Shadow Hunter (3 page)

‘How's that fisherman doing? Still tracking it?'

The possibility of the trawl net slipping like a sheath over the nose of the boat haunted Hitchens.

‘We think she's passing clear astern, sir. Shouldn't be any risk of fouling now.'

‘Thank God. You'll keep me informed on the 2026? I want a report on it.'

‘Of course, sir.'

People seemed to be staring at him. He'd keep moving; didn't want them reading his face to see what he was thinking.

He passed back through the control room, heading aft, telling the officer of the watch he was making his rounds.

He sensed a conspiracy around him. Of silence. They knew about Sara!

They'd heard gossip ashore. Must've done. In the pubs. Perhaps some had even heard that sod of a chief petty officer boasting about how he'd screwed the captain's wife!

How would he have described it? Bonking? Poking?

Anger made his head swim. He put out a hand to steady himself as he made his way to the tunnel that crossed the top of the reactor to the machinery spaces beyond.

When the penny had dropped just a week ago, it was like a blow to the stomach. He'd taken Simon, home for the weekend, shopping in Plymouth for construction kits to take back to school.

Strolling down Market Avenue, Philip had vaguely
recognized CPO Terry from years before. He'd remembered the face, but not the name – until Simon called out, ‘Hi Reg!' He'd sounded so pleased. The CPO had grinned at Simon, then glanced uncomfortably at Philip.

Surprised the boy should know Terry, it had been a minute or two before he'd asked about it.

‘Just someone I know . . .' had been Simon's reply.

He'd felt panicky, suddenly aware how little he knew about his son's life. The boy was away at boarding school for most of the year, and when he was home for the holidays, Philip was more often than not away at sea. But why should he know Reg Terry?

He'd pressed him to say where they'd met.

‘At home. He used to come and see us sometimes, me and Mummy.'

A door had suddenly opened into a world he knew nothing about.

Philip reached the airlock and turned the bar-bell handle that withdrew the heavy bolts securing the outer door. He was almost exactly in the middle of the submarine, forty metres from the dome of the bow-sonar, forty more from the end of the cowl that housed the silent propulsor at the stern.

He closed the outer door behind him and opened the inner one. He was now standing on top of the reactor. Beneath his feet the controlled uranium reaction generated enough power to serve a town of 50,000 people, the potential of the nuclear radiation to destroy his body cells held back by thick lead shielding.

There was no sound from the thousands of gallons of water being boiled into high-pressure steam below him. Millions of pounds had been spent on research into silencing the powerful pumps that circulated the cooling water through the reactor core, pumps whose reliability was essential to the life of the submarine.

He passed through into caverns packed with the machinery that drove his boat and generated the megawatts needed for its electrical systems.

Those who saw Philip greeted him smartly. The work of the men ‘back aft', essential to the silent operation of
the boat, was not considered as ‘macho' as that of the weapon crews ‘forrard'. Philip was conscious some COs tended to ignore the mechanical end of the boat, which was physically separated from the forward section by the reactor compartment. They may not like him, but he wouldn't be guilty of that.

Did these men know about Sara? What if they did? He must act normally, show no sign of weakness. His authority mustn't be questioned.

In the officers' quarters forward, Lieutenant Commander Paul Spriggs had returned to the cramped cabin he shared with the wiry first lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander Tim Pike. The first lieutenant was second in command – the executive officer and ‘general manager' of the boat.

‘Tim, at the ops briefing at Northwood . . . ,' Spriggs began.

‘Mmmm?' Pike put down the nuclear propulsion manual he'd been studying for forthcoming promotion exams. ‘What of it?'

‘They said “free play”, didn't they? Defined areas of sea, but we can do whatever we like within them?'

‘Well, they didn't say we couldn't. But it's supposed to be a fast transit up to the Lofotens.'

‘Yea, but if the opportunity's there, it's okay. That's what I said to the old man, but the silly sod jumped down my throat.'

‘What? Our own dear warm-hearted Captain? You astonish me.'

‘He was really narked. Then he went stomping off on an inspection.'

‘Must be that time of the month. Mind you, they could have said something different to him afterwards. He had another session with FOSM later.'

