The microphone in Nick’s headset was recording every word.
Fighters of different types were packed on the forward deck, wings folded, leaving the angled flight-deck clear for operations. Two machines were poised for launch on the steam catapults.
Past the ship, the two Tomcats closed in again, like guards pinioning a prisoner. The Bear attempted a turn but abandoned it just short of a collision.
‘American Navy fighters! You are flying dangerously close! Please move away. This is international airspace. Acknowledge! Over.’
Neither fighter flinched from its wing-tip position. The radio was silent.
‘American warplanes! You are violating the international rules of air safety. You have put my aircraft in danger!’
Silence. The cameraman grinned. The shots were terrific – big close-ups of the US markings. The foreshortening effect of the zoom made it look as if the wingtips were touching. In one of the Tomcats the navigator was taking pictures with a stills camera.
‘Soviet aircraft!’
The Texan drawl was back.
‘Okay, guys; this is where we say g’bye. We’re five miles from our mother. Keep at least this distance, and we won’t have to meet again. Have a good day now, y’hear. Over.’
The two Tomcats banked and accelerated away in perfect unison. From underneath came a third fighter, pulling up ahead to let them know he’d been sitting on their tail all the time, missiles armed.
‘You have enough pictures now? Our time is up, I think.’
Nick looked at his watch. It was nearly noon. Time to head back to Kola.
* * *
Plymouth, England.
Patsy Tinker put an armful of carrier bags on the back seat of her car and closed the door. She was pleased with her purchases; it was high time she had some new things, and if Andrew complained about how much she’d spent, she’d say it was compensation for his disappearing again so soon after returning home.
She started the engine and crunched the gears, then looked over her shoulder as she eased out of the parking bay. She paused to let a silver-coloured Volkswagen Golf pass, then pulled out behind it.
Hang on, wasn’t that Sara? She vaguely remembered the Hitchens had a silver VW.
‘Keep an eye on Sara’, Andrew had said. Okay, she’d follow; if Sara was going home, she’d drop in for a chat.
But the car turned up one of the Victorian terraces that led to the Hoe, then turned left, and left again into the close dominated by the modern tower of the Holiday Inn. There was one parking space free, which she took.
Patsy hesitated. She hadn’t meant to follow Sara like a spy. Sara might be meeting a man.
She drove past the hotel and found a space. Sara was walking slowly up towards the Naval War Memorial on the Hoe.
Patsy got out, pressing herself against the car to avoid a dusty, red Ford Escort that pulled into the bay ahead.
Climbing the slope, Sara suddenly felt dizzy, her leaden limbs and dull headache the result of too little sleep for the past few nights.
Why had she come, she asked herself? Retracing her past? Trying to make sense of it? She’d walked here with Simon when he was younger.
She glanced back at the Holiday Inn, remembering the view from the sixth floor. She’d had a lot of fun with Gunnar in the hotel’s big double beds, but now she was paying the price.
The weather was glorious, for a change – an autumn sun bathed the Portland stone of the monuments in mellow gold. As she reached the crest of the hill, she felt a breeze on her face, warm for October.
Ahead, the waters of the Sound sparkled in the sun. A white-sailed yacht made its way towards the marina, its wake stretching to the farthest shore.
Sara turned to look up at the weathered bronze statue of Sir Francis Drake, then bent her head to read the inscription. She’d been here so many times before, but had never read the words.
‘Hello, Sara!’ exclaimed Patsy, catching up with her. ‘Fancy seeing you!’
Sara jumped.
‘Patsy . . .’ she gasped. ‘You startled me.’
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Such a lovely afternoon, I was passing and thought I’d stop to admire the view. You too?’
‘I suppose so.’
Sara avoided Patsy’s eyes. She found her self-confidence intimidating.
‘Are you heading for the lighthouse? Perhaps we could walk together.’
‘Why not,’ Sara shrugged.
‘Look, if you’d prefer to be on your own . . .’
