hardly go alongside in the Kola Inlet and hand one over. And if he’s going to pop one out of a torpedo tube, his WEO would have to prepare it and take part in the firing. No. I just can’t see it.’
‘With the other plan we envisaged – to lay mines and activate them later – it’s just possible he could convince his crew. But if he’s trying to pass one of the mines to the Sovs, it’d have to be totally inert, otherwise the anti-handling devices would blow it up as soon as they tried to pick it up off the bottom. And to persuade a WEO to discharge a mine that hasn’t been switched on? He’d never do it. Not in a month of Sundays.’
‘It’s mission impossible, isn’t it? He’d have to place the mine with incredible precision, otherwise the Russians would never find it. It’s supposed to be almost undetectable on sonar.’
The wardroom door opened. First Lieutenant Murray Watson stared at them in surprise.
‘Sorry. Thought there’d be no one here. Just wanted a cuppa before turning in.’
‘Pickles your liver, all that tea,’ Biddle answered. He glanced at the wall clock. ‘There’s a watch change in a few minutes. Wardroom’ll be busy. We’ll continue this in my cabin.’
* * *
To the east of North Cape is Porsangen Fjord. Floating motionless in the middle of its ten-mile-wide mouth, 100 metres below the surface, was a Kobben class submarine of the Royal Norwegian Navy.
One of the midgets of the submarine world at just over 400 tons, the Storm was less than a tenth the size of Tenby and Truculent. Crouched inside were just eighteen crew, trained to say very little and to talk in whispers when they did.
Her task was to slowly criss-cross the North Cape current, silently and undetected, listening to the world go by. At this she was extremely effective. Powered by a 1,700 horse-power electric motor, she was completely noiseless when moving at a mere five knots.
Every twelve hours or so, within the shelter of the Norwegian coast, she’d raise a breathing tube for her oxygen-hungry diesels to recharge the batteries.
Tonight there was excitement on board, suppressed but still almost tangible. The young conscript crew had heard things they’d never heard before.
Sea creatures and passing tramp steamers were the normal acoustic diet of their bow-mounted sonar, but tonight there’d been submarines, friendly boats whose details should have appeared in the day’s intelligence summary, and hadn’t.
Norway’s navy co-operated closely with Britain’s, and expected to be informed when British boats passed through Norwegian waters.
The first contact had passed from west to east at about fifteen knots, two hours earlier. The noise signature had been that of a Trafalgar class submarine.
They’d guessed it passed within four miles for them to have heard it at all. Trafalgars were notoriously quiet.
The Storm had turned south again.
Then came the second surprise – an almost identical signature, moving more slowly this time, but on the same eastbound track.
The commander of the Storm smiled to herself and guessed they were heading for the Kola Inlet.
They must be on an intelligence operation, nothing to do with Exercise Ocean Guardian. That’s why the British had said nothing.
This was the sort of thing her own navy would never indulge in. Living right next to ‘the bear’, caution and correctness were the catchwords for neighbourliness.
Another twelve hours and their patrol would be over. She’d report what they’d heard to her intelligence officer, but it would go no further. An ally’s secret would be safe with them.
* * *
HMS Tenby.
Peter Biddle spread a chart on his bunk.
‘Nothing from the sound room. Not a trace. Looks like we’ve missed him. Hope to God the Nimrod does better.’
Andrew sighed.
‘Look, if the Russians are ever to find the mine, Phil’s got to give it to them on a plate.’
‘Eh?’
‘So, let’s look at the chart, and see if we can find a plate.’
Biddle frowned. ‘I’m not with you.’
The sheet covered a fifty mile stretch of the Soviet coastline, with the Kola Inlet at its centre. The main Soviet naval bases were clearly marked in the bays around the fjord. A peninsula to the west curved north and east creating a natural shelter against the Arctic storms.
‘That’s the place!’ Andrew exclaimed, pointing to a mark east of the Inlet. ‘Has to be. That rock, ten miles off the coast, “Ostrov Chernyy”. The chart shows a radar site on it, nothing else. But there’s an underwater spit running north from it, covered with fine sand. Water’s sixty or seventy metres deep, and the spit’s not more than a hundred metres across. It’s easy to find with bottom contour navigation; large enough for him to lay the mine safely; and small enough for the Russians to search with their bottom crawlers.’
Mission impossible? Not so impossible, after all.
