Back in Action

Back in Action

By Ian Atkinson

Copyright © 2018 Ian Atkinson

Smashwords Edition

Cover design and illustrations

Nick Barwis - barwisnick@yahoo.co.uk

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book is available in print from most major online retailers

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Characters

Submarine cutaway

Abbreviations

Glossary

Chapter 1

Middle Chapter

Final Chapter

Acknowledgements

In memory of my good friend and shipmate

CMEM(L) Gerard ‘Paddy’ Conway

25th November 1964 to 13th May 2018

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

Book credits

Red Sky in the Morning Michael Pearson

Jane’s Fighting Ships of World War 2

Jane’s Fighting Ships 1985-86

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HMS Saracen’s Crew

Captain.....Commander Gavin Hinchcliffe

First Lieutenant.....Lt Cdr Rick Conway

First Watch 0100 - 0700 & 1300 - 1900

Navigator Lt Ryan Ramsey

Weapons Engineering Officer Lt Cdr Steven Matthews

Casing Officer Lt Matthew Dent

Communications Officer Lt Paul Marsden

Coxswain CPO Coxswain Paul ‘Sandy’ Shaw

Chief Ops Tactical Systems Chief Ops (TS) Anthony ‘Chats’ Harris

Communication Technician Chief CT Paul ‘Bunny’ Warren

PO Medical Assistant POMA Steve Manlow

Radio Supervisor RS Alan ‘Knocker’ White

Ordnance Artificer CPOWEA Patrick ‘Paddy’ Mcloughlin

Sonar Maintainer CPOWEA David Faulkner

Wrecker (L) CPOMEA Martin Sides

Chief Stoker CMEM(M) George Hyde

Killick Stoker LMEM(M) Bob Crossfield

Forward Stoker 1 MEM(M)1 Tim Marston

Forward Stoker 2 MEM(L) Paul ‘Spike’ Hughes

Fore-endy WEM(O)1 Tony Osborn

Leading WEM(R) LWEM(R) Thomas Phillips

WEM(R) WEM(R)1 Shaun ‘Dolly’ Gray

Leading Seaman (TS) LS(TS) Robert Alexander

AB(TS) AB(TS) Jimmy Allen

AB(TS) AB(TS) Billy Wright

AB(TS) AB(TS) Dave Shotton

Underwater Controller (UC)1 Chief OPS (Sonar) Douglas ‘Dinger’ Bell

Leading Seaman (UC L/S Keith ‘Robbie’ Roberts

AB(UC) AB(UC) Andrew ‘Tug’ Wilson

AB(UC) AB(UC) Lee ‘Taff’ Davies

RO(SM) RO2 Nick ‘Chappie’ Chapman

Chef Ch1 Nick Barwis

Leading Steward LStd George Sparnon

Leading Stores Accountant LSA Alan ‘Archie’ Deacon

Writer Wtr Jack ‘Nick’ Carter

Leading Medical Assistant LMA Sam ‘Douglad’ Douglass

Second Watch 0700 - 1300 & 1900 - 0100

TASO Lt Todd Edwards

Deputy WE Officer Lt Thomas Young

Confidential Books Officer S/Lt Gary ‘Buck’ Taylor

Supply Officer Lt Jeremy Russell

Surgeon Lieutenant Lt David Arnott

Petty Officer (TS) PO(TS) Peter ‘Andy’ Anderson

Communication Technician Chief CT Karl Taylor

TI POWEA Paul Douglas

Wrecker (OERA) CPOMEA Tony ‘TY’ Yalden

POMEM (L) POMEM(L) Paul ‘Jakey’ Foran

Radio Electrical Artificer CPOWEA Richard Jones

PO Chef PO ‘Daisy’ May

PO SA Greg ‘Rattler’ Morgan

Killick of the Mess LMEM(L) John Barratt

Forward Stoker 1 MEM(M)1 Graeme ‘Rimmi’ Rimmington

Forward Stoker 2 MEM(M) 2 Tony Young

Leading WEM (O) LWEM(O) Mitchell ‘Mitch’ Hamer

Fore-endy WEM(O) Martin Cooper

WEM(R) WEM(R)1 Gary Howard

Leading Seaman (TS) LS(TS) Tony ‘Streaky’ Bacon

AB(TS) AB(TS) Mark ‘Mo’ Monaghan

AB(TS) AB(TS) John ‘Pincher’ Martin

AB(TS) AB(TS) Eric Coleman

Underwater Controller (UC1) Chief OPS (Sonar) Sonar Fred Ramirez

Leading Seaman (UC) L/S Howard ‘Brum’ Butler

AB(UC) AB(UC) Chris Thompson

AB(UC) AB(UC) Steve Henderson

RO(SM) RO1 Patrick Phillips

Leading Chef LCh Roy ‘Pony’ Moore

Chef Ch1 Dave Tyson

Steward Std Paul ‘Mary’ Whitehouse

Stores Accountant SA Sean ‘Andy’ Anderson

Leading Writer LWtr Terry ‘Spike’ Hughes

Leading Medical Assistant LMA Steve ‘Pusser’ Hill

The Engineering Team

Marine Engineering Officer Lt Cdr Paul Smith

Red Watch

DMEO Lt Dave Thomas

Charge Chief CCMEA George Chapman

Reactor Panel Operator CPOMEA Sean Doggett

EPO POMEA John ‘Sticky’ Green

TCPO MEM(L) James ‘Dicky’ Dickaty

MEAOW CPOMEA Tony Russell

ERUL POMEM(M) Paul ‘Wingnut’ Whitaker

DG LMEM LMEM(M) Simon ‘Rod’ Geary

ERLL MEM(M) Craig ‘Stan’ Stannard

White Watch

AMEO(P) S/Lt Charles ‘Pusser’ Hill

Charge Chief CCMEA Jimmy Green

Reactor Panel Operator CPOMEA Colin ‘Tatty’ Tate

EPO POMEM(L) Michael Barnes

TCPO MEM (L) Craig Lewis

MEAOW CPOMEA Kevin Richardson

ERUL POMEA Mark Williams

DG LMEM LMEM(M) Nigel Thornber

ERLL MEM(M) Ian ‘Plug’ Atkinson

Blue Watch

AMEO(S) Lt Daniel Foster

Charge Chief CCMEA David Robinson

Reactor Panel Operator CPOMEA Keith Johnson

EPO POMEM(L) Gerard ‘Paddy’ Conway

TCPO MEM(L) Simon ‘Spider’ Webster

MEAOW CPOMEA Alan ‘Chopper’ Cox

ERUL POMEA Mike Woods

DG LMEM LMEM(M) Stephen Pratt

ERLL MEM(M) Steve Parfitt

Intelligence Officers

Flag Officer Submarines Rear Admiral Sandford-Tatum RN

MI6 Officer Mr John Brown

INTCO Lt Cdr Derek Northcott

ACINT Lt Cdr Peter Lawrence