‘Did he? I didn't know. That fits what he said, that we're going unlisted.'

‘Unlisted?' Pike frowned.

‘You didn't know either?'

‘He . . . er, hasn't seen fit to brief me yet.'

‘Bloody hell, Tim! You're his second-in-command!'

Pike smoothed the ginger stubble he called a beard, his pale grey eyes betraying the wounded pride that came from being deputy to a man who trusted no one.

‘I'm sure he'll tell us “in due course”, Paul.'

‘ “At the right time”, you mean.'

‘ “When we need to know”.'

‘You've been reading the rule book again!'

Pike shrugged. ‘I've been through this before with Hitchens. Made an issue of it once. Wasn't worth it. He went out of his way to be bloody to me for weeks afterwards.'

‘You don't surprise me. But tell me: you've worked with him longer than I have – how do you rate him as a skipper?'

‘He knows his stuff. And he's the one with the most gold stripes. That's what matters when the chips are down. If I had a run-in with him, the men with scrambled egg on their hats would back him up to the hilt. They'd drop me like a lump of shit!'

* * *

Vice-Admiral Feliks Astashenkov looked round cautiously as he entered the arrivals hall at Moscow's Sheremetyevo airport. He was not in uniform and had flown from Murmansk under a false name. The plane had developed an engine problem at the start of its taxi run; the passengers had had to wait on board for three hours while an Aeroflot mechanic repaired it.

As one of the
Vlasti,
the ‘powerful ones', he was unused to such demeaning treatment. The Deputy-Commander of the Soviet Navy's Northern Fleet was entitled to better than that. But the message from the Soviet leader, delivered to his home by a courier, had insisted on maximum secrecy for their meeting.

At Murmansk Airport a KGB guard had recognized him. It was inevitable that someone would. He'd slipped the man ten roubles, told him he was Moscow-bound for a weekend with his mistress, but that his wife thought he was on a fishing trip. The policeman had passed the note across his mouth. His lips were sealed.

The silence he'd bought was to keep the journey secret from the Northern Fleet Commander, Admiral Andrei Belikov, rather than from his wife. Belikov was just a vassal of Admiral Grekov, Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Navy, who'd been at odds with Nikolai Savkin, the new Soviet leader, from the moment he'd taken over.

They told Astashenkov he'd be met at Sheremetyevo and taken to the rendezvous. He elbowed his way through the crush, impatient at the willingness of his countrymen to accept such conditions. Astashenkov felt apprehensive. He'd been given no reason for this unorthodox summons to Moscow. He'd met the General Secretary on several occasions, admired his energy and reforming zeal. Nikolai Savkin was of his own generation, a man with the vision to press on with change even though the birth pains of the new, competitive Soviet Union had become intolerable to many of his countrymen.

Comrade Savkin was in need of friends, no doubt about that. Was that why he'd been summoned? But why him? It was in the factories and the Politburo that Savkin's support was waning. The armed forces had stood back from the arguments over the economy. And why call for him at this precise moment, when a massive fleet of NATO warships was assembling a few hundred kilometres from the Soviet coast for ‘manoeuvres'? At a time like this he should be at his headquarters in Severomorsk, studying intelligence reports, ready to take action if the ‘exercise' turned into something else.

‘Comrade Vice-Admiral . . .'

The touch on his arm was casual, as if someone had merely brushed against him.

‘Please follow me.'

It was the courier who'd delivered Savkin's message. Dressed in a brown parka with a fur-lined hood, he moved through the crowd slowly enough for Astashenkov to follow with ease. Not once did he turn his head to check; to anyone watching, the two men would appear unconnected.

They stepped outside. It was after eight in the evening and dark, and the October air had a nip of frost. The
Admiral spread the gap between himself and his escort. Ahead was the car park; Astashenkov fumbled for keys, as if he had a vehicle of his own to go to.

The messenger stopped by a battered yellow Volvo estate and opened the door on the driver's side. Astashenkov paused, placed his overnight bag on the ground and began to feel in his inside pockets, while looking around to see if he was being observed. The passenger door of the Volvo was pushed open. He climbed in.

