Sea Leopard

by Craig Thomas

  He sighed audibly, a ragged sound from an old man's asthmatic chest. Speed fourteen knots and dropping, bearing green eight-four. Change of course, uncertainty setting in, scent lost.

  Scent lost.

  The Russian navy had sea-bed maps they could feed into their computers, superimposing them on their sonars and infra-red. It couldn't last for much longer. "Leopard" would be defeated by likelihood and by the concentration of vessels in their immediate area.

  It couldn't last long. Lloyd felt weary, and depressed. It was hard to believe that the Nimrod had heard them, knew where they were and what had happened. No one knew. No one at all.

  * * *

  The decoded message from the Proteus unrolled on the screen of the Nimrod's display unit with the kind of stutter given to the pages of a book when they are riffled quickly. Squadron Leader Eastoe bent over the shoulder of his communications officer, and sensed the man's shoulder adopt the quiver of excitement that was evident in his own body. Like an audience of two. they were experiencing the same emotions, the gamut of surprise, shock, satisfaction, hope, and anxiety that the words had little apparent power to evoke.

  When the message began repeating on the screen, Eastoe straightened and rubbed his cheeks with his hands. He yawned, surprising himself, then realised it was a ploy of the mind to gain time; time for consideration. Proteus on the seabed, position unknown, immobilised by a reduced warhead torpedo, surrounded by Russian vessels, surface and sub-surface. It did not bear consideration.

  "Inform MoD immediately — Flash, code of the day. Poor sods."

  "Skipper — " A voice behind him, the Nav/Attack officer in his niche in the fuselage of the Nimrod.

  Eastoe crossed to him. Beyond the man's head the porthole-type window revealed the late slow grey dawn beginning outside; only at their altitude, and above the cloud cover. Below them, the Kiev and other surface vessels would be moving through darkness still, and beneath them Proteus lay in the permanent darkness of the seabed, where hunter-killers attempted to sniff her out.

  "What is it, Bob?"

  "Something's happening down there, on the rescue ship."

  "You mean in connection with last night's little party?"

  ""Karpaty is changing course, moving closer to the Kiev."

  "I wonder why. You think one of those two choppers crashed on landing, mm?"

  "Yes, skipper, surface wind would have made a landing very dicey. There was that quick infra-red reading, and I'm almost sure only one chopper eventually moved off in the direction of the carrier."

  "Then what did they deliver, or try to deliver, to the rescue ship?" Eastoe considered, staring out of the tiny window, down at the roof of the cloud cover, lightening in its greyness, but thick and solid as the roof of a forest. Eastoe felt a detachment he did not enjoy, and which somehow interfered with his thinking. Being on-station, just watching, for so many hours had deadened the reality of what they could only see by means of radar and sonar and infra-red. Detachment; making thought and decision unimportant, without urgency. "Some sort of team? Experts? People important enough to be ferried out in this weather, anyway. Now you think they're going to transfer to the rescue ship?"

  "I do."

  "Okay, Bob, I'll tell Aubrey. Leave it up to him. We'll be off duty in a couple of hours, anyway. Someone else's problem, then."

  Eastoe went forward again, into the cockpit of the Nimrod.

  "Anything, skipper?"

  "Signal from Proteus," Eastoe replied glumly.

  "Bad?"

  "She's been hit, Terry."

  "Christ — they're all right?"

  "At the moment. But she can't move."

  "He was taking a chance, sending up a buoy."

  "Wouldn't you want someone to know?" Eastoe paused. "Now who the hell was in those two Russian choppers, and why do they need to get aboard the Karpaty so desperately?"

  "Skipper —?"

  "Doesn't matter. It's Aubrey's problem, not ours." Eastoe got out of his seat again. "Call up Bardufoss — tell them we're off-watch in an hour, and we'll need to refuel. Meanwhile, I'll tell Mr Aubrey straight away. He might need time to think."