HMT Northern Gem

Skipper Lt Aisthorpe RNR

1st Mate Mr Pooley

Coxswain Sidney A Kerslake

Ordinary Seaman Eric Mayer

Doctor Surg Lt John Hood

Russians

Doctor Dr Malyugin Anatoliy Leonidovich

Nurse Natalya Elvira Ivanovna

Nurse Svetlana Gertruda Valerievna

Guard Bogrov Ilya Alekseevich

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Chapter 1

Christmas had come early for dozens of families around the Plymouth area. Usually a happy, jolly affair; wives, girlfriends and children were putting a brave face on it pretending that Santa was paying a visit to them, three weeks early, on Sunday 7th December 1986.

In the Smith household, shiny foil decorations hung from the ceiling, tinsel glittered from where it had been lovingly draped and an eight-foot spruce filled the bay window at the house on Pounds Park Road in Peverell.

Paul Smith was sitting cross-legged under the tree, frustratingly testing every single bulb on the string of Christmas tree lights. He couldn’t understand it, they worked perfectly last year, but eleven months on and the gremlins had invaded their home.

Just how difficult could it be? He was an experienced engineer, for God’s sake, but still the solution to this puzzle eluded him. His wife, Julie, was pottering around in the kitchen, preparing the traditional turkey, whilst getting slowly inebriated. Following the example of TV chef Keith Floyd, she had discovered that it was nearly impossible to rustle up a meal without consuming copious quantities of red wine in the process.

Paul did worry about her alcohol consumption, but right now he had more important things on his mind, not least, getting these blasted tree lights to work. Then, in a dazzling display of colour, the lights burst into life.

Thank Christ for that, he muttered under his breath, as he stood back to admire the tree.

Kids, he shouted, calling for his children to come and see the tree. There followed a thundering rumble as his two girls, Jennifer and Katie, raced out of their bedroom, across the upstairs landing and bounded down the stairs.

If it hadn’t had been for the children, Paul would have taken Julie to the exclusive French restaurant ‘Chez Nous’ in Plymouth for a romantic meal, but as Christmas isn’t really Christmas without the children, they had opted to celebrate a traditional Christmas at home. Early or not, he intended to cherish these last few days, as he was not going to see his family for a very long time.

***

Several miles away, near the moorland town of Yelverton, Commander Gavin Hinchcliffe was enjoying a similar family scene, with his wife Natalie and their two teenage boys, Josh and Nathan. Sat around the dinner table, Hinchcliffe poured four glasses of a rather fine 1985 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He handed the first glass to his wife and then one to each of the boys. Standing at the head of the table, emulating a scene from a Noel Coward film, Gavin solemnly raised his glass and wished everyone a very merry Christmas.

He was sad to be leaving them, but also preoccupied and excited about the challenges that lay ahead. At the age of thirty-eight, he had recently been promoted to Commander and appointed to Her Majesty’s Submarine Saracen, in command.

His First Lieutenant, Rick Conway, as his second-in-command, was currently on-board, preparing the submarine to sail on the early Monday morning tide. Hinchcliffe knew from his own experience, just how busy the ‘Jimmy’ would be, transferring water, embarking last-minute stores and ensuring that the submarine was correctly stowed for sea.

For the last few weeks, the crew of one hundred and twenty had worked twelve-hour days embarking stores and sufficient food to sustain them at sea for ninety days. Everywhere you looked, stores and additional food had been lashed in to every available nook and cranny. False decks of tinned food, CO2 canisters and UHT milk had been laid in many compartments. Spare pumps had been embarked, insulated with rubber sheeting and lashed to stanchions and behind ladders. The submarine’s ‘T’ frames in the engine room had been crammed full of hundreds of red canisters that housed the oxygen candles, precariously secured in place with wooden battens and wedges.

Under Paul Smith’s direction, the stokers had worked incredibly hard over the last few weeks, preparing the boat for the forthcoming patrol. Now, on the eve of sailing, the reactor was hot and pressurised and a full steaming watch of engineers back-aft monitored and operated the various systems required to drive the engines.

It was universally acknowledged in submarine circles, that the back-aftie engineers always ‘went to sea’ a few days earlier than the rest of the crew.

