Shadow Hunter (22 page)

He unstrapped the life-vest, then struggled with the zips of the survival suit; the rating helped him. In a few moments he was free from the gear and, ducking, began to make his way below. A young officer greeted him at the top of the ladder. As he climbed down inside the tower, a warm blast of air came up to greet him, carrying a familiar smell of machinery and cooking.

He emerged into the control room. A ring of faces greeted him.

‘Hello, I'm Peter Biddle.'

The CO looked no more than a boy, smooth-skinned, fair-haired, waxy pale from the rolling of the boat. Andrew checked the gold bars on his epaulettes to be sure.

‘Andrew Tinker. Glad to be aboard.'

‘Ah, this looks like your kit.'

He glanced past Andrew at the sub-lieutenant carrying the holdall.

‘Good. The sooner we get below in this weather, the better we'll all feel.'

Andrew heard the clunk of the upper hatch being closed.

‘Upper lid shut and clipped,' the rating called.

‘Officer of the Watch. Dive the submarine. Let's clear the datum!' Commander Biddle ordered.

Shortly afterwards, with the submarine at 180 metres, Biddle led the way to his cabin.

‘Now take a seat,' he suggested to Andrew, ‘and put me out of my misery. What the hell's this all about?'

* * *

President John McGuire entered the ‘bunker', as he called it, and closed the door. He was a short man with wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and a nice smile. His National Security Adviser Tom Reynolds was already there, waiting for him.

The room was a new addition to the White House, just big enough to seat a dozen if necessary. Special wire mesh embedded in its walls, floor and ceiling prevented electronic eavesdropping.

‘Okay, Tom. What've you got?'

McGuire was nervous. Newly elected, he was still feeling his way through the complexities of foreign policy. He hailed from a midwestern state where he'd built a reputation as a tough and efficient governor, but where Russians were still thought of as hostile aliens from another planet.

‘It's thin, John. Real thin,' Reynolds drawled, stroking his long, angular chin.

A former US Air Force General, he'd spent much of his professional life studying the Soviet mind. The President relied on him to read the Russians, but this time he was unsure, and that made him nervous. He clasped and unclasped his hands.

‘The Defense Intelligence Agency has confirmed they're MiG-29s on that ship, and that it's called the
Rostov
. . .'

‘Goddammit, Tom! I knew that much yesterday! Where are they headed, that's what I need to know?'

‘And that's what none of our agencies can tell us yet. It's weird. Real weird. We've not had a whisper out of Cuba or Central America to suggest they're expecting new fighters. There's been nothing on the satellites either. The latest pictures from the KH12 over Cuba, Nicaragua, and El Salvador yesterday – the sky was clear, the pix are great, but there's not the slightest sign they're getting ready for new planes.'

‘So where are they going with those things? I got no feel for this, Tom. You've got to help me.'

‘Could be just about anyplace. Angola, Mozambique, Libya – you name it.'

‘Do those places matter to us? I mean, if they get the planes?'

Reynolds shrugged.

‘We sure as hell would care if they went to Libya. But I don't think they will. Savkin and Gaddafy ain't speakin' much these days. No. I still think it's Cuba – if it's anywhere at all.'

‘What the hell's that supposed to mean?'

‘It's weird. Those planes are built just outside Moscow. The easiest way to get them anywhere is to fly 'em. So why take them all the way up to Murmansk to put them on a ship?'

‘Maybe he hoped no one'd spot them that way.'

Reynolds shook his head.

‘You don't steam right past a US Navy flat-top if you want to keep secret a deck-full of jet fighters.'

‘So what're you saying? It was bait? And we took it?'

‘Could be. We can't say for sure.'

‘So, Savkin wants to wind us up, huh?'

‘Could be. Maybe he thinks if he can make us look real mean, it'll strengthen his hand in the next arms talks. Don't forget, they want naval forces on the agenda this time. And we've got a lot more at sea than they have.'

McGuire stood up, spun round the chair so its back
was against the table. Then he straddled it, resting his arms on the top.

