Shadow Hunter (33 page)

‘Bit spooky, really,' responded Biddle.

‘Phil must've been shattered to lose his old man like that.'

‘No corpse to grieve over.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘They say you can't complete the process of grieving unless you have the body to bury or burn. Makes it final. In Phil's case, perhaps the grieving process never finished.'

‘And now he finds his father's alive. It's enough to send anyone nuts. Do you know the story of the old
Tenby?
You must have a potted history on board, Peter. Previous ships that've borne this glorious name, etcetera.'

‘Sure, but it's all pretty bland. You won't learn much from that. Tell you what, though; Murray Watson's done some digging. I think he got a look at some secret files at Bath, once. Keeps threatening to write a book on it and tell the “real” story.'

‘Pull him in here, can you? Before he gets his head down.'

Biddle stepped into the corridor and reappeared a few moments later with his first lieutenant, looking puzzled.

‘I gather you're a historian, Murray,' Andrew explained.

‘Far too grand a title, sir. But I know a bit about the old
Tenby
.'

‘All I remember is that she disappeared in the Barents without trace, and they concluded her torpedo magazine had gone up.'

‘Yes, well; that was a load of cobblers. But they were so mystified by the disappearance, they spent a fortune on analysing the design. A sharp engineer, keen to make a name for himself, calculated that there was a theoretical fire hazard. The scenario he dreamed up only had a I in 100,000 chance of happening, but it was the only conclusion the enquiry was able to reach. So, they spent millions refitting the boats.'

‘But you don't reckon there was a fire?'

‘No.'

‘So what did happen to
Tenby?
'

A shutter seemed to close on Watson's face.

‘I don't know, sir.'

‘Listen, Murray. What happened in 1962 is connected with what's happening to us at this very moment.'

‘Oh?'

‘I'm not going to give you all the details; there's no need for you to know. But
Truculent
's commander, Phil Hitchens: his father was first lieutenant on the old
Tenby
.'

‘I knew that, sir.'

‘Of course. You would if you've studied the case. Well, whatever Commander Hitchens is doing with
Truculent,
it seems directly connected with the death – or disappearance – of his father on
Tenby
.'

‘Ah . . .'

Watson was intrigued.

‘So, what I want to know is what the old
Tenby
was doing in the Barents Sea, and what you guess happened to her.'

‘Well . . . she was spying. But the stories about watching Soviet nuclear torpedo trials are only half true. That was a cover for her real task.'

‘Which was . . .?'

Watson hesitated, as if he'd said too much.

‘If I tell you, sir, you must never let on you heard it from me. I saw some documents once that I shouldn't have, see? And if the security people ever found out, they could trace it back to the bloke who showed me.'

‘Agreed. We won't tell.'

‘Well, then . . .
Tenby
was after a new Russian radar site. The intelligence bods suspected it was a long-range over-the-horizon type that could track NATO warships 1500 miles away. The installation was on a tiny island, no more than a rock really, about ten miles off the Kola coast.'

A little flag went up in Andrew's brain.

‘The boat was to stay out of sight,' Watson continued, ‘while a small reconnaissance team went by inflatable onto the island at night. It was to have been two marines from the Special Boat Squadron, but one of them got ill. Appendicitis. Lieutenant Commander Hitchens said he'd go in his place. We know that because the sub sent a signal just before the operation began. Last signal she ever sent –'

A second flag went up.

‘The two of them were to get onto the island and hide. Then in daylight they'd take pictures of the radar, hide again, and escape the following night. Nobody knows if they ever made it.'

Andrew and Peter Biddle sat spellbound.

‘What . . . what was the name of the island?'

‘Ostrov Chernyy.'

The two commanders looked at one another.

‘I can show it to you on the chart, if you like.'

‘Thanks,' growled Andrew, ‘but we've already found it.'

THE PRESIDENT AND
General Secretary of the Soviet Union Nikolai Savkin knew that the endgame was at hand.