***

At the other end of the submarine, during the previous week, the Weapon Engineers, known as ‘fore-endies’ had rendered 2 Deck impassable by rigging the torpedo loading rails. These were essentially a huge, heavy set of railway lines that guided the Mark 24 Tigerfish torpedoes and the Royal Naval Sub-Harpoon missiles into the submarine as the dock-side crane lowered them gently backwards through the Weapon Embarkation Hatch. Guided by the rails, they were lowered down onto 2 Deck, through 29 watertight bulkhead and to the end of the line, above the centreline lift in the Weapon Stowage Compartment. The Ordnance Artificer, ‘Paddy’ McLaughlin, a straight-talking Irishman from Coleraine, controlled the evolution, ably assisted by his Torpedo Instructor, Paul ‘Dougy’ Douglas. For each embarked weapon, the centreline lift would be raised and the weight transferred. The weapon would then be traversed to any one of the sixteen stowages.

As Saracen was preparing for a northern Cold War patrol in the Barents Sea, each of the five torpedo tubes had been loaded with a weapon, thus enabling the boat to carry more fish. One, two and five tubes were loaded with Sub-Harpoon, whilst the wire-guided Mark 24 Tigerfish occupied three and four tubes.

Weapons loaded, the torpedo loading rails were removed and the deck plates on the forward part of 2 Deck subsequently replaced, enabling the crew to move about the boat more freely.

With the submarine as ready as she could be for the forthcoming patrol, Lieutenant Commander Conway had granted leave to the non-duty part of the watch at midday on the previous Friday, which was due to, expire at 06:00 on Monday 8th December 1986.

***

For many of the younger, single lads, getting home for the weekend and more importantly returning to the boat before leave expired, was just too much trouble, so they elected to stay locally in the base port area and enjoy a couple of drunken nights out culminating at one of the many nightclubs on Plymouth’s Union Street.

Finishing work an hour later than the rest of the lads, twenty-two-year-old Tim Marston, one of the forward stokers, hurriedly showered and changed into his run-ashore gear, left his mess on the seventh floor of Benbow Block and headed out of HMS Drake Main Gate towards the Royal Naval Arms, where he expected to meet the rest of the lads.

As usual, on a Friday afternoon, the smoky pub was crowded with matelots, having a couple of beers before heading off to the railway station at the start of their journey home.

With a pint in his hand, Tim searched the two bars looking for his shipmates only to quickly learn that they had gone on without him. Forced now to play catch up, he quickly downed his pint and jumped into a taxi at the nearby rank.

Ark Royal please mate, he instructed the driver, guessing where their next port of call would be.

Having met up with the lads, he learned, as luck would have it, it was his round and was dispatched towards the bar. By closing time at 2:30pm, having now consumed about six pints and out in the fresh air, Tim was feeling decidedly pissed and needed to satisfy several basic human needs. Firstly, he needed to urinate and having accomplished that task in a deserted alleyway, reunited with his mates, they piled into a couple of taxis and headed back to HMS Drake, stopping for fish and chips at the chippy outside the gate. Finally, they crashed out for a couple of hours, sleeping off the lunchtime beer, before the evening piss-up began in earnest.

Several hours later, it was cold and dark when the group of rested sailors hailed two black cabs and headed towards Union Street, in the centre of Plymouth. The first port of call was a lively pub called the Two Trees, known locally as the ‘Twigs’. Having a pint in each establishment, the lads slowly made their way down the strip to the ‘Long Bar’, part of the ‘Prince Regent’ and finally to the ‘Noah’s Ark’ before turning around and heading back towards the popular nightclub, known as ‘Boobs’ on Union Street. As was often the case, after a few hours in the club, Tim’s mental homing beacon activated and before he really knew what he was doing, he had left the nightclub alone and was slowly heading back up Union Street in the general direction of the dockyard. Stopping for something vaguely resembling food at a fast food takeaway near the Octagon, he emerged with a doner kebab with far too much salad and chilli sauce and decided to sit in the doorway of a house on the adjacent Market Street and devour his ‘big eats’. When drunk, he always ordered more food than he could eat and invariably ended up dribbling chilli sauce and mayonnaise down his shirt and wiping his hands on his jeans. He was in a mess.

With long queues now forming for taxis, he developed the ill-conceived master plan of heading towards Millbay Road in the vain hope of flagging down a black cab, returning to the taxi rank, down the quieter back streets that were often frequented by the ladies of the night.

Before a taxi had passed him, he was accosted by a middle-aged woman stepping out of a darkened doorway, wearing high heels, a mini skirt, fishnet stockings, a boob tube, too much makeup and smelling strongly of gin and Calvin Klein’s Obsession.

Fancy a quickie, sailor boy? she purred, sidling up to him and stroking the front of his jeans.

Tim was initially startled but muttered that he was too drunk and was going back on-board. She persisted, still rubbing his manhood through his jeans.

What’s your name, honey?

Tim, he replied, still walking.

Hi, Tim, my name’s Nicole, how do you fancy keeping me company for a while?

Tim reluctantly stopped to talk to the prostitute and before he knew it, she had unzipped his jeans and was expertly fondling him, whilst kissing his neck.

Just twenty quid, Tim, and you can go all the way with me.

Tim was starting to enjoy the sensation and despite being considerably older, this woman was turning him on. I need to get back on-board, he persisted, and I’ve only just got enough for a taxi.

Stay with me tonight, Tim, and I will make sure you get back to your ship ok.

Despite being drunk, Tim was fast approaching the point of no return. The whore now had her hand inside his pants, stroking his fully erect penis. She was kissing him and whispering encouragingly

Come on, baby, stay with Nicole tonight.

Ok, panted Tim, worn down, defeated and about to explode in her hand.

***

As Tim was being guided towards a squalid backstreet flat near Millbay Road, the rest of his mates, assuming that Tim had buggered off back to the barracks, bought some pizzas and, armed with takeaway boxes, hailed a taxi and headed back to HMS Drake, unknowingly leaving their shipmate in the clutches of an ageing prostitute.

