‘I don’t know,’ he answered stonily.
She stared into his eyes, trying to read his thoughts.
He stared back, trying to imagine the hell Philip must’ve gone through, discovering what sort of wife Sara had been to him.
‘He had decided to do something about Gunnar.’
Her voice cut through the silence that had descended on the room.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I don’t know, exactly.’
She rubbed her forehead, trying to order her thoughts.
‘When he left, it was as if he’d taken some monumental decision. He looked…,’ she fumbled for the words, ‘grim, but in some way — satisfied. It’s the only way I can describe it.’
‘I’m not with you. What do you mean?’
‘As if he’d decided on some sort of revenge, or thought of some way of getting even with Gunnar, or the KGB or whoever sent him here.’
‘What sort of revenge?’
‘I don’t know. He’ll find a way. Philip hates Russians, you know. He’ll do something. I don’t know what. Fire a missile at Moscow? Is that possible?’
She’d meant it as irony, but started when she saw the shock on Andrew’s face.
‘He couldn’t! It’s the wrong sort of boat, isn’t it?’ she gasped. ‘What could he do to them, Andrew?’
‘I shudder to think.’
Two minutes later Andrew drove away, his mind in turmoil. He hardly noticed the shabby Ford Escort parked in a gateway fifty yards up the road from the Hitchens’ home.
Behind the wheel a dark-haired man in his twenties appeared to be taking a nap.
Andrew put his foot down and headed for the naval base. Philip Hitchens had to be got off the Truculent, and fast.
HMS Truculent was in her element. By Saturday afternoon her huge black hull was sliding silently through dark waters west of the Hebrides where the Atlantic is over two thousand metres deep.
Cruising north at eighteen knots, Truculent had stayed a hundred metres down for nearly twenty-four hours. Above and below, water layers of different temperature created acoustic barriers. The submarine moved in a ‘shadow zone’ where the risk of being detected by surface ships was minimal. That depth was also good for detecting other submarines. With her sensitive towed sonar restored to working order, Truculent could hear other boats over a hundred miles away if conditions were right.
The executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Tim Pike, had completed his rounds, looking for gripes to deal with before they became a problem or a danger. There’d been few. Truculent was a well-run submarine.
The control room watches lasted six hours, the tactics officer (TASO) and the navigator (NO) alternating as watch leaders.
Pike had little to do at that stage of the patrol, with the sea around them so deep and so empty.
He came into the zone for promotion in a month and was using his spare time for studying. He’d already passed the course to command a submarine, aptly named ‘The Perisher’; if you fail it you have to leave the Submarine Service for good.
He’d commanded a diesel sub for two years after that, but was now lining himself up to take charge of an SSN.
‘Day-dreaming again, Tim?’
The weapon engineer, Lieutenant Commander Paul Spriggs, nudged his arm.
‘Yeah. Wondering what’s in store for us.’
‘This patrol, you mean? The captain’s special orders. Hasn’t he briefed you yet?’
‘Nope. Not yet. I expect he will soon.’
‘On the other hand…’
‘He may not.’
‘Exactly. Something’s up with him. You’ve noticed how preoccupied he is. Hardly speaks at meals. Only smiles at my jokes out of politeness.’
‘We all do that, Paul.’
‘Oh, really? How extremely depressing.’
His chubby face looked genuinely perplexed. He pushed back the dark hair that fell across his forehead.
‘But you’re right,’ Pike agreed. ‘He doesn’t seem to be with us on this trip. I might try to draw him out later. We’ve got a communications slot coming up in fifteen minutes. Perhaps he’ll get a “family-gram” that’ll cheer him up.’
‘Be safer to write him one yourself!’
Tim Pike pulled a long face and crossed the cramped control room to the navigation table. Three paces and he was there.
‘Where are we, Nick?’ he asked the navigator who was duty watch leader.
‘Here, to be exact.’
The young lieutenant pointed to a cross on the continuous pencil line he’d drawn on the chart.
‘The SINS puts us northeast of Rockall and west of the Vidal Bank. In about an hour we should alter course to zero-four-zero to keep us in the deep water east of Rosemary Bank.’
‘We’ll need a little dog-leg for a communications slot before that. Almost due east? What do you think?’
The navigator pulled out a chart with a different scale, showing their position in relation to the British Isles. To listen to the signals from CINCFLEET at Northwood, they used a long wire antenna that floated just below the surface so as not to reveal themselves to watching radar. To receive signals they had to align the antenna by pointing it towards the transmitter in the north of England.
‘Almost exactly one-one-zero. Done this before, sir?’
‘Once or twice. I expect you’d like an Omega fix, too?’
‘Certainly would. What’s the time of the comms slot?’
‘18:00 to 18:30. We’ll be at four knots and sixty metres.’
‘Right.’
Cavendish plotted the details. The wire would also pick up low-frequency signals from Omega coastal navigation beacons. He’d get a position fix to within a mile, enough to confirm the inertial navigation system hadn’t drifted. For a more accurate fix they’d need to poke a periscope or satellite receiver above the water, and risk revealing their presence.
Pike slipped out of the control room and rapped gently on the door frame of the captain’s cabin. A curtain hung in the doorway, and Pike heard a hurried scuffling behind it.
‘Yes?’
He pushed aside the curtain. Commander Hitchens was at his desk.
‘Good evening, sir. We’re proceeding as planned in deep water at eighteen knots. We have a broadcast we’re scheduled to monitor in about thirty minutes. With your permission, sir, I’d like to reduce speed to four knots, bring her up to sixty metres and deploy the floating wire.’
‘Any other submarine activity?’
‘Nothing at all, sir. We’ll check the surface picture before we deploy the wire.’
‘Very good. Carry on, Tim.’
‘Er, one other thing, sir…’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘I was wondering if sometime this evening might be an appropriate moment to discuss our mission profile.’
Hitchens fixed Pike with his unnervingly blue eyes.
‘Sorry. Not yet. I’ll brief when the time’s right.
‘From Wednesday we’re dropping out of the exercise. Special op. I’ll tell you that much, but it’s not for general knowledge yet. This one really is very sensitive. You’ll have to trust me.’
‘Oh. Right. Okay then, sir; I’ll carry on if I may.’
‘Yes, please. And make the pipe to the ship’s company, will you?’
‘I will, sir.’
Pike returned thoughtfully to the control room. There was nothing he could put his finger on, but something wasn’t right with his captain.
Philip closed his eyes and held his breath.
Damn it! Pike’s request had caught him by surprise. He should’ve been ready for him, and he wasn’t.
He ran through their brief conversation. It had been okay. He’d handled it. But he had to be prepared for next time, have an answer for their questions.