It was Kalinin who had had the original idea of using the threat from the West as a goad to keep the Soviet economy on course for modernization. Previous regimes had used the fear of attack from abroad to tighten belts at home. What had been done before could be done again. The armada of Western warships currently on course for the Kola Peninsula provided just the threat that was needed.
‘You know the irony of our plan, Nikolai?’ Kalinin grimaced. ‘Perestroika is meant to curb the military budget and redirect funds to consumer goods. But if we make too much of the military threat from NATO, our beloved generals will be demanding the expansion of their arsenals again!’
‘It’s already happened. Admiral Grekov was here last night. Says he needs more ships to match the NATO navies.’
‘I hope you told the Comrade Admiral he was pissing into the wind?’
‘Yes . . . but not in those words. Something a little more refined. But tell me, what’s the latest from Washington? Are they tugging at the bait?’
‘It’s too early to say. The predictable reactions have already occurred. Half a dozen Republican senators and the media have been raging about a new threat from Cuba. But McGuire hasn’t commented yet. Our ambassador has been given a flat denial that the American helicopters posed any sort of threat to the Rostov, and the administration has had nothing at all to say about the MiGs.’
‘And Castro?’
‘He’ll play ball. He’s desperate for the aid we’ve promised him.’
‘Is McGuire clever enough to know what’s happening?’
‘He knows little of life outside Middle America, so he takes advice. Tom Reynolds is the one he’ll be listening to. And Tom’s a cautious man. “Take no action until you have to” is his motto. They may be waiting to see what we do next.’
‘And what will that be, I wonder,’ Savkin ruminated. ‘Every day that passes, the bigger the distraction needed to jolt our people back into line.’
‘The Department of Naval Aviation is taking the television teams out this morning. Their film should be on Vremya tonight, and on the American networks. And Admiral Grekov is holding a press conference this afternoon for the foreign journalists.
‘He’ll condemn NATO strategy, call it provocative and dangerous. He can be pretty aggressive when provoked. And what he says is sure to get the American TV reporters on their hind legs baying at him. He’ll call on NATO to abandon their exercise. By the end of the day the West’ll be digging its heels in.
‘Our own television will of course present the press conference in its true light: Grekov – the voice of reason; the American press – the hyenas of the West ready to bite into the soft and vulnerable throat of Russia. By the end of the day no one should be in any doubt there’s a crisis.’
‘We’ll see,’ the General Secretary answered doubtfully. ‘It may not be enough.’
In his heart he knew it would take more than TV pictures and a press conference to jolt the Soviet citizenry out of their sloth. With sadness, resignation and fear, he realized it might take war.
* * *
1230 hrs. GMT.
Downing Street, London.
Every time he met the Prime Minister, Admiral Waverley was struck by her small stature and her femininity, which hid a steely determination. Both he and the Foreign Secretary were in a state of some trepidation about the meeting that lay ahead.
‘Gentlemen, good day,’ she greeted them in the hall. ‘We’ll go straight in and sit down, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to be in the House at two-thirty.’
She led them into the dining room, where a small table was set with just three places, a large bottle of Malvern Water in its centre.
‘You sit here, Admiral, and Nigel, there.’
The Prime Minister placed herself facing the door and nodded to the butler that he could begin serving.
‘Now, Stewart, the Defence Secretary has told me about HMS Truculent and Commander Hitchens. It’s appalling. And the Home Secretary’s briefed me on what happened in Plymouth. This KGB officer – he’s still on the loose. Most unsatisfactory!
‘But it’s the implications I’m concerned with. Lucky we had this little lunch arranged. Now, first of all, remind me about Ocean Guardian. As you know, the Russians are making the most extraordinary fuss. Heaven knows why; they’ve never bothered about it before.’
