Shadow Hunter

by Geoffrey Archer

  Then she noticed something that gave her a certain comfort – a trace of a smile on the old man’s thin lips.

  * * *

  HMS Truculent.

  Philip’s mind was made up. The decision had come quite suddenly, as if placed in his brain by some outside agency.

  His father was dead; he was suddenly certain of it. He’d been dead for years probably, though exactly when it had happened was irrelevant. The ‘evidence’ that he was alive, which the KGB woman had produced, was fake. The whole scheme was a trick. He knew he had been stupid, but it no longer mattered.

  Now the Soviets would pay the price for destroying his father, destroying his marriage and eventually destroying him too. They were going to get what was coming to them.

  ‘Captain, Control Room!’

  ‘On my way,’ Philip said into the communications box.

  He hurried to the control room.

  ‘Two submarine contacts, sir,’ Pike told him. ‘Both approaching from the west, both appear to be Victor Threes.’

  On the chart he pointed to the island of Ostrov Chernyy with the underwater spit of sand extending from its northern shore.

  ‘We’re four miles from the island itself, two miles from the edge of the shallows. The first contact is five miles behind us on a bearing of three-one-zero. Coming straight at us. Fifteen knots. She may be tracking us, or else getting a steer from an aircraft.’

  ‘Our speed?’

  ‘Seven knots, sir.’

  ‘And the second contact?’

  ‘Less of a threat. Twelve miles distant.’

  ‘Right. Spriggs, over here!’ Philip ordered, suddenly sounding decisive and confident. ‘We’ve got to be quick. They could be about to attack. Our task, gentlemen, is to lay three Moray mines close to their submarine lanes. Set the fuses for any submarine target, WEO, but with remote triggering. The mines won’t be activated until later – by sonar burst. When, and who by, that’ll be up to CINCFLEET. Is that clear?’

  Pike hesitated. Spriggs was looking to him for a sign.

  ‘The orders, sir . . . , they specify geographical coordinates for the mines? You’ll give us the signal you received?’

  Philip ground his teeth, determined to keep his nerve.

  ‘The co-ordinates I was given no longer apply,’ he snapped. ‘It was supposed to be right in the mouth of the Kola Inlet. We’ll never get there now. The fall back plan was to place them somewhere else. That’s down to me.’

  He prodded the chart.

  ‘There. Just on the edge of the shelf, where it rises up towards Ostrov Chernyy. That’s where we’ll put them.’

  In his mind’s eye he imagined the spot; a slope of mud and fine sand, 150 metres down; protruding from it – the twisted metal of the old T-class boat, HMS Tenby. Soon, very soon, two Soviet Victor class submarines would be joining that pile of wreckage, if all went well.

  ‘Right, gentlemen. Get on with it. We only have minutes to put those mines on the bottom and get the hell out of here!’

  And Philip strode off to the sound room.

  ‘Well?’ asked Spriggs.

  ‘Shit! I dunno! They won’t be armed when we lay them. He says it’ll need further orders.’

  Spriggs raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Look. I’m the one that’ll get the chop if I’m wrong!’ Pike reasoned. ‘It’s not the moment, Paul. We just haven’t got enough evidence for me to relieve him. You’d better get the mines ready!’

  * * *

  HMS Tenby.

  ‘Target’s altered course, sir,’ called Lieutenant Algy Colqhoun. ‘He’s heading for the shelf north of Ostrov Chernyy.’

  ‘Christ!’ breathed Andrew. ‘The moment of truth! He’s going to bloody give them the mine!’

  ‘I’ll proceed with the firing sequence?’ Biddle suggested.

  ‘Yes, but hold the final order,’ Andrew told him.

  ‘Open bow caps!’ the WEO ordered the weapons compartment crew below.

  Andrew looked hard at the Al plot. Truculent was five miles ahead. Too far for the underwater telephone.

  ‘That Victor’s after us, Peter. Eight miles astern. We’ve not fooled her with our decoy. All we’ve done is given her something loud enough to track.’

  ‘Dump the decoy!’ Biddle shouted, swinging himself into the bandstand. ‘Let it swim right here!’

  He glanced rapidly at the plot.

  ‘Starboard ten. Steer zero-nine-zero. Standby to fire!’