  * * *

  "You saw what happened last night, Captain Ardenyev. I can't guarantee any greater degree of success this morning." The captain of the carrier Kiev studied his hands, folded together on the table in his cabin. To Ardenyev he appeared carved, unyielding, even unsympathetic. Yet he was right. A helicopter transfer to the Karpaty could not be risked. He even wondered whether his team, Red Section, would board another helicopter. When they reached the Karpaty by whatever means, Ardenyev was uncertain of their reaction. The scorched plates, the damaged, twisted rail — he'd seen them through binoculars from the bridge as the grey, pallid light filtered through the heavy cloud — would be too potent, too evident a reminder of their mates, their rivals.

  Then it will have to be by launch, sir."

  The captain of the carrier looked up. "I'm not unsympathetic, Captain. I am as concerned for the success of this operation as you are. Which is why I must minimise the risks with regard to your — depleted forces."

  Dolohov had signalled the carrier during the night, when he had been informed of the MiL's crash and the loss of Blue Section. His message had been terse, steely, anxious. It had not been humane. He had asked, principally, whether the mission could now be completed. He had not expected a reply in the negative, and Ardenyev had not given him such an answer. Instead, he had assured the admiral that the Proteus could still be boarded by Red Section working alone, as soon as they found her.

  For Ardenyev, it seemed the only answer he could give, the only possible outcome of his mission. His team wasn't ready, perhaps it never would be. He could only attempt to purge them of fear and shock and grief through action. Desperation might prove effective.

  "I understand, sir. I'll assemble my men on the boat deck immediately."

  "Very good, Captain. And good luck."

  "Sir."

  Ten minutes later, Ardenyev was forced to admit that Teplov had done his best with them, and the older men — Shadrin, Petrov and Nikitin — would do, but the two younger members of the team, Vanilov and Kuzin, were unnaturally pale; cold so that they shivered beneath their immersion suits. It was really their mates who had died, all the younger ones. They seemed hunched and aged, standing amid the others in the companion-way to the aft starboard boatdeck. The movement of the carrier in the waves, slow and sliding and almost rhythmical, seemed to unsettle them even though they were experienced sailors.

  "Very well," Ardenyev said, "as soon as we" ve transferred to Karpaty, I'll want a very thorough equipment check. It could take hours, I'll want it done in one. If a signal is picked up from that sub again, we'll be going straight down to her. Okay?"

  He scrutinised them in turn, not especially selecting the two younger men, but with his eyes upon each face until there was a nod of acquiescence. In one or two gestures, there seemed almost to be a quiet enthusiasm. Not from Vanilov or Kuzin, perhaps, but from Teplov and Shadrin certainly. It would have to do.

  He turned to the watertight door, and swung the handle. The wind seemed to howl through the slight gap he had opened. He pushed against a resistance as heavy as a human body, and they were assailed by flying spray. They were below the flight deck, on a narrow, railed ledge on the starboard side of the carrier where two of the ship's four big launches were positioned on their davits. A sailor waved them forward, towards the launch allocated to them and which had been manned in readiness. White-faced, white-handed sailors fussed around the davits, ready to swing the launch out over the water and lower it into the waves.

  "Come on, come on," Ardenyev said, hurrying them aboard, clapping each of them on the shoulder as they passed him, climbing the ladder into the launch. Ardenyev followed them, then leapt down again on to the boatdeck as one sailor lost his footing as the deck pitched. He grabbed the man's arm and hoisted him to his feet. He grinned at the sailor, who nodded his thank
s. Ardenyev understood how everything except the activities of the moment had gone a long distance from him, and prayed that their mission would begin soon and would have the same numbing, enclosing effect on Red Section. He climbed the ladder again, ducked through the doorway, and joined the officer in charge of the launch, a junior lieutenant, in the wheelhouse.

  Karpaty lay a matter of a few hundred yards to starboard of the carrier. In daylight, however gloomy and unreal, the sea raged. Ardenyev was chilled already through his suit from the wash of icy water on to the boatdeck.

  "Captain," the young officer acknowledged.

  "Lieutenant. We're ready?"

  "As we'll ever be. I don't think we ought to make the attempt, Captain — to put it bluntly."

  "Forget your thoughts, Lieutenant. We're going. Give the orders."

