A second flag went up.
‘The two of them were to get onto the island and hide. Then in daylight they’d take pictures of the radar, hide again, and escape the following night. Nobody knows if they ever made it.’
Andrew and Peter Biddle sat spellbound.
‘What… what was the name of the island?’
‘Ostrov Chernyy.’
The two commanders looked at one another.
‘I can show it to you on the chart, if you like.’
‘Thanks,’ growled Andrew, ‘but we’ve already found it.’
CHAPTER NINE
The President and General Secretary of the Soviet Union Nikolai Savkin knew that the endgame was at hand.
His efforts to use the media to project a threat from the West had fallen flat. Ever since he’d re-imposed censorship, the Soviet people had treated everything in the newspapers or on television with deep suspicion.
In two days there was to be a full meeting of the Politburo. Without a genuine foreign relations crisis to rally its members, he knew he’d be outvoted and forced to end what was left of the economic and political reform programme.
The head of the KGB sat across the table from him.
Savkin mistrusted Medvedev; it was the Politburo who’d appointed him, demanding a new strong-man at the KGB after the organization’s failure to control the secessionist riots in the Baltic republics earlier that year.
Savkin was only half-listening to Medvedev, who was reeling off a long list of arrests and deaths during the disturbances of the past week, expressing satisfaction that the figures were falling. That showed most of the ringleaders had already been disposed of, he claimed.
Savkin gave Medvedev a watery smile when he eventually left, relieved at his departure.
Admiral of the Fleet Sergey Grekov was waiting outside. A stolid, non-political seaman, Grekov owed his promotion to Gorbachev’s early efforts to separate the military from politics.
Their meeting had been hastily arranged that morning. The Admiral had insisted on seeing Savkin at the earliest opportunity.
‘Please come in, Comrade Admiral,’ Savkin welcomed him.
‘It’s good of you to see me at such short notice, Comrade President, I know how busy you are. I’m sure you’ll understand the urgency when I…’
‘Yes, yes, Sergey Ivanovich,’ Savkin answered impatiently. ‘Sit down, and get your breath back.’
The Admiral was sweating from the haste of his arrival at the Kremlin. Savkin had heard he’d been having heart trouble lately.
‘It’s an intelligence matter,’ Grekov puffed. ‘Disturbing information we received from London last night.’
The Admiral paused, trying to guess from Savkin’s expression whether the KGB chief had already told him about the Englishman Hitchens.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Concerning a British nuclear submarine.’
‘Really? Well, go on. I’m not telepathic…’
Grekov relaxed. Savkin’s apparent ignorance meant he could simplify the details.
‘A Trafalgar class submarine, according to information gathered by one of our agents in Plymouth — that’s the home port for the boat — is heading towards our main submarine bases in Kola, intending to attack us.’
‘What? That’s ridiculous!’
‘Her commanding officer is disobeying orders. He appears to have a personal grudge against the Soviet Union. It’s possible some of his officers support him.’
‘Are you sure? Has it been checked?’
‘The British are searching for him. Their maritime aircraft are operating in the Barents Sea — that’s almost unheard of, so far north. It means the submarine must be close.’
Nikolai Savkin’s heart was racing. He struggled to control himself. If he believed in God, he’d have said his prayers had been answered. Grekov mustn’t see his excitement.
‘This is terrible! What are you doing about it?’
‘We, too, are searching. Aircraft and helicopters are out at this moment, covering the widest possible area.’
‘And what of your navy, Admiral? How many ships and submarines are also searching?’
‘Comrade President, we have to take care. If the British commander wants our blood, we must not make it easy for him. The Trafalgar submarines are very advanced. Their technology makes them hard to find. In a contest with even our newest PLAs, the chances are the Trafalgar would win.’
‘What are you saying, Sergey?’ Savkin growled. ‘That you dare not confront him?’
‘Of course not, Comrade President. But when you know a trap’s being set, but not where it is, you move cautiously. We must assume he’s now close to the mouth of the Kol’skiy Zaliv. Nearby, there are six submarine bases; he could be lying in wait at any one of them.’
‘Are you saying the Red Banner Fleet of the Soviet Navy is hiding in its harbours, for fear of one single British submarine?’ Savkin bellowed in mounting fury.
‘That’s an insult, Comrade President!’ Grekov hurled back, hauling himself to his feet. ‘An insult to me and to the brave men under my command! It would be an act of the utmost foolishness to send out submarines which are now in harbour, without knowing whether the enemy has blockaded the ports. No military man of any experience would take such a decision.’
‘All right. Simmer down, Sergey!’
Savkin drummed his fingers on his desk, his mind hyperactive.
Admiral Grekov felt his heart beating uncomfortably fast. The doctors had told him to avoid situations which excited him.
‘What ships are already at sea?’ the President continued.
‘An anti-submarine barrier. Surface ships and submarines. They’re to the west, facing the NATO fleets — the Ocean Guardian exercise. It’s possible they’ll find the British boat. He won’t dare attack out there. Too many of us.
‘The danger is inshore. He has mines of a new type. We know little about them…’
Grekov hesitated. Should he tell Savkin the KGB had bungled the operation to get hold of one? He decided not.
‘If he lays the mines close to our submarine bases, it’d be suicide for any of our boats to leave harbour. We need time, Comrade. Just a few days, to find the Trafalgar, and neutralize the threat.’
‘Has it occurred to you the British might be bluffing? That, far from disobeying orders, the submarine could be the spearhead for a NATO attack on our Northern Fleet? Under the guise of their manoeuvres?’
‘We considered that, of course. It did seem possible; their naval strategy is very threatening. But all the intelligence information we have suggests the British are themselves close to panic. They’re desperate to get their submarine back under control, but at the same time don’t want their allies to know anything’s wrong. The British claim to have the best trained, best disciplined Navy in the world. It could be damaging to their reputation.
‘Also, our radar satellites show the NATO warships are no longer moving towards the Barents. They’re manoeuvring off the coast of Norway, as in previous years. Perhaps our protests have had some effect.’
Savkin would have felt triumphant at the West backing down, if these had been normal times, but Grekov’s words were like a body-punch. A diminishing threat from the West meant the crumbling of his last hope of using fear to bring the unruly Soviet people back to heel.
His last hope but one. There was still the submarine.
Savkin swung his chair round to face the window. The sky was a watery blue. He could see the top of the Spassky Tower on the Kremlin wall, crowned with its big red star.