He pushed the chart to one side and sat down on the bunk. Biddle dropped into his chair.
Andrew closed his eyes trying to remember exactly what had happened to the old HMS Tenby all those years ago, and to imagine the effect on a teenage boy of losing a father in such circumstances.
‘Bit spooky, really,’ responded Biddle.
‘Phil must’ve been shattered to lose his old man like that.’
‘No corpse to grieve over.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They say you can’t complete the process of grieving unless you have the body to bury or burn. Makes it final. In Phil’s case, perhaps the grieving process never finished.’
‘And now he finds his father’s alive. It’s enough to send anyone nuts. Do you know the story of the old Tenby? You must have a potted history on board, Peter. Previous ships that’ve borne this glorious name, etcetera.’
‘Sure, but it’s all pretty bland. You won’t learn much from that. Tell you what, though; Murray Watson’s done some digging. I think he got a look at some secret files at Bath, once. Keeps threatening to write a book on it and tell the “real” story.’
‘Pull him in here, can you? Before he gets his head down.’
Biddle stepped into the corridor and reappeared a few moments later with his first lieutenant, looking puzzled.
‘I gather you’re a historian, Murray,’ Andrew explained.
‘Far too grand a title, sir. But I know a bit about the old Tenby.’
‘All I remember is that she disappeared in the Barents without trace, and they concluded her torpedo magazine had gone up.’
‘Yes, well; that was a load of cobblers. But they were so mystified by the disappearance, they spent a fortune on analysing the design. A sharp engineer, keen to make a name for himself, calculated that there was a theoretical fire hazard. The scenario he dreamed up only had a I in 100,000 chance of happening, but it was the only conclusion the enquiry was able to reach. So, they spent millions refitting the boats.’
‘But you don’t reckon there was a fire?’
‘No.’
‘So what did happen to Tenby?’
A shutter seemed to close on Watson’s face.
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Listen, Murray. What happened in 1962 is connected with what’s happening to us at this very moment.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m not going to give you all the details; there’s no need for you to know. But Truculent’s commander, Phil Hitchens: his father was first lieutenant on the old Tenby.’
‘I knew that, sir.’
‘Of course. You would if you’ve studied the case. Well, whatever Commander Hitchens is doing with Truculent, it seems directly connected with the death – or disappearance – of his father on Tenby.’
‘Ah . . .’
Watson was intrigued.
‘So, what I want to know is what the old Tenby was doing in the Barents Sea, and what you guess happened to her.’
‘Well . . . she was spying. But the stories about watching Soviet nuclear torpedo trials are only half true. That was a cover for her real task.’
‘Which was . . .?’
Watson hesitated, as if he’d said too much.
‘If I tell you, sir, you must never let on you heard it from me. I saw some documents once that I shouldn’t have, see? And if the security people ever found out, they could trace it back to the bloke who showed me.’
‘Agreed. We won’t tell.’
‘Well, then . . . Tenby was after a new Russian radar site. The intelligence bods suspected it was a long-range over-the-horizon type that could track NATO warships 1500 miles away. The installation was on a tiny island, no more than a rock really, about ten miles off the Kola coast.’
A little flag went up in Andrew’s brain.
‘The boat was to stay out of sight,’ Watson continued, ‘while a small reconnaissance team went by inflatable onto the island at night. It was to have been two marines from the Special Boat Squadron, but one of them got ill. Appendicitis. Lieutenant Commander Hitchens said he’d go in his place. We know that because the sub sent a signal just before the operation began. Last signal she ever sent –’
A second flag went up.
‘The two of them were to get onto the island and hide. Then in daylight they’d take pictures of the radar, hide again, and escape the following night. Nobody knows if they ever made it.’
Andrew and Peter Biddle sat spellbound.
‘What . . . what was the name of the island?’
‘Ostrov Chernyy.’
The two commanders looked at one another.
‘I can show it to you on the chart, if you like.’
‘Thanks,’ growled Andrew, ‘but we’ve already found it.’
CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday 23rd October.
Moscow 0900 hrs.
THE PRESIDENT AND General Secretary of the Soviet Union Nikolai Savkin knew that the endgame was at hand.
His efforts to use the media to project a threat from the West had fallen flat. Ever since he’d re-imposed censorship, the Soviet people had treated everything in the newspapers or on television with deep suspicion.
