Shadow Hunter (42 page)

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.

* * *

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 incredulously.

‘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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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.'