***

Back at her flat, Nicole prepared a drink for them both before making herself more comfortable by kicking off her heels and unzipping her mini skirt to reveal a pair of very small black lacy panties and black suspender belt supporting her fishnet stockings.

Tim was already undressed by the time she returned with the drinks. Handing him one, she walked over to the bed and pulled her top over her head to unleash a huge pair of breasts. He was going to enjoy this, he thought, as he took his first slurp of his cocktail. That was the last he remembered as the darkness enveloped him.

Chapter 2

He had no way of knowing what time it was when he awoke, or indeed where he was. His head felt like it was about to explode and he was lying on a hard mattress, covered by a blanket. Underneath the blanket, he was completely naked.

Fluorescent lights burned into his soul as he tried to resist regaining full consciousness. Where was Nicole? he wondered. Something had gone very badly wrong. As he opened his eyes for the first time, he gradually became aware of his surroundings. He appeared to be in a police cell, it was about six-foot square, with white painted walls. A blue painted metal door was the only feature apart from a stainless-steel toilet pan in the corner. How on earth did he end up here?

A flap in the door opened briefly before he heard the door unlock and the sound of someone entering the small cell.

Morning, sleeping beauty, a voice sarcastically growled. Had a nice sleep? There are few people that want to talk to you. Here, get dressed. The man threw a pair of boots and a pair of overalls onto the floor and was gone, shutting the door behind him.

Tim slowly swung his legs around and gingerly stood up. Almost immediately, his legs buckled underneath him as he crumpled into a heap onto the painted concrete floor. Manoeuvring himself into a sitting position, Tim investigated the clothing that had been unceremoniously dumped on the floor. There was a pair of naval issue steaming boots – without laces, and a pair of blue, heavy cotton overalls. How had he ended up here? Slowly dressing he trusted himself to gingerly stand up again before trying the door. It was locked.

It wasn’t long before a face appeared at the metal flap and the door was again opened.

Follow me, said the man. The crown on his arm and epaulettes of a single fouled anchor denoted him as a Leading Regulator. This was becoming very familiar to Tim, but still he had no idea exactly where he was or exactly how he had come to be naked in a naval detention cell.

Over the course of the next couple of hours, the Naval regulator explained that he had been found naked and unconscious outside of St Levan’s dockyard gate, without any identification, money or jewellery. Initially the sickbay was called and following an examination of the unconscious man, the medic discovered a recent tattoo on his forearm of a sailor carrying his kitbag over his shoulder and walking off into the sunset with the inscription ‘homeward bound’. This and the location where he had collapsed, gave a strong indication that the man was a serving sailor.

It was explained that he was then transported to the sickbay in an ambulance and given a thorough check over before he started to show signs of life. Concluding that the man was simply drunk, he was taken to the Naval Provost HQ and kept on a constant watch by the cell sentry who was mightily aggrieved at having to stay awake all night.

Under questioning, Tim admitted to getting drunk and to eating a kebab and then trying to find a taxi but then it became hazy. He had vague recollections of a woman talking to him and going back to her flat but after that nothing.

When he learned that he had also been robbed of his wallet, identity card, watch, rings and a gold chain, it became obvious that he had been drugged and dumped outside the dockyard gate.

Humiliated, but thankfully still alive, he was escorted back to the sickbay where he would spend his last day of his weekend leave, in a bed on the ward, recovering from the effects of the date rape drug.

The same morning, the killick of the mess, LMEM Bob Crossfield, reported MEM(M)1 Timothy Marston D186965U missing when he woke to find that his bed had not been slept in. This was the final piece in the jigsaw to confirm Tim’s identity. Crossfield then contacted Lt Cdr Conway, the First Lieutenant on-board Saracen and informed him that one of his stokers was laid up in a hospital bed and unlikely to be able to sail with the submarine the following day.

***

Rick Conway, on learning the news, immediately called the Captain, Gavin Hinchcliffe, to inform him of the incident and the likelihood of Marston not being medically able to sail with the boat. Hinchcliffe’s response was, in the opinion of the First Lieutenant, odd in the extreme. He was told by his Captain that whatever his circumstances, Marston was to sail with the submarine and that it was not negotiable. Confused, but also compliant with his Commanding Officer’s wishes, Conway then called the Marine Engineering Officer, completely ruining his last morning at home with Julie and the girls.

***

Lieutenant Commander Paul Smith fully appreciated the implications of losing one of his stokers the day before the boat sailed for patrol but failed to see why the Captain specifically needed Marston on the patrol. Getting a replacement was possible by preventing one of the 5th Watch from going on leave. It wouldn’t be a popular decision, but that was academic now as the CO had already decreed that Marston would sail with Saracen in less than thirty-six hours. As a maintainer of the CO2 scrubbers, fire-fighting equipment and escape towers, he was a very intelligent lad with a bright future and one of the small team of ship’s divers, but he was by no means irreplaceable.

Quickly changing into his uniform, his mind working in overdrive, he needed to get up to speed with Marston’s condition and appraise the Captain.

Less than an hour later he was in HMS Drake’s sickbay, sitting by MEM Marston’s bedside learning the events of the previous night that had led to one of his shipmates being drugged, mugged and left for dead outside a dockyard gate.

Sure, Marston now seemed lucid, if not a little embarrassed by being apparently ‘rolled’ by a prostitute. Physically, he seemed fine and in the opinion of the Marine Engineering Officer, after the shock had subsided, he would be more than capable of performing his duties. In his personal opinion, a quick return to a normal working routine for Marston was the best medicine, thus putting the unfortunate events of the previous evening behind him.

