The Search for the Tzar

Copyright © 2020 by David Lomas.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/01/2020

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Contents

The Abyss

Chapter One

Chapter Two London, Ten Days Later

Chapter Three Ostrov Gerald Island, Chukchi

Chapter Four The Chukchi Sea

Chapter Five The Caribbean Sea

Chapter Six South Atlantic Ocean

Chapter Seven Cape Town, South Africa

Chapter Eight Aboard The Tzar, In The Caribbean

Chapter Nine Washington D.c.

Chapter Ten London Ten Days Later

Chapter Eleven Anchorage, Bering Straits

Chapter Twelve Hilton Hotel, Long Beach

Chapter Thirteen Ostrov-Gerald

Chapter Fourteen The Search For The Tzar

Chapter Fifteen Docking Station, 24

Hours Previously

Chapter Sixteen The Hunter

The author would like to dedicate this book to

Sean Micheal

Richard Hamilton

Paul Andrew

Timothy Robert

Grace Elizabeth

Amelie Rose

Francesca Jane

Federico James

With love and Affection to Elizabeth Ann Lomas

Special

thanks to my cousin in Canada, Patricia

Leggett, for editing this book for me.

THE ABYSS

I cast the anchor into the abyss;

Watched, as it growled through the darkness

on its meaningless quest,

fading, into the depths,

adrift forever in the fathomless void.

I cast the anchor into the abyss

as I cast my claim on the wealth of this world;

Purging the lands of their golden yields,

leaving no trace between heaven and hell

but a shallow grave and a deeper thirst.

I cast the anchor into the abyss

as I cast my greed on the vacant skies;

Feeding the ego with all it can grasp,

yet, like hunger, desire and self,

the abyss shall never be full.

Timothy Lomas

CHAPTER ONE

F ACING EACH OTHER in an unexpected standoff, the two submarines had surfaced about 2,000 metres apart. The calm seas caused their crystal clear reflections to shine in the frigid water and belied the rising tension of those on board. The Russian skipper Submarine Commander Alexis Vloson Bazinski, recalled an American Western movie.

Just like hotshot gunslingers waiting to see who will draw first! He snarled at his Number One.

Both the sub commanders had their No. 1’s alongside them in their respective coning towers, giving them psychological warmth in the slowly decreasing air temperature. The pale December sun was not far from setting and was just strong enough to irritate the eyes of the British men.

Captain Nigel Wrightson turned from the glare. What do you make of it, John?

Well, looks like our friends from the Murmansk fleet are looking for the same thing we are. No other reason for them to be in this area.

Hell! Captain Wrightson yelled between clenched teeth. We’re looking for a needle in a haystack as it is, without Ivan sticking his snout in!

His No.1, Lieutenant Commander John Bell was long in the tooth in submarine duty and a pessimist at the best of times. He had been particularly glum since this assignment was revealed to the HMS Churchill crew. The fact that the Russians were now involved had him downright depressed. So much for fucking Top Secret!!!

The Captain, having sailed with John on and off for twelve years, knew his moodiness well and could handle this potentially difficult man with ease. Don’t worry too much about ’Ivan’, the Skipper mused, We’re still one step ahead of them and only we have the code to dismantle the warhead.

Aye, but we still have to find the damn thing before they do!

Just keep your eyes on him, John. We have the boys below on radar and the flyboys have been flying flat out to pinpoint the location. It shouldn’t be too long ’till they come up with something. It can’t be too far away. Ahh, speaking of ‘coming up with something’, here comes O.F. with the tea. Ossie, you’re a lifesaver!

O.F. was officially Steward Oswald Fletcher, but he was affectionately known as ‘Old Faithful’. The Skipper considered him a friend and called him Ossie, as only his friends could. He had more sea-time than his two officers combined and had been part of Wrightson’s crew for the twelve years that the Captain had commanded this sub. O.F. had the knack of showing up with refreshments at just the right moment. His nickname couldn’t be better suited to this intuitive, dedicated sailor. This mission was to be his swan-song and he begrudged the fact.

Russkies? He asked, familiarly pointing his mug of tea in the direction of the other sub. He could talk casually to his Skipper in a way no one else would dare. Know what they’re up to, Skip?

Not sure, but we will stay put here until they make a move, hopefully away from here. I hate that they’re so damnably close. Shifty buggers!

Hmmm… Answered O.F. I’ll tell you one thing for nothin’, if the Russkies are about, I’ll bet my retirement pay that the Yanks aren’t too far behind.

The two officers froze in mid-munch and looked at each other. Shit O.F., you always know how to make our day! God, that’s all we need! Answered Lieutenant Commander Bell. I’ll phone down to the radar room. Make sure they’re keeping an extra-sharp eye from now on.

We don’t want to be caught out on this one Maties. We want to retire in the traditional way, not the permanent way, if ya know what I mean. said O.F. with a wink.

These three men in the coning tower of the HMS Churchill had a combined service of almost seventy years. Most of those years had been spent together, melding an iron-clad loyalty through sometimes harrowing situations. Soon they each faced the challenge of a more mundane civilian life and were counting on each other to make it less foreboding. None of them expected such a high-risk assignment to be their last.

