Sea Skimmer (Jon Hunt Book 1) Read online

  Sea Skimmer

  Larry Jeram-Croft

  Copyright © 2011 Larry Jeram-Croft

  All rights reserved.

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Lieutenant Commander ‘Black’ Bob McKellar RN

  Cover picture:

  The author’s Lynx HAS Mark 2, tail number XZ722 otherwise known as ‘ARFA’. The photograph was taken by Air Engineering Mechanic Viv Potter, during the Falklands War on the deck of HMS Andromeda. The aircraft is loaded with two Sea Skua sea skimming missiles on the starboard side and on the port side is the antenna for an Exocet jamming/seduction system known as ‘Hampton Mayfair’.

  Also by Larry Jeram-Croft:

  Fiction:

  The ‘Jon Hunt’ series about the modern Royal Navy:

  Sea Skimmer

  The Caspian Monster

  Cocaine

  Arapaho

  Bog Hammer

  Glasnost

  Retribution

  Formidable

  Conspiracy

  Swan Song

  The ‘John Hunt’ books about the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm in the Second World War:

  Better Lucky and Good

  and the Pilot can’t swim

  The Winchester Chronicles:

  Book one: The St Cross Mirror

  The Caribbean: historical fiction and the ‘Jacaranda’ Trilogy.

  Diamant

  Jacaranda

  The Guadeloupe Guillotine

  Nautilus

  Science Fiction:

  Siren

  Non Fiction:

  The Royal Navy Lynx an Operational History

  The Royal Navy Wasp an Operational and Retirement History

  The Accidental Aviator

  Prologue

  The present day, the Isles of Scilly

  The warm summer wind blew gently across the bay enclosed by the arms of the Island of Tresco. Streets of fair weather cumulus clouds were being generated by the afternoon thermals which were a product of the hot sun that had been shining all day on the Isles of Scilly below. It was midsummer and the local population was gratefully being swamped by herds of tourists from the mainland.

  For the journalist who had arrived with the latest boatload of day trippers, it was hopefully the end of a very long journey. One that had started several years ago when investigating Ministry of Defence archives. His keen eye had spotted an anomaly and he had been following the trail ever since. On several occasions, his editor had spoken sternly to him about what he called his ‘obsession’ but despite all the pressure to carry on with his day time job he had managed to keep the trail live. And it ended here.

  Ahead of him was a small cottage. Like many on the island, it was whitewashed with a slate roof. A small garden was enclosed by a low stone wall. The property was at the end of a long gravel track that wound out of the main town and met the beach about half a mile further on. At first sight, the place looked uninhabited but it was in good repair and someone clearly tended the small garden as witnessed by the well cut lawn and rose bushes sheltering behind the walls. As the journalist approached and he could see over the wall he was excited to see that it was indeed inhabited and the owner was definitely in. His heart beat faster in his chest as he realised that, at last, he might be able to get some answers to the questions that had plagued him all this time.

  A man was asleep in an old folding deck chair and the journalist immediately recognised him as the person he had come to see. Despite greying hair and a weather beaten face there was no mistaking the features of the younger man he had so avidly studied from all those photographs. He was dressed in an old white polo neck jersey and faded jeans. The grass of his garden was strewn with the evidence of his trade. A worn diver’s dry suit and various other items of diving equipment were slowly drying out in the sun next to the coiled hose that had clearly just been used to wash them all down.

  As he approached, maybe it was his shadow blotting out the sun or the sound of his footsteps that alerted the sleeper who half opened one eye and appraised the person looking down at him. He saw a slim, fair haired, earnest looking young man but something about his demeanour alerted him to the fact that this might be more than your average tourist wanting some diving guidance.

  ‘If you’re here for a dive and to look for treasure, you’re too late in the day,’ the man stated simply, although he wasn’t too sure that this was indeed what the youngster wanted. The island had been the graveyard for thousands of ships over the years and a good living could be made taking punters out to the wrecks.

  The young man quickly dispelled all thoughts about diving. ‘Am I addressing Commodore Jonathon Hunt, DSO and Bar, Royal Navy retired?’

  The older man grunted and looked slightly discomfited. ‘I haven’t been called that in years. Who wants to know?’

  ‘Sorry, my name is Mark Simpson. I am a journalist and I have been researching the Falklands War and wonder if you could help me?’

  The occupant of the deck chair looked even more discomfited and opened both eyes wide at the mention of the word ‘Falklands’.

  ‘And I’m sorry too young man, you’re not the first person to ask me about the war and I’ll give you the same answer they all got. I have absolutely nothing to say and you have absolutely nothing to write about. Apart from the official secrets act, which would stop you publishing anyway, I have no intention of discussing anything that happened. So, please just go and leave me alone.’

  The journalist didn’t seem at all surprised by this response. Hopefully, he had the answers to overcome the man’s reticence.

  ‘Firstly Sir, the official secrets act no longer applies as the thirty year statute has passed and I have already accessed the official files. Unfortunately, there appear to several gaps which I was hoping you could help fill in for me. Secondly, I know about Marcel and Maria.’

  That really got the older man’s attention. He sat upright, stared intently at the journalist and said one word.

  ‘How?’

  ‘From the Argentinians themselves, so you won’t be giving away any secrets. They are no longer interested. Relations between the two countries are very different now.’

  The man slumped back a look of relief fleeting across his face and with a sigh, ‘I suppose there’s no reason not to tell the story now. At least if you get it from me you will get the truth. I’m probably the only person who knows the whole of it anyway and I suppose it would be better if all of it came out rather than you only getting some of the picture. Come inside.’

  So saying, he heaved himself out of the deckchair and opened the front door gesturing the journalist to precede him into the small cluttered living room.

