‘He’s not going to risk that!’
‘I said “a little one”. A small, contained conflict. A few shots fired, maybe one or two people killed – enough to make one hell of a big story back home to take the workers’ minds off the bread queues, and to hold together any splits in the Politburo.’
‘And how the hell do you arrange a “small, contained conflict” between the USA and the Soviet Union, for God’s sake?’
‘At sea. It already happened, a few years ago, in the Black Sea. One of our warships got rammed by one of theirs while we were exercising our right of innocent passage through Soviet territorial waters. If you take that scenario a step further, you’ll get shots being fired.
‘Right now Savkin doesn’t reckon he has much to lose. He’s just as committed to perestroika as Gorbachev was. If it fails, the Soviet Union heads back to the dark ages – that’s his line.’
‘For dark ages, read “cold war”.’
Reynolds shrugged. It was a bleak picture. If the Politburo had its way, Russian relations with the West would take a dive. Yet for Savkin to hold on to power, he’d have to sacrifice all the east-west détente that had been built up in recent years.
‘So, what’s your advice, Tom?’
‘Keep it cool. Like we’ve done with the Rostov. Don’t give them the chance to pull us into a fight.’
‘And the exercise?’
‘You mustn’t be seen to be changing any of it. But let’s check the game plan. It won’t be the surface ships that cause trouble; they’ll keep west of North Cape, the way they always do. It’s the subs that worry me. They got something different planned, but I don’t remember what it is. You got the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs coming to see you in an hour. Just time for me to call him, to make sure he’s briefed.’
‘Okay. Do it, Tom.’
McGuire looked at his watch. He could grab a sandwich lunch before the Admiral arrived and have everything straightened out before he called the British Prime Minister at 4pm.
* * *
Northwood, England.
Rear-Admiral Anthony Bourlet was thunderstruck. He let the telephone receiver drop onto its rest. What Captain Norman Craig had just told him had given Operation Shadowhunt a ghastly new dimension.
Suddenly they faced the possibility that Hitchens wasn’t suffering a breakdown after all, but was acting under some sort of duress, presumable from the KGB.
Bourlet checked his watch. 1700 hrs. There could still be someone at the registry. He jabbed a finger at the intercom button.
‘Do something very urgently for me, will you?’ he called his WRNS PA. ‘Get onto the registry and see what you can dig up on HMS Tenby, Not the SSN. The old T-class with the same name, back in the early sixties. Disappeared in the Barents. I want to know when, where, and preferably the inquiry report, too. Hurry now. I’m just going along to the C-in-C.’
‘He’s just left his office, sir.’
‘Well, see if you can catch him. Ring down to the security desk.’
The door to the C-in-C’s outer office was open.
‘Has he been gone long?’
‘’Bout half a minute, sir. Just missed him,’ replied Waverley’s staff officer. Just then the telephone rang.
‘Oh, yes, sir. He’s here now.’
The lieutenant commander passed the phone across.
‘Is this really urgent, Anthony? I’m in a hurry,’ came the irritated voice of Admiral Waverley.
‘Vital, sir.’
There was a pause. Bourlet heard a sigh at the other end.
‘Oh, all right. I’ll come up again.’
Within two minutes Bourlet was explaining about the unknown woman who had met Philip secretly in Guernsey earlier that summer.
‘Craig’s been onto the security services. They’re going to see Sara Hitchens again. Apparently the Russian who’s been screwing her has a wife. MI5 suspects there was some sort of double-act going on.’
‘I’m lost. What exactly do we suspect now?’
Waverley was hollow-eyed at the thought of having to break news of further horrors to the Prime Minister.
‘Remember those words of Philip’s that Sara overheard; “Dad, what have they done to you?” – something to that effect? Suggests Philip’s father is still alive. If that’s the case, the Soviets could be offering to free him – in exchange for something.’
Waverley swallowed hard.
‘Like what?’
‘Dunno. A Trafalgar class sub?’ Bourlet joked grimly.
‘Bollocks! His crew would never let him.’
