‘Send him in.’ Then looking up at Andrew, he went on, ‘Stay here. This may well be relevant.’
The duty operations watchkeeper entered, the same lieutenant who’d been directing Andrew’s efforts at Stornoway earlier that afternoon.
‘It’s Truculent, sir. We think we may have had a trace of her.’
The young man’s face was flushed — alarmed even.
‘We’ve been comparing the SOSUS data with the radar surface picture from a Nimrod at about 1700 this afternoon. The SOSUS detected a Soviet fishing vessel heading for Murmansk, apparently in company with a trawler. Two surface vessels. But the Nimrod radar only saw one. The factory ship. No other trawler. We suspect the other noise was a submarine using a decoy, and Truculent’s the only one it can be, sir. Nothing else in the area.’
Bourlet shot a glance at the clock.
‘God preserve us! That was four hours ago. You’re absolutely certain?’
‘Only explanation we can think of, sir.’
‘Still no signals from her?’
‘’Fraid not, sir. And we’re repeating our signal to her every hour on the broadcast and on the SSIX. She can’t be listening.’
‘Well, let me know instantly if there is anything.’
The operations officer left, and Admiral Bourlet turned to a large chart of the north Atlantic which covered one wall.
‘Sod it! He could be anywhere within a hundred miles of the barrier by now. Even further by the time we get a Nimrod up to look for him. Sod Phil Hitchens! And sod bloody Sara Hitchens!’
Bourlet had been Flag Officer Submarines for two years, and had his eye on the promotion ladder. His tenure of office at Northwood had passed with remarkable smoothness. This sort of crisis was something he could do without.
The system was supposed to spot unstable personalities and weed them out before they could do harm. Hitchens had slipped through the net; ultimately that would be seen as his responsibility.
‘What the hell’s he up to, eh? What exactly did he say to that tart of a wife, before he sailed?’
‘I don’t think he said anything. She just sensed he was going to do something. I know what she means, sir. I’ve known Phil for longer than Sara — we joined the Navy at the same time, shared a cabin at Dartmouth. He — he can be pretty intense at times. Most of the time, in fact, when I think about it. I don’t have many memories of him being really relaxed, having a good time, that sort of thing.’
‘Bit of a bore, you mean?’
‘He has been called that, sir. Some people find it difficult to tolerate his seriousness; he can be quite obsessive, particularly when it comes to the Soviets. Something of a cold warrior.’
‘Nothing much wrong with that. Don’t trust the bastards meself, despite the Gorbachev reforms and all Mr Savkin’s charm. Still, holding views like that is one thing; planning to start your own war is quite another.’
He stared up at the chart again.
‘Come over here and tell me what you think he’s up to.’
Bourlet pointed to the Faroes-Shetland gap.
‘From there to the Kola, what’re we talking about? Twelve hundred miles?’
‘Something like that, sir.’
‘How long would it take him? A couple of days?’
‘That’d be pushing it. He’d sprint a bit, but then probably want to drift so he could use his sonar. Doesn’t want to go crashing into anything on the way.’
‘Unless he’s feeling suicidal.’
‘Well, even if he is, the rest of the crew won’t be, and they’ll want to observe normal procedures. They’ll stick to the water they were allocated at their briefing.’
‘So that gives us some idea of where to look.’
‘They’re pretty big areas, but we can make a guess at it.’
‘We’ll have to. Now, what’ll he do about communications?’
‘My guess is he’ll stick a mast up from time to time and take in a satellite. He’ll want the intelligence data, if nothing else.’
‘In that case our signal to the first lieutenant might have got through by now.’
‘Unless…’
The same thought had just struck them both. If Truculent’s crew listened to just one transmission they would immediately know their captain was disregarding orders, and they’d be justified in seizing command. Hitchens must have thought of some way to prevent that.
‘In this case…’
‘Hitchens may have taken steps…’ Bourlet completed the sentence. ‘Pah! How on earth can we say that? We’re assuming the man’s behaving rationally and irrationally at the same time. God, this is ridiculous. It’s like blindman’s-bluff in a lunatic asylum!’
A silence fell, and both men turned their eyes to the top of the chart, the Barents Sea and the Kola Peninsula. The Kola Inlet harboured one of the largest concentrations of warships anywhere in the world, including nearly fifty per cent of the Soviet Union’s entire submarine fleet. If Philip Hitchens was bent on revenge, that was where Truculent would be heading.
‘The special mission he had, sir? To simulate mine-laying. Can I get it absolutely clear? Did he have warshots on board? Live mines?’
‘Mmmm. Four of them, I’m afraid. Just a normal weapons load.’ Then, after a pause, ‘You think he could persuade his WEO to lay them?’
‘He might. The point about the Moray mine is that it’s designed to be laid in an inert condition before a war starts, and wouldn’t actually be activated until the start of the conflict. As you know, sir, it can be activated by a sonar transmission from a submarine, a surface ship, or an aircraft, anytime up to a year after being laid.
‘He’d have to prepare his groundwork. But as long as no one suspected he’d lost his marbles, he might just convince his WEO they had orders to lay the mines in peacetime.’
‘Believing the weapons wouldn’t be activated until there was a crisis…’
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘Now the crunch question. Could Hitchens activate the mines?’
Andrew swallowed hard. He’d remembered a detail from Philip’s career.
‘I’ve a horrible feeling he could, sir. He trained as a sonar officer. Knows that sonar system inside out.’
Bourlet stared at him unblinking.
‘Then he’s got to be stopped.’
Suddenly the Admiral stood up and pulled his uniform straight.
‘Come on. We’re going down the Hole.’
With that he marched for the door; Andrew pulled himself to his feet and followed.
Outside, the night had become crisp and clear, with a half-moon high in the sky. As they hurried down the slope, two young WRNS coming towards them saluted smartly. Admiral Bourlet didn’t give them a second glance. Unusual for him — he had a reputation as a bit of a lecher.
At the control post at the bottom of the entrance ramp, the Royal Marines security guards checked their identity badges and cleared them. The two men hurried through the heavy steel blast doors, and down to the first level airlock. The atmosphere in the bunker was kept at positive pressure to protect the occupants from chemical weapon attack, or nuclear fallout.
Four flights down, they entered the long corridor that led to the Operations Control room. The OPCON was dominated by a giant wall-screen; rows of computer terminals were manned by operators wearing headphones. This was the control centre for Exercise Ocean Guardian; all NATO naval operations in the Eastern Atlantic were directed from here.
Bourlet passed through it into the smaller Royal Naval control room beyond. The three men on duty scrambled to their feet.
‘Relax,’ he ordered. ‘This is Commander Tinker, captain of the Tribune. He’s here helping me with the Truculent problem. Now, what I’m about to say is Top Secret — UK Eyes Only. Not a word outside this room, understood? None of those NATO people must know.’