‘What’s the time scale on all this, sir?’
‘Well, there’s a cover plan, obviously. He’s scheduled to play “blue” in the exercise until Wednesday, and then switch sides. He then has five days supposedly acting on his own, playing “orange”; in reality he has that amount of time to get in to Polyarny and out again. I keep saying “he”, but of course it’s “you” now. Think you can do it?’
‘I’ll have a bloody good try, sir,’ Andrew replied, trying to look more confident than he felt.
‘The key thing is to be damned careful not to get caught. The last thing we want is an international incident with one of our SSNs trapped in a Russian fjord. At the first sign of your being detected — withdraw. Get well away from their territorial waters.’
‘There’s one problem, sir. I know about the Moray mines, but I don’t know anything about the tactics for them.’
‘No problem. Truculent’s the trials boat for the weapon system. Paul Spriggs is the WEO on board. Knows the mines inside out. And Tim Pike’s the first lieutenant, so you couldn’t ask for a better team.’
‘And they know all about the mission?’
‘Umm, well, probably not. Hitchens was alone at the special session here, and he was told not to brief his crew until the last possible moment. “Need to know”, and all that. There’s still a good chance of CINCLANT getting cold feet and calling off the whole caboodle. And of course it’s political, this one, too. Number Ten and the White House had to give the okay, in the same way they would in a real “time of tension”. With President McGuire still feeling his way in foreign affairs, he might well pull out.’
Andrew looked at his watch again and gulped. In just a few hours he was due to take command of a boat full of strangers and head north for one of the trickiest patrols of his career. He felt desperately ill-prepared.
‘I’d better look at some charts, and see what you’ve got in mind, sir.’
‘You certainly had. Come along.’
Admiral Bourlet led Andrew along the subterranean corridor, their rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the polished floor, to the SSO room — Submarine Special Operations.
This was the most secret room at the Northwood headquarters. Only a handful of men and women ever entered it — even its very existence was known to only a handful more.
Shortly after 10.00am in Washington, the Soviet Ambassador’s car drew up outside the State Department at Foggy Bottom, escorted by police outriders, sirens wailing. All morning the television news programmes had been running and re-running the pictures of the Soviet freighter, the close-up shots of the fighter wings carefully cross-edited with file footage of MiG-29 aircraft in action.
The Ambassador was received by the Deputy-Secretary for US-Soviet Relations, the most senior official available at short notice on a Sunday, and ushered to a reception room on the sixth floor.
‘My government has instructed me to protest in the strongest terms,’ he began with grim solemnity. ‘The incident in the North Atlantic this morning was outrageous. A Soviet freighter called Rostov, on innocent passage on the high seas, was harassed without provocation by two helicopters from the American nuclear carrier Dwight D. Eisenhower. One helicopter passed directly over the ship at mast-top level. It was only by means of a sudden change of course that the captain of the cargo ship was able to avoid a collision. Look. Here, I shall show you…’
From his briefcase he pulled out two 10 x 8 black and white prints and placed them on the table. The photographs had been well taken; they showed the deck-der-ricks of the ship with the US Navy helicopter almost touching them and, in the foreground, crewmen on the bridge with arms above their heads as if protecting themselves from an expected collision.
‘My government finds such aggressive behaviour by the United States Navy to be quite incompatible with the more relaxed relationship that has existed between Moscow and Washington in recent years, particularly since it has occurred at the start of Exercise Ocean Guardian, in which your warships will rehearse provocative NATO war plans almost within sight of the Soviet homeland. I am instructed to inform you that General Secretary Savkin is deeply disturbed by this event, and will not let the matter rest.’
The Deputy-Secretary feigned polite indifference to cover his embarrassment at being unbriefed on the affair.
‘Thank you for your visit, Mr Ambassador. We shall look into this, and will give our answer to the matters raised in due course. May I express the hope that this incident doesn’t prevent you enjoying the rest of this sunny Sunday, sir?’
He stood up and extended his hand. The Ambassador took it without a word, then gathered up his briefcase and turned for the door.
‘Have a nice day, sir,’ the Deputy-Secretary breathed to the Ambassador’s back as he left the building.
Outside on the pavement, a handful of newsmen had gathered, including two TV crews. The Ambassador’s press spokesman moved amongst them, handing out copies of the official protest and the photographs.
The Deputy-Secretary chewed at a thumb-nail. It was a set-up, he was sure of it. He’d watched the morning newscasts; the networks had done well to get their video on the air so fast. But the Soviets had matched that speed with their stills. To do that, the Russian ship must have been supplied with a professional photographer, a darkroom, a facsimile machine and a satellite terminal. Not the normal equipment of a Soviet merchantman, surely?
The Navy had walked into something. Goddam military and their club feet! And the Defence Intelligence Agency still hadn’t answered the request for information that he’d lobbed in as soon as he saw the pictures. He had some ’phoning to do.
Dr Tatiana Gareyeva’s apartment, in one of Moscow’s anonymous residential areas, had a sad air about it and smelled stale. Ornaments on the shelves and tables had been collected over the years for sentimental reasons rather than for their intrinsic attractiveness. The furniture looked cheap; it had outlived its initial purpose to be used as a stop-gap until she could create a new home — with a husband.
Tatiana was over forty now, and time was running out. Standing by the window looking out on the bleak concrete landscape where thousands lived in similarly cramped homes, she turned to look at Vice-Admiral Feliks Astashenkov, slumped in an armchair watching television.
He was no use to her any more. Any dream she may have had of making their relationship permanent had long since evaporated. He was a hindrance to her now; his sudden surprise visits a few times a year would be an embarrassment one day if she ever met a real suitor.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall opposite. Her hair was flecked with grey; her eyes which once had sparkled blue now looked grey as well. Her face, once pretty, had filled to a dull squareness; her body was thickening towards an eventual shapelessness.
And Feliks? Age had not improved him either; he was developing the heavy jowls and flabby waistline that came from the excess of good living since his promotion to Vice-Admiral.
When they’d first met, they’d loved each other with a passion. She’d almost convinced him to leave his iceberg of a wife and marry her instead. But the whiff of promotion had come his way — and his wife’s brother was on the General Staff.…
And now? This weekend was the last they would see of each other. Both knew it but neither had said it. Feliks had tried to pretend nothing had changed, but his words had been hollow.
Tatiana turned away again to stare through the big square of glass. She had her work; a paediatrician would always be needed. But working in the Soviet health service had become no easier, despite the lipservice paid to reforms. Reductions in spending on military programmes had still not found their way through to the civil sector. Hospitals and clinics were still chronically short of drugs, dressings and equipment.