  They were turning away from the decoy, weaving, almost certain the Soviet boat wouldn’t detect them.

  So, Philip was going to do it – betray his country – hand over technology that could be ten years ahead of anything the Soviets had.

  A Hammerfish torpedo would take just four minutes to reach the Truculent. There was a chance, just a chance he could use it to stop the mine-laying and still let the hundred men on board survive.

  ‘Get the bloody thing into the water!’ he barked to Biddle.

  The CO gave the order.

  ‘Fire!’

  From the nose of the submarine the Hammerfish shot forward, propelled by its miniature gas turbine. Trailing behind, a thin wire linked it to the submarine.

  The weapons controller had his eyes glued to his screen. The target was at the centre; a green symbol approaching it from below was the torpedo. Guidance was from the submarine’s bow sonar to start with, but shortly the weapon’s own sensors would begin to track the target.

  Andrew hovered at his shoulder.

  ‘When the range is down to two-hundred metres, and the high-definition sonar goes active, we’re going to have to move bloody fast,’ Andrew warned. ‘If we get it wrong, all the men in that boat are dead.’

  The operator swallowed hard, hand hovering over the joystick that would guide the torpedo on its last few metres of flight.

  * * *

  HMS Truculent.

  ‘Torpedo! Torpedo! Torpedo! Torpedo bearing red one-five-zero! True bearing two-nine-five!’

  ‘Shit!’ Pike hissed.

  ‘Starboard thirty! Steer two-nine-five! Ready the mines!’ Philip bellowed.

  ‘Only one mine ready in the tube, sir!’ Spriggs called.

  The control room heeled over as the submarine turned on its tail to face the threat.

  ‘Fire a decoy!’

  Forward of the control room a rating slipped a Bandfish decoy into a launch tube and tugged at the lever that propelled it into the sea. The cylinder of electronics hovered in the water emitting a high intensity signal to lure the torpedo.

  ‘Course two-nine-five, sir,’ Cavendish called as the boat settled onto the new heading.

  ‘Are we tracking the bastard who’s firing at us?’

  ‘Bit confused, sir. Thought it was the Victor Three, but the transients of the bow caps and torpedo launch came from a different bearing.’

  ‘Lay the mine!’

  The forward weapons compartment reverberated to the thunder of compressed air, blasting the Moray mine out of the torpedo tube. It began to sink towards the sea-bed one hundred metres below.

  ‘Torpedo’s gone active, sir!’

  ‘Give me a firing solution, sonar, for Christ’s sake!’ Philip screamed, clinging to the bandstand.

  ‘Torpedo’s sonar’s classified as a fucking Hammerfish, sir!’ came a yell of astonishment from the sound room.

  Philip froze.

  ‘Oh, my God! What have I done?’

  * * *

  HMS Tenby.

  ‘Three hundred yards to the target, sir!’ announced the weapons operator. ‘The passive system’s swamped by decoy noise, but the active’s burning through it!’

  ‘Just heard the target launch something from a tube, sir!’ yelled the sound room.

  ‘Two hundred yards! High-definition sonar now active, sir.’

  ‘Make it look down! Below the bows,’ Andrew hissed in the operator’s ear. ‘Track what’s just come from the tube!’

  ‘If it’s a torpedo it’ll
be gone, sir,’ the rating grumbled.

  ‘It’s a mine! Just try and track it,’ Andrew ordered.

  The weapon controller dived the Hammerfish towards the sea-bed. He’d never done this before.

  ‘Got it, sir. Small object, dropping.’

  ‘Spot on! Just one? Sound room! Anything from the other tubes?’

  ‘Nothing detected, sir!’

  ‘Fifty yards, sir. Do we hit the mine?’

  ‘Yes. Blow the fucker to pieces!’

  * * *

  HMS Truculent.

  Inside Truculent, the double explosion boomed with a terrifying resonance. The blast wave lifted the bows and tossed the boat sideways.

  In the control room ratings and officers crashed to the deck. Paul Spriggs gashed his forehead as he fell, blood trickling into his eye.

  Tim Pike grabbed the edge of the bandstand and pulled himself to his feet.

  ‘Oh, God! Oh, God!’

  Eyes closed, the captain was gibbering meaninglessly, his mind a tortured jumble.

  The moment had come.

