It was a disgraceful example of old-fashioned American imperialism and aggression, Savkin declaimed, which did not bode well for US–Soviet relations. It was a clear sign of the hostility intended by the NATO Exercise Ocean Guardian which had just begun – the largest and most provocative NATO exercise ever conducted right on the edge of Soviet waters.
Feliks was gripped by a sensation close to terror. It was beginning to dawn on him how far Savkin was preparing to go.
* * *
Scotland.
Andrew Tinker studied his watch with growing anxiety. It was already five in the afternoon. The helicopter should have found HMS Truculent an hour ago.
Strapped firmly into the canvas seat in the back of the Sea King, Andrew felt his legs going numb. The hard aluminium seat frame pressed against the underside of his thighs, stopping his circulation. Every few minutes he would shift his position, but what he needed was to get out of that infernal machine. They’d been airborne for one-and-a-half hours.
‘Perhaps the rendezvous co-ordinates got scrambled in the signal from CINCFLEET,’ he suggested, pressing the headset microphone against his lips.
‘We’re in the right place, I can assure you,’ came back the tart voice in his earphones.
‘Navaids are working perfectly. So’s the VHF and UHF. If he’d surfaced anywhere within fifty miles of us he’d have heard us calling.’
They’d taken off from Stornoway in the Western Isles half an hour before the rendezvous. Despite the gale blowing and the turbulent seas, it should have been a smooth, routine manœuvre. Boat and aircraft would link by radio minutes before the deadline, and as soon as the submarine surfaced, down would go the winch-wire with Andrew on the end, to come up again a few minutes later with Philip.
But there’d been no sign, no hint that HMS Truculent intended to keep her appointment.
What did it mean? An accident? Highly improbable. A misunderstanding? Almost impossible – Philip had acknowledged the signal. Keeping out of the way to dodge a Russian submarine? None had been reported in the area.
Suddenly, Sara’s words came back to him. Philip hates the Russians – he’ll have his revenge.
A nightmare was beginning to unfold.
‘Have you talked to Stornoway again?’ Andrew demanded, his anxiety growing.
‘Two minutes ago. They’ve told FOSM. Northwood says there’s been nothing from the boat. We’ve got fifteen minutes’ fuel before we have to head for land.’
Andrew hated helicopters; the noise, the vibration, the smell of hydraulic fluid all gave him a feeling of claustrophobia he’d never experienced in a submarine. The Sea King they were using was an anti-submarine version, almost filled by tactical control panels, and a heavy, black winch for dunking sonar into the sea.
Clad in a dayglo red ‘once-only’ immersion suit, he was squeezed into a folding seat between the winch and the fuselage. Rubber seals gripped tightly round his wrists and his neck; the watertight suit would save his life if they ended up in the sea.
Andrew pressed the ‘transmit’ switch on his headset cable.
‘Let’s call it a day. He’s not going to turn up,’ he called above the gearbox whine.
‘Bit worrying, isn’t it? Will they start a search?’ the pilot responded.
‘Shouldn’t think so. Submariners change their plans all the time. He’ll turn up.’
He was trying to sound reassuring, without success.
What the hell would they do now?
‘Back to Stornoway?’
‘Yep. Feet dry as fast as you can make it.’
He needed to get Admiral Bourlet on the line, fast.
* * *
HMS Truculent.
The invisible five-thousand-ton bulk of HMS Truculent was some two hundred miles northeast of the helicopter’s position, her captain the only man on board who knew they’d missed a rendezvous.
For most of the past twelve hours Philip had stood in the control room, hovering nervously between the tactical’ displays and the chart table. He was desperate to get his boat into the deep waters of the Norwegian Basin, where a submarine could disappear with ease to run fast and free.
But their progress north had been halted by their need to cross the SOSUS barrier undetected. The chain of hydrophones stretching along underwater ridges from Greenland to the Shetlands would be sure to mark their passing unless they resorted to deception.