  ‘Sorry about the mess but I never got around to keeping a wife and I’ve never been house proud.’

  He cleared some old magazines off a scruffy leather sofa and indicated for the young man to sit. Then he went to a cupboard and took out a bottle of malt whiskey. He looked at the journalist and raised an eyebrow. The young man nodded and he poured two large measures. He handed one over and seated himself in another scruffy wing back chair, put his feet up on an old coffee table and looked intently at his guest.

  ‘Right, so what do you want to know?’

  The journalist thought for a few seconds. ‘As I mentioned earlier, although I know about Marcel Bertrand and his wife, I can find no record of what their real involvement was. What did they have to do with the Argies managing to modify sea going Exocets to be fired from the back of a lorry? But far more importantly, why didn’t one Exocet fired actually explode?’

  Chapter 1

  January 1982, Paris

  ‘Another coffee monsieur?’ enquired the waiter. Marcel Ber
trand looked up and nodded automatically although he wasn’t really paying attention. He could feel the world pressing down on him. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do. For a man who relished hard work and intellectual challenge just sitting staring moodily out of the window of a Parisian cafe was the antithesis of everything he had done for the last ten years. Bored and frustrated, he watched raindrops slowly run down the glass and join together to form little rivers further down the window pane. Paris in January was dire. He knew, if he bothered to look, that he wouldn’t even be able to see most of the Eiffel tower as it was shrouded in cold dank mist. Quite what the hell he was doing here mystified even himself. He had plenty of money in the bank, his severance had been very generous, so he could be anywhere in the world right now. Why on earth had he come back to haunt the places of his youth? Pushing a strand of lank brown hair from his eye, he signalled to the waiter for another espresso, while lighting yet another Gauloise. Anyone looking would have seen a non-descript looking man in his mid thirties with sharp features and brown hair. However, if they had looked closer they would have seen a keen intelligence behind the piercing blue eyes. It was just, that at the moment, the fires of energy were dimmed. Even so, they would not have realised they were looking at one of the most gifted aerospace engineers of the decade. Marcel still felt numb even though it was weeks since it had happened. How did one react when your world had been turned upside down without warning?

  Only three weeks ago he was the head of the design team of one of the world’s most effective weapon systems. He had left university with a major degree and gone to work for the aerospace company Nord which shortly after merged with Aerospatiale. His talent was quickly recognised and he was soon given significant responsibility. An engineer by heart, he had still managed to climb the ladder of the management structure. Several years ago he had been transferred to the Exocet team and had been instrumental in introducing several design improvements that made the missile one of the most effective of its kind in the world. All his ideas, so why the fucking hell had it all ended so fast?

  Always the realist, Marcel wasn’t a person to ignore his own faults. He knew that people often considered him arrogant which could make him unpopular but that was their problem. He was damned good at his job, he knew it and so did they so why should he make excuses? But because of that he also knew he was respected by his team and that was what counted. They had all worked well together united in the professional satisfaction that you only get when achieving outstanding results. Sure, he had ruffled a few corporate feathers but someone had to tell the bloody bean counters that not everything was part of a sodding spreadsheet. He supposed he should have seen it coming, after all, the writing had been on the wall for some time. And all because of that vindictive bloody woman.

  Once again in his mind, he went over his last meeting in the office of the Managing Director.

  He had been unexpectedly summoned on a Friday afternoon and at very short notice, so had no time to prepare a defence for what was about to come. In retrospect, he recognised it as a deliberate tactic.

  ‘Marcel, come in,’ said the MD smiling pleasantly. ‘Please sit down,’ and he indicated a chair opposite his desk.

  Marcel’s hackles immediately rose. The MD rarely smiled at him. He was always a miserable bastard. What on earth was this all about? He didn’t usually get called to this office unless something momentous was on the cards.

  ‘Now, I expect you want to know why I have dragged you away from your duties,’ continued the MD. ‘But I felt it was about time we had an honest talk.’

  ‘Sorry, Michel but I’ve no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘Well no, you wouldn’t, but sometimes I feel its best just to get things out in the open. Now, I need to ask you a question. How would you sum up the progress of your project to date?’

  Marcel thought carefully. There was a loaded gun here somewhere. He just couldn’t see where it was pointing at the moment. ‘Well Michel, we’ve completed the latest software revisions and until one of our customers ask for an upgrade, we’re now looking at more of a maintenance and bug fixing programme.’

  ‘Yes and do you think that’s a sufficiently challenging task for someone of your calibre?’

  Marcel thought he could see where this was now going. ‘I guess it could be handled by several of my team now. Why, do you have something else in mind for me?’

  ‘Sort of, now tell me Marcel you’ve been working really hard for quite a number of years, have you never thought of taking a break?’

  Oh dear, he suddenly had a bad feeling about where this was going.

  ‘No Michel I haven’t, I don’t do time off you know that.’ he replied with a touch of steel in his voice.

  ‘Look, I am going to be up front about this. We don’t have anything else for you at the moment and although you’ve done fantastic work on the Exocet project, frankly we feel it’s time to give someone else the reins. And that means we can’t offer you anything else, I’m sorry.’

  ‘What? You’re sacking me, just like that? After all I’ve done for this company, you bastard.’

  ‘Now calm down, we’re not sacking you. We are offering you a really generous redundancy package and glowing references. You will be able to walk into any number of good jobs. I hear British Aerospace need good men on the Harpoon project.’

  ‘I don’t want to work in bloody England for Christ’s sake I like it here, I love this job.’ He was thinking furiously. What had suddenly brought this on? He knew he wasn’t always popular with the hierarchy. He could be blunt and definitely didn’t suffer fools gladly but that had always been his way, nothing new there. And then a suspicion formed in his mind.

  ‘This hasn’t got something to do with a certain lady