In two days there was to be a full meeting of the Politburo. Without a genuine foreign relations crisis to rally its members, he knew he’d be outvoted and forced to end what was left of the economic and political reform programme.
The head of the KGB sat across the table from him.
Savkin mistrusted Medvedev; it was the Politburo who’d appointed him, demanding a new strong-man at the KGB after the organization’s failure to control the secessionist riots in the Baltic republics earlier that year.
Savkin was only half-listening to Medvedev, who was reeling off a long list of arrests and deaths during the disturbances of the past week, expressing satisfaction that the figures were falling. That showed most of the ringleaders had already been disposed of, he claimed.
Savkin gave Medvedev a watery smile when he eventually left, relieved at his departure.
Admiral of the Fleet Sergey Grekov was waiting outside. A stolid, non-political seaman, Grekov owed his promotion to Gorbachev’s early efforts to separate the military from politics.
Their meeting had been hastily arranged that morning. The Admiral had insisted on seeing Savkin at the earliest opportunity.
‘Please come in, Comrade Admiral,’ Savkin welcomed him.
‘It’s good of you to see me at such short notice, Comrade President, I know how busy you are. I’m sure you’ll understand the urgency when I . . .’
‘Yes, yes, Sergey Ivanovich,’ Savkin answered impatiently. ‘Sit down, and get your breath back.’
The Admiral was sweating from the haste of his arrival at the Kremlin. Savkin had heard he’d been having heart trouble lately.
‘It’s an intelligence matter,’ Grekov puffed. ‘Disturbing information we received from London last night.’
The Admiral paused, trying to guess from Savkin’s expression whether the KGB chief had already told him about the Englishman Hitchens.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Concerning a British nuclear submarine.’
‘Really? Well, go on. I’m not telepathic . . .’
Grekov relaxed. Savkin’s apparent ignorance meant he could simplify the details.
‘A Trafalgar class submarine, according to information gathered by one of our agents in Plymouth – that’s the home port for the boat – is heading towards our main submarine bases in Kola, intending to attack us.’
‘What? That’s ridiculous!’
‘Her commanding officer is disobeying orders. He appears to have a personal grudge against the Soviet Union. It’s possible some of his officers support him.’
‘Are you sure? Has it been checked?’
‘The British are searching for him. Their maritime aircraft are operating in the Barents Sea – that’s almost unheard of, so far north. It means the submarine must be close.’
Nikolai Savkin’s heart was racing. He struggled to control himself. If he believed in God, he’d have said his prayers had been answered. Grekov mustn’t see his excitement.
‘This is terr
ible! What are you doing about it?’
‘We, too, are searching. Aircraft and helicopters are out at this moment, covering the widest possible area.’
‘And what of your navy, Admiral? How many ships and submarines are also searching?’
‘Comrade President, we have to take care. If the British commander wants our blood, we must not make it easy for him. The Trafalgar submarines are very advanced. Their technology makes them hard to find. In a contest with even our newest PLAs, the chances are the Trafalgar would win.’
‘What are you saying, Sergey?’ Savkin growled. ‘That you dare not confront him?’
‘Of course not, Comrade President. But when you know a trap’s being set, but not where it is, you move cautiously. We must assume he’s now close to the mouth of the Kol’skiy Zaliv. Nearby, there are six submarine bases; he could be lying in wait at any one of them.’
‘Are you saying the Red Banner Fleet of the Soviet Navy is hiding in its harbours, for fear of one single British submarine?’ Savkin bellowed in mounting fury.
‘That’s an insult, Comrade President!’ Grekov hurled back, hauling himself to his feet. ‘An insult to me and to the brave men under my command! It would be an act of the utmost foolishness to send out submarines which are now in harbour, without knowing whether the enemy has blockaded the ports. No military man of any experience would take such a decision.’
‘All right. Simmer down, Sergey!’
Savkin drummed his fingers on his desk, his mind hyperactive.
Admiral Grekov felt his heart beating uncomfortably fast. The doctors had told him to avoid situations which excited him.
‘What ships are already at sea?’ the President continued.
‘An anti-submarine barrier. Surface ships and submarines. They’re to the west, facing the NATO fleets – the Ocean Guardian exercise. It’s possible they’ll find the British boat. He won’t dare attack out there. Too many of us.
‘The danger is inshore. He has mines of a new type. We know little about them . . .’
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