  ‘I have command!’ Pike shouted. ‘Damage reports!’

  Peter Claypole pressed the key on the ship control panel that linked him with the manoeuvring room, aft. He listened, then reassured the first lieutenant.

  ‘No problems with propulsion.’

  ‘Casualties in the weapons compartment!’ called Spriggs, pressing a handkerchief to his forehead. ‘I’m going down there.’

  ‘Starboard twenty. Steer zero-one-zero! Revolutions for maximum speed,’ Pike ordered. ‘Nick, give me a safe depth.’

  ‘Two hundred metres for five miles. Then come up to one twenty.’

  ‘Ten down. Keep two hundred metres. TAS, what are the contacts doing?’

  ‘Closing,’ Cordell replied. ‘Nearest at four miles, now classified as Trafalgar class. Closest Victor’s disappeared. Guess it must’ve been a decoy. Lost track of the other Victor. We’ve a firing solution on the Trafalgar.’

  ‘You must be joking! What the hell was he doing firing at us, anyway? And where the fuck’s the C.O.?’

  The bandstand was empty. Hitchens had gone.

  ‘Hugo,’ Pike shouted, spotting the radio officer. ‘Find the captain. He’s not well. Get him back to his cabin and stay with him. Get a steward to help if you need to.’

  * * *

  HMS Tenby.

  Even four miles away the double detonation of the torpedo and the mine was heard through the hull.

  ‘Bloody well done!’ Andrew clapped the weapons operator on the shoulder.

  He turned to a grinning Peter Biddle.

  ‘Let’s hope Pike’s got the message by now. What’s the Truc doing, TAS?’

  ‘Moving. Fast. Heading north, thirty knots.’

  ‘We do the same? Right?’ Biddle checked.

  ‘Right. And keep close. When we’re clear of danger I’m going to have a few words with Phil Hitchens on the underwater telephone.’

  * * *

  Severomorsk.

  The operations room of the Soviet Northern Fleet was electrified.

  The four helicopters hovering over the waters round Ostrov Chernyy reported the explosions within seconds of each other. Using passive sonar transducers, only one had been close enough to the Truculent to hear her bow caps open and the mine being expelled.

  Admiral Belikov frowned. They didn’t match. The contact discovered by the helicopter and the one the Ladny had been following – they were too far apart to be one and the same.

  Two foreign submarines? Had the second boat come to try to stop Commander Hitchens betraying his country? Had the Truculent been sunk?

  ‘Tell them to go active. Search the area thoroughly. Put out a general signal to look for foreign submarines. There may be several boats, with the ability to make themselves sound like our own.’

  The Captain Lieutenant hastened to relay the order. Using active sonar in the shallow water round Ostov Chernyy would not be easy; reflections from the uneven sea-bed could make the readings unintelligible.

  Decoys. Of course! Belikov snapped his pudgy fingers. The explosions could be a decoy too. To make them concentrate their search round Ostrov Chernyy, while the submarines headed elsewhere! Inshore? To the mouth of the Kol’skiy Zaliv? To lay the new mines where they could do most damage, just outside the main submarine bases? It made sense.

  And who would be waiting for them? Felix Astashenkov – ready to claim the military and political glory of destroying the foreign intruder.

  Belikov fumed at the thought.

  ‘Send a coded signal to the Ladny,’ he ordered the Captain Lieutenant. ‘Tell her to head inshore fast. I believe the British boats are making for Polyarny.’

  * * *

  Ametyst.

  ‘The sonar computer puts the explosions at fifteen kilometres northeast of here, Comrade Vice-Admiral,’ announced Captain 2nd Rank Yury Makhov.

  Mines. And they’d found a target. Feliks had misjudged it. He’d thought the only place the Truculent would lay them would be the mouth of the Kol’skiy Zaliv. He’d been fatally wrong.

  ‘The sonar has no submarine contacts yet?’

  ‘Regrettably not, Vice-Admiral. We’ll need to be close to a Trafalgar to hear her.’

  ‘Then we must close the gap, Yury. Ten minutes at maximum speed will bring us near.’

  Makhov disliked driving his vessel fast in inshore waters, making his sonar deaf. But he could see the anxiety on Astashenkov’s face.

  ‘I share your determination. We’ll have our revenge on the Englishman!’

