Shadow Hunter
Page 32
Suddenly Pike heard Hugo Smallbone bellowing for him.
‘The captain’s gone! Just rushed past me. I thought he was going to the heads. . . .’
Suddenly an alarm bell sounded.
‘The forward escape hatch!’ Pike yelled and hurled himself along the corridor.
In the escape chamber, the lower hatch was closed, a red light flashing to warn that the chamber was flooding.
Pike wrenched at the hatch. It crashed open, icy sea water drenching down onto the deck. Pike fought his way up through the torrent, gasping for breath. He seized Philip’s legs and both men crashed down onto the deck, choking.
The medical assistant and Hugo Smallbone dragged Hitchens to one side so that Pike could get back into the tower. Water streaming past him, he reached up, and fumbled for the flood valve to shut it off.
Soaked and shivering he collapsed onto the deck, water swilling away into the drains that led to the bilges.
‘Jesus!’ he panted. ‘Jesus Christ!’
* * *
Neither the Ametyst nor the Ladny was aware of the other’s presence, both deafened by the speed at which they were moving. Their two captains had a single aim; to find the British submarine before it could lay more mines.
The Ladny had been ordered to head inshore, the Ametyst was bound for the open sea.
The collision came at a combined underwater speed of 72 knots.
The Ladny struck the Ametyst aft of the forward planes. The protective outer casings of the two vessels crumpled like paper, until the pressure hulls struck with a terrible wrenching of steel and an explosion of escaping air.
The forward weapon compartment of the Ladny telescoped, then split open like an egg dropped on concrete, spewing men and oil into the black water. The section of the Ametyst ahead of the fin was torn away by the impact. Exploding electrical circuitry jolted the foreshortened hull nose-up, allowing air to escape in a seething column to the surface.
Water surged down through the control and accommodation spaces, stopping only at the watertight hatches through the reactor compartment. Battered and disorientated by the violent movement, the men had no time to don escape masks. Within minutes, more than half the crew had drowned – amongst them Vice-Admiral Feliks Astashenkov.
Devoid of buoyancy, the forward section fell towards the sea-bed fifty metres below, propelled by the still-rotating screw. The aft section of her hull lifted up by the air trapped in it, the Ametyst began to somersault.
The safety systems in the two reactors tripped as the hull passed through the critical angle, but it was too late. The hull inverted. Steam percolated back into the reactor pressure vessel, replacing the water which moderated the nuclear reaction. Deprived of coolant, the temperature in the core began to rise. By the time the broken nose of the hull buried itself in the mud of the sea-bed the core was melting.
On the Ladny, too, there were no survivors forward of the reactor section. The boat sank to the sea-bed, nose-down, but upright. The engineering crew aft succeeded in scramming the reactors; control rods dropped into the core to absorb the neutron flow and damp down the reaction. Then panic set in.
One hundred metres separated the two wrecks on the bottom. The heat in Ametyst’s reactors climbed fast. The molten core burned through the steel of the reactor compartment, then through the hull itself. Ice-cold water surged in and exploded into steam.
The detonation of the reactor compartment released a tidal wave of energy, scattering the shreds of the Ametyst like sea-weed, and knocking the Ladny onto its side.
* * *
HMS Tenby.
The sounds of the collision, the ripping of metal, and the explosions that followed were heard by the two British submarines twenty miles to the north.
Andrew took the headphones from the sonar rating in the sound room and listened to the brain-curdling racket.
‘Where’s it coming from, for God’s sake?’ he asked, suddenly scared that Philip could have laid other mines earlier.
‘Bearing one-nine-five, sir. Range twenty miles.’
Andrew hurried to the navigation plot, and picked up the dividers. He measured the distance onto the chart.
‘Five miles north of the inlet. Not guilty. Truculent never got that far south.’
‘It’s that Victor III,’ announced Colqhoun. ‘She was sprinting. We tracked her all the way in. Look, it’s on disc.’
‘Play it back, CPO.’
The sonar chief cued the disc and directed Andrew to the VDU. The phosphor-green wave pattern began to spread up the screen.
