‘Or more. At this depth and with the noise we were making, he could’ve heard us forty miles off easily. Another bloody triumph for NATO naval intelligence!’
The lanky figure of Lieutenant Cordell appeared between the periscope standards. He’d handed over the watch to Cavendish half an hour earlier, but had returned to the control room on hearing of the contact.
‘Talk to me, Sebastian,’ said Pike. ‘What does our TAS officer think?’
‘Definitely a Victor. The last intelligence sitrep mentioned one, but put it much further north. This must be another one. Could’ve picked up our track anytime during the past three hours. He’s coming up astern on our port quarter. We detected him on the towed array when we dropped below eighteen knots.’
‘We need to lose him. Where do we go?’
Pike knew the answer to his own question. But Cordell was new to Truculent and needed testing.
‘He’s chasing fast, so his sonar’s deaf. When he slows down to listen, we should be invisible to him, now we’ve cut our own speed. He’ll start guessing then, wondering whether we’re keeping on the same course.’
‘Control room, sound room!’ The voice of the senior rating in the sound room came from the loudspeaker above the AIS console.
‘Yes, Hicks,’ Pike answered, keying the transmit switch.
‘Contact’s fading, sir. Same bearing.’
‘There we are. Victor’s slowing down. When he finds out he’s lost us, he’ll guess we’ve detected him,’ Cordell concluded. ‘Now, will he expect us to keep the same course? If he starts searching left or right, he’ll be stabbing in the dark. If he keeps to the same track he may think he’s got a better chance of keeping on our tail.’
‘So what do we do, brains?’
‘I suggest we come left sixty degrees. That’ll keep us in the deep Norwegian Basin, and put us at right-angles to him. We should pick him up on the bow sonar too, then — give us a better bearing and range.’
‘Depth?’ Pike pressured.
‘He can go deeper than us, and faster. So why don’t we go shallower, above the thermocline?’
The first sign of uncertainty flickered in his eyes. Pike was giving him no help.
‘Disadvantages of going shallow?’
‘Can’t hear him any more. But still worthwhile, sir — I think.’
‘What else was in that last intelligence report? Any other “hostiles”?’
‘Nothing, sir — at least, not in the dope the captain handed out.’
Cordell’s words were a reproach. Pike felt it directed at him. Glancing round, he sensed the attention of several pairs of eyes. They’d all been unsettled by the captain’s ‘pipe’ the previous evening.
Pike wanted to round on them, saying he was as much in the dark about their mission as they were, but he kept silent; nothing should be done to undermine the authority of command at a time like this.
‘Navigator, any hazards to the north?’
‘None.’
‘Right! Planesman, ten up. Keep fifty metres. Port ten, steer three-five-five. Revolutions for ten knots.’
Cordell smiled fleetingly; his advice was being followed to the letter.
Pike took Lieutenant Nick Cavendish to the chart table. Bending over it and pretending to study a detail, he spoke in a whisper.
‘I’d better go and see Hitchens. You say you couldn’t rouse him?’
‘Yup. Knocked on the door, called loudly, shook him by the shoulder even, but he was out cold.’
‘Wasn’t dead, was he?’
‘Don’t be daft! I told you, he was snoring his head off. It’s unlike him — he’s usually a light sleeper. On his feet instantly if you call him.’
‘Might’ve taken some sleeping pills. But he should have bloody told me if he was going to do that!’ Pike hissed, resentful at yet another sign of his captain’s disregard for him. ‘Okay, Nick. You have the ship. And not a word about the captain. Understand?’
‘Sebastian knows.’
‘Well, keep it to the two of you then.’
Cavendish crossed to the ship control console to check his orders were being followed. Already the decks were tilting, as the submarine banked and climbed to its new depth and course. The planesman pulled back on the control stick, eyes locked onto the indicators.
Pike grabbed at pipework to steady himself as he headed aft. Beyond the control room the red-light glow of the night encouraged a stillness in the boat, even though half the crew was on watch.
Outside the captain’s cabin he hesitated, listening for any sound of Hitchens stirring. Hearing none, he rapped on the door frame and waited. No response. He pulled back the edge of the curtain and looked inside. It was exactly as the navigator had described.
Hitchens could be dead, for all he knew. The thin face was turned away from him, mouth open, cheeks hollow. Pike shook him by the shoulder. The body stirred at his touch, taking in a startled breath, and then with a grunt sank back into deep sleep.
Best to leave him, Pike thought. He wasn’t needed in the control room, and would be little use if forced out of a drugged sleep.
He stood back from the bunk and looked around for a pill container. He found it inside a small, blue sponge bag on the table. The name on the label was unfamiliar, but the pharmacist’s instructions read ‘one to two at night when needed’. He pulled off the cap — it was one of those child-proof ones. Inside he counted about a dozen capsules. At least Hitchens hadn’t taken the lot.
He looked at the wall-clock: 0200. Let him sleep it off.
Even asleep Hitchens’ face looked stressed and unhappy. Enough stress to have unbalanced him? How could Pike tell? He was no medic, and they didn’t have a doctor on board.
He pulled the curtain shut behind him and returned to the control room. The submarine was levelling off.
The crew of RAF Nimrod call-sign Eight-Lima-Golf could hardly believe the drama unfolding below them. The four-engined jet criss-crossed the pitch-black Norwegian Sea at 220 knots, 300 feet up, monitoring and plotting every detail of the duel under the waves.
On routine patrol from its base at Kinloss, the Nimrod had been directed to the area by reports from the Norwegian Air Force, whose P-3 Orion maritime patrol planes had suddenly delected the Soviet sub marine south of Vestfjord. Where it had come from, they didn’t know. Somehow it had escaped detection elsewhere in the Norwegian Sea.
The RAF were pleased to get in on the action; at first they’d suspected the target was one of the new ultra-quiet Sierra class boats. But then they picked up the characteristic noise signature of a Victor, albeit quieter than usual. Must’ve just come out of refit, they’d concluded.
It had taken time to find the Victor; the fix the Norwegians had given, was over an hour old. The first line of sonobuoys they’d dropped into the sea had drawn a blank. Knowing the Victor’s ability to sprint at forty knots, the airborne electronics officer had gambled that the boat had turned north, to keep away from the shallows of the continental shelf.
He’d been right, but for the wrong reason.
Sixty miles north of the Victor’s last known position they’d dropped eight Jezebel sonobuoys two miles apart, in a chevron from east to west. Once in the water the buoys separated into two sections; one part, containing an omni-directional hydrophone, dropped 150 metres while the other section, linked to it by cable, containing a small radio and antenna, floated to the surface to transmit to the aircraft the sounds the hydrophone detected.
The noise of a speeding Victor can travel great distances. All eight Jezebel buoys detected it simultaneously. The two operators on the AQS.901 acoustic processor inside the cramped and tatty fuselage of the Nimrod grinned at each other at the strength of the signals they were hearing through their headphones.