‘Sir.’ The three men nodded.
‘We appear to have an SSN not responding to signals at the moment. Don’t know why,’ he lied. ‘We’ve got to find that boat and discover what’s up. Now what’ve we got in the Truculent’s area?’
The duty officer tapped at his keyboard and a map appeared on his screen.
‘Illustrious is north of the Faroes, sir, with three escorts,’ he announced, reading off the data. ‘But Truculent’s probably 200 miles east of her. Bit too far for her helicopters to do anything useful. Two more ASW frigates are working a screen nearer to Iceland, so they’ll not be much use either. Nor will the three “O” Class subs in the northern North Sea. The one boat that could help is the submarine Tenby; she’s right up off North Cape.’
‘What about maritime air?’
‘One Nimrod MR2 from Kinloss is doing a search just inside the Arctic Circle. Currently tracking a Victor III and a Tango. A second Nimrod is on barrier patrol between the Faroes and Shetlands. We could divert her, if we knew where to look.’
‘Andrew, what do you think?’
‘Anybody got a chart?’ Tinker asked wrily. ‘One of those paper things. I can’t work from a screen!’
The duty officer pulled one from a drawer and handed him a pair of brass dividers.
Andrew calculated. It would be five hours after Truculent crossed the SOSUS barrier before the Nimrod could be on station. One hundred and fifty miles was the most the boat could have covered in that time.
He measured the dividers against the latitude marks on the side of the chart, then laid the points on the paper.
‘If he’s taking a straight line towards North Cape, the Nimrod’ll have to lay a barrier a hundred miles wide to have a chance of finding him.’
‘Get those co-ordinates and ask the Air Commander if we can divert his Nimrod,’ Bourlet ordered. ‘Now, what else is there on the ground?’
‘The Americans’ main force is still well to the west, sir, but they’ve got a Los Angeles boat way up north under the ice, keeping an ear open for the Russian BNs.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘The Norwegians might be able to help, sir. They’ve got a couple of Oslo frigates on anti-submarine duty off Trondheim Fjord.’
‘No. The Norwegians couldn’t keep a birthday party secret, let alone this sort of problem. No. Tenby looks our best bet. She’s playing “orange”, isn’t she?’
Bourlet directed his question at the duty officer. The lieutenant commander nodded.
There had to be something he could do, Andrew thought. He knew Philip better than any of them. He might be able to talk sense into him if he could just get near enough.
‘Just a thought, sir,’ Andrew ventured, beckoning the Admiral to move out of earshot of the others. What he was about to suggest would commit him further than ever. He was glad Patsy couldn’t hear him.
‘Go on,’ Bourlet growled.
‘If I could get on board Tenby,’ he whispered, ‘and we managed to track Truculent, I could call them on the underwater telephone. Might be able to get Philip back on the rails. If not, at least I could alert the crew.’
‘It’d also avoid our having to brief Tenby by signal, which wouldn’t be bad. Mmmm. Got any other commitments at the moment?’
‘Just shore leave. Patsy’ll probably threaten divorce, but I think I can cope with that.’
‘Won’t be the first time, I’m sure. That’s not a bad plan. How would we get you on board?’
They turned back to the duty officer.
‘We want to get Commander Tinker on board Tenby. How do we do it?’ Bourlet asked.
The lieutenant commander pointed to his computer screen, showing the northern tip of Norway.
‘Tromso would probably be your best bet. We could order Tenby to approach the coast. There’s a Norwegian Air Force base there with Search and Rescue helicopters.’
‘How long to get to Tromso from here?’
‘Depends what you’re flying in, but about four hours in something like a 125, I’d say.’
‘Mmmm. I’ll need to clear this with the C-in-C, but it sounds the right plan. Get it started, will you? Alert Tenby that we may need to change her plans, and keep her close to Tromso. Don’t give her any details or explanations at this stage. And check with the Norwegians, to make sure they can give Andrew a lift. Finally, book a 125 for tomorrow morning. I’ll confirm everything later this evening, after I’ve talked to the boss.’
The duty men saluted as the Rear-Admiral and Andrew left.
‘Got a cabin booked in the Wardroom?’ Bourlet asked, after they’d stepped out into the crisp night air.
‘Yes. I wasn’t expecting to get back to Plymouth tonight, whatever happened.’
‘Give my apologies to your wife. Feel free to blame me for everything. I’m quite used to it. And, look: let the Wardroom hall-porter know where you are, ’cause I’ll want another word. I’m just going down the road to Admiralty House. The C-in-C’s having a dinner party, but he knows what’s going on and is expecting me to call. I shouldn’t be more than an hour.’
Andrew watched Bourlet’s squat figure stomp up the ramp towards the main gates, then he turned left towards the accommodation blocks of the ‘Wardroom’ — the shipboard term the Navy used for the officers’ mess, which at Northwood amounted to a good-sized hotel.
‘You’re much too late for dinner, sir, but they’ll do you a sandwich if you’re quick,’ the hall porter greeted, looking at his watch.
Andrew realized suddenly how hungry he was. The only meal he’d had all day were the sandwiches the RAF had provided on the flight to Scotland.
He’d intended to ring Patsy right away; he took a step towards the coin-box telephone on the wall opposite, then hesitated. She’d have to wait, or he’d miss the only meal he was going to get; the way things were going, he couldn’t be sure when he’d see the next one.
Rear-Admiral Bourlet had sent his driver home for the night, so took the wheel of the black Granada himself. Admiralty House was less than a quarter of a mile down the road, a substantial red-brick house at the end of a tarmac drive.
A white-jacketed steward emerged from the front door, and pointed to a parking space.
‘If you’d care to wait in the study, sir, I’ll tell the Admiral you’re here. They’re just finishing their coffee, so you’ve picked a good moment,’ he chirped as he ushered Bourlet into the house.
The Commander-in-Chief of the Fleet was two ranks higher than he was, but as far as Bourlet was concerned, Stewart Waverley should never even have made Vice-Admiral. The man wasn’t so much a sailor as a politician, with his eye on the First Sea Lord’s job followed by a seat in the House of Lords.
He waited five minutes in the small study. Shelves lined with volumes of Who’s Who, directories of key personnel in the media, and recent political biographies confirmed Bourlet in his prejudices about the man.
‘Hello, Anthony,’ Waverley greeted curtly. ‘Hope this won’t take long. I’ve got the editor of the Telegraph here this evening. What news of the Truculent?’
He was tall and elegant in a white dinner jacket, his straight, dark hair held in place by a sheen of oil. His breath smelled of claret and good brandy.
‘The news is bad. For God’s sake, don’t give it to the Telegraph.’