‘No . . . ,’ she answered, puzzled at the sudden solicitude. ‘Has Andrew told you?’
‘You mean . . . , about you and Philip? A little. Just that there’d been a row.’
Sara gave a short, sharp laugh that caught in her throat.
‘That could be an understatement,’ she half-whispered.
They crossed the grass towards Smeaton’s Lighthouse. A few couples had spread rugs on the turf to protect themselves from the moist ground while they enjoyed one of the last warm days of the year.
‘D’you know, for years I thought that was a real lighthouse?’ Sara remarked. ‘I used to bring Simon here and tell him that at night the light shone right out to sea, to guide the sailors home – guide his daddy back to us. I never came here at night until recently . . .’
‘It was real once.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was out on the Eddystone Rock for a hundred-and-twenty years. Then the rock began to crumble, so they brought it here and built a new Eddystone light on firmer ground.’
‘Being a teacher, you’d know that sort of thing,’ Sara sniped.
Patsy felt her scalp prickle. She and Sara had never liked each other much.
‘Philip’s gone to sea again, I gather.’
If Sara wasn’t going to raise the subject, she would.
Sara stopped and eyed Patsy suspiciously, her face grey, her eyes red and ringed.
‘This meeting’s no accident,’ she snapped. ‘Who sent you?’
‘No one sent me,’ Patsy replied, edgily. ‘Andrew said things were a mess – suggested I should say hello if I happened to see you. That’s all.’
‘How much of a mess, did he say?’
‘Look, all he said was that you’d been seeing someone else, and that Philip had found out and was devastated. That’s all.’
Sara looked away, embarrassed.
‘He didn’t say who?’
‘Nothing like that, no.’
They began walking again, heading for a vacant bench by the lighthouse.
‘I’m not really allowed to talk about it,’ Sara said. ‘I think it’s an official secret.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
Sara chewed at her lower lip.
‘I’ve been incredibly stupid,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. You know, when I was nineteen, there was one sort of girl I used to really despise. Half drunk at a party – some boy with his tongue down her throat and his hand up her jumper. You knew that within the hour she’d be on her back and the next night it’d be with someone else. Well . . , they all think I’m like that now!’
‘Nonsense! Who thinks that?’
‘Philip. Andrew. The police.’
‘The police?’
‘Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that. They’re probably an official secret too.’
‘You’re not involved in anything . . . criminal, are you, Sara?’ Patsy whispered anxiously.
‘Criminal? I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of it as criminal.’
Sara looked round, checking no one was within earshot. Patsy found herself doing the same. They both ignored the nondescript, brown-haired man in a fawn windcheater sitting on another bench some twenty yards to their right.
‘There were lots of men. I used to get so bloody lonely . . .’ Sara’s voice had become so soft as to be almost inaudible. ‘One of those men worked for – a foreign government.’
‘Oh. I see . . ,’ Patsy answered, but didn
’t.
‘Don’t tell Andrew I told you.’
They stared in silence at the distant horizon. The aggressive outline of a frigate had come into view round the headland, making a sweeping turn towards the dockyard.
A foreign government? Patsy chewed at the words. God almighty! Sara meant a spy!
‘Philip brought me here on our first afternoon in Plymouth, about ten years ago,’ Sara digressed, half to herself. ‘Wanted me to know where I could come to watch, when he set off in his submarine. We’d never been apart for more than a few days up to then. I had no idea what it was going to be like.’
Sara turned to Patsy, who found the digression aggravating.
‘You’re tougher than me, but it must upset you too, the separations?’ Sara asked.
‘Appalling. Particularly in the early days,’ she answered briskly. ‘But I learned to accept it, most of the time. There wasn’t any alternative.’
She’d meant to sound matter-of-fact, but Sara took it as a reproach.
‘The alternative’s bloody obvious!’ she snapped. ‘Patsy, you’re so organized, so bloody virtuous, I’m surprised you allow yourself to be seen in public with me! But surely, even in your well-ordered existence there must’ve been times, when Andrew was away, when you were desperate for . . . for something? I don’t just mean sex; I mean emotionally?’