Absolutely zilch on the radar, Sir. Just our friend Oleg over there. Reported Bell.

Right, Said Commander Wrightson. Take over here, John. I’m going below to get a hold of London. Better keep them in the picture. Inform me immediately of any movements. With that he disappeared down the coning tower into the bowels of the sub, followed quickly by O.F.

Always were slippery customers, those Ruskies. Never could trust ’em!

John Bell leaned against the tower’s rail. O.F. was a steadfast friend but he talked too much for John’s liking. Once they retired…retired. John’s thoughts roamed to his garden in the Sussex countryside, the roses, tomatoes, and then he pictured his long-suffering wife of over thirty years. Smiling, he conjured up a memory of chasing her through that garden on…

Christ! Where’s he gone? He said aloud, as he spun 360 degrees. He saw nothing but a rush of water where the sub had been. He glanced at his watch. Had he been daydreaming? God, yes! For how long he didn’t know, but it was for long enough. He pressed the alarm button directly to the Skipper’s cabin and the ops room. The Skipper was in the coning tower in seconds.

What’s up? He shouted as he climbed the stairs. Where the hell did he go? He yelled into the phone. Anything on radar?

He’s gone off the grid, Sir.

It’s only been a minute or two. Said John sheepishly, The light is fading too.

Sir, another target. Six miles away, approaching slowly, course 270 degrees. Came the call.

No possible way the Russkies could have gotten there that fast. It’s more like Piccadilly Circus out here than a secret military manoeuvre!

Looks like Ossie called it again! Can you see anything, John?

Straining his eyes as he peered through the binoculars, the First Officer scanned the open ocean. Negative.

For God’s sake…, Started the Captain.

Another target, Sir! Broke in the radar man. Bearing 175 degrees at 3.5 miles. Are you sure? Shouted the Skipper.

Yes, Sir. Positive target. Not moving, Sir.

The warhead?! John yelled across the coning tower. Definitely not moving, Sir. Came the confirmation.

Roger that. The Skip looked at his No.1. We’re getting over there NOW! I still have a bad feeling about those Russians.

With engines on Full Ahead, the HMS Churchill steamed toward the target.

Sir, the other mark is heading to the target too. The Americans, Sir? The answer was supplied immediately.

U.S.S. Advantage at your service, gentlemen. Came the call over the radio.

Well, well, Dexter! Replied Captain Wrightson. What brings you to these parts? A little north for your liking, isn’t it?

Same as you, Nigel. Orders from above. Need to get to the warhead before the Ruskies do. Believe you’ve already had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.

One mile to target, Sir. Came the radio technician’s interruption.

Captain Wrightson didn’t have a chance to answer. Both subs were rocked by a violent explosion. Jesus H.! Cried Captain Dexter Lockheart. What the hell was that? Full stop! He barked to his crew.

Captain Wrightson’s reaction was the same. John, get a dinghy crew out there. See what debris is out there to help us figure out what the hell just happened. Tell ’em to be careful. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, or who.

Remarkably soon, an inflatable, manned by four men set out toward the explosion site. The Bosun in charge of the dingy radioed back to the sub. Debris all over the place, Sir! The Yanks have a dinghy in the area too.

Roger, Bosun. Keep out of their way. Bring back some samples. They’ll be doing the same.

Suddenly, another horrific rumble was heard and felt by all on the two subs. Torrents of water crashed down on the decks, sudden sharp thuds echoed within the sub walls. The shuddering subsided and the crew members looked at each other with barely concealed dread. Out on the once calm ocean, the remains of the dinghies and their crews floated amid the debris they had gone to retrieve.

Christ! Whispered the No.1, hardly able to speak. Was that the warhead going up?

God knows what it was. We can’t put another boat out. Too risky and it’s almost dark. Get me the American Commander. He shouted to the radioman. Dexter, what the hell happened? Did your men see anything? We lost our men in that blast!

Same Nigel. Four men in the dinghy. I’ve sent out another boat to see if there are any survivors but you know as well as I…not a chance! Figure it was the warhead that went up?

No other logical explanation…unless it was that Russian sub that was hovering about a while back.

Well, the target we zeroed in on has disappeared. Commented the American Commander. It’s too dark to find anything now. I’m recalling the dinghy. Don’t want to risk any more lives. By God, Washington won’t be happy about this one! I don’t suppose London will be exactly tickled pink either. Eight men dead and a missing warhead. Christ, what a way to end your career! Uh, Dexter cleared his throat awkwardly, Sorry Nigel. Hah, it might be the end of my career after this debacle! We’ve just been called back to Gibraltar, so something big is going on. Seriously Nigel, happy retirement. Over and out.

Within minutes the U.S.S. Advantage had disappeared from sight, leaving the British sub in the eerie silence of the desolate Arctic Ocean. Wrightson heaved a huge sigh. Well John, we better get the report done. What a way to bow out of the Navy, eh?

Unbelievable, Sir. Replied Lieutenant Commander Bell. I’ve had a bad feeling about this one from day one.

Yes, yes! Replied his boss irritably. So you kept saying. Well, you were right on this one, regrettably. A shout came from the wireless operator. London, Sir!