SOSUS was linked to a processing centre in South Wales, and the data could be presented within minutes as hard intelligence information at headquarters in Norfolk, USA and Northwood, UK.
Philip guessed the hounds would be rapidly unleashed once his masters knew he was out of their control. The Faroes-Shetland gap would be the obvious place they’d start looking for him; he didn’t want to give them a head-start by revealing his position.
His first thought had been to hide amongst the noises generated by the aircraft-carrier Illustrious and her frigate escorts, but they were too far ahead, and would already have crossed the SOSUS barrier before Truculent could catch up.
So he’d decided to hug the continental shelf and pray for a merchantman to happen past. Throughout Saturday night they’d lurked, listening, west of the Orkneys. Philip had slept fitfully, leaving orders for the watch to wake him the moment a suitable decoy appeared.
Sunday morning came and went, with Philip finding it increasingly difficult to contain his fear of entrapment. He’d been on the point of making a run for it through the gap; to hell with the risk of being detected. If he was fast enough, he might slip away into the Norwegian Deep before the surface ships and the Nimrods could be marshalled onto his trail.
Then soon after lunch had come the breakthrough he was waiting for. A Russian fish-factory ship was heading back to Murmansk from the Scottish coast, laden with sprats and mackerel. The heavy thump of its diesel engine and the uneven beat of its imperfectly-milled propeller provided the screen of noise he needed.
To compound the deception, Philip ordered the trailing of a noise generator, a slim canister towed astern which transmitted a broad band of underwater noise, to swamp the discrete frequencies from the submarine which could identify it to the SOSUS system as a Trafalgar Class boat.
Philip crossed the control room to the chart table.
‘How’re we doing?’
Nick Cavendish was ready; the captain had asked him the same question every thirty minutes since lunch.
‘’Bout twenty miles northeast of SOSUS. Still at twelve knots, with the Soviet fisherman two miles to starboard.’
‘Where’s the Victor?’
‘Last reported about one hundred miles north, but that was yesterday, sir. We’re short of fresh intelligence.’
‘Okay. Let’s dump the noise generator, and head due north. Get down into the deep water and do some listening.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Stretch our legs a bit. Once you’re sure we’re out of everyone’s way, we’ll stick a mast up and pick up an int. broadcast.’
‘I’d like that, sir.’
Ahead lay the vast, empty waters of the Norwegian Basin, 3600 metres deep in places. Deep down, Truculent’s towed sonar array came into its own. If the Soviet Victor was anywhere within a hundred miles they’d have a good chance of finding her.
Cavendish gave the orders for the new course and depth. He set their speed at fifteen knots, fast enough until he had a better idea what other submarines might be sharing the waters with them.
He stepped into the sound room to look over the shoulders of the sonar ratings as they checked their waterfall displays. In the deep sound channel into which they’d descended they heard no trace of other submarines, just the squeaks and groans of countless krill. The Victor must have moved on.
Back in the control room he decided it was safe to put some distance behind them.
‘Make revolutions for thirty knots!’ he ordered. ‘Maintain depth two-hundred-and-fifty metres.’
Their own sonar would b
e deaf at that speed, but he’d risk it for half an hour. He clicked the intercom to report the change of speed to the captain.
‘Very good. Carry on,’ Hitchens approved.
*
Thirty minutes later Cavendish ordered a return to fifteen knots. They were now over forty miles from the SOSUS barrier.
In the sound room the ratings scanned 360 degrees around the boat. Still no trace of man-made noise in the ocean depths.
The time was shortly before 1800 hrs. He’d checked with the wireless room; at 1814 there was a satellite transmission scheduled. Any submarine listening could take in the latest intelligence and news reports in a thirty-second burst of compressed data, together with signals directed at individual boats.
‘Captain, sir! Officer-of-the-Watch,’ Cavendish called into the intercom.
‘Captain!’
‘No contacts in the deep channel, sir. Propose to come up to sixty metres, and clear the surface picture. If nothing’s around, I’d like, with your permission, sir, to return to periscope depth, raise a mast and take in the broadcast scheduled for 1814, sir.’
In the pause that followed, Cavendish imagined Hitchens studying his watch.
‘Sounds good. I’m coming to the control room, but carry on.’
Cavendish swung round to the blue-shirted planesman.
‘Bring her up to sixty metres, Jones.’
The rating pulled back on his control stick, keeping a careful eye on the angle-of-ascent gauge.
They came up fast and levelled out at a depth where they could hear the sounds of surface ships, hidden from them before by the temperature gradients which separate surface sounds from those of the deep.
Somewhere up here was the Illustrious task force, but Cavendish calculated the ships should be well north of Truculent, closer to Iceland, preparing to sweep the seas for submarines ahead of the USS Eisenhower battle group.
‘Control room! Sound Room,’ the loudspeaker crackled by Cavendish’s ear.
‘Go. Control Room.’
‘No contacts on sonar, sir. Surface clear.’
Cavendish smiled with relief. Philip Hitchens joined him at the bandstand, behind the planesman.
‘Did you hear that, sir?’
‘Yes, I did.’
He looked at his watch. 1805.
‘You can proceed to periscope depth. I’m going to the wireless room.’
Hitchens moved awkwardly across the control room, as if conscious the men were watching him. How many of them knew about the controls he’d imposed on the communications procedures?
He’d told sub-lieutenant Smallbone the previous evening that all future communications would be for his eyes only.
The burst transmission of digital data from the satellite would be recorded on magnetic disk, then fed through a processor to be printed out in real time.
‘As soon as you’ve got the stuff printing, I need you out of the room, I’m afraid,’ Philip reminded them briskly.
Smallbone and the operator Bennett nodded at him sullenly.
‘I’m sorry. Not my idea. Orders from CINCFLEET,’ Hitchens lied smoothly. ‘Everything set now?’
‘Sir,’ Smallbone acknowledged.
Hitchens peered at his watch for the third time in a few seconds. He couldn’t conceal his nervousness and spun back into the control room.
Cavendish was raising the forward search periscope.
‘ESM?’ Hitchens snapped.
‘Negative, sir. No contacts.’
The Electronic Support Measures mast was the first to be raised whenever they closed with the surface. Its sensors were designed to detect radar transmissions from ships or aircraft, transmissions that could spot their periscope or radio mast.
Cavendish completed his all-round look.
‘No visual contacts, sir. Sea-state five.’
Hitchens studied his watch again. 1814 precisely.
Philip stomped back to the wireless room. The diskdrive chattered as it filed the data.
‘Transmission complete, sir,’ Smallbone reported.
Philip turned on his heel and called into the control room.
‘Officer of the Watch, down periscope, and take us deep again.’
Hugo Smallbone shuffled awkwardly out of the radio room, and stood outside the door, hands clasped behind his back as if at parade-ground ease.
‘I’ll press the tit for you then, sir?’ Bennett growled.
‘Yes, please.’
The rating did so, then scuttled from the room with exaggerated haste as the printer began to pour forth its data. Philip slipped inside and closed the door.
Lieutenant Commander Pike stepped into the control room having just completed his rounds. He spotted the wireless operators hovering awkwardly outside in the passageway.
‘So, he’s really doing it,’ he murmured to the OOW.
‘Didn’t doubt the captain’s word, did you, sir?’ Cavendish retorted.
Pike raised one eyebrow in reply.
‘Ten down. Keep two hundred metres,’ ordered Cavendish. ‘Steer oh four oh. Revolutions for eighteen knots.’
He looked at the control room clock. Just over half an hour until the end of his watch.
For Sunday’s evening meal, the galley offered corned beef salad or ‘oggies’ – Cornish pasties – and chips.
Philip ate early, the steward bringing him a tray to his cabin. He wanted to be finished with his meal and with sifting the signals by the time the watch changed at 7 pm. It was the time he’d chosen to make the pipe; to give the men their first clue as to what he planned.
The signals were easy to sort. The intelligence reports he’d pass to the watch leader; the family messages and the summary of the world news he’d give to the first lieutenant for distribution. Those he placed to one side. He slid the messages for other submarines included in the burst transmission into the bin at his feet.
In front of him was the message he’d dreaded, the one he’d had to prevent the crew from seeing.
FLASH 201814Z OCT.
FOR: EXEC. OFF. HMS TRUCULENT.
FROM: FOSM NORTHWOOD.
RESTRICTED.
NEED IMMEDIATE EXPLANATION WHY YOU FAILED TO MAKE RENDEZVOUS 1600Z TODAY. ESSENTIAL YOU COMMUNICATE HF/SSIX SOONEST.
They’d addressed it to Tim Pike, trying to by-pass him. Sent it without special code, so the whole fleet could see it. Clumsy. By making it so open they’d hoped to get the message through. They were wrong. It merely showed they had yet to realize what they were up against.
He smiled but with little satisfaction. He had no wish to take on his masters. Circumstances had forced him into it.
He carefully folded the signal and placed it inside the wall safe.
He waited until ten minutes past the hour, so the men would be settled in their mess decks or at their watch posts, then he stepped briskly into the control room, checked the navigation plot and the power settings, and unhooked the microphone that would broadcast his words throughout the boat.
‘Do you hear there? Captain speaking. Just an update on our situation,’ he began, hoping the tremble in his voice would not be noticeable. ‘We’re well clear of the Faroes-Shetland Gap now, and very shortly we’re going to put on a bit of speed. Our destination is still somewhere in the north Norwegian Sea, but I can’t be specific at this stage.’
He swallowed to moisten his throat, and turned away from the men in the control room so they couldn’t see his face.
‘I have to tell you that our orders have been changed since we left Devonport. It may well be that we no longer take any part in Exercise Ocean Guardian – that’s not quite clear yet. The thing is, there’s a bit of tension brewing between the Russians and NATO, and . . . er . . . we’ve been put on alert for a very special and very sensitive mission. Can’t tell you anything about it at all at the moment; CINCFLEET has classified it Top Secret – Commanding Officer’s eyes only. But, I can tell you what was on the BBC World Service news this evening – I’ve just had t
he summary through on the satellite.
‘Earlier this morning there was an incident some way north of here, involving helicopters from the US aircraft carrier Eisenhower and a Soviet cargo ship called the Rostov, carrying MiG fighters. The Russians are apparently accusing the Yanks of threatening their ship. Mr Savkin, the . . . er . . . Russian leader, made a very provocative speech this afternoon, accusing NATO of all sorts of things, particularly slagging off this exercise that we’re involved in.
‘Now, it’s not entirely clear what he’s up to, but CINCFLEET isn’t taking any chances. So, I’ve been given my orders. I hope to be able to give you some details in a day or two, but in the meantime please just take my word for it that whatever we do, there’s a good reason for it. That’s all.’
He made to hang up the microphone, but snatched it back again.
‘Just one more thing. The video tonight, according to the first lieutenant’s list, is Gorky Park. That’s all.’
At the chief petty officers’ table in the ratings’ mess, CPO Hicks turned to Gostyn, the propulsion chief, knife held up in mid-air.
‘What the fuck was that all about?’
‘Not good news. Not good at all.’
In the wardroom six officers sat round the table, stunned into temporary silence. All eyes turned to Tim Pike.
‘You heard the captain. I can’t talk about it, can I?’ he growled uncomfortably.
* * *
Northwood.
Rear-Admiral Anthony Bourlet paced like a caged rat up and down the floor of his office overlooking the main gates at Northwood Royal Naval Headquarters. Andrew watched him uncomfortably.
‘This is bloody ridiculous! Something must have gone wrong with the boat. I can’t believe a commander in Her Majesty’s Navy would deliberately flout his orders and take off into the wide blue yonder on a personal vendetta! A man would have to be mad to do that.’
‘That’s just the point, sir. He may be. Some sort of breakdown.’
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