  The junior lieutenant appeared reluctant, disliking his own junior status and the obedience it required him to express. He nodded, stiff-lipped, and spoke into his microphone, adjusting the headphones and the speaker to comfort, or as an expression of disagreement. The launch shifted on its blocks, then began to swing free, moving out over the boatdeck as the davits swung it away from the hull of the carrier. The launch oscillated alarmingly on its davit wires, demonstrating its frailty. Then they began to slide down the side of the Kiev the fifty feet or more to the water. The hull of the carrier moved in Ardenyev's vision. It was almost easier to imagine that they were the still point, and that the carrier moved with the wind and swell.

  Rivets, rust, sea-life, spillage marking the plates of the hull. Then a grey sheen acquired by distance, then rivets and rust again. A constant chatter of instruction and comment from the lieutenant into his headset, then a shudder as the sea leapt up to meet them. The windscreen of the launch obscured by water for a moment, the hull of the Kiev splashed white and grey before the swell let them hang over a trough. The lieutenant spoke rapidly, and the rate of descent increased. Then they were wallowing, and the davit wires came free, and the engine of the launch coughed into life, just as the next peak of the swell broke over the bow and side of the craft, obscuring everything. The screw whined as it was lifted out of the water for an instant, then a trough released them, and the lieutenant ordered full speed and a change of course, towards the rescue ship Karpaty.

  They butted and rose and dipped their passage across the few hundred yards of sea towards the Karpaty. Movement, however violent and uncertain, deadened thought, promised action. The coxswain's hands were white like those of the helicopter pilot the previous night, holding the vessel to her course. Everything was immediate, physical or sensuous.

  It took fifteen minutes to make the crossing. Then Karpaty was above them, rusty-plated, grey, grubby with use, expressing a kind of toughness that comforted. Less than half the height above them of the carrier, nevertheless the rescue ship was one of the biggest of its type in the fleet. The scorched, blackened plates came into view, the sea working at them as if to scour off the evidence of disaster. The twisted rail, buckled plates at the stern, the damaged helipad, one edge broken as cleanly away as the snapped edge of a biscuit or a dinner plate. Simply missing.

  The launch bucked and rode in the swell. The lieutenant was chattering into his microphone. Ardenyev heard the voice of the tiny, black-clothed, gleaming figure on the port side amidships, beneath the archway of the rescue ship's central gantry, where the cargo deck was located. The boom swung across, and a specially rigged harness was slowly lowered towards them. Teplov appeared, as if by some instinct, at Ardenyev's elbow.

  "You first this time, sir," he said. "Just in case."

  Ardenyev was about to reply when the lieutenant broke in.

  "I have the captain of Karpaty, sir. He'd like you aboard without delay. Apparently, one of the submarines has picked up a trace and he's been ordered to alter position."

  Teplov grinned. "Come on, sir — get moving."

  * * *

  Patrick Hyde studied the facade of the Free Trade Hall in Manchester. He was sheltering from the rain in a shop doorway in Peter Street, almost directly opposite the home of the Halle Orchestra, which now displayed, like some unbecomingly young dress on an ageing aunt, the banners and streamers and posters that bellowed the appearance that evening of Heat of the Day. The KGB man on the opposite pavement appeared uninterested in the announcement as he walked down the serpentine, bunching queue of people that stretched almost as far as the Midland Hotel. Hyde did not know whether the man had been detailed to look for the girl or for himself, but he kept the collar of his raincoat turned up and his cap pulled down over his eyes. If one of them was in the immediate vicinity, then he would not be alone.

  Two. The other one was coming along the pavement on Hyde's side of Peter Street, walking slowly, conspicuous because he carried no umbrella. Umbrellas handicapped surveillance. There were a couple of young, denimed Special Branch officers in the queue for the rock concert, and plain-clothes police in cars parked at the junction with Watson Street and in the square at the other end of Peter Street. A presence inside the Free Trade Hall, too.

  Hyde had spoken to Aubrey — the second KGB man he recognised was drawing level with the doorway in which he sheltered — at the Admiralty and persuaded him that Petrunin and the others should not be approached. Most of them were "unofficials", agents not attached to the Soviet embassy or to trade missions or cultural organisations. They could not be certain how many there were. Removing Petrunin would be a false security. Free, Petrunin was a focal point. Hyde turned to the window. Transistor radios, stereo equipment, TV sets. The KGB man paused, but his inspection of Hyde was cursory, and he moved on. Petrunin running free would never be far from the action, and those under his control would gather round him, magnetised by his rank. They needed Petrunin and the few they knew from the files in order to identify the others.

