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.