Olufsen said, ‘As soon as we’re past the Ostnes Beacon, we’ll alter course to the north-west.’
In the darkness Tanya leant over the body at her feet. She put her ear to Krasnov’s mouth. He was breathing steadily. She felt his heartbeat and pulse. They were regular. The tablets would keep him heavily sedated for several hours. Long before that, she hoped, he would have been delivered to his destination. She felt a strange sympathy, a real sorrow for the Soviet lieutenant; and with it a sense of guilt that she’d been a party to it all. It was sad, she thought, that the world was like that. He was the son of some Russian mother, the husband or boy-friend of some Russian girl. What would they feel and think if they could see him now?
Olufsen’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Drop that bag over the side, Li.’
She heard the splash of the weighted shopping bag as it hit the water astern and sank.
Bluewhale arrived at the rendezvous twenty miles north of the Ostnes Beacon at 2200. Then began what was to prove a long wait for the signal from Kestrel. At first Bill Boyd occupied the time doing a square search round the RV. Submerged at ‘snort’ depth, doing no more than five knots, the submarine ran on main diesels. That made possible full use of both radar and communications systems. Later he moved on to more interesting things, strange unpredictable manoeuvres to fox what he called ‘that nosey sod’. The three-dimensional display on the sonar screen in the control-room showed everything in or on the water within forty miles capable of producing an echo, its range, bearing and depth and, if a moving object, its course and speed. The hydrophones and their amplifiers relayed all underwater sounds including propeller noises and sonar transmissions of other warships. The picture on the screen was dominated in the south by the coastlines of Vrakoy and the other islands of the Vesteralen group. Around the central spot of light — Bluewhale herself — other specks, dots and smudges of neon showed up on various bearings and ranges. These were the ships, coasters and fishing boats in the area. The sonar operators on watch had reported and classified each as they appeared on the screen.
Soon after Bluewhale arrived at the RV the sonar operator had made a report which enlivened the otherwise rather dull proceedings. ‘New contact, sub-surface, bearing three-five-zero, range thirty-eight miles, classified submarine, depth two hundred feet…’
A ripple of excitement ran through the control-room as Bill Boyd acknowledged the report, altered course to the reciprocal of the bearing given, and ordered revolutions for three knots. ‘Until we know who he is, I don’t propose to hand him our signature on a plate,’ he said, knowing that vital data had still to come.
Kingswell, the sonar officer, had joined the watch operator on hearing the report. He’d been hard at work since. His first report, ‘Contact’s sonar transmissions are USN type, sir,’ pleased Bill Boyd. At least it wasn’t Russian. A few minutes later Kingswell had more information. ‘Contact’s course one-eight-zero, speed fifteen knots. We should get a sound signature soon,’ he added.
The first lieutenant checked through the NATO signal log. ‘NATO disposition signal for USN units in the Norwegian Sea at twenty hundred doesn’t give a submarine anywhere near here, sir.’
‘Doesn’t record us either,’ said Bill Boyd laconically. ‘At least it better bloody not.’
Another seven minutes passed. The unidentified submarine came steadily closer. Kingswell reported, ‘Computer comparison with NATO sound signatures suggests Fin jack hunter-killer class, sir. Appears to be heading for us.’
‘Appears be damned. The nosey sod is heading for us. Give him the NATO-IFF challenge, Kingswell.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Kingswell switched the sonar transmissions to the IFF (identification friend or foe) pulsing challenge for the day. Immediately the correct reply came from the unknown submarine, now twenty miles away.
‘Well, that’s something,’ said Bill Boyd. ‘At least he’s an Atlantic cousin. All the same I wish he’d push off. We don’t want him sniffing round our arse for the next few hours.’
Around midnight Bluewhale’s sonar operator reported that the US submarine had come up from two hundred feet and was running on diesels at ‘snort’ depth. In accordance with NATO radio identification procedures the two submarines challenged, replied, and exchanged names by means of coded high-speed radio transmissions. The US submarine turned out to be the Rockfish. Carrying out radar exercises, she said. Bluewhale, having revealed her identity, reported that she was carrying out ASW exercises. Neither captain was tactless enough to refer to the NATO disposition signal.
Thereafter the two submarines didn’t communicate with each other again, though they were never more than seven miles apart. ‘Wonder what that nosey sod’s up to? Playing ducks and drakes with us,’ complained Bill Boyd to his first-lieutenant.
The skimmer overhauled the Kestrel, passed noisily up her port side and disappeared into the shroud of fog and darkness, the sound of its engine fading rapidly.
Nunn took his eyes from the radar viewer. ‘The best of British luck to them,’ he said.
‘They’re going to need it,’ said Boland. ‘Crazy without radar.’
Sandstrom turned the wheel a few spokes. ‘Olufsen knows the island well. That helps.’
‘What? At thirty knots, close inshore in this lot? You’re joking.’
The three men could see nothing but the muted light of instrument dials in the cockpit, fading and glowing as the fog wrapped itself about them. The deep rumble of the diesel, the creak and groan of the rigging, the slap and splash of the bow wave and the periodic boom of the Kolnoy foghorn wove an intricate and now familiar pattern of sound.
From where he watched the dials of the echo-sounder and the speed and distance log, Boland called, ‘Thirty-eight fathoms, Steve.’
Nunn repeated the depth, read off the radar bearing and distance of the Ostnes Beacon, switched on the light under the hooded chart-table and plotted the position. He marked it with a neat pencilled circle and wrote the time against it.
‘Ostnes Beacon bears zero-six-four, three point three miles,’ he said. ‘Allowing for the current against us it should be abeam in about twenty minutes. Not that we’ll see it in this.’
Boland said. ‘When do we make the stand-by signal?’
‘Soon as we’re past Ostnes and clear of the mountains. They mask these VHF transmissions.’
‘What time will that be?’ Boland knew the answer but he was twitchy and chatting helped steady his nerves.
‘Say three o’clock. First light’s about six. Sunrise a few minutes before seven. There’s plenty of time.’ He hesitated. ‘If all goes well.’
In the silence which followed Nunn wondered if all would go well. There were Soviet naval units in the waters off Vrakoy, just outside Norwegian territorial limits, and there were the Norwegians: the minesweeper and the fast gunboat. Their beat was on the other side of the island, off Knausnes. But news of Krasnov’s disappearance would long-since have been broadcast and a search at sea might already be on. His thoughts were interrupted by Boland’s, ‘Forty-three fathoms, Steve.’
Nunn acknowledged the report, went back to the radar viewer. ‘Let’s see how Gunnar and Co. are getting on,’ he said. On the screen, luminous masses and contours marked the coastline to port. He looked along it until he found a tiny speck of light, glowing and fading like a firefly, moving towards the Ostnes Beacon. He turned to ‘large scale’ and checked the speck’s distance from the beacon. It was just over a mile. ‘Great,’ he muttered. ‘They’re going fine.’