‘Suppose you're wrong, and those planes go to Cuba. What do we have to do about it? What can this MiG do? Is it a threat?'

Tom Reynolds pursed his thin lips.

‘Militarily? The MiG-29's like our own F-18. Good all-round fighter. But there's only six of 'em on the ship, so far as we know – peanuts.

‘But politically? That's different. Any strengthening of communist forces so close to the US is bad news. You've seen what the media are doing with it. Watch the newscasts tonight and see how many congressmen have picked up the ball. I can name a handful who're guaranteed to be running with it.'

‘Mmmm,' the President mused, calculating the political advantages in the various courses of action open to him.

‘I guess the smart money's on not doing anything too fast,' he concluded, eyeing his National Security Adviser for his reaction. ‘Just so long as the rednecks in Congress don't see it as weakness.'

He stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets.

‘If Congress kicks up a fuss, I'll tell 'em the Soviets know damn well what to expect if they do anything that threatens the USA.'

‘And if you're asked if the MiGs are a threat?'

‘I'll tell 'em I don't know yet. Savkin hasn't told me where he's sending them!'

The President laughed, but was cut short.

‘Then the media'll give us shit because the CIA and DIA haven't found out where they're goin'.'

‘Okay! Then I'll be enigmatic. Say they're not a threat where they are right now!'

‘Sure.'

Reynolds leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.

‘You're right about keeping it cool, John. What I'm worried about is what
could
happen. Eighteen of our biggest and best warships are steaming into what the Soviets think of as their own home waters. Savkin means to
use our exercise for his own ends. I can see some of what he's after, but not all of it. With those MiGs, we flew into a trap. We've got to look out for the next one and avoid it.'

‘First thing is to muzzle the media on the
Eisenhower
,' McGuire growled. ‘The only pictures of Russian ships I want to see from now on are the ones that come in from the Pentagon. Make sure the Navy knows that, will you, Tom?'

‘You got it. And what do you want State to do about the protest from the Soviet Ambassador?'

‘Throw it back at them. But do it diplomatically!'

The President stood up again, indicating their meeting was over, but Reynolds stayed seated.

‘Anything else?' McGuire demanded, looking anxiously at his watch.

‘Well . . . , I don't rightly know.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Well, it may be nothing. Just something that's come from a US Navy Commander doing NATO duty at the east Atlantic headquarters at Northwood, England. He's talked about it to the Defense Intelligence Agency. Says the Brits have got big trouble with one of their submarines. Doesn't know what, but there's a lot of important people over there looking real worried. And they're not telling us about it, which is odd, since the sub's in the exercise.'

‘Some kind of accident, you figure?'

‘Nope. They'd be after our rescue vehicle if it was.'

‘What then?'

‘All the guy knows is, the boat ain't doing what it's supposed to. So there may be a joker in the pack, and if you're going to play poker with Savkin, you ought to know that.'

The President eyed Reynolds silently for what felt like a full half-minute.

‘Thanks, Tom.'

* * *

At six that evening Washington time, the four main American television news channels went on the air with their
world news bulletins. All of them led on the remarkable report from ABC Moscow correspondent Nick Hallberg, the first western journalist ever to fly on patrol in a Soviet warplane.

The sight of American jets flaunting their weaponry at the Russian plane made some viewers' hearts flutter with pride. It left others feeling apprehensive, however. Amongst the latter was Tom Reynolds.

By putting curbs on the US Navy's media facilities, he'd hoped to control US TV pictures from the North Atlantic. He kicked himself for his naïvety.

After the pooled Hallberg report, each network other than ABC switched to their own Moscow correspondent's despatch from the press conference given in Moscow that evening by Admiral Grekov, Supreme Commander of the Soviet Navy.

Grekov spoke no English. His words were relayed in the exaggeratedly American tones of the official Soviet interpreter.

The US Navy pilots had violated international law, he railed. They'd jeopardized the lives of the crew of the ‘unarmed Soviet reconnaissance plane'. The aggression they'd displayed was symbolic of the whole tone of the NATO exercise about to be enacted close to the Soviet coast, he insisted.

