Sea Leopard

'What is it, John?'

'Listen to this, sir.' Thurston pressed the headphone set into Lloyd's hand. The communications petty officer twisted in his chair, watching for his captain's reactions. A brief splash of code, repeated again and again. Lloyd looked questioningly at Thurston.

'One of ours — distress code isn't it?

'Not one of ours. The computer identified it as a quite low-priority Soviet submarine code, one we broke three months ago. Distress, yes.'

'When did you start picking it up?'

'About fifteen minutes ago, sir,' the petty officer replied. 'It's being transmitted regularly. I fed it into the signals computer, and it came out as a distress call.'

'Any ident?'

'Yes, sir,' Thurston replied, acclaiming the drama he perceived in the situation by a lengthening of his saturnine face.

'Well?'

'It's a “Delta”-class ballistic missile submarine. The full works.'

'You're sure?'

'Yes, sir.'

'What the hell is the matter with her, using a low-grade code? What's her trouble?'

'Massive explosion in the computer room. Most of their ECM systems have gone, and there's gas in the air- purification system. They' ve shut down almost everything. They're sitting on the bottom.'

Lloyd screwed his face up. 'They're very descriptive.'

'Panic, sir. Sheer bloody panic.'

'Any idea where?'

'Yes, sir.'

Again, Lloyd looked puzzled. 'How did we get a fix?'

'We didn't. They told us where to find them. They're screaming for help. They could begin transmitting in clear any minute now, they're so scared.'

'Where are they?'

Thurston, who had evidently prepared the little scene between himself and Lloyd in minute detail, nodded towards the chart table against the aft bulkhead of the control room. Lloyd followed him across.

'Here,' Thurston said. 'Right here.' His finger tapped the chart. He had drawn a livid red cross, dramatic and oversized, on its surface. Tanafjord.'

'What? You must have got it wrong —'

Thurston shook his head. 'No, sir. They're wrong to be there, and to be using a broken code to transmit their position. But they're inside Tanafjord. They're in Norwegian waters in a ballistic missile submarine, and they're scared they're going to die!'

'My God,' Lloyd breathed. He was silent for a moment, and then he said, 'We'll break radio silence for this one. Run up a transmission buoy. We'd better tell the Admiralty — and the sooner the better!'

* * *

Admiral of the Red Banner Northern Fleet Dolohov paced the gantry, his footsteps and those of his aides ringing on the metal catwalk. Continually, he stared down into the well of the fleet's central Operations Room beneath Red Banner headquarters in Murmansk. Below him, the huge map table glowed with light. He had just arrived, and the warm lighting of the room, and the pin-point glows in fairy-light colours from the computer- projected map seemed to celebrate and promise. It was a welcome. He paused, placed his hands on the rail of the catwalk, and turned to his aide. He might have been on the bridge of a ship.

'Sergei — status report, if you please.'

The younger man smirked with pleasure, real and anticipated. 'Sir. The British submarine is in this area—' He clicked his fingers, and a chart was passed to him. It was attached to a clipboard, and over the exposed fold was fixed a transparent plastic sheet. There were faint, reddish smudges on the plastic, one or two firmer images. 'The infra-red satellite picked these up, sir. Very, very faint, but there. It must be the Proteus.' He pointed out one of the brighter images. 'This is the cruiser in the area. A clear image, even with the cloud cover. The faint smudges —'

'It works, then? This anti-detection equipment, it really works as well as we have been led to believe?'

The aide considered the possible implications of the question, then said, 'The weather satellites promise the break-up of the cloud cover. It will improve our chances of getting a good infra-red trace.'

'I didn't mean that, boy!' Dolohov snapped, his pale eyes fierce and alert. 'I understand that it is a hit-and-miss, even with our new geostationary satellite and every unit of the fleet looking for this submarine. I am delighted that it works, that the prize will be worth the game.'

'I see, sir — ' the aide said shamefacedly. 'When the submarine moves closer to the Norwegian shelf, into shallower water, we may have a better trace. Not much better, but enough, sir,' he added with solemn candour. Dolohov laughed.

'It is a gamble, Sergei, a great game!' he explained. 'As long as the prize is sufficient, then one accepts the chances of losing the game.' He transferred his intent gaze to the map table below. The plotters moved about it busily, yet expectant, knowing that they were as yet simply filling in time, rehearsing.

'Oh, the prize is a good one, sir. It works, only too well. We have had nothing from our sonar carpet, nothing, even though the British have been in the area for two days now.'

Dolohov turned his back to him, his eyes vacant, his gaze inward. The smile still hovered around his mouth. He nodded, like a very old, semi-senile man. Sergei would not have been surprised had an unregarded spittle appeared on his lips.

Then Dolohov was alert again. 'Yes. Satisfactory.' He looked down into the well of the huge room, at the map table. The different coloured lights. Cruisers, destroyers, the carrier Kiev, submarines, the special salvage vessel Dioklas and the submarine rescue ship Karpaty, all ready to sail from Pechenga and Poliarnyi, as soon as the word was given. Hours — mere hours — away from the Tanafjord and the distress signal. The thought spoiled his almost complete satisfaction. He turned to Sergei again. 'If only we knew the precise moment when the Proteus picked up the distress call and her computers broke the code — eh, Sergei? Yes, I know when they transmitted to London, I know that. I would have liked to have known when they picked it up, though. The precise moment. What they thought, and felt, and said. Everything.' He laughed. Then he spoke more softly, looking down on the map table once more. 'Come, let us begin. Set course for Tanafjord, and sail into our elaborate trap. Come.'

Chapter Two: CONTACT

The commodore was still closeted with a hastily assembled committee of staff officers, arguing for an investigation by Proteus of the distress signals from Tanafjord. In the 'Chessboard Counter' room, Clark found himself a lone voice, disregarded and even derided, as he argued against any diversion of the submarine from her mission.

He could not have explained to himself the reasons for his reluctance. The cleanly-shaven, smartly-uniformed young men who surrounded him beneath the huge perspex map-board enraged him with their confidence, their boyish enthusiasm. It was their cheerful dismissal of any doubts on his part that had stung him to contempt and counter argument. He repeated himself again and again, and the baffled, kindly smiles and the frowns of dismissal greeted every statement he made. He knew it was the commodore he needed to convince, yet he once more reiterated the central thrust of his argument in a snapping, irritated tone. He justified his own stubbornness by reminding himself that he was the Navy Department's — America's — only and solely responsible representative.