  He ordered the reactors to maximum power. Imperceptibly the 7,600 ton leviathan began to accelerate to 45 knots.

  * * *

  HMS Tenby.

  ‘Ten up. Keep one-hundred-and-twenty-five metres, revolutions for fifteen knots!’ Biddle directed. They were slowing down to listen, desperate to know what had happened on the Truculent.

  ‘Contact bearing zero-four-five. Trafalgar class, sir!’ the sonar CPO announced. ‘Range . . .’

  He waited the few seconds it took the computer to calculate it.

  ‘Two-point-seven nautical miles, sir. No other surface or sub-surface contacts registered.’

  ‘Right. This is it.’

  Andrew lifted the handset of the underwater telephone.

  ‘British submarine, British submarine! This is your sister vessel speaking. I am Commander Andrew Tinker. Do you hear me, over?’

  HMS Truculent.

  Tim Pike spun round, thunderstruck by the voice that suddenly crackled from the loudspeaker. He grabbed the handset.

  ‘I hear you clearly, sir. This is the first lieutenant speaking, Lieutenant Commander Pike. Over.’

  There was a lapse of a few seconds before the reply reached through the water.

  ‘Listen carefully, Tim. Commander Hitchens is unwell. You must take command of the boat immediately. I repeat. You must assume command. That is an order from CINCFLEET. Understood? Over.’

  Pike felt his shoulders sag with relief.

  ‘I’ve already taken command, sir. Repeat. I am now in command. Commander Hitchens is being attended to in his cabin. Over.’

  Again, a pause for the reply.

  ‘Good news. Give him a message from me, will you? Tell him not to worry. His problems can be sorted out. Tell him I’ll help him when we get back home. Now. Get well clear, and when it’s safe call CINCFLEET. Over.’

  ‘We have an emergency on board, sir,’ Pike continued. ‘Two men badly injured. Legs crushed by a torpedo disloged by the explosion. Over.’

  ‘Sorry about that. Better try to get them ashore in Norway. Tell CINCFLEET to organize it. See you in Devonport. Out.’

  Tim Pike replaced the handset.

  ‘Clear the datum!’ he called. They had to move fast. The Soviets were bound to have heard their conversation.

  ‘TAS. Take control. I’m going to see the captain.’

  So, they’d been right about Hitchens all along. The m
an had thrown a loop. CINCFLEET must have known it soon after they’d left port. Had to send a bloody submarine to get the message through!

  He shuddered to think what Tinker had intended when he’d launched that torpedo at them. Had he meant to hit the Moray mine, or had Truculent herself been the target?

  In the flush of relief that they’d survived, the anger he’d suppressed for days began to boil over.

  Hitchens had been happy to risk all their lives in pursuit of some crazy plan of his own. The bastard!

  Sub. Lieutenant Hugo Smallbone stood at ease outside the captain’s cabin.

  ‘He told me to get out,’ Hugo whispered, tapping the tip of a finger against his temple.

  Pike pushed into the cabin. The captain’s face was like a cast, devoid of emotion.

  ‘There’s a message for you, sir. From Commander Tinker.’

  Suddenly Pike saw the mask crack. At the mention of the name, Philip’s lips began to tremble; a tic set his eyes blinking.

  ‘Said you weren’t to worry, sir. He’ll help you sort things out when we get home.’

  Philip clenched his eyelids to stop their movement. Pike’s voice echoed inside his head.

  Andrew? Out here? Andrew had come after him? The man Sara had named as the first of her string of lovers? Andrew, who’d betrayed nearly twenty years of friendship by seducing his wife and setting her on the path to ruin? How could this be the man they’d sent?

  ‘He’ll help you sort things out when we get home.’ What a mockery! God, how patronizing!

  ‘Sir? Sir, are you all right?’

  Pike’s voice was agitated.

  ‘You’re suffering from shock, sir. I’ll get the medical assistant to give you something. Just hang on, sir.’

  Alarmed at Philip’s uncontrollable shaking, Pike hurried to find the steward who’d done a first-aid course. He remembered where he was; he would be attending to the two men with crushed legs in the torpedo compartment.

  He clattered down the ladder to the deck below.

  ‘Where’s the MA? Quick, get up here with your bag of goodies. Something to sedate the Captain.’