His efforts to use the media to project a threat from the West had fallen flat. Ever since he'd re-imposed censorship, the Soviet people had treated everything in the newspapers or on television with deep suspicion.

In two days there was to be a full meeting of the Politburo. Without a genuine foreign relations crisis to rally its members, he knew he'd be outvoted and forced to end what was left of the economic and political reform programme.

The head of the KGB sat across the table from him.

Savkin mistrusted Medvedev; it was the Politburo who'd appointed him, demanding a new strong-man at the KGB after the organization's failure to control the secessionist riots in the Baltic republics earlier that year.

Savkin was only half-listening to Medvedev, who was reeling off a long list of arrests and deaths during the disturbances of the past week, expressing satisfaction that the figures were falling. That showed most of the ringleaders had already been disposed of, he claimed.

Savkin gave Medvedev a watery smile when he eventually left, relieved at his departure.

Admiral of the Fleet Sergey Grekov was waiting outside. A stolid, non-political seaman, Grekov owed his promotion to Gorbachev's early efforts to separate the military from politics.

Their meeting had been hastily arranged that morning. The Admiral had insisted on seeing Savkin at the earliest opportunity.

‘Please come in, Comrade Admiral,' Savkin welcomed him.

‘It's good of you to see me at such short notice, Comrade President, I know how busy you are. I'm sure you'll understand the urgency when I . . .'

‘Yes, yes, Sergey Ivanovich,' Savkin answered impatiently. ‘Sit down, and get your breath back.'

The Admiral was sweating from the haste of his arrival at the Kremlin. Savkin had heard he'd been having heart trouble lately.

‘It's an intelligence matter,' Grekov puffed. ‘Disturbing information we received from London last night.'

The Admiral paused, trying to guess from Savkin's expression whether the KGB chief had already told him about the Englishman Hitchens.

‘Oh?'

‘Yes. Concerning a British nuclear submarine.'

‘Really? Well, go on. I'm not telepathic . . .'

Grekov relaxed. Savkin's apparent ignorance meant he could simplify the details.

‘A
Trafalgar
class submarine, according to information gathered by one of our agents in Plymouth – that's the home port for the boat – is heading towards our main submarine bases in Kola, intending to attack us.'

‘What? That's ridiculous!'

‘Her commanding officer is disobeying orders. He appears to have a personal grudge against the Soviet Union. It's possible some of his officers support him.'

‘Are you sure? Has it been checked?'

‘The British are searching for him. Their maritime aircraft are operating in the Barents Sea – that's almost unheard of, so far north. It means the submarine must be close.'

Nikolai Savkin's heart was racing. He struggled to control himself. If he believed in God, he'd have said his prayers had been answered. Grekov mustn't see his excitement.

‘This is terrible! What are you doing about it?'

‘We, too, are searching. Aircraft and helicopters are out at this moment, covering the widest possible area.'

‘And what of your navy, Admiral? How many ships and submarines are also searching?'

‘Comrade President, we have to take care. If the British commander wants our blood, we must not make it easy for him. The
Trafalgar
submarines are very advanced. Their technology makes them hard to find. In a contest with even our newest
PLA
s, the chances are the
Trafalgar
would win.'

‘What are you saying, Sergey?' Savkin growled. ‘That you dare not confront him?'

‘Of course not, Comrade President. But when you know a trap's being set, but not where it is, you move cautiously. We must assume he's now close to the mouth of the Kol'skiy Zaliv. Nearby, there are six submarine bases; he could be lying in wait at any one of them.'

‘Are you saying the Red Banner Fleet of the Soviet Navy is hiding in its harbours, for fear of one single British submarine?' Savkin bellowed in mounting fury.

‘That's an insult, Comrade President!' Grekov hurled back, hauling himself to his feet. ‘An insult to me and to the brave men under my command! It would be an act of the utmost foolishness to send out submarines which are now in harbour, without knowing whether the enemy has blockaded the ports. No military man of any experience would take such a decision.'