They drove for nearly half-an-hour, the courier making it plain he had no wish to talk. Astashenkov had spent several years of his career in Moscow, but the part of the city through which they travelled was unknown to him. He suspected that the driver was making the route circuitous in order to confuse him.

They stopped in an old quarter. He followed the driver into what would once have been the townhouse of a prosperous merchant. Feliks was mystified; all this subterfuge for a meeting with the Soviet leader? What was going on?

Inside it smelled damp, as if seldom used. An oil heater burned in the hall. A guard emerged from the front reception room, carrying a sub-machine gun. The escort removed his parka and helped the Admiral off with his coat. Then he led the way upstairs.

Savkin seemed smaller than Astashenkov remembered, as if the burden of a national crisis had begun to crush him. At the sound of Astashenkov's entrance, the General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party and President of the USSR stopped in mid-pace across the room.

‘Ah, Feliks! A tired, impatient victim of air travel! And they always call it a “technical” fault, don't they?'

The smile looked forced. The pure white mane of hair looked as if it had not seen a comb all day.

‘They wouldn't let us leave the plane! We were like pigs in a pen.'

‘All the more reason for me to be grateful that you came.'

‘It was my duty, Comrade General Secretary.'

Savkin's eyebrows arched momentarily. ‘Duty' was
such a subjective concept. Where would the Admiral feel his ‘duty' lay once he'd heard what Savkin had to say?

‘Come and sit down. I must apologize for the room.'

He waved a hand dismissively. The walls were faded and peeling, marked with dusty rectangles where paintings had once hung. A heavy pedestal desk in one corner was half covered with files from an open briefcase. Savkin led the way to a green, leather chaise longue, and sat himself in the high-backed armchair opposite.

‘The house belongs to the Pushkin. It's not used much, only for storing spare exhibits. My wife's cousin is curator of the gallery, so my link with the place is personal rather than official, which means it's clean – no bugs. And the guards here are my men. They'll bring us tea in a moment. Now, remind me. When was the last time . . . ?'

It was a gambit. Savkin would remember perfectly well. Such urbanity did nothing to calm Astashenkov's unease.

‘It was June. At Polyarny.
Podvodnaya Lodka Atomnaya
. The nuclear patrol submarines – your inspection.'

‘Of course.' Savkin nodded. ‘It was a good turnout. Very impressive. Fine technology. The efficiency of your men was so vibrant you could almost touch it.'

‘They were on their best behaviour. You must be used to that.'

‘Yes, but you can tell when it's just show . . .'

There was a tap at the door, which had been left ajar. It was the guard bringing the tea. Conversation lapsed until he had left the room.

‘Now. Why do you think you're here, like this?' His tone of voice was condescending, keeping the Admiral at a disadvantage. He would be asking a lot from Astashenkov, but did not want to appear to be a beggar.

The Admiral shrugged. There was no point in prevaricating.

‘I really don't know. It might be that you require some service from me which would not win the approval of my Commanding Officer . . . ?'

Savkin smiled drily. He'd wanted a forthright reply. It saved time.

‘And if that
were
the case . . . ? If neither Grekov not Belikov were to be involved?'

‘Then it would be a difficult decision. I should need to understand why.'

‘Of course.'

The grey eyes studied the sailor. Astashenkov recognized in them the flicker of uncertainty and weariness.

‘Let me ask you something,' the General Secretary said. ‘I've gained the impression, on the few occasions we've met, that your interests stretch wider than just naval matters. That
perestroika
has caused you some excitement; that you welcome it. Am I right?'

‘It's my duty to be politically aware . . .' Feliks stalled.

‘Yes, but you know I'm talking of more than awareness, Comrade. I'm talking of
commitment
.'

Astashenkov looked blank. Savkin would need to be more explicit.

‘The changes on the farms and in the factories, and in the public services – making our people more responsible for their labour, and rewarding them individually – is a process I believe you support in principal, Feliks. But that process, as you know, is now at its nadir. People's lives have become harder, but not yet better. Faith in the policy has crumbled. It's no secret that the Zhiguli car factory has been on strike for two weeks because the enforcement of new quality standards has cut the workers' bonuses. What
is
still a secret, however, is how fast the strikes are spreading. Within two weeks, fifty per cent of our industrial production may be at a standstill.'