Patsy felt her neck and face begin to burn.
‘You make me sound like a nun,’ she laughed uncomfortably.
‘Of course I get lonely, too. Of course . . .’
Patsy hesitated.
‘I’ve never told anyone this. But I did have an affair, once. You must never, never repeat this. Andrew doesn’t know, and he never will. It was a man I work with, a nice man. I shall always be fond of him. But one day I weighed what I was doing against my marriage and my children. And I ended it.’
‘Blimey,’ Sara whispered. ‘So you are human!’
Patsy stiffened. A pair of gulls swooped screeching over their heads, one chasing the other.
‘Is it our own fault, the way we end up? The sort of people we become?’ Sara demanded. ‘It can’t be, can it? Our parents must take some of the blame.’
‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s a bit of both . . .’
‘My mother used to have one lover after another. Destroyed my father. I hated her, but now I’m just like her.’
Sara’s eyes began to fill with tears.
Reminding herself why she’d engineered this meeting, Patsy decided she had to pull their conversation back on track.
‘What did you mean just now? About your lover being from a foreign government?’
‘I shouldn’t have said that! You mustn’t ask!’
But Patsy persevered, ‘When politicians use that phrase, they mean a spy!’
Sara’s face crumpled.
‘A Russian?’
Sara nodded.
‘Oh, God!’
Patsy felt chilled. This wasn’t just a matter of infidelity; it was a betrayal of everything.
‘Did you talk to him about Phil’s work?’
‘Of course not. At least, not in any way that mattered,’ she insisted. ‘Anyhow, I don’t know anything about it, except what it does to me.’
‘I see. But . . .’ Patsy searched for something to say.
‘Philip found out. And he flipped, literally. Something seemed to snap in his mind. Andrew was scared he might do something daft. I think they’re trying to bring him back, but nobody’s telling me anything. If you know what’s happening. . . .’
‘Not a thing. It’s all news to me. But what did you mean about him doing something daft?’
‘Blowing up the Russians? I don’t know – some sort of revenge.’
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘I don’t know . . . !’ Sara wailed, and burst into tears.
‘It’s not just because of what I did, though! I’m sure there’s something else.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. There’s been something churning round in Phil’s mind for months. Something to do with his work. He never said. Always denied there was anything wrong.’
Patsy felt deeply alarmed. She decided she’d better sound reassuring if she could.
‘Well, let’s hope they get Philip back soon. You’ll have to talk the whole thing out with him, I suppose. But what about your marriage? Do you want to save it? You might still be able to.’
Sara shut her eyes and groaned. Patsy hadn’t understood.
‘It’s too late for that! Don’t you see?’
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not. Andrew’ll talk to him. Philip can get a job ashore, so he won’t be away so much.’
‘Patsy! Listen! He’s not . . . coming . . . back! Ever!’
A shiver ran down Patsy’s spine.
‘It was in his eyes as he left. Philip is going to die!’
Patsy felt cold all over. The wind had got up.
* * *
Northwood, England.
‘Are you there, Anthony?’ the Commander-in-Chief shouted, pushing open the door to the room occupied by the Flag Officer Submarines.
Admiral Bourlet rose to his feet.
‘We need to talk. About Hitchens. Can you come along to my office, and bring his file with you?’
‘Of course.’
Bourlet had spent much of the morning studying the file. It had not made comfortable reading.
He closed the C-in-C’s door and sat in the leather armchair to which Waverley directed him.
‘Never seen the PM more alarmed. She’s horrified at the very idea that world stability could be threatened by an officer in Her Majesty’s Navy.’
‘She’s ahead of herself, in that case. It hasn’t come to that yet. We’ve still a good chance of stopping him, sir,’ Bourlet announced, with contrived confidence.
‘What I want to know is how such a lunatic managed to end up as the captain of an SSN. They’re supposed to be our top talent, for God’s sake!’