Requesting a second opinion, the submarine’s medical officer, Surgeon Lieutenant David Arnott arrived in the sickbay and gave Marston a full medical examination before confirming that he was indeed fit to sail with HMS Saracen.

Discharged a day later on Sunday afternoon, the MEO escorted Tim to Charles Cross police station, in the centre of Plymouth, to report the assault. He still only had fuzzy memories of the previous evening but told the officer behind the desk everything he could remember. Not letting him out of his sight, Smith then drove Marston back to his mess in Benbow block and sat on the next bed whilst Tim packed a grip of essential kit for the forthcoming patrol.

With no identity card, no money and no realistic possibility of replacing either, the MEO strongly suggested that spending the last night on-board the submarine might be the safest place for Marston, thus ensuring that he was not adrift when leave expired early the following morning. It was worded in such a way that made Tim feel that it was an order and he had no choice but to comply. He reasoned, though, that it would give him the opportunity to stow his kit, have a meal and get back into a sea-going frame of mind before the rest of the ship’s company returned from leave in the morning.

Briefing the First Lieutenant, as the officer of the day in the wardroom, Smith tried to make sense of the Captain’s order that Marston sail on this patrol. Equally in the dark, the second in command revealed that the Captain had been very cagey since they had returned from their pre-patrol meeting in Northwood the previous week.

Chapter 3

A veteran of many submarine patrols in the Barents Sea, Commander Gavin Hinchcliffe knew the protocol. Flag Officer Submarines had summoned him to Northwood along with his XO for a pre-patrol briefing at the end of November 1986. He had previously attended many meetings with Rear Admiral Sandford-Tatum, but none would be as strange as this one.

Deep underground, locked in the briefing room with Flag Officer Submarines, his deputy and a handful of intelligence specialists, Sandford-Tatum opened the meeting, standing at the head of the table in front of a large wall-mounted chart of the North Cape area of the Barents Sea. It was covered in red pushpins and divided up into squares, each containing a two-letter identifier. Each of the pins had a slip of paper attached to it with the name of the last known positions of Soviet ships and submarines.

After FOSM’s introductions, Hinchcliffe stood up and presented his planned routing to the assembled officers. He started by explaining that the American Los Angeles class submarine, USS Orlando, was currently on station in the Barents Sea and that HMS Saracen would relieve her at an underwater rendezvous at 23:59 on Thursday 18th December 1986 in position 73◦ 01’45 N, 26◦ 43’55 E at 600 feet. USS Orlando had already been briefed to be at 300 feet when approaching the rendezvous. From that point on, all new contacts would be considered hostile.

"I have been allocated deep water to the west of Ireland with an initial SOA of 20 knots. I plan to leave Devonport on the early tide of Monday 8th December and surface transit the English Channel before submerging off Lizard Point and continuing west until I am in deeper water to the southwest of Ireland. I will then alter course to the north and increase speed.

"Assuming no emergent defects, SOSUS should detect me in position 62◦ 55’48’ N, 8◦ 59’ 00’ W on the evening of Friday 12th December. From then on, I will reduce speed to 10 knots and be in position for the RV by midday on 18th December.

After the submerged RV with Orlando, I will continue east and covertly patrol the CTML, monitoring traffic leaving and entering the port of Murmansk.

At this point FOSM interrupted, The Soviets, as you know, can make life pretty uncomfortable for uninvited visitors in their back yard, so please be careful.

Studying the chart, Hinchcliffe traced the marked Claimed Twelve Mile Limit with his finger before questioning Flag Officer Submarines.

Sir, can I get closer inshore, should I feel it necessary?

Addressing the room, FOSM answered, Let me be clear, gentlemen, north of the CTML, you are in international waters, but stray inside the twelve-mile limit and things get tricky. If detected, the Soviets will aggressively hunt you down and try to force you to surface. The implications of a British nuclear submarine surfacing so close inshore to their northern submarine base would be catastrophic and the political ramifications would be off the scale, starting with your collective heads on a silver platter. Do I make myself clear?

Yes, sir, they answered in unison.

That said, Commander, when I was in Finwhale in the late 60’s, the captain considered it worthy of the risk and fortunately, we got away with it. Weigh up the risks very carefully, Commander before opting for that course of action.

Understood, sir.

The intelligence coordinator, Lieutenant Commander Del Northcott, then stood and outlined the intelligence picture.

We have received intel that the latest Typhoon ballistic missile submarine, hull four, will sail from Nerpichya on or around Monday 5th January for missile drills in the northern exercise areas. A recording of her nuclear plant and propulsion train signature would be very useful as well as any visual photography, if the circumstances permit. This is a brand-new boat, gentlemen, so any missile-firing telemetry or intel you can gather is going to be very well received by our American cousins.

Continuing his brief, Hinchcliffe, pointed at the wall-mounted chart.

"Assuming all goes to plan, my intention is transit from our patrol area and rendezvous again with USS Orlando prior to heading south. She is scheduled to relieve me in the same position at 23:59 on Thursday 29th January. She has again been allocated the shallow water, whereas I will remain at 600 feet to allow for deep water separation. After the RV, I will conduct a dived transit, with an SOA of 7 knots until crossing 25 degrees east. From then on, I will increase speed to 12 knots until clear of SOSUS which should again detect me at 62◦ 55’48’ N, 8◦ 59’ 00’ W. The Americans have been warned that I will be transiting the area from the 1st February.

South of the Iceland/Faroe’s gap, I will increase speed and conduct a fast-dived transit to enable me to surface in the Channel and enter the breakwater on the evening of Thursday 5th February. I will be greeted by the towed-array recovery vessel, ‘Ohm’s Law’, to disconnect the array and off-load records. Dependant on tides and weather, I will either spend the night at Charlie buoy or proceed up river, as directed by the harbourmaster. Questions?