‘Well then, something else. . . .’
‘A Moray mine?’
‘Exactly!’
‘Oh, Christ!’
Waverley pressed the flat of his hand against his brow, rubbing it back and forth as if to muffle the alarm bells ringing inside his head.
The implications were horrendous. The Moray was a British–American development. He could imagine the bad-mouthing that would pour from Washington if this nightmare came true.
‘But, but even if Hitchens had been blackmailed into giving them a Moray, what about his wife’s affair with the Russian? Are you saying he accepted that as just something else he had to put up with if his father was to be freed? Surely not.’
‘According to Sara Hitchens, when Philip found out about her and the Russian, it seemed to make up his mind for him. Make of that what you will.’
‘In other words, we haven’t a clue what he’s going to do.’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
Waverley stood up and smoothed his uniform jacket.
‘I’ll have to tell Downing Street. She’s not going to like this, you know.’
Bourlet took a certain malicious pleasure in seeing the misery engraved on the face of his Commander-in-Chief.
‘And you’d better signal Commander Tinker in Tenby, particularly as it’s his own wife who’s brought all this to light. . . .’ Waverley frowned. ‘What an extraordinary coincidence – the name of the SSN we’ve sent to find him. D’you think it means something?’
Back in his own office Bourlet opened Hitchens’ file, and began to read. His own memories of the events of 1962 began to return. He’d been a sub-lieutenant then, on his first posting.
The official report had been a bland document for public consumption, making no reference to the spying mission that Tenby had been engaged in at the time. But a secret annexe to the report suggested the very real possibility that the Soviets had vaporized the boat with a nuclear torpedo.
But if Lieutenant Commander Hitchens, Philip’s father, was still alive, that theory didn’t fit any more.
* * *
Downing Street, London.
The Foreign Secretary, Sir Nigel Penfold, arrived at Number 10 at 8.30 p.m., half-an-hour before the call from Washington was due. In his briefcase were the notes from MI6, which offered an assessment of Soviet affairs almost identical to that provided by the CIA to President McGuire.
In the House of Commons that afternoon the Prime Minister had faced tough questions from MPs, suggesting the NATO manoeuvres were indeed provocative at a time when President Savkin needed all the help he could get. In reply she’d slammed into the ‘blatant propaganda’ emanating from Moscow, and trumpeted the right of NATO navies to exercise in the Norwegian Sea.
‘I’ve had three calls from Admiral Waverley today, Nigel,’ she announced. ‘The first to tell me they’d located the Truculent, the second to say they’d lost her again, and the third just this moment, to tell me that it now looks as if Commander Hitchens could be a Russian agent!’
‘What?’
‘The KGB may be blackmailing him. Something to do with his father. I’ve just launched a rocket at the security chiefs; I should have heard about it from them, not the wretched Navy!
‘And Sir Stewart had the cheek to tell me that because the Royal Navy has the quietest submarines in the world, they may not be able to stop Commander Hitchens doing whatever he i
ntends to do!
‘Pour me another whisky, would you? It’s been a long day.’
The Foreign Secretary obliged, but kept the measure small. He’d noticed the PM losing her concentration recently after too many whiskies.
‘What’s President McGuire going to say? Not a word to him about this business, Nigel.’
A buzzer sounded in the secure communications box. The PM picked up the receiver, and nodded to Penfold.
‘We’re ready. Put him through.’
She replaced the receiver and keyed the conference switch that operated a loudspeaker and microphone.
‘Good afternoon, Prime Minister. John McGuire here.’
‘Good evening, Mr President. How nice to hear your voice. I have Sir Nigel with me. Are you accompanied at your end?’
‘Tom’s here.’
‘Good evening, ma’am, Sir Nigel,’ came the voice of the National Security Adviser.
‘Perhaps you’d let me make the opening shots,’ McGuire’s voice had an edge to it. ‘Our intelligence assets think Savkin’s on the way out. The conservatives on the Politburo are getting the upper hand and want to turn the clock back. Our assessment is that he’s spoiling for a fight with the West as a distraction. Just a little fight, but something, nonetheless. Do you go along with that view?’
