Nikolai Savkin’s telephone call earlier that morning had almost caused Feliks to renege on the pledge he’d made him in Moscow the previous weekend. Savkin told him the nation needed a military confrontation with the West. Sending a submarine to sea to confront the British intruder was the only way it could be made to happen.
He’d not been specific. He didn’t need to be. They both knew of the danger from mines.
The implication of the President’s request was clear; a Soviet submarine and the men on board were to be sacrificed, if need be, to secure the unity of the USSR.
Feliks knew he could never order one of his own commanders on a suicide mission. He could never live with his conscience.
There was only one way he could fulfil his pledge to Savkin — take the submarine to sea himself.
‘Have you given the order to cast off?’
‘It’s being done at this moment, Comrade Vice-Admiral. Er…, you said the Northern Fleet Commander Admiral Belikov doesn’t know of our mission? He cannot fail to know within a very few minutes. Our departure from the dock will be reported.’
‘I know. Do you trust me, Captain?’
‘Of course, Admiral.’
‘Then you mustn’t ask political questions. I’m forbidden to tell you why we’re acting alone. The situation in Moscow is tense; the Politburo threatens to tear itself apart. What we’re doing is for Nikolai Savkin and may help save our country from chaos.’
His sombre words silenced Makhov.
‘I understand. What are my instructions?’
‘The Truculent was detected earlier this morning by a helicopter crew. The boat had a mast up, west of Nemetskiy Point. We believe, from our intelligence sources, that the captain of the British boat was receiving final orders to launch a provocative attack. To sink one of our major warships or submarines!
‘The West wants to exploit the political crisis in Moscow, you see. A surprise attack from an unidentified aggressor. Something the West can deny responsibility for; they reckon it could shake the confidence of the Soviet people in their leaders and in us, their military protectors.’
Makhov’s jaw gaped open. Astashenkov’s bland delivery of the ‘facts’ had done nothing to conceal the impact of what he was saying.
‘That’s madness. It’s unbelievable.’
‘I’m not lying,’ Astashenkov lied. ‘If the Truculent is successful in her mission, it could be a disaster for the Soviet Union. We’ve got to stop her. And we have to do it alone. No communication with headquarters. Nothing that can ever be traced. We too must be totally “deniable”.’
‘I understand, I think. But where do we look? We need to know what the aircraft have found out. They may be tracking the boat by now.’
‘Can you listen in to their radio transmissions? Before we dive?’
‘Their stuff’s all encrypted. We don’t carry the right decoder.’
‘Then it’s up to us, isn’t it?’
They both felt a slight jolt as the submarine nudged itself away from the pier. Normally tugs would assist a boat as large at the Ametyst, but not today. The 40,000 horsepower produced by her twin, pressurized-water nuclear reactors would need careful control to prevent damage as she eased her way out of the dock.
The Zapadnaya Litsa Fjord emerges into the sea twenty miles west of the main Kola Inlet. Within a mile of the shore, the waters of the Barents Sea plunge 250 metres to a sea-bed of black mud.
‘We’ll dive when we’ve passed Ostrov Kuvshin,’ Makhov announced. This was an island at the mouth of the fjord. ‘Then we can unreel the array. It’s noisy when we do it, so let’s hope the English boat isn’t close already. D’you have any idea of her exact target?’
‘No. It could be any of the naval bases. All we can do is patrol between here and Ostrov Chernyy. Sixty kilometres of sea. She has to cross our path if she’s to complete her mission.
‘The name of the boat, by the way — Truculent — I looked it up in a dictionary. It means “of merciless temper”!’
‘How fitting. But if we are to destroy her, then we must be of even more merciless temper, mustn’t we?’
Admiral Belikov took off his heavy-framed spectacles and polished them with his pocket handkerchief. The waiting was dragging on his nerves. In the command bunker, the big screen was marked with dozens of triangles, denoting contacts detected by the maritime patrol aircraft and helicopters.
They couldn’t all be Truculent, scattered widely over 4000 square kilometres of sea. The question was whether any of them were. None of the contacts had been confirmed, since the chance discovery of the vessel west of Nemetskiy Point. Infuriatingly the helicopter had had no spare fuel to give chase, so they’d had to start the search all over again. The Royal Navy was damnably good at silencing its boats.
It had been a gamble, ordering the message about Helsinki to be transmitted to the boat they’d discovered. He hoped it was clear enough to persuade Commander Hitchens to adhere to his arrangement with the KGB, but sufficiently mysterious for the rest of his crew to ignore it.
They’d know soon. Four helicopters were dunking transducers into the waters round Ostrov Chernyy. If Commander Hitchens delivered the Moray mine there, they’d be sure to hear the submarine’s bow caps opening. If he didn’t, they’d know he had a more sinister intent, and would concentrate the search closer inshore.
All aircraft had now been loaded with homing torpedoes or depth charges.
He replaced the spectacles and looked again at the screen. A fresh symbol had appeared, at the mouth of the Zapadnaya Litsa fjord — a circle this time, denoting one of his own submarines.
‘Captain Lieutenant!’ he spluttered. ‘What the hell is that?’
The briefing officer hurriedly checked his computer terminal.
‘The PLA Ametyst, Comrade Admiral. Sailed from Bolshaya Litsa an hour ago. Vice-Admiral Astashenkov is listed as being in command.’
Belikov stared at the small circle on the screen, transfixed. He dared not speak, knowing his voice would betray his horror; dared not reveal that his own deputy was acting without his knowledge!
A red flush spread upwards from his neck. He was conscious of a dozen pairs of eyes turned towards him. Every man and woman in that room knew the instructions that had been issued to all shipping in the Kol’skiy Zaliv, including their own submarines; to stay in harbour until the enemy boat had been located and neutralized.
What the hell was Astashenkov playing at? Trying to rid the Rodina of the submarine threat single-handed? Playing the glory seeker, at his age?
Suddenly he sensed the dabbling hand of Moscow. Someone was playing for power.
For his own deputy to risk everything, the orders must have come from the very top. From Sergey Grekov, Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union, or Nikolai Savkin — the President himself.
But why? What was their plan? They knew the risks. It was Grekov himself who had ordered boats confined to port.
It had to be Savkin. If the Ametyst were destroyed by a Western mine, he’d have an international incident of mighty proportions to exploit for political ends. And if she found the Truculent and sank her, Savkin would also have a political feather for his threadbare cap.
He couldn’t lose.
And himself? He needed an insurance policy.
His eyes focused on the screen again, looking north of the Rybachiy Peninsula.
‘All the ships inbound to Kol’skiy Zaliv — have they hove to, as ordered?’
‘Yes, Comrade Admiral,’ answered the Captain Lieutenant. He pointed with a light pen to the northeast tip of the Ribachiy. ‘The supply vessel Boris Bubnov is waiting off Voronkovskiy Point. She’s the closest to harbour.’