FOSM stood again, Thank you, Commander, you will of course receive written orders containing your rules of engagement and details of any assets of significant interest. I will update you with flash traffic as more information becomes available. It goes without saying, but please ensure you have the correct crypto on-board, he said with a wry smile.

Of course, sir.

"Before you leave, Gavin, a bit unorthodox, but there is a gentleman from MI6 waiting outside to brief you for a simultaneous mission.

Gentlemen, I’m afraid, that only your CO has the clearance for this briefing. I am not even cleared myself for the details, so we will leave him to brief you alone.

Standing up, to conclude the briefing, Flag Officer Submarines held out his hand Good luck and good hunting, Commander Hinchcliffe.

Standing to face FOSM, Gavin looked him in the eye and firmly shook the Rear Admiral by the hand, Thank you, sir.

With that, the Admiral unlocked the door and left, followed by the XO and the intelligence officers leaving Hinchcliffe alone in the briefing room to study the chart and ponder the forthcoming patrol. Hinchcliffe also wondered to himself what was the mystery surrounding the spook from Military Intelligence that was sufficiently classified that even his boss wasn’t cleared to hear it. It was certainly the first he’d heard of it.

No more than five minutes later, the door opened and in strode a shortish man, who looked to be well past retirement age. Clearly, from his gait, he was no civil servant. Hinchcliffe immediately recognised the bearing of a man who had served in the military. Even with grey hair, wrinkled skin and glasses, the man looked strangely familiar to Hinchcliffe. The chap looked to be in his late sixties but dressed in a well-cut, grey three-piece suit, the submarine commander could not immediately place where they may have met. As he held out his hand in greeting, Hinchcliffe noticed that the tips of two fingers from his right hand were missing.

Good afternoon, Captain, the stranger began, "My name is John Brown and I work with the intelligence services at Century House. What I am about to tell you must remain absolutely secret for reasons that I will only be able to reveal once you have returned from your next mission to the Barents Sea.

I will come straight to the point. You have a Marine Engineer amongst your crew by the name of Timothy Marston. This was a statement, rather than a question. He continued, "We have good reason to believe that this young man will soon have an unfortunate encounter with a lady of dubious reputation that will result in him being drugged, robbed and requiring medical attention following the incident, that will occur shortly before you sail on the evening of Saturday 6th December. As Captain, you may be tempted to sail for the patrol leaving Marston behind.

I cannot reiterate the next point strongly enough, Commander, whatever his physical and mental condition, he must sail with Saracen. For reasons of national security, I cannot for the time being divulge why. He will not be badly hurt, but a series of incidents will occur at sea that will require his talents.

Commander Hinchcliffe sat in silence, his mind racing, as the aged spy continued with his briefing. He knew MEM Marston to be a very capable engineer and a ship’s diver, but he was in no way remarkable. He questioned to himself, had Marston been recruited into the intelligence services without him knowing?

Brown answered the unspoken question, Marston knows nothing of the challenges that lie ahead, and you are not to mention it to him or indeed anyone else. This briefing is classified as ‘Top Secret’. You will encounter some mechanical defects as you transit north, which will challenge your ability to proceed, but you will prevail. Situations will then arise in the Barents Sea that will twice require Marston to leave the submarine through the After-Escape Tower. You are to ensure this happens. That is all I ask. We will meet again after you return and then I will be in a better position to de-brief you on this mission and answer your questions.

Hinchcliffe didn’t know what to think, this old man clearly knew far more than he was letting on and what’s more, Flag Officer Submarines knew nothing about it. Very odd indeed.

He resolved to keep a very close eye on Marston, but he didn’t know what to look for. The shadowy character from the SIS had intimated that three incidents in the future involving Marston were about to happen, but how on earth could he possibly know that?

Travelling in First Class on the Intercity train heading out of Paddington, as his XO slept, Hinchcliffe had time to reflect on an eventful day. The briefing with FOSM had followed a predictable route, though chasing after a Typhoon was something to look forward to. He had seen a Typhoon on the surface during his last patrol but hadn’t been able to get near her before she dived. Now he had been specifically tasked with tracking a brand-new Soviet submarine.

The meeting with the mysterious Mr Brown, however, was as strange as it got. This chap had information about events that had not yet taken place. Hinchcliffe was an intelligent man, but his brain just could not compute how the SIS could possibly know where he was going to be on any given date, because, as Captain, only he knew key dates and positions.

He finally resolved, as ordered, to say nothing and to keep the details of Brown’s request to himself. In the freezing waters of the Barents Sea, when life expectancy was measured in mere minutes, he could not envisage a situation when he would need to order one of his ship’s company to leave the relative safety of the submarine, though Mr Brown, if that was indeed his name, seemed plausible and deadly serious. If the briefing had taken place anywhere other than in the briefing room at the Fleet Headquarters in Northwood, he would have dismissed it as lunacy. As it was, he would wait and see what transpired.

Chapter 4

At 06:00 on Monday the eighth of December 1986, leave officially expired on-board HMS Saracen. The submarine was already a hive of activity as sailors struggled past each other in the narrow confines of 2 Deck passageway, carrying holdalls containing very little, but in effect, enough kit for two months away. There was little or no need for civvies as the submarine was not expected to be back alongside until early in February.