  Hyde moved out of the doorway. The KGB man inspecting the queue was returning to the main entrance of the Free Trade Hall, the second man was crossing Peter Street to meet him. Hyde nor the police had seen any sign of Petrunin during the morning.

  Aubrey had been very clear about the risks, and the responsibility. It rested with Hyde. The girl must be found that day, that night, otherwise alternative methods would have to be employed. The girl would be taken in, regardless, and persuaded to co-operate. Hyde had one chance. Shelley's enquiries at the country hotel where Heat of the Day had stayed the night had proved fruitless. The girl had gone to earth. Shelley was inclined to the opinion that she had abandoned Alletson and the band. Hyde disagreed. There was nowhere else for her to run. Evidently, she was staying clear of her father, desperate not to lead anyone to him.

  The two KGB men strolled together towards Watson Street. An Austin Allegro drew level with them, and they bent to the window as it opened, becoming instantly engaged in a voluble conversation with the driver of the car. Then the lights changed, and the green Austin turned into Peter Street. As it passed him, Hyde saw that the driver was Petrunin. There was no one else in the car, which drew in and parked in the square. Petrunin did not get out.

  Hyde felt hunger expand as a sharp, griping pain in his stomach. Nerves were making him hungry. He had probably another seven or eight hours to wait. This time, he would not go in until the band was on stage.

  He crossed Peter Street to speak to the Special Branch men in the queue. If he was going to wait that long, no one was going in before him.

  * * *

  Aubrey, Clark and Pyott had become, with the passage of the night and morning, an uneasy, indecisive cabal inside the organisation of the underground room and the parameters of the rescue operation.

  "Kinloss have another Nimrod standing by, with a fresh crew," Pyott argued. "They can be on-station in two or three hours. They won't resent the job, they won't be tired."

  Aubrey shook his head. "Get them to contact Eastoe at Bardufoss. He and his crew must go back on-station immediately. I cannot afford to have that area unsighted for that long — no, not even with satel
lite surveillance. The cloud cover is making things difficult. Eastoe will have to go down to sea level if necessary. I must have eyes there, Giles."

  "They'll be dog-weary, Mr Aubrey," Clark offered.

  "I have slept for three hours in the last twenty-four, Ethan. We must all make sacrifices." Clark grinned at the waspish remark. "Very well, when the relief Nimrod is on-station, Eastoe and his crew will be recalled — for the moment. Let us discuss ways and means to preserve the security of “Leopard”. That is our real priority."

  "We're to take it you have abandoned any notion of destroying the Proteus?" Pyott asked with a mocking lightness.

  "That was never my intention — you misconstrued. We may have to expose Proteus, however, by ordering Lloyd to destroy the “Leopard” equipment."

  Pyott nodded. "We may have to. We can, however, run it extremely fine. No need as yet. I'm not sure you'd get Lloyd to do it, anyway."

  "He would disobey a direct order?" Aubrey asked in surprise.

  "For the sake of his vessel and his crew, he would be entitled to do so."

  "Very well, Giles. What can we do — before tomorrow, when the first NATO vessel arrives in the area? We must do something."

  "Diplomacy?"

  Aubrey snorted in derision. "I'm afraid the Foreign Office is running its head against a brick wall of denials. The Soviet ambassador has denied all knowledge of the matter. Soviet vessels are engaged in bad-weather exercises in the Barents Sea. He confirmed that, apparently with Red Banner headquarters in Murmansk. It will take too long, I'm afraid, to unstick this matter through the proper channels." Aubrey looked drawn, thinner, older. He had slept in a cramped cupboard-like room off the main operations room, on a thin, hard bed that seemed to imprison him. It had not improved his temper, or his patience. He wondered at his frenetic desire for action, and at the inertia of events which seemed to be bearing him with them like a great tide. Yet he could not retreat into the dim, cool, shadowed walks of military sang-froid as Pyott did. "It will take too long," he repeated. "Far too long."