‘That’s right, Prime Minister,’ Waverley answered. ‘But the exercise has never been quite like this before. We hold them every two years; dozens of warships from several NATO countries deploying to the North Atlantic, but we’ve never taken the exercise right round the tip of Norway into the Barents Sea before, right to the doorstep of the Russian Navy’s main harbours. That’s why they’re squealing. It’s international waters of course, so they’ve no right to complain. And Norway is NATO’s northern frontier.’
‘So the Russians could conduct their manoeuvres off the coast of Scotland if they wanted to?’ the Foreign Secretary queried. ‘We wouldn’t like that.’
‘So long as they stayed in international waters, we could do nothing to stop them.’
‘The idea is to be able to bottle up the Soviet fleet at the start of a conflict, correct?’ the PM asked.
‘That’s right. The Americans took the initiative. They felt defending the Atlantic further south had become too difficult. The Soviets have so many new, quieter submarines.’
‘Ambassador Bykov placed another protest on my desk this morning,’ Sir Nigel remarked. ‘Argued in most reasoned terms. Said this was a time of peace and improved east-west relations, and that such an “aggressive rehearsal for war”, as he put it, was quite unacceptable.’
The PM waved him to silence.
‘How big is our involvement? How many ships have we got up there?’
‘About twenty. The Americans have eighteen, the Canadians, the Dutch, the Norwegians, Germans and French bring the total to over a hundred.’
Just then the door opened and a waitress brought in a tray of soup.
‘Carrot soup,’ the PM announced. ‘My mother’s recipe. I do hope you like it.’
The two men made polite, appreciative noises, and reached for their spoons. The waitress closed the door quietly behind her.
‘Do continue, Admiral. You were interrupted.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister. Our main task is to provide an anti-submarine force centred on the carrier HMS Illustrious. With four escorts, she provides a screen ahead of the US strike fleet – the Eisenhower group. Our carrier will keep well away from the Russian coast, but two of her frigates will steam into the Barents, together with two of our submarines.’
‘But Truculent had a special mission. Those new mines.’
‘Exactly. She was due to break away from the exercise, to try to slip through the Soviet defences and get to the sort of position where the mines would have to be laid if war threatened.’
‘Inside Soviet territorial waters?’
‘Er . . , yes.’
‘And the Americans are doing the same?’
‘Further east, Prime Minister.’
‘And the mines themselves? They’re a great advance on anything we’ve had before?’
‘Very much so. Anglo-American development. Launched from a torpedo tube in deep water. Very difficult for the enemy to detect. It’s a two part device, with a sonar sensor – very clever – which can be programmed to look out for one particular type of ship or submarine, and the explosive bit which is really a high speed homing torpedo that gets launched once the target’s been designated. And the whole thing can sit on the bottom for up to a year, doing nothing, then be activated or reprogrammed by sonar signal from up to forty miles away.’
‘Right. We know what Truculent was meant to do – what is Commander Hitchens really going to do, Admiral?’
Waverley sighed uncomfortably.
‘We just don’t know, Prime Minister. We’ve had no response to any signals. He’s ignoring orders, but appears still to be heading for the Kola Inlet. An R
AF Nimrod picked up his track off Norway this morning, but lost it again. There was a Soviet submarine in the area, too.’
‘But what about the rest of his crew? Are you telling me they’re also ignoring orders?’
‘Certainly not! But you see, Prime Minister, Hitchens could well say he’s acting under secret orders issued to him personally. Often happens. Submarines operate in extreme secrecy. Frequently most of the crew haven’t a clue where they are or why.’
The colour began to drain from the Prime Minister’s face. She turned to Sir Nigel. Their looks met, each realizing for the first time the full implications of what Waverley had said.
‘What . . . ah . . . what could he actually do?’ Sir Nigel asked, clearing the frog from his throat.
‘At worst, he could sink about a dozen Soviet warships . . .’
‘Christ Almighty!’
‘But that’s improbable. To launch torpedoes and missiles he’d need the co-operation of his crew. He’d have to convince them war had broken out. Impossible, I’d say. But he has got those mines on board, four of them. It’s just possible he could lay them . . .’