‘We agree as to what’s happening in the Politburo, and your assessment of Savkin’s actions is certainly a distinct possibility,’ the PM answered.
‘Our view is that Savkin’s lost his hand anyhow. There’s no way we can save him. All we can do is pray they don’t turn the clock right back to Brezhnev’s time.’
‘You’re more pessimistic than we are, John. But we agree in general with what you say.’
‘So it’s a time for the Western Alliance to keep its head down. Which isn’t easy with about a hundred NATO warships steaming towards the Kola peninsula! Now, we’ve just discussed this with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. On his advice, we feel there’s only one aspect of Exercise Ocean Guardian that needs to be modified to ensure we don’t risk mixing it with the Russian Navy . . .’
‘Mr President!’ the PM interrupted. ‘On no account must the Alliance be seen to be backing off in the face of blatant propaganda from the Soviet Union. At times like this we need to show strength, not weakness!’
‘If I may continue . . . We won’t be seen to be backing off at all! It’s the submarine operations that should be changed. Their activities are secret anyway, so no one’ll know we’ve given them new orders.’
This was dangerous ground. Penfold’s concern grew as the PM reached for her glass.
‘Go on, Mr President,’ she said.
‘I’m talking of two subs in particular, Prime Minister. One of ours and one of yours. Their exercise task, as you know, is to try to penetrate the Soviet surveillance barriers and simulate the planting of the new “smart” mines at the entrances to two major Russian submarine bases. Normally that sort of operation is fair game; we don’t admit we’re doing it, and the Russians don’t admit it if they manage to detect us doing it. But with Savkin looking for a fight, they might just blow those boats out of the water.’
‘Yes. I hear what you’re saying. But that’s an essential task for our submarines, in case a real war threatens. They’ve got to try it out, see what’s possible and what isn’t.’
‘Let me put it this way. This afternoon I gave orders that the USS Baltimore should turn back from her mission, and join the exercises with the Surface Fleet west of North Cape. There will be no United States submarines operating within a hundred miles of the Soviet coast for the immediate future. If your boat goes in there, she’ll be on her own.’
The PM’s expression froze.
‘I earnestly recommend you to withdraw that boat, Prime Minister. We’re all fully agreed on this side that it’s the right thing to do. The operation can be set up again in six months when the Kremlin’s settled down.’
‘I hear what you say, John. We’ll give it most urgent thought, I promise you.’
‘Say, ah . . . there won’t be any problem in recalling that boat, will there? No communications difficulties?’
‘The Commander-in-Chief Fleet communicates regularly with all the ships under his command, Mr President. Now, if there’s nothing further we need to discuss, I’d like to end this conversation so that I can pursue the points you’ve raised.’
‘Fine by me. Glad to have talked with you. We’ll stay in close touch.’
‘That would be prudent. Goodnight, Mr President.’
The PM immediately picked up her internal telephone.
‘Could you get me CINCFLEET on a secure line urgently, please?’
The Foreign Secretary suddenly thought of the orders he’d given the Secret Intelligence Service, to warn the Russians of the danger from Truculent. It now appeared the Soviets were expecting the boat anyway, and for some quite different reason. He hoped to God the PM never found out what he’d done.
* * *
Severomorsk, USSR.
Vice-Admiral Feliks Astashenkov found it impossible to sleep. His heart was racing from too much cognac, and his wife, who had a heavy cold, was snoring fitfully.
The green digits of his alarm clock told him it was just before one.
Despite his wakefulness, the knock at the door startled him.
‘Admiral Belikov wishes to see you immediately at his home, Comrade Vice-Admiral,’ came the grumpy voice of his valet who’d been woken out of a deep sleep. ‘He’s just telephoned.’
‘All right. Order the car,’ Astashenkov whispered, hoping his wife hadn’t been woken. He could have walked it in five minutes, but the wind was bitter, and if he was to be deprived of sleep he didn’t see why his driver shouldn’t suffer, too.
