Andrew’s face brightened at the discovery.
Biddle looked at him doubtfully. It was the one aspect of the torpedo’s performance they’d been unable to cover in training.
There was hardly room for three men in the first lieutenant’s cabin. Paul Spriggs hauled himself onto the top bunk to make room for the MEO Peter Claypole.
All Lieutenant Commanders, they were the three most senior men on board after the captain.
Tim Pike told them he no longer considered Commander Hitchens to be in a balanced or responsible state of mind. He listed his reasons; the secretiveness, the overreactions to crises, and the unorthodox communications orders. There were now physical signs the captain was under abnormal stress; he was taking sleeping pills and there had been evidence that morning of vomiting and bowel problems.
‘D’you think any of us is qualified to make a judgement? We’re engine drivers, not bloody doctors!’ Claypole growled.
Pike was startled at encountering resistance from the engineer. After his brush with the captain the previous day, he’d expected support from him.
‘If we suspect the captain’s condition is a threat to safety, then we’re bloody well entitled to our opinions,’ insisted Spriggs.
‘Oh yes. Opinions are all right. It’s the next step that’s the problem.’
‘What’re you proposing, Tim?’
Pike looked flustered as he answered.
‘Since we left Devonport, there isn’t a man on board who hasn’t begun to wonder if the captain’s gone off his head. You know that, Peter, as well as I do.’
‘Aye. Wondering’s one thing. Doing something about it’s another.’
‘Are you saying we should ignore these warning signs?’ Spriggs interjected, his voiced tinged with exasperation.
‘I’m saying we should be damned careful! There’s precious little precedent for first lieutenants relieving their captains of command. It’s not popular with the Admiralty Board. In a court-martial, even this little meeting could be seen as conspiracy to mutiny.’
‘It might also be seen as senior officers using their brains to avoid a disaster!’ Pike countered angrily.
‘What disaster?’ Claypole demanded.
Pike looked at his cabin-mate for support.
‘Paul and I have been closer to it than you, Peter. You’ve only had the one row with him. For me, the friction’s been there the whole trip. You ask “what disaster?” I don’t know. Why don’t I know? Because the bugger hasn’t told me what his orders are. But…’
He hesitated. Hitchens had told him not to pass on what he’d said. Pike decided he had to.
‘We’re going close to the Soviet submarine bases, and Hitchens is saying there may be some action. What he means, Peter, is he may take us to war!’
Claypole scratched pensively at his bushy black beard.
Pike went on, ‘He told me he’s already got his rules of engagement. He’s not waiting for any more orders from CINCFLEET. It’s for him to decide if we go in fighting. Now, if he orders the firing of a salvo of Harpoons, or the launch of a pair of Mk 24s, would you be happy to pull the trigger?’
‘Well, put like that… But it’s still only surmise,’ Claypole cautioned. ‘It’s not enough if you’re thinking of pushing him out of the bandstand now.’
‘But if he orders weapons to be readied, then you’ll back me?’
‘In those circs you’ve got the right to see the orders, the rules of engagement and the target listings. Yes. If he won’t show them to you, then I’m right behind you.’
‘And you, Paul?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ll be with you.’
Pike expelled a deep sigh of relief.
‘Let’s hope we’re imagining all this,’ he concluded.
The three men went their separate ways, Claypole to the propulsion section aft, Spriggs forward to check the arsenal of missiles, mines and torpedoes, and Pike to the control room, where Lieutenant Cordell met him.
‘We’re heading for the Kola Inlet, sir. Captain’s orders. Tucked ourselves under the Boris Bubnov, bound for Severomorsk. Plenty of broadband noise from her. Should make us invisible. I sodding well hope so.’
Tim Pike stepped past into the control room.
Hitchens stood in the bandstand; with his chiselled features and ramrod straight back, he looked like a figure from an heroic painting.
The image made Pike shudder; a captain clinging to the bridge of his ship — as it sank beneath him.
CHAPTER TEN
The Kamov Ka-32 helicopter flew slowly along the line of jetties. Astashenkov, sitting beside the pilot, was struggling to differentiate one submarine from another. There were six of the broad-beamed 7000-tonners in harbour.
Then the pilot saw the orange armbands of the ground controller, on the fourth pier along. The machine circled once, feeling for the wind direction, before setting down gently, within a few metres of the companion way from the pier to the submarine.
The pilot saluted, and Astashenkov stepped down onto the concrete, clutching his cap to prevent it blowing away in the downdraught.
The Captain 2nd Rank who welcomed him on board the boat was well known to the Vice-Admiral. He’d been executive officer on Astashenkov’s last command — a strategic missile submarine.
The commander of the newly commissioned PLA saluted, then offered his hand.
‘You’re most welcome, Comrade Vice-Admiral,’ he shouted above the whine of the helicopter.
Astashenkov glanced admiringly at the rounded black hull with its coating of rubber to deaden sonar reflections. The submarine had a fat pod mounted atop the rudder, containing a towed sonar array, and was the newest in what NATO knew as the Sierra class.
‘You’re ready to sail?’
‘We’ll shut the hatches as we go below.’
Astashenkov took a last, quick look at the Bolshaya Litsa submarine base, his home port in younger days. He could be seeing it for the last time.
The piers for the big, nuclear-powered attack submarines were on the eastern shore of the fjord. Cut into the cliffs behind the quay that linked the piers were caverns for stores, spares and weapons.
To his right beyond the cliffs, the bleak granite rose two hundred metres in contours smoothed by the arctic ice of an earlier age.
A cutting wind came in off the sea, and Astashenkov shivered. Time to go, before the phones started buzzing between Bolshaya Litsa and the Severomorsk headquarters.
Astashenkov had been on board the Ametyst at her commissioning the previous year, but was again impressed by the size and comfort of her interior. Captain 2nd Rank Yury Makhov had a spacious day-cabin as well as his sleeping quarters. Fixed to the wall in the day-room was a photograph of President Nikolai Savkin. Feliks pointed to it.
‘I’m acting on the direct instructions of the President,’ he declared in answer to Makhov’s unspoken question. ‘But without the knowledge of the Commander-in-Chief, Admiral Belikov.’
‘I see.’
The captain’s pale face seemed to grow paler still.
‘There is a British submarine attempting to penetrate the waters of the Rodina. We are to intercept and destroy it.’
‘We’ve all been aware of the search going on. Never known so many aircraft operating at one time. I was beginning to wonder why we’d been left out,’ Makhov answered.
Astashenkov decided not to tell him there was still a ban on submarines putting to sea. If Makhov knew of the risk that British mines had already been laid outside the harbour, he’d have the right to refuse to sail.