In the Junior Rating’s bunk space, forward of 29 bulkhead, sailors jostled for space and after identifying which bunk they had been allocated, changed out of their only set of civilian clothes and dressed in the blue cotton trousers and shirt known as ‘Number 8’ uniform. This was a comfortable working uniform that displayed the wearer’s name, rank and branch badge on white patches sewn onto the lighter blue shirt. Bags were then unpacked and their contents stuffed into tiny lockers. As they wouldn’t be needed, the civvies went in first, followed by clean overalls and another set of ‘No 8’s’. Towels hung on individual rails adjacent to bunks and wash bags were stuffed into yellow bunk bags at the foot of each bed. Finally, the empty holdall was flattened and laid under the mattress before straightening the green nylon sleeping bags and trying to nick another thin nylon covered pillow, which would then be covered by personal pillowcases that smelt of home. Dressed, kit stowed and bed made, it was time for a coffee and maybe a bit of breakfast before the Coxswain brought the submarine to Harbour Stations.

***

In the control room, Coxswain Paul ‘Sandy’ Shaw needed to ensure that everyone was on-board before the hatches were shut. Picking up the main broadcast microphone and composing his thoughts, he pressed the button. D’yer hear there, Cox’n speaking, all Leading hands and Presidents of messes, report your messes to the Cox’n in the control room.

***

A few feet to his right, on the starboard side of the control room, the navigator, Ryan Ramsey, made last minute tweaks to the leaving harbour chart by pencilling in the intended course out of Plymouth Sound on the sheet of tracing paper taped to the large-scale chart. He was an experienced navigator, and fully appreciated that accidents happen when complacency is allowed to set in. As the eyes of the world could potentially be watching the submarine’s departure, he needed to ensure that he was not the one to let the side down. Ramsey had plotted a 10-knot departure, which seemed quite fast in harbour, but experience had taught him that any less and the tidal streams may embarrassingly put Saracen aground.

***

On the casing, freezing cold, the electricians struggled to disconnect the three huge 400-amp cables that, until recently, had been supplying the submarine with shore power. Also, the casing sailors, under the direction of the casing officer, Lieutenant Matt Dent, had singled up the ropes securing the submarine to eight wharf and coiled them into the rope locker under the submarine’s casing.

***

In this small corner of Devonport Dockyard, both sailors and dockyard workers laboured together in the darkness, conducting the final preparations for sea. Holding station in the Hamoaze, the ocean-going tugs, Sir Lancelot and Sir Percival waited patiently to safeguard HMS Saracen and escort her into open water.

High above the submarine, the crane driver, known to the ship’s company by his nickname ‘Blackie’ had lowered his hook so it hovered at head height, directly above the shore-supply party, ready to hoist the three cables skywards.

In the last hour, ‘Blackie’ had become a busy chap, he had already slung off the forward gangway and it now lay parallel to the submarine on eight wharf north. As a final act, when all of the other shore services had been disconnected, he would lift the after gangway off the submarine, thus preventing anyone from entering or leaving the submarine.

***

Almost oblivious to the organised chaos around the boat, the Marine Engineering Officer, Lieutenant Commander Paul Smith, sipped tea in the manoeuvring room whilst calmly scanning the panels in front of him. The reactor had been flashed a couple of days previously and with steam already spinning the two turbo generators and shore supply being disconnected, everything was going according to plan. He had just completed propulsion mode checks and proved that before the ropes were disconnected, he could open the engine throttles, admit steam into the main engines and turn the single shaft and spin the propulsor, five rpm, ahead and astern. Content that his engines were now ready for sea, he permitted his team to have a smoke. The throttle jockey, a young chap called Simon ‘Spider’ Webster, had just made the wets and passed around cups of tea to all of the watchkeepers who were not permitted to leave their positions monitoring the gauges and meters in the manoeuvring room.

***

In the control room, before most of the Royal Navy had even turned up for work, the Coxswain, ‘Sandy’ Shaw again picked up the main broadcast and cleared his throat.

D’yer hear there, standby for a time check in five minutes time, when the time will be 07:00.

For the next couple of minutes, ‘Sandy’, keeping a watchful eye on the clock, prepared his checklist on Ship Control.

Two minutes, he reminded the crew.

One minute! and as the time approached ten seconds to the hour, he counted down the seconds

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, now. Time now oh seven hundred zulu.

Pressing the general alarm three times, he spoke loudly into the microphone.

Harbour stations, harbour stations, all compartments close up and make your reports to DCHQ on the DC net.

***

In the electrical maintenance room, down on 3 Deck, MEM Tim Marston, still munching on a sausage from the breakfast counter, picked up the DC Net handset and listened patiently to all of the other outstations making their reports to DCHQ. During a pause, he squeezed the handset to open the microphone and called over the network.

DCHQ, 3 Deck.

The reply came instantly.

3 Deck closed up at harbour stations.

Roger 3 Deck, was the reply. With the report now made, he sat on the rubber matting and listened to the various outstations from around the submarine, checking in as he reflected on a weird couple of days.

It had certainly been a strange weekend, he had been robbed, he had also been drugged by a prostitute but couldn’t exactly understand why. He had lost all of his money, his chequebook, Naval Identity Card, jewellery, wristwatch and wallet. In a quirk of irony, his passport had recently been through the washing machine and he was still awaiting a replacement from Newport.

As he listened over the net he considered his position – if called upon to prove his identity, right now it was impossible. Silently, he questioned the logic of the MEO ordering him to sail, when the medical advice suggested that he was still being affected by the drug rohypnol. He also didn’t have any money with him at all. He really needed to get to the bank and report his chequebook and cards as stolen. Given another day, perhaps he could have got a counter cheque and drawn out some cash at the same time as ordering a new chequebook and cashpoint card.

He reasoned though, he didn’t actually need any money at sea. Meals were provided whilst away from home and if he wanted anything from the canteen shop, they offered credit, rather than deal in cash. There were enough clocks around the boat to mean that he didn’t even need a wristwatch. He concluded silently that it was inconvenient, but he would just have to manage.