Sir Stewart perched a pair of half-moon spectacles on the bridge of his long, thin nose. He reached across for the file.
‘To be frank, sir, he’s been bloody lucky. Twice,’ Bourlet explained as Waverley read. ‘He scraped through his “Perisher” with the recommendation that his ability to command had yet to be proven. They said he should be given the chance to show his worth as an Executive Officer. Then one of the Gulf sultanates bought a fleet of small diesel submarines, remember? Offered enormous sums tax-free to our submariners to work five-year contracts training Arabs to drive them. We lost four COs in a month. Three from Oberon diesel boats, and one from an SSN.’
‘And suddenly Lieutenant Commander Hitchens found himself in demand.’
‘Exactly. Got an “O” boat to drive. Did all right for a couple of years. Not much flair, but no mishaps either. Then came his second lucky break. Look at his S206 dated a couple of years back – his Officer’s Confidential Report, at the time he came up for promotion to Commander – Section 3, the General Report, says “A competent commanding officer of an ‘O’ boat, but a man obsessed by petty rules and regulations. Holds the respect of his men through firm discipline rather than any degree of affection. Not a team player. Could create unnecessary tension on board”.
‘Yet Section 5 recommends him for immediate promotion. The explanation comes in Section 6 – written by my predecessor. As you’ll see, sir, he says that although Hitchens hadn’t displayed the usual flair and leadership required for the command of a nuclear boat, the sudden shortage of SSN COs which occurred at that time made it essential Hitchens be considered for promotion.’
‘Ah! It’s coming back to me. There was some frightful accident. . . .’
‘That’s right, sir. Up at Faslane. Three SSN COs driving off base for a stag night. One of them was getting married the next day. Hit a petrol tanker. Went up in flames. All dead.’
‘And suddenly we had three boats without skippers. Mmmm. That explains some of it. So, we’ve got
an obsessive nit-picker on the loose, obsessed at the moment, it seems, with a personal grievance against the Russians. Anything else in the file, further back?’
Bourlet riffled through the pages.
‘He came from a naval family. Father and grandfather. His father had a curious end to his career. Could be relevant. Remember the old HMS Tenby? A diesel submarine that disappeared in the Barents Sea in November 1962? All hands lost. No trace of her ever found.’
‘Oh, yes. I remember vaguely.’
‘Philip Hitchens’ father was her second-in-command.’
‘I remember it now; I was at Dartmouth at the time. But I can’t remember the details. . . .’
‘She was on an intelligence mission, monitoring Soviet torpedo trials. We believed some of them were nuclear-tipped. There was always a suspicion that the Soviets had sunk her, but never any evidence. Some boffin down at the naval architects’ department in Bath came up with a theory that a fire on one of the mess decks could have flashed through into the torpedo room. Proved it on a test rig. The enquiry concluded that’s what must have happened. Magazine explosion causing total loss. They changed the design of the class after that.’
‘Hitchens the younger must’ve been still at school at the time. Traumatic for him.’
‘Early teens. There’s nothing in his file about his thoughts on the matter, except a curious line in his original application to join. He said he saw himself as “continuing the career which his father had been unable to complete”.’
‘That obsessive streak again. There, right at the start, and no one saw the danger in it.’
‘To be fair, it’s not an uncommon characteristic in the Navy, sir.’
‘Hmmm. So what you’re saying is that there’s nothing in the man’s record that could’ve led us to predict something like this.’
‘Absolutely, sir. The file shows he’s a weak link in the chain, slipped into the system out of temporary necessity. But there’s nothing to suggest he’d ever defy orders. Just the opposite, if anything.’
‘But how come he got chosen for this special mission with the Moray mines? We should’ve chosen a top operator for that job.’
‘It’s just the way the cards fell, sir. Truculent was already being fitted out as the trials boat for the mines when Hitchens took command. She’s the only boat equipped to use the mines so far. It had to be him. There was no alternative.’
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