‘That’s the Victor III, sir,’ explained the chief, pointing to a ridge on the waterfall pattern at the frequency generated by vibration from the Soviet submarine’s pumps.
‘And what’s that next to it?’ Andrew asked.
‘Just an echo, sir. Shallow water.’
‘Couldn’t it be another boat?’ Andrew pressed.
The CPO keyed the target information into a window on the screen.
‘Same bearing, sir. Just an echo.’
‘But if there were two boats, and they collided. . . .’
‘See what you mean, sir.’
‘Spin back five minutes on the disc.’
It took a few seconds.
The chief keyed instructions for the computer to analyse the tracks.
‘You’re dead right, sir. They were on different bearings.’
Andrew folded his arms. For two Soviet vessels, the submariners’ nightmare had come true. A collision at speed.
Peter Biddle appeared at his shoulder.
‘We’ve got to get a signal off fast,’ Andrew announced. ‘Before the Russians accuse us of sinking their boats.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wednesday late.
JOURNALISTS IN LONDON and Washington were invited at short notice to special briefings at Downing Street and the White House respectively.
They were told the British and US governments had received irrefutable intelligence information that two Soviet submarines had collided accidentally earlier that day, with heavy loss of life. American spy satellites had picked up extensive radio traffic emanating from the major rescue operation the Soviet Navy was mounting.
When asked why they were releasing the information in such an unprecedented manner, the press were told that it was to forestall any attempt the Soviets might make to blame the incident on the West, and more particularly on the NATO exercise Ocean Guardian.
The story made the lead on late-night television news bulletins and would form the splash headline in the newspapers the following morning.
* * *
Moscow. Midnight.
The telephoned report from Admiral Grekov was not the one Nikolai Savkin had expected. The disaster stunned him.
Couldn’t it have been NATO mines that had been responsible, he’d asked? Grekov had been adamant. A collision. They’d used the word on open communications. They’d had to; most of the rescue and pollution control vessels had no encrypted communications systems.
Incompetence was the cause, Grekov had insisted. The real culprit was whoever had instructed Feliks Astashenkov to defy orders and take the Ametyst to sea.
From the bitter note of recrimination in Grekov’s voice, Savkin knew that he knew.
He sat slumped in his chair, in the dimly-lit sitting-room of his Kremlin apartment. Who would they send, he wondered?
An hour had passed since Grekov’s call. Then there came a gentle tap on the door.
‘Ah, it’s you, Vasily,’ Savkin sighed with relief at the sight of his Foreign Minister and friend. ‘Thank . . .’
His voice caught in his throat as KGB chief Medvedev followed Kalinin into the room.
‘There was a meeting earlier this evening,’ Kalinin began, unsmiling. ‘The vote went against you. You no longer have a majority in the Politburo.’
‘Who was it? Which one changed his mind?’
Kalinin dropped his eyes.
‘You?’ Savkin whispered inc
redulously.
‘It’s been too much for you, Nikolai,’ Kalinin explained. ‘Your sense of judgement . . .’ He shook his head sadly. ‘And when we learned what happened tonight . . .’
Medvedev stepped forward.
‘Comrade Savkin, I must ask you to come with me . . .’
The President of the Soviet Union stared wildly at the two men.
‘You could resign on grounds of ill health, Nikolai.’ Kalinin added, softly, ‘It would be best.’
‘Out of the question. We’ll meet tomorrow. There’ll be another vote.’
‘Too late. Your successor’s been chosen.’
Savkin gasped.
‘What? Who?’
This time Kalinin held his gaze steady.
‘It was unanimous. They all insisted it should be me.’
Savkin gripped his shoulders.
‘How long have you been planning this, Vasily?’
‘The experiment has failed. Our people cannot handle “freedom”. We must put the shackles back on. It’s the only way if the Union is not to disintegrate. Control from the centre. It’ll be better this time. No corruption. More efficiency. We’ve learnt lessons from perestroika, lessons that can never be unlearned.’
Nikolai Savkin turned away, his heart heavy with guilt and sadness.
It had all been in vain. Admiral Astashenkov and the other men who’d died in the submarines had perished to no purpose. If anything, their deaths had now compounded the nation’s troubles.
