“The flat had been searched I believe and then trashed to cover the evidence of that search.” Sir Richard went on.
“As a precaution the local station recorded it as a crime in the absence of a formal allegation by the lady herself. A scene of crime examiner has attended and lifted some prints. I have had my stations email any photographs of recently missing women between 14 and 80. We have been comparing them to the French bank application photograph. I was alerted when the photograph on the application was found to be that of the young woman in the photograph supplied by her employers when reporting her as a missing person. I have had the marks found at the flat treated as a priority job, the bad news is that one of the marks belonged to an Irish terrorist, very recently dead I am happy to say in the raid in Essex, but there is the possibility that she fell into their hands. I have already heard the orders given regarding her capture.” The commissioners voice lowered slightly. “Young man, the only person whom I would wish that fate on is the man who wished it upon her in the first place.”
Scott began speed reading through the docket before him and came upon the section regarding Christina Carlisle.
“I take it this is not her real name… or is it?” he asked.
“Either she is a girlfriend of the gallant major or she is what you would term as an ‘illegal’, personally I think the chances are more likely that she is the latter of the two.” explained Sir Richard.
Scott opened a buff envelope and several photographs spilled out. “Wow!” he exclaimed in admiration. The policeman was smiling. “Precisely… a little too racy for page three of the tabloids but it would seem either the good major or a previous close friend knows their way around a camera and the fair Miss Carlisle is not the bashful type. That photograph was found with the remainder, in her flat” Scott moved on to the end of the docket.
“I have taken the precaution of arranging your accommodation rather than Art, you will be staying at a rented address along with some help, and there is a hire car in the drive in your name.”
“You will have two of London’s finest with you Scott, we cannot carry firearms but they can. If I were the brain behind this plot I wouldn’t waste the effort of trying to find the major and the young lady, not given that we have already discovered it. However, once you have read the docket fully I think you will agree that Peridenko is one vindictive mother. I would like these two found before his people get them. He and Carlisle may know a lot more” Art informed him.
“The Commissioner has covered a lot of ground in a short time. Miss Carlisle for example is renowned amongst her colleagues for her ability to complete the Times crossword with admirable speed. The answers to five of the clues tomorrow will be ‘Carlisle’, ‘Emperor Constantine’, ‘Whitehall’, ‘OneTwoOneTwo’ and ‘Commissioner’.” Scott knew what Art was getting at but… ?
“The phone number for Scotland Yard in days gone by was rather famous due its often being quoted in the cinema, Whitehall 1212. I agree that it is a long shot but I am open to suggestions,” the commissioner enlightened him.
“If the young lady has time to buy the paper, do the crossword and make the connection, I am hoping she will call. The Information Room operators have been primed to listen for callers named Constantina Carlisle and the like.” He shrugged,
“It’s a bit Boys Own Weekly and Famous Five but the best I could come up with at short notice,” the policeman admitted.
“Who the hell are they?” was all Scott could respond with.
With the exception of normal merchant traffic, much of it travelling at greater rates of knots than their company accountants would like, nothing so far had come to the notice of the USS Commanche. The rumblings of war had the mercantile marines of all nations looking over their shoulders and heading for the relative safety of coastal waters and ports. There was an air of expectancy amongst the crew as they neared the assigned search area. This had been offset by the news they may soon be at war with Russia. Why were they messing with the Chinese instead of the warships of China’s neighbour? The later report of a Russian carrier group being in the region, their only carrier group, had set them polishing the accessible warheads and asking their captains permission to write inane messages on the weapons casings. Joe had acquiesced to their request but insisted on his Exec checking the spelling.
“No one’s going to accuse this boat of launching misspelt profanities in time of war Mister, no sireee!” he had explained with theatrical earnestness.
With no real skills of his own that could assist the crew, Dr Dave Bowman had tired of pacing the length of his tiny-shared quarters and lying on his bunk. Before the rumours of war had reached them he had at least been able to chat with the odd crew member, they were all now far too intent on their tasks to bother with a strange civilian in need of a haircut. Dave had offered his services to the ships cook as a kitchen hand; he was at least no longer starved of human company and was doing something.
In the control room the Exec had the watch. Captain Hart was in his bunk catching some zee’s whilst it was still quiet.
“Con, Sonar… high speed screws approaching on reciprocal course… bearing 183’, range 16000 yards and closing, designated Sierra One Five, classify as Krivak surface warship, estimate speed as 27 knots, sir”
The Exec had just looked down at the plot and decided to call the captain when the sonar operator spoke again.
“Con, sonar, aspect change on Sierra One Five… vessel is turning hard to starboard… vessel has now reversed course sir.” Now what was all that about wondered the Exec and cancelled calling his captain.
“Sonar, Con… keep an eye on that guy, report as soon as he does anything screwy again.”
“Sonar, aye sir.”
Fifteen minutes later and the Krivak turned again; its screws thrashing the water as it raced in their direction once more. This time the Exec did call the captain. Joe Hart looked at the plot and looked as bemused as his Exec as the Krivak turned about again and raced away. Joe was about to ask if anything else had happened.
“Transient! Transient! Transient… torpedoes in the water close astern!” the sonar shack shouted the warning.
“Full ahead flank, launch counter measures, hard a-port and make your depth one hundred feet!” shouted Joe. The Exec slammed his palm onto the button sounding general quarters. The blaring klaxon instigated a tumble of bodies leaving their cots and running towards their action stations. In the galley, Dave Bowman gaped in shock at the noise that tore at his nerves.
Several things were running through Joe’s mind, the first being that they had apparently been detected some time ago, the second was that they had been suckered into looking in one direction. The third was that it was going to take too long to accelerate to their full 22knot speed from 9 knots.
The bow of the submarine was rising and the deck heeling over when the first of two torpedoes launched by the Russian Akula detonated against the USS Commanche’s single screw.
In the galley Dave Bowman was thrown off his feet by the terrific impact and drenched in hot fat. He was screaming in pain when the second warhead struck amidships.
Still 580 feet short of the depth ordered by her captain the USS Commanche’s hull and bulkheads collapsed and the sea rushed in and claimed her.