‘All right. Simmer down, Sergey!'

Savkin drummed his fingers on his desk, his mind hyperactive.

Admiral Grekov felt his heart beating uncomfortably fast. The doctors had told him to avoid situations which excited him.

‘What ships are already at sea?' the President continued.

‘An anti-submarine barrier. Surface ships and submarines. They're to the west, facing the NATO fleets – the Ocean Guardian exercise. It's possible they'll find the British boat. He won't dare attack out there. Too many of us.

‘The danger is inshore. He has mines of a new type. We know little about them . . .'

Grekov hesitated. Should he tell Savkin the KGB had bungled the operation to get hold of one? He decided not.

‘If he lays the mines close to our submarine bases, it'd be suicide for any of our boats to leave harbour. We need time, Comrade. Just a few days, to find the
Trafalgar,
and neutralize the threat.'

‘Has it occurred to you the British might be bluffing? That, far from disobeying orders, the submarine could be the spearhead for a NATO attack on our Northern Fleet? Under the guise of their manoeuvres?'

‘We considered that, of course. It did seem possible; their naval strategy is very threatening. But all the intelligence information we have suggests the British are themselves close to panic. They're desperate to get their submarine back under control, but at the same time don't want their allies to know anything's wrong. The British claim to have the best trained, best disciplined Navy in the world. It could be damaging to their reputation.

‘Also, our radar satellites show the NATO warships are no longer moving towards the Barents. They're manoeuvring off the coast of Norway, as in previous years. Perhaps our protests have had some effect.'

Savkin would have felt triumphant at the West backing down, if these had been normal times, but Grekov's words were like a body-punch. A diminishing threat from the West meant the crumbling of his last hope of using fear to bring the unruly Soviet people back to heel.

His last hope but one. There was still the submarine.

Savkin swung his chair round to face the window. The sky was a watery blue. He could see the top of the Spassky Tower on the Kremlin wall, crowned with its big red star.

‘I want reports as soon as the submarine is traced,' he said, just loud enough for Grekov to hear. ‘Whatever happens, keep me up to date. We may be on the brink of war.'

‘It won't come to that, I can assure you, Comrade President.'

‘No? We'll see. Thank you, Admiral.'

Grekov levered himself from his chair and saluted curtly, and left without another word.

Savkin sat almost motionless for a full two minutes. Then he pulled a diary from his jacket pocket, and opened
it at a page of telephone numbers. A capital ‘A' had been written beside one number. ‘A' for Astashenkov, Vice-Admiral Feliks, Deputy Commander of the Northern Fleet at Severomorsk.

Looking at the number struck terror into his heart. Savkin was no natural gambler. Now he faced the most perilous decision of his entire life. If he chose to play the one card he had left, the odds on him winning or losing were impossible to calculate.

He faced two choices; he could yield his power to the forces of conservatism and accept that it was impossible to reform the monolith of the Soviet economy; or he could provoke a naval war in the North Atlantic, in the desperate hope that it would sober the Soviet workers into knuckling down to further hardship and belt-tightening.

The problem was how to provoke a conflict large enough to have the desired effect, but small enough to be contained without the risk of escalation.

The burden of making such a choice seemed to crush him. Alone, he found it impossible to decide, yet was it fair to entrust it to anyone else?

He picked up the telephone. His secretary answered.

‘Would you call Foreign Minister Kalinin, and ask him to come to see me immediately?'

It was half an hour before Vasily Kalinin arrived from the Foreign Ministry, annoyed at having had to postpone a meeting with a delegation from Poland.

‘Vasily!'

Savkin grasped his friend by the shoulders.

‘The most powerful man in the Soviet Union is also the most lonely at times, my friend. It's an old saying, but truer than ever at this moment. I'm glad you're here.'

‘They told me it was most urgent.'

‘And so it is; so it is.'

They sat in a pair of high-backed, brocaded armchairs beside the window that overlooked the Kremlin courtyard.