Shadow Hunter (7 page)

‘Sound room. I want a check for surface contacts!' Cavendish called.

‘
Aye, aye, sir
!'

HMS Truculent
came up fast from the depths, passing through the thermocline which had refracted their faint sound downwards, keeping them hidden from listeners on the surface. Her speed dropped from eighteen knots to
four, at which it was safe to trail the wire antenna without breaking it.

‘Level at sixty metres, sir,' the helmsman called.

‘Deploy the wire.'

On the outside of the fin a small aperture appeared, and the VLF antenna began to unreel. Black plastic strips trailed from the wire to disguise it as seaweed.

In the sonar compartment the tattooed hands of the ratings tuned their acoustic processors to the new sounds of surface ships, or ‘skimmers', as they were known.

Sensors outside the hull analysed water temperature and salinity and fed the data into a computer which predicted the refracted paths that the sounds would follow through the water.

‘Cavitation on port bow, chief!' shouted one of the junior sonar ratings. Chief Petty Officer Hicks looked over his shoulder at the VDU, and confirmed it.

On the green ‘waterfall' display, low frequency ‘spikes' of sound detected by the bow sonar showed as overlapping vertical stripes. Hicks counted them.

‘Two shafts. Six blades. That's
Illustrious
,' he announced with confidence. The last intelligence report had told them the British aircraft carrier was in the area.

‘Range and bearing?'

The rating keyed in additional data from the towed array. Bearings from the two sonars were triangulated by computer.

‘Range, 32.4 miles, bearing 039, Chief.'

The CPO pressed a button which transferred the data to the Action Information panel in the control room. There the carrier appeared on the tactical display as a triangle – a friendly target.

‘
What about her escorts
?' demanded the officer-of-the-watch through the intercom.

Eyes scanned the screens and ears strained at headphones.

‘Nothing else registered, sir,' came the eventual reply from the CPO.

Sound in water seldom travels in straight lines.
HMS Illustrious
had at least two frigates keeping her company,
but
Truculent
couldn't hear them. The sound waves from the warships curved downwards away from the surface, then curved up again many miles distant, to a so-called ‘convergence zone'.
Truculent
was in just such a zone for the carrier's noise signature to reach her, but not yet in one for the frigates.

Hicks stood up, desperate to stretch his legs. He stepped into the control room, leaving the sonar ratings to plot the remaining contacts – distant trawlers fishing the edge of the continental shelf around Scotland.

He crossed to the Action Information plot, and yawned as he watched it begin to fill with contacts from the sound room.

‘Keeping you up, are we, Hicks?' Pike quipped.

‘Off watch in an hour, sir. Boring day! Once we'd finally sorted out the 2026, there's been sod-all to do.'

‘Did you report that to the captain? He wanted to know.'

‘Yes, sir. Have no fear.'

Pike looked at his watch. Time for the broadcast. He stepped into the communications office as Cavendish ordered the final manoeuvre to align the boat to receive signals.

‘Planesman, steer one-one-zero, revolutions for four knots!'

At three sites inside Britain, enormous Very Low Frequency transmitter arrays, masquerading as civilian wireless stations, broadcast a constant stream of information for submerged submarines. Weather and intelligence reports are transmitted as routine, on an hourly cycle, backed up at fixed times with specific messages for individual submarines.

The communications room was tightly controlled. Only those with top security clearance could enter the tiny cabin next to the control room. From floor to ceiling, racks of equipment left little space for the signals officer and radio operator.

The young, black-haired sub-lieutenant in charge ran his own plastic security card through a slot on the cipher machine, then punched out a personal code number on a
numeric key-pad. Nearly all signals traffic was in code, but the laborious task of enciphering and deciphering was done electronically.

The teleprinter began to chatter. The radio operator leaned over to check that the transmission wasn't garbled.

‘Faroes, force ten,' he read. ‘Grey-Funnel Line'll be chuckin' up!'

‘You can feel it down here,' Pike pointed out as the submarine heaved gently with the surface swell sixty metres above them.

‘Glad you volunteered for submarines?' Sub-Lieutenant Hugo Smallbone grinned, knowing full well the torrent of complaint his remark would release.