***

On the Forward Escape, the furthest compartment forward, CPO Tony Yalden, the Outside Engine Room Artificer, or ‘Wrecker’ as he was affectionately known, was opening up for diving with the First Lieutenant, Rick Conway. This was a lengthy procedure, working from forward to aft, that required ‘TY’ to operate valves as directed by the First Lt, working from a checklist.

***

Back in the control room, working from another checklist, ‘Sandy’ Shaw, sitting on Ship Control, turned to the officer of the watch below and reported,

The submarine is closed up at harbour stations, sir.

Very good, Coxswain, the TASO replied.

Reporting to the Captain on the bridge, TASO relayed the report to the CO. Having an overall view of the casing, Commander Hinchcliffe piped down to the control room.

Officer of the watch, Captain.

Officer of the watch, sir.

All shore services are now disconnected, shut the engine room hatch, shut the main access hatch and inform manoeuvring to obey engine telegraphs.

Repeating the order, the TASO turned to the Coxswain and relayed the command.

‘Sandy’ picked up the microphone and pressed the button.

Manoeuvring, Ship Control.

Manoeuvring, came the instant reply.

Shut and clip the engine room hatch and obey engine telegraphs. Turning to face to starboard, he shouted

Forward Staff?

LMEM Bob Crossfield, loitering in ‘Grumpy Corner’, anticipating the order, immediately stepped forward.

Forward Staff, he responded.

Shut and clip the main access hatch, the Coxswain ordered.

Shut and clip the main access hatch, roger. A minute later, the report that the hatch was shut and secure was shouted back into the control room.

With the report from aft that the engine room hatch was now shut and clipped, the Coxswain again reported to the TASO who in turn made his report to the Captain on the bridge.

***

At 8am precisely on Monday 8th December 1986, the nuclear submarine, HMS Saracen finally let go her ropes and with the assistance of RMAS Sir Percival, slipped from Devonport and was manoeuvred off the wall. Safely in the middle of the river, the two tugs of the Royal Maritime Auxiliary Service, pushed and pulled the submarine, rotating her bows to face south.

From the bridge, the Captain conned the submarine.

Revolutions four zero, he ordered into the bridge mounted microphone,

steer one three two.

Shadowed by the two tugs, Saracen’s propulsor churned the water astern as she silently and slowly started to proceed down river, the helmsman maintaining the ordered course of 132◦. As Hinchcliffe was senior to the commanding officers, he returned the salute of all of the neighbouring ships, as HMS Saracen glided silently by.

Through the cold morning air, he could clearly hear them pipe.

Attention on the upper deck, face to port and salute, nuclear submarine.

Facing towards the bridge of the ship they were passing, Hinchcliffe, returned the salute. The casing party, dressed in full foul weather clothing and life jackets, stood to attention until they heard,

Carry On.

Once clear of the Torpoint ferry chains, Hinchcliffe altered course to follow the dredged centre of the river,

Officer of the Watch, Captain, come right to new course one eight two.

***

In the control room, The TASO relayed the order,

Helm, starboard five, steer one eight two.

Almost as soon as Saracen had settled on the new course, Hinchcliffe altered course again,

Come right, steer one nine two.

Again, the Officer of the Watch complied with the order.

On the chart table, Petty Officer ‘Andy’ Anderson, poring over a large-scale chart of the harbour, monitored the submarine’s progress by requesting three-point fixes from the ‘Doc’, who was watchkeeping on the search periscope.

Ok, standby bearings for a fix, called Surgeon Lieutenant Dave Arnott. Church tower bears that!

Three one five! somebody shouted out.

Sango Point bears that!

Two three two.

…and finally clock tower bears that!

Zero, eight, seven.

‘Andy’, using his parallel ruler and dividers, quickly triangulated the submarine’s position and plotted the position on the chart before reporting,

Officer of the Watch, Plot; fix on, sir, good fix, middle of the channel. Puts you four cables to your next wheel, over.

Very good, acknowledged Lieutenant Edwards.

In the control room, in the comfort of routine, the TASO, scanned all of the positions. Everyone was on top of his game, concentrating on navigating the submarine through the narrow confines of Plymouth harbour towards open water. Sat on a stool next to the chart table, a young sailor tracked several seaborne contacts on his 1006 radar display.

Behind him, a sonar operator kept a watchful eye on the depth of water by monitoring the burnt trace on his 776-echo sounder.

Sounding seventy-five feet! he called out.

The team worked together as HMS Saracen slowly rounded the corner to port, past the ancient boat shed, under the watchful gaze of the King Billy figurehead.

***

On the bridge, the navigator, Lt Ryan Ramsey, pointed out a small collection of families assembled at Devil’s Point, waiting to wave a tearful farewell to their sons, boyfriends, husbands and fathers.

Amongst them, Natalie Hinchcliffe and her two boys, Nathan and Josh. Hinchcliffe immediately identified his family waving and as the submarine glided slowly past, he saluted the small gathering. Their support during the coming months was going to be crucial to the successful completion of their mission.

Safely through the narrows, on a course of one-six-two, knowing the depth of water, the Captain continued on course, passing Mount Edgecombe House high on the hill to starboard. Although he could see the breakwater from his vantage point atop of the fin, he knew there was not enough water under the keel to safely navigate by the shortest route. He had a sharp turn to make to stay in the channel.

Officer of the Watch, Captain, port thirty, steer zero four five.

The TASO immediately confirmed the order and seconds later, Saracen’s bows started the long swing to the left, eventually pointing towards Smeaton’s Tower atop Plymouth Hoe.

Maintaining a steady speed, as Saracen approached the entrance to Millbay Docks, Hinchcliffe made another course alteration