Sitting and clutching his leg in agony, he felt the first cascade of seawater hit his head, followed by a torrent that pushed him further along the torpedo room. There was no way back. The compartment had begun to fill; the water crept first to his waist, then up to his neck…
Murphy merely relaxed, to await the dark, wet blanket that would soon put an end to all of his pain. He was mentally and physically drained and, standing in the centre of the torpedo room, now invited the cascading death to appear.
Crossman was reunited with his crew. The rescue team had almost finished plucking everyone from the water, when one of the crew had seen a man crawling on what was left of the forward deck. He shouted to the helmsman to turn about and quickly after pulling that last man aboard, it had spun back to the stricken submarine and just as Crossman had slid into the sea, a diver had jumped near him to keep him afloat.
In a few minutes, he was also safely aboard the launch, heading for the assault carrier.
As it moved away, Crossman looked at the last remaining piece of the USS Hatcher; the Portsmouth sail which had hastily been fitted, back in the boathouse in Hope Bay and its deceptive code of 0113 ironically painted by their half-Greek member of the crew.
As the waves swept over the big white digits, he thought of Murphy and felt sorry for him. Mostly, he was grateful for this troubled and tormented man who in the end, had sacrificed himself to save him.
There would now be some explaining to do to the British authorities, and almost certainly prison to follow. Maybe he would have the opportunity to speak again with the Englishman, who had been in that old multi-prop aircraft, which at this moment was flying above him.
Perhaps together they could figure out why this old submarine had been sent half-way across the world, to sink a British warship that had been on a humanitarian mission to save lives from a once safe and peaceful point in the Mediterranean; a place that had recently become an island of fear.
Chapter 33
Back aboard the Shackleton, Swan waited for the printout from ALISS, then ripping it off read the contents.
TARGET ID TARGET ORIGIN TARGET CLASS CODE CAT NO
------- ---- —------ ANE
He passed it to Hornsby. ‘What does all this mean, John? Is there a fault with the ALISS machine?’
Hornsby took his eyes away from the instruments to stare at it for a few seconds. ‘Looks like we have ourselves a new sub, Alex. That’s the reason for no information. ALISS is telling you, it has detected something it cannot identify.’
Swan raised a brow. Could this be the reason for the explosions?
West of the task force, Captain Vasilli Dasiev knew that he could not hang around where he was for long. It was like being a mouse in a pit of rattlesnakes. Not only had the passive sonar on his Alfa-Class attack submarine detected the surface ships, but also for the last half an hour, the operator had been listening to a multi-engine piston aircraft.
At first, Dasiev thought that the Americans were in the vicinity, fearing that a Grumman S-2 Tracker aircraft had entered the arena. If this was the case, it meant only one thing. The Sixth Fleet had arrived.
Before setting sail from his base in the Black Sea, Dasiev had been briefed about sailing too close for what was supposed to be a quick one-stop reconnaissance mission to take photographs of the British task force. The warning had been clear. The Americans could also be in the area.
Dasiev was one of the privileged few submarine commanders to be handed the helm of the Soviet Union’s latest submerged weapon. The Alfa was unique in every way, a revolutionary design that had no immediate rival. It was also top secret — and only known to the West from a series of poorly-taken and grainy photographs taken by traitorous spies, Dasiev deduced.
On the bridge, he rested his arms on the electronic plotting table, deciding how he could best get away back to safer waters. He looked up at his hard-working crew as they monitored the high-tech instruments this sleek vessel had been equipped. He was proud of them all. They hadn’t questioned his orders to fire the two low explosive torpedoes at the rogue submarine. They had just obeyed him, respecting him as their leader. Their change of brief had been clear. The submarine they had been sent to destroy had been a serious threat to the future of the motherland.
Although not a direct threat, the actions this vessel was to undertake could have had a damaging effect in terms of how this small war, playing out here in the eastern Mediterranean, could escalate.
Unknown to his crew, this attack had all been part of a clever plot, originating in a special message; a message communicated using a set of numbers starting with the prefix 0926, delivered via radio by the disembodied voice of Janet Swan, using the Lincolnshire Poacher signal. The method Dasiev had used to decipher the code, was in the back of a classic Russian novel, which at this moment was resting on the table in his stateroom.
His one-time pad had been set up by a traitor, a traitor that still lay in a coma watched over by a police guard at the Buckland Hospital in Dover. Even in his unconscious state, Christopher Allenby had managed to double-cross his American friend. Tremaine’s plan had been foiled. This time, it was he who had been played, and by the KGB.
Dasiev nodded, sure of himself and that he had found a way out of the viper nest. He shouted to his second in command the order for manoeuvre, and after twisting and turning his way through the gauntlet of ships above, demanded full speed ahead for his fast escape.
In the cockpit of the Shackleton, Hornsby took another glance at the printout. ‘I lay odds, gents, that our mystery sub has been destroyed by whatever is moving away at speed from the area.’
They watched, as the mixture of oil and foam caused by the explosions began to recede.
With all the action over, Hornsby checked the fuel and, gripping the yoke with both hands, turned to Reynolds.
‘I think it’s time we went home, gentlemen — don’t you? When we get to Akrotiri, I’ll file a report about our mystery guest.’ He turned to Swan. ‘Alex, can you log those numbers displayed on the ALISS? Whatever it was, we now have an ID code at least, so if our Nimrod boys ever come across it again, they’ll know what they are dealing with.’
Hornsby banked the plane to the right and, transmitting his intentions to the task force below, waggled the wings of the Shackleton in salute.
In the co-pilot’s seat, David Reynolds quickly turned his head to his left as something had caused number four engine to spark, then begin to catch fire.
Two Greek Starfighters then flew over them, conducting a fast and sharp turn to the right.
Hornsby instantly realised what had happened. The jets had opened fire on them and cannon shells had ripped into their wings. Although shocked, the pilot acted quickly. Expecting the fighters to return, he informed the others things were not looking good. He made a call to the task force, hoping that these two wasps were being tracked and should they return, a Sea Cat missile or two could be fired.
He watched as the two specks veered away. Why were they not coming back to finish them off?
The answer came with the two supersonic silver RAF Lightnings that suddenly appeared on their starboard wing, each brandishing a pair of Red Top air-to-air missiles.
‘It’s your mates, John! They seem to have scared off them off,’ announced Reynolds.
Hornsby listened to the message in his ear and thanked his colleagues from Akrotiri.