‘Didn't fuckin' volunteer for
submarines
! Told to come here, wasn't I? The one soddin' boat in the Navy that's not supposed to communicate, and I get the job of radio operator!'

‘At least you're not chucking up!'

‘Prefer that to bein' down here. The money's what keeps me in this branch.'

The sub-lieutenant smiled patronizingly. He stood up to tear the first sheet from the printer.

ROUTINE 191800Z OCT

INT SITREP AT 1730Z

RO6 F229 F84 59.20N 008.50W

S 37 W HEBRIDES

‘So that's where they think we are,' commented Smallbone at the reference to S 37 which was
HMS Truculent
.

R06 was
Illustrious
, the F numbers her frigate escorts. The position given was timed for half an hour earlier.

A string of chart references followed. They marked the last known positions of two Soviet
Victor
class nuclear attack submarines, and three AGIs – Soviet intelligence-gathering trawlers.

The teleprinter bell rang twice.

‘Ah! Something for us,' remarked Pike.

He peered more closely at the dot matrix print tapping out across the page.

IMMEDIATE. S 37. SECRET. COMMANDING OFFICER'S EYES ONLY.

CONFIRM RECEIPT BY SSIX AT 2000Z. FOSM.

INSERT COMMANDERS KEYCARD FOR MESSAGE.

‘Here you are, Bennett. Got some work for you. Satcom at twenty hundred.'

‘P'rhaps they've found me another job . . .'

‘No chance!'

The sub-lieutenant tore the sheet from the teleprinter, placed the top copy on a clipboard and took the carbon. As he left the wireless room he added, ‘Look smart. I'm getting the captain.'

‘A satcom will
not
be popular,' Pike frowned. ‘We're just about in range of the “
Bears
” here.'

‘Bear'
was NATO's code name for the big Soviet
TU–95
long-range maritime reconnaissance bombers which patrol the Norwegian Sea to track NATO warships. With Exercise Ocean Guardian underway, they'd be mounting extra missions. Raising a satcom mast above the surface could get
Truculent
spotted by the
Bear
's radar.

Hugo Smallbone was in awe of Commander Hitchens. A rather immature twenty-one-year-old, he found almost anyone over the age of thirty intimidating. He nearly collided with Hitchens as the captain hurried from his cabin.

‘That for me?' Hitchens asked, indicating the signal in Hugo's hand.

‘Sir. It's just come in.'

He handed it over and watched Hitchens' face, expecting annoyance. But the expression in Hitchens' eyes was one he'd never seen there before. Panic.

‘Thank you, Hugo,' Hitchens whispered, controlling himself quickly. Then he spun on his heel and went back into his cabin. ‘Be right with you,' he muttered over his shoulder.

The sub-lieutenant hovered in the corridor. He could hear the soft clicks of the combination lock on the captain's safe, as Hitchens opened it to collect his security card.

‘Still here?' Hitchens remarked, surprised to find Hugo hadn't moved.

‘Let's get on with it,' he continued briskly, leading the way to the wireless room. ‘Bloody nuisance, this need to transmit. Last thing we want.'

‘That's what the first lieutenant said, sir . . .'

‘What? You've told him about this signal? What the hell do you mean by it?'

‘He was in the wireless room, sir . . .'

Hitchens thrust the sheet of signal paper under Smallbone's nose.

‘Can't you read, boy? COMMANDING OFFICER'S EYES ONLY. Don't you know what that means? No one's to know about this signal except me!'

‘Awfully sorry, sir . . .'

‘You'd better watch your step, son.'

Smallbone flushed purple. He felt hurt and indignant. The captain was talking nonsense. The confidentiality applied to the message they had yet to decode, not to the preamble requesting confirmation of receipt.

In the wireless room, Hitchens slid his keycard into the deciphering machine, then tapped out his personal code on the numeric key-pad.

‘I'd like you all outside,' he ordered as the teleprinter began its work.

Pike returned to the control room. Able Seaman Bennett glanced at the sub-lieutenant as they moved to the passageway; sensing the thunderous atmosphere, he said nothing.

The printer stopped. Philip ripped off the paper, including the self-carbonizing second sheet. He folded the pages into a small square that fitted his trouser pocket and pushed past the radio operators, heading back to his cabin.