The heavy smell of spirits in the car almost made him change his mind. But even if the starshina driver was drunk, he shouldn’t come to much harm on the short drive.
‘Left here, halfwit!’ he yelled as they overshot the turning.
When they reached Belikov’s house the driver slammed on the brakes, hurling Astashenkov against the seat in front.
‘Right, you animal! Give me the bottle!’
The driver turned and shrugged, feigning bewilderment.
‘That’s an order!’
Grudgingly the starshina fished in the pocket of his heavy greatcoat and pulled out a flask. Astashenkov grabbed it from him, and emptied the contents onto the road.
‘Wait here!’
He left the car door open and marched up to the portal of Belikov’s villa. The guard had been watching for him and opened the door before he could knock.
The Commander of the Northern Fleet was waiting in his study, a large brandy bottle and two glasses on a tray on the desk.
‘My apologies for this, Feliks. It can’t be helped. No one’s getting much sleep tonight. Grekov called me from Moscow an hour ago. He’d been woken by the KGB. Come and sit down. Brandy?’
‘I’d prefer tea, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course. So would I.’
Belikov signalled to the guard to arrange it.
‘What’s happened?’
‘The operation we talked about yesterday – the British submarine that’s bringing us a “Moray” mine . . .’
Astashenkov nodded expectantly.
‘Damned KGB! Arrogant bastards! You know what they’ve done? Screwed up the whole plan! That’s just the word for it, too; screwed up!
‘Their man in Plymouth had to end up in bed with the wife of the British commander who’s working for us! The commander found out and is so goddamned angry he’s coming here to blow our Fleet to pieces!’
‘What?’ Astashenkov cried. ‘I don’t understand!’
The guard brought in the tea, giving Belikov time to cool down.
‘All right, I’ll explain the whole story,’ he went on, when they were alone again.
Feliks listened with growing astonishment and anger. After five minutes he knew
as much as Belikov.
‘We must find that boat before it finds one of ours,’ Belikov insisted. He was a surface-ship man, ill-versed in the details of undersea warfare.
‘We must also face facts, Andrei. Our submarines make more noise than theirs. If we send out our boats to look for Truculent, it could amount to suicide. Do we want to risk that?’
‘The PLA I sent south managed to intercept it. It could do so again.’
‘The British boat was moving fast then. Now it’ll be slow. Very slow and silent. We can hunt it from the air. It’ll be safer that way.’
Belikov cursed and poured himself a cognac. He cocked an eyebrow at Astashenkov.
‘All right. I’ll join you after all.’
‘Can we be certain he plans to attack us?’ Feliks demanded. ‘He might still be intending to give us the mine so his father can go free.’
‘Nothing’s certain. But we have to be prepared.’
Astashenkov’s brow furrowed.
‘If he wants to catch us with mines, he’ll have to lay them at the choke points, where he knows we have to pass. That almost certainly means close to the mouth of this very inlet.’
‘He could go further east, to the Taifun base at Gremikha . . .’
‘Unlikely. The further east he goes, the greater the risk we’ll catch him. No. He’ll come here. I’m sure of it. What was the original plan, Andrei? Where was he going to deliver the mine? To the harbourmaster at Polyarny?’
The Commander-in-Chief glared. It was no time for jokes.
‘He was to lay it about twenty kilometres off-shore, in less than one-hundred-and-fifty metres of water. The KGB promised to unite him with his father in Helsinki, after the mine had been recovered.’
‘Hmmm. Not bad. A pity it may not happen now.’
Belikov swirled the brandy in his glass.
‘Maybe it still will, but differently.’
‘Meaning?’
The Commander-in-Chief leaned forward, clasping his glass globe between the palms of his hands. His words came as a hoarse whisper.
‘If he comes into our territorial waters, we can sink him. The wreckage of HMS Truculent will give us a whole harvest of secrets – and a Moray mine.’
Shadow Hunter Page 24
