‘I’ve had three calls from Admiral Waverley today, Nigel,’ she announced. ‘The first to tell me they’d located the Truculent, the second to say they’d lost her again, and the third just this moment, to tell me that it now looks as if Commander Hitchens could be a Russian agent!’
‘What?’
‘The KGB may be blackmailing him. Something to do with his father. I’ve just launched a rocket at the security chiefs; I should have heard about it from them, not the wretched Navy!
‘And Sir Stewart had the cheek to tell me that because the Royal Navy has the quietest submarines in the world, they may not be able to stop Commander Hitchens doing whatever he intends to do!
‘Pour me another whisky, would you? It’s been a long day.’
The Foreign Secretary obliged, but kept the measure small. He’d noticed the PM losing her concentration recently after too many whiskies.
‘What’s President McGuire going to say? Not a word to him about this business, Nigel.’
A buzzer sounded in the secure communications box. The PM picked up the receiver, and nodded to Penfold.
‘We’re ready. Put him through.’
She replaced the receiver and keyed the conference switch that operated a loudspeaker and microphone.
‘Good afternoon, Prime Minister. John McGuire here.’
‘Good evening, Mr President. How nice to hear your voice. I have Sir Nigel with me. Are you accompanied at your end?’
‘Tom’s here.’
‘Good evening, ma’am, Sir Nigel,’ came the voice of the National Security Adviser.
‘Perhaps you’d let me make the opening shots,’ McGuire’s voice had an edge to it. ‘Our intelligence assets think Savkin’s on the way out. The conservatives on the Politburo are getting the upper hand and want to turn the clock back. Our assessment is that he’s spoiling for a fight with the West as a distraction. Just a little fight, but something, nonetheless. Do you go along with that view?’
‘We agree as to what’s happening in the Politburo, and your assessment of Savkin’s actions is certainly a distinct possibility,’ the PM answered.
‘Our view is that Savkin’s lost his hand anyhow. There’s no way we can save him. All we can do is pray they don’t turn the clock right back to Brezhnev’s time.’
‘You’re more pessimistic than we are, John. But we agree in general with what you say.’
‘So it’s a time for the Western Alliance to keep its head down. Which isn’t easy with about a hundred NATO warships steaming towards the Kola peninsula! Now, we’ve just discussed this with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. On his advice, we feel there’s only one aspect of Exercise Ocean Guardian that needs to be modified to ensure we don’t risk mixing it with the Russian Navy…’
‘Mr President!’ the PM interrupted. ‘On no account must the Alliance be seen to be backing off in the face of blatant propaganda from the Soviet Union. At times like this we need to show strength, not weakness!’
‘If I may continue… We won’t be seen to be backing off at all! It’s the submarine operations that should be changed. Their activities are secret anyway, so no one’ll know we’ve given them new orders.’
This was dangerous ground. Penfold’s concern grew as the PM reached for her glass.
‘Go on, Mr President,’ she said.
‘I’m talking of two subs in particular, Prime Minister. One of ours and one of yours. Their exercise task, as you know, is to try to penetrate the Soviet surveillance barriers and simulate the planting of the new “smart” mines at the entrances to two major Russian submarine bases. Normally that sort of operation is fair game; we don’t admit we’re doing it, and the Russians don’t admit it if they manage to detect us doing it. But with Savkin looking for a fight, they might just blow those boats out of the water.’
‘Yes. I hear what you’re saying. But that’s an essential task for our submarines, in case a real war threatens. They’ve got to try it out, see what’s possible and what isn’t.’
‘Let me put it this way. This afternoon I gave orders that the USS Baltimore should turn back from her mission, and join the exercises with the Surface Fleet west of North Cape. There will be no United States submarines operating within a hundred miles of the Soviet coast for the immediate future. If your boat goes in there, she’ll be on her own.’
The PM’s expression froze.
‘I earnestly recommend you to withdraw that boat, Prime Minister. We’re all fully agreed on this side that it’s the right thing to do. The operation can be set up again in six months when the Kremlin’s settled down.’
‘I hear what you say, John. We’ll give it most urgent thought, I promise you.’
‘Say, ah… there won’t be any problem in recalling that boat, will there? No communications difficulties?’
‘The Commander-in-Chief Fleet communicates regularly with all the ships under his command, Mr President. Now, if there’s nothing further we need to discuss, I’d like to end this conversation so that I can pursue the points you’ve raised.’
‘Fine by me. Glad to have talked with you. We’ll stay in close touch.’
‘That would be prudent. Goodnight, Mr President.’
The PM immediately picked up her internal telephone.
‘Could you get me CINCFLEET on a secure line urgently, please?’
The Foreign Secretary suddenly thought of the orders he’d given the Secret Intelligence Service, to warn the Russians of the danger from Truculent. It now appeared the Soviets were expecting the boat anyway, and for some quite different reason. He hoped to God the PM never found out what he’d done.
Vice-Admiral Feliks Astashenkov found it impossible to sleep. His heart was racing from too much cognac, and his wife, who had a heavy cold, was snoring fitfully.
The green digits of his alarm clock told him it was just before one.
Despite his wakefulness, the knock at the door startled him.
‘Admiral Belikov wishes to see you immediately at his home, Comrade Vice-Admiral,’ came the grumpy voice of his valet who’d been woken out of a deep sleep. ‘He’s just telephoned.’
‘All right. Order the car,’ Astashenkov whispered, hoping his wife hadn’t been woken. He could have walked it in five minutes, but the wind was bitter, and if he was to be deprived of sleep he didn’t see why his driver shouldn’t suffer, too.
The heavy smell of spirits in the car almost made him change his mind. But even if the starshina driver was drunk, he shouldn’t come to much harm on the short drive.
‘Left here, halfwit!’ he yelled as they overshot the turning.
When they reached Belikov’s house the driver slammed on the brakes, hurling Astashenkov against the seat in front.
‘Right, you animal! Give me the bottle!’
The driver turned and shrugged, feigning bewilderment.
‘That’s an order!’
Grudgingly the starshina fished in the pocket of his heavy greatcoat and pulled out a flask. Astashenkov grabbed it from him, and emptied the contents onto the road.
‘Wait here!’
He left the car door open and marched up to the portal of Belikov’s villa. The guard had been watching for him and opened the door before he could knock.
The Commander of the Northern Fleet was waiting in his study, a large brandy bottle and two glasses on a tray on the desk.
‘My apologies for this, Feliks. It can’t be helped. No one’s getting much sleep tonight. Grekov called me from Moscow an hour ago. He’d been woken by the KGB. Come and sit down. Brandy?’