‘Whew!'

Hugo Smallbone spun back into the wireless room, before the control room watch could notice his beetroot face.

The teleprinter was chattering again. Messages for crew members. He busied himself with the intelligence reports.
When he calmed down he'd take them to the watchkeeper, so the charts could be updated.

Philip placed the signal on his desk.

COMMANDER HITCHENS.

DUE YOUR UNFORTUNATE DOMESTIC SITUATION, IMPERATIVE YOU TRANSFER TO SHORE. BRIEFING TEMPORARY REPLACEMENT COMMANDER TO CONTINUE

TRUCULENT'S PATROL.

SEA KING WILL RENDEZVOUS WITH YOU AT 1600Z.

SUNDAY 20TH. POSITION N58.50 W06.30.

PLSE CONFIRM BY SSIX 2000Z TODAY.

FLAG OFFICER SUBMARINES.

They knew, despite Sara's promise to tell no one. The bitch! She'd betrayed him again!

What had she told them? He re-read the signal.

‘Unfortunate domestic situation'. They weren't giving much away back at Northwood.

Had she told them about the Soviets or just the personal bits? In either case they all knew the worst part, knew how she'd humiliated him.

But why? Had she sensed what he intended to do? Were they trying to stop him?

Who would she have spoken to? Craig probably. There was no one else she knew. Craig would have passed it up the line to CINCFLEET.

The questions echoed in his head like prayers in a cathedral. There was one which came back from the recesses of his mind where he'd banished it. Why,
why
had she done what she'd done? What was it he'd failed to give her that she needed?

Lonely. She'd told him she felt lonely . . .

That wasn't enough. Other men's wives were lonely, but they didn't parade themselves like whores in public places? Didn't soil their bodies with other men's – stuff.

The trembling started again. An uncontrollable shaking that engulfed him whenever his mind re-ran those desperate shouting-matches with Sara, those moments of awful revelation.

He'd raged at her and she'd fought back with a taunt – the name of a man she claimed had been the first of her lovers. Someone he'd known closely for twenty years. A name that would hurt him more deeply than any other.

He'd laughed at her – called her a liar.

Andrew
her lover? Not possible. They'd trained together, served together on their first commission as sublieutenants, stayed friends ever since. Andrew was Simon's godfather, for heaven's sake! The idea was ludicrous. Wasn't it?

There'd been times in the past week when Philip had wept like a child. One moment he longed for someone to confide in, the next that no one should ever know.

He stood up angrily now. He had to snap out of it, put those nagging questions out of his mind, concentrate on the matter in hand.

The signal – he had to respond to it.

Tim Pike gave orders for the VLF antenna to be recovered into the fin. Their time-slot for monitoring the broadcast was over.

‘Steer course zero-two-five. Ten down, keep two-hundred metres,' Cavendish instructed. ‘Keep revolutions for ten knots. Increase to eighteen when the antenna's wound in.'

That could take half-an-hour.

A leading seaman was doing duty at the chart table. Two strides and Pike stood beside him. Two strides could get you anywhere in the control room.

‘Have you plotted the data from the int. brief?' Pike asked.

‘Yessir. The closest
Victor
is here, sir.'

He pointed to a box drawn some seventy miles south of them.

‘He'll be listening for the
Polaris
boats coming out of Faslane. Then there's another
Victor
'bout four hundred miles northeast. On the other side of the Faroes-Shetland gap. A couple of AGIs fifty and seventy-five miles away, and that's about it.'

‘I see. So we're well out of range of their radar. Aircraft
are the worry. And we don't know where
they
are. My guess is they'll be keeping track of the skimmers. The nearest to us is
Illustrious
, isn't it?'

‘'Sright, sir. Just about here.'

He pointed to a circle near the Faroes.

‘He'll be down to ten knots with the gale up there,' Pike commented, checking the weather report. ‘We'll start catching him up if we don't watch it.'

‘He's still miles away, sir.'

‘Yes, but I'm thinking of the Bears. They'll be searching a good hundred miles all round
Illustrious
, so we'll need to keep our distance. I'm going to slow down a bit.'