Thank you, Sparks. Uttered the weary Captain. Within a few minutes the British sub was on its way south, also recalled to Gibraltar. Something was in the pipeline. Something big.

CHAPTER TWO

London, ten days later

Y OU HAD BETTER come in, Commander. Have you prepared the report? Yes Sir, it’s all here, for what it’s worth.

Eight lives at least. Replied the Admiral, with a shake of his head. Yes Sir. Acknowledged Commander Wrightson.

A confident, smooth voice jolted Wrightson from his sullen reverie Aaah, Commander Wrightson, come in and sit down. The Prime Minister had met the Commander once before, at a similar, less serious briefing. The meeting was taking place at Chequers, reportedly a weekend retreat for Cabinet Ministers to discuss current issues and to get some R & R. In reality, this was a Top Secret meeting with the Prime Minister, some of his senior Cabinet Ministers, Chiefs of Staff, Secret Service members from England and the United States, and the unfortunate Commanders of the two subs involved in the Arctic Ocean incident. After making some introductions, the Prime Minister called the meeting to order. His first request was for Commander Wrightson to recount the events of the fateful day. As he stood to face the stuffy room full of stuffy older men, the Commander was relieved that this would soon all be over, and he realized that for the first time he was actually looking forward to the quiet calm of retirement. His duty completed, Wrightson sat down, sighing with relief. The Prime Minister turned to Commander Lockheart. His responses to the Prime Minister’s queries confirmed the report from Wrightson on every point.

The last question from the Prime Minister was for the other gentlemen assembled. So, the report is before you. Any questions for the Commanders?

James Elliot, with the American Secret Service got straight to the point. What do you think caused the explosion out there? Do you believe it was the warhead?

Commander Wrightson spoke up. I personally think not. Clearly, the explosion occurred at a great depth, which softened the impact to our subs somewhat. I believe that at the reported size of the warhead, and the close proximity of our subs to it, we would have gone up with it if it had blown.

Commander Lockheart cleared his throat to draw their attention in his direction. I concur with the Commander’s assessment. I don’t think the explosion was big enough to be the warhead. It could have been the Russian sub that was in the area at the time…

Or a deliberate attempt to let us believe it was the Russian sub. Chirped in the Prime Minister. Everyone turned to look at him. Percy Parker reveled in moments such as this. Well into his third term as Britain’s longest serving post-war Prime Minister, he was well-known for timely, unexpected pronouncements.

Come on then Percy! Out with it! Called out James Elliot. What have you got up that rather long sleeve of yours?

Well gentlemen, we have a very disturbing piece of news coming out of the Middle East. Our man in Yemen is reporting that a warhead is up for grabs for a price. He believes it’s up for auction.

What, no set price? No demand? Blurted the Foreign Secretary. No. Auction, highest bidder.

They certainly have balls! Elliot said. Don’t suppose you know who’s bidding and how much is being offered?

The Prime Minister couldn’t resist. Have you no men out there, James? He asked, raising his eyebrows.

We’ve heard nothing, absolutely nothing. Elliot replied, knowing full well that the Prime Minister knew this already.

Yes, that is what is very strange about this. Normally something of this nature would have been picked up by every agency out there. This has been kept very hush, hush. It’s like they are keeping it within a very select inner circle. This is extremely serious business. I have ordered our, how shall I say…more experienced personnel out there to get to the bottom of this. I suggest you do the same, James. Right. Any questions, gentlemen? We will update you on a ’need to know’ basis. Now, on to more pleasant business. I am sure you will all join me in congratulating Commander Wrightson on his retirement.

With that, a round of ’hurrahs’ and ’hear, hear’s’ went up around the room. The Prime Minister stood to signal the termination of the meeting when Commander Wrightson raised his hand. The P.M. nodded in his direction, expecting him to acknowledge the Best Wishes. The Commander surprised him with his words. Sir, it may be nothing, but when we docked in Gibraltar, there was a Russian sub on the outer basin. Do we know anything about it? How long it had been there? We were told he was there on a courtesy visit, nothing more. It would be interesting to know if that was true.

So, you are inferring it was the same sub you came across in the Arctic? That is interesting. You’ll fill me in on more details and I will have that investigated. Good work Commander. You continue to serve your country well. Now go enjoy that R & R you so richly deserve. He reached over and vigorously shook Wrightson’s hand.

CHAPTER THREE

Ostrov Gerald Island, Chukchi

D EEP WITHIN THE Eastern Siberian Sea there was another small sea known to the Northern Russians as the Chukchi Sea. Within it laid a few islands. One of these, along with the smaller uninhabitable islands surrounding it, was purchased by an unknown company registered in Moscow. They were purchased for very little, due to their remoteness and because no one had ever expressed any interest in what was considered useless land. The reason given by the company was for exploration. Exploration for what was never fully disclosed. The government was happy to make a little unexpected revenue, with perhaps a little extra disappearing into a private bank account or two. To Alexis Bazinski this was the ideal place to set up new headquarters. The Russian ex-submarine Commander was still wanted for questioning over a top-of-the-line