It was over. The collective leadership of the Soviet Union had decided to turn its back on the future.
* * *
Thursday 24th October.
Helsinki.
A small van with Soviet plates drew up to the rear entrance of the clinic, so that the plain wooden box could be slid inside.
The staff at the hospital never knew the name of the man who’d died there the previous day. He’d just been a case number. Now the body was being taken away; the file could be closed.
The van left the city, heading east. It was nearly two hundred kilometres to the Soviet border.
The KGB driver looked at his watch, then pressed his foot to the floor. He’d have to hurry.
Once over the border, there were still another fifty kilometres to drive to deliver the wooden box to the incineration plant.
* * *
Friday 25th October.
The Norwegian Sea.
A two-man Medevac team from the USS Eisenhower was lowered by wire from an SH-3 Sea King onto the forward casing of HMS Truculent.
They were led down through the forward hatch to the sick bay. The two men whose legs had been crushed in the torpedo compartment were in a bad way. The Royal Navy medical assistant had done well, but the men needed urgent surgery and intensive care.
Gently they strapped the casualties into stretchers, then organized a team of ratings to lift them through the hatch onto the casing.
Hitchens was groggy from continuous heavy sedation. Tim Pike took his arm and helped him out into the open air.
Anxiously Tim watched him lifted off the casing, the strop held tightly under his arm-pits, arms limply at his sides, until the helicopter crew-chief pulled him backwards into the airframe next to the two stretchers.
They’d feared the commander would try another suicide attempt, and had thought it too risky to lift him off by helicopter, but he’d reassured them. He no longer wanted to die. It was time to get home, to try to sort out the mess.
Andrew was already on the windswept deck of the Eisenhower when the helicopter landed. He dreaded Philip’s arrival. Pike had sent a signal from Truculent warning that after his attempt to kill himself, Philip had raved incoherently, naming Andrew as the man responsible for his troubles.
Andrew could guess what that was all about. Sara. She must have told Philip about their brief affair. Could he explain it to him? Hardly. Probably better to try to convince him it was untrue.
He’d also have to break the news to him that Sara was dead.
* * *
Late Afternoon.
RAF Northolt.
The US Navy Grumman Greyhound approached the runway from the west, skimming low over the dense line of commuter traffic heading home from London at the end of the day.
Philip had made no attempt at conversation during the flight. He’d been glad of the deafening noise that made communication almost impossible. Also, it meant Andrew hadn’t been able to hear him when he wept.
When the machine had come to a halt, they removed their survival suits, and walked down the loading ramp into the mild, autumn air.
‘Ah. I can see Patsy,’ said Andrew raising his arm to acknowledge her wave. She was waiting in front of the old pre-fabricated terminal building. Behind her stood two broad-shouldered men; Andrew assumed they were from Security, waiting for Philip. He could also see the squat figure of Admiral Bourlet and, with Patsy’s arm round him, a schoolboy, rather small for his thirteen years.
‘Isn’t that Simon?’
‘Yes,’ Philip gulped. ‘What am I going to say . . . ?’
‘We’ll help. Don’t worry.’
Patsy rushed forward and flung her arms round Andrew’s neck.
‘Thank God!’ she breathed in his ear. ‘The Admiral’s told me what you’ve been up to. Promise me you’ll never do it again?’
‘Congratulations, Andrew,’ Bourlet rumbled. ‘Bloody well done!’
Then, uncomfortably, they all turned to the lone figure of Philip.
He was staring at his son, spellbound. Just for a fleeting moment he’d seen himself, thirty years earlier.
In the boy’s eyes he recognized the same fear he’d felt whenever his own father had gone away, the fear of being left alone to face the world, unprepared.
Suddenly Simon ran forwards, face crumpling as emotion overwhelmed him.
‘Dad . . .’ the boy sobbed.
Philip hugged him into silence.
‘Hullo, son,’ he whispered. ‘I’m home.’
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Epub ISBN: 9780099603801
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Published by Arrow Books in 2004
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Copyright © Geoffrey Archer, 1989
Geoffrey Archer has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
First published in the United Kingdom in 1989 by Century
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ISBN 9780099603801
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