The Admiral then stood up, resplendent in his uniform, and pointed with a stick to a chart comparing NATO and Warsaw Pact naval forces in Atlantic and European waters.

‘Aircraft carriers: NATO has twenty-four, the Warsaw Pact just four small ones with no strike power. Submarines: about two hundred each. Frigates and destroyers: NATO has three times the number in our navies. With such odds in the West's favour, why does NATO need to mount aggressive manoeuvres in Soviet waters?' he demanded to know. ‘It can hardly be for defence, so is it for war?'

Grekov directed his final query to the camera, his wrinkled face a picture of affronted innocence.

Tom Reynolds was watching four channels
simultaneously in his room in the Old Executive Office Building next to the White House. Under his lean jaw, a nerve twitched.

The broadcasts finished with a brief commentary from the networks' Pentagon correspondents, confirming that the figures Grekov had quoted were fundamentally correct.

Reynolds snatched up the green telephone.

‘Could you tell the President I need to see him again,' he barked. ‘
Right now!
'

LIEUTENANT SEBASTIAN CORDELL
couldn't sleep. The night was nearly gone; three more hours and he'd be back on watch.

The bunk was too small; his head touched one bulkhead of the four-berth cabin, his feet another. He was alone; the three he shared with were on watch.

The cause of his insomnia wasn't the size of the bunk, however, but the turmoil in his mind.

In the past thirty-six hours, conversation amongst the officers had reduced to a single topic – speculation about their captain's highly irregular orders.

They'd all remarked on his heightened irritability, snapping at them one minute, icy calm the next.

The others could only guess what had got into the old man, but Sebastian – he reckoned he knew. And it had nothing to do with secret orders from CINCFLEET.

Whether to tell someone, that was the question churning round in his mind. He'd seen the first lieutenant and the WEO whispering secretly in corners. Had to be talking about Hitchens. Should he tell them their captain had flipped, and why?

He'd been dodging Hitchens' eyes, which seemed to burn with pain and anger. Sometimes he'd caught the captain looking at him across the control room; his expression seemed to say: ‘I've got your number, you bastard!'

Sebastian cursed his luck for being posted to
Truculent
– for being brought face to face with the man he'd innocently cuckolded two years ago.

Sara Hitchens was the first woman he'd spent the night with – the first time he'd made love in a bed. Before that
it had been fumbles in the back of his car – awkward, and hurried.

They'd not expected to strike lucky, that night in the restaurant two years ago. He and another midshipman had been celebrating his twentieth birthday, when two women had begun eyeing them from another table.

Bold as brass, one of the women had asked them to join them for coffee.

He'd suspected they were tarts; nice girls waited for men to make the first approach. But he'd soon realized he was wrong. These women had class.

They'd only used their first names – made it more mysterious. The women were ten or fifteen years older than them. Divorcees, the boys had reckoned.

‘Come home and we'll have a little party!' the women had insisted, after a few liqueurs.

Back at Sara's old house out in the wilds, Sebastian had sensed she was still married. He didn't care, though; he'd drunk plenty by then.

It was the other woman who'd got things moving; she'd been all over Sebastian's chum, and dragged him off to a bedroom. Sara had been more hesitant, nervous even. Sebastian had liked her for it.

They'd had another drink, alone. Then, emboldened, they'd gone to her bedroom. It had smelt of perfume. He could still smell it when he closed his eyes.

She'd seen he was inexperienced, and took the lead; he could still picture the mischief on her urchin face as she began to unbutton his shirt. Her breasts had felt hot, so unbelievably soft. Skin as smooth as cream.

They'd made love, and for the first time for Sebastian the words had had meaning.

Then morning had come. A dry throat, a throbbing head – and the sight of her husband's photograph on the bedside table.

He'd not dared ask about him, not wanted to know Sara's surname. But on a pewter tankard next to the photograph, were engraved the words ‘Congratulations to Lieutenant Commander Philip Hitchens'.