The Foreign Secretary put his hands up to his face.
‘Just when Savkin’s accusing us of undue aggression!’ he groaned.
The Prime Minister tapped nervously on the table-cloth with her fingernails as she thought of what had to be done. She reached under the table and pressed a bell-push.
‘Your soup’s gone cold, Admiral. We’ll go on to the next course.’
The waitress returned with her tray. While she cleared the plates and served them a main course of roast pork, the three remained silent.
‘Now, Stewart. You obviously have a plan. What is it?’
‘We’ve got about three days in which to find Truculent . . .’
‘It’s no good finding her if you lose her again,’ the PM chided.
‘Our submarines are designed to avoid being detected, Prime Minister. Twice he’s passed through waters we were monitoring anyway, but keeping track of him when he doesn’t want to be tracked is another matter.
‘It’s not going to be easy. The RAF are searching round the clock, but our best chance lies with HMS Tenby. Another SSN. A Commander Tinker, who knows Hitchens and is fully briefed on the problem, is flying to north Norway to join the Tenby. We have a good idea where Hitchens will go, and if Tinker can pick up his trail, he should be able to communicate with Truculent and stop him in good time.’
The Admiral had spoken in the most confident voice he could muster, but the Prime Minister had not been taken in.
‘What if Truculent’s not listening?’
‘Then we have a very difficult decision to take.’
‘To do what?’
‘Well, if we can find her, to stop her by force.’
‘How would you do that?’
‘Attack the Truculent with a torpedo. Try to cripple her without loss of life.’
‘That’s an appalling prospect. Is it possible?’
The Admiral shrugged.
‘We’ve never tried it. Our weapons are designed to destroy boats, not wing them.’
‘How many are there on board?’
‘’Bout a hundred.’
They fell silent again. None of them felt disposed to eat.
‘There must be some alternative?’ the PM suggested.
‘We could tell the Russians what’s happened,’ the Foreign Secretary remarked. ‘Warn them to keep clear of the mines until we can deal with them.’
‘And give them a propaganda triumph of unimaginable proportions, Nigel. Just what they need to justify their claim that our manoeuvres are provocative. That’s a ridiculous idea!’
‘The earlier we pick up Truculent’s trail, the better,’ Waverley pressed. ‘And the more resources we put into the search, the sooner we’re likely to find her. Sounds obvious, Prime Minister, but we’ve got precious few vessels in the right place. If we got some help from our allies – the Americans, the Norwegians, it could make all the difference.’
‘No! I don’t want any other nation to know about this. The name of the Royal Navy is held in the highest regard by friend and foe alike. What would people think if they learned that one of our submarine commanders could jeopardize the peace of the whole world? That our command structure has failed to prevent a madman going on the rampage in charge of one of Her Majesty’s ships?’
Her eyes bored accusingly into the Admiral’s.
‘I assume you’ll be examining your personnel selection procedures as a matter of urgency, Admiral?’
‘That’ll be our second priority, Prime Minister,’ Waverley bristled. ‘The first is to find the boat.’
‘There’ll come a time when our allies’ll have to know,’ Sir Nigel interjected gloomily. ‘If you don’t stop Hitchens in time, and he’s about to blow up the Soviet Navy, it’d be better if our friends know before it happens rather than after.’
‘That’s a sound point, Nigel. President McGuire is difficult enough to handle as it is.’
She began to pick at her food and the two men followed suit. She frowned in concentration.
‘Do you think you’ll find him in time, Stewart?’ she asked suddenly.
The Admiral swallowed some mineral water before replying.
‘The chances are less than even, I’m afraid. Our best hope is that his officers twig what’s going on.’
‘What do you think he intends to do? What are we in for?’
‘God knows! But if he lays the Moray mines outside Polyarny, and several Soviet submarines make a run for the open sea at the same time, he could take out four of them before they realize what’s happening. Four nuclear reactors exploding underwater, pollution over a wide area, and at least four hundred dead! Not a happy scenario!’
‘And all because his wife fooled around with some Russian? It’s madness,’ Sir Nigel exclaimed.
‘A Russian who hasn’t been caught,’ the PM repeated.
‘Perhaps he’ll contact Mrs Hitchens again,’ the Foreign Secretary mused, half to himself.
His thoughts were moving in a direction quite different from those of his leader. She’d dismissed his idea of warning the Russians, but it could be the only way to avoid catastrophe. It would have to be done with enormous care, and clearly without the knowledge of ‘the boss’.
‘If the worst does happen, Nigel, what’s Savkin going to do about it?’ the PM asked. ‘He’ll hardly declare war, surely?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sir Nigel warned. ‘He’s making a lot of noise about “NATO aggression”, much more than is justified. Got to ask ourselves why. Also this business of a ship-load of MiGs heading for Cuba; that has to have been done for a purpose. If Savkin’s intention was simply to supply an ally with new planes, he’d have flown them to Cuba in transporter planes. No fuss that way.
‘But to put them on the deck of a cargo ship and to sail it slap through the middle of the US fleet – I ask you! He wanted them to be seen! He wanted the Yanks to go screaming around in their helicopters and plastering pictures of his MiGs all over their television news bulletins. They’re so bloody predictable, the Americans; they did exactly what he wanted! One more example of Western aggression to show to his own citizens on TV.’
‘Yes, but come to the point, Nigel. What’s Savkin up to?’
‘Ah, now that’s more difficult to say. The one thing we do know is that he’s in big trouble with his economy. He’s facing an unprecedented wave of strikes and civil unrest. He may be looking for a distraction, and banking on America, and us, supplying it. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but it could be the only one he’s got up his sleeve.’
The PM frowned with irritation; she’d foreseen her Foreign Secretary’s conclusion, before he’d finished speaking.
‘But I return to my point; he’ll hardly declare war, will he?’ she insisted.
‘And I repeat my point; I simply don’t know. The danger is he’ll back himself into a corner; if he whips up enoug
h anti-western feeling at home, and our Commander Hitchens then blows up some of his submarines, he may have no option but to declare war.’
The Prime Minister stared at him aghast. Then she turned to the Commander-in-Chief of the Fleet.
‘Commander Hitchens must be stopped, Admiral. At any price!’
CHAPTER FIVE
Earlier that morning.
Severomorsk, USSR.
‘GUARD! SALUTE!’
The naval infantryman pinned his fingers to his forehead as the Zil limousine rolled to a halt outside the operations centre, its pristine black paint spattered with mud.
The Senior Lieutenant in charge of the guard opened the car door and saluted too, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
The Vice-Admiral ignored the young officer and strode briskly up the steps to the heavy, blast-proof, iron doors, eager to be out of the arctic wind. He heard the electromagnetic bolts click back, and the door swung open.
He entered the command centre of the Red Banner Northern Fleet. Built into a rocky hillside overlooking the town, the bunker was deep enough under the granite to withstand the megatons of nuclear destruction which the Americans had earmarked for it.
‘Did you get a good catch at the weekend, Comrade Admiral?’ fawned the Captain 2nd Rank staff officer. ‘Some fine salmon for your dinner, perhaps?’
‘No such luck,’ Astashenkov growled, remembering the alibi for his weekend in Moscow. ‘Nothing you could even feed to a cat! I shan’t fish again until the spring.’
‘The days are getting shorter.’
‘I hate winter. It’s at this time of year I wish I was commanding an Eskadra in the Mediterranean.’
Their footsteps echoed in the bare concrete tunnel. Ahead was the inner door, beyond which the air was filtered and recycled to exclude nuclear fallout or poison gas.
As they approached, there came again the click of opening bolts and the door swung towards them, driven by hydraulic rams powerful enough to push back rubble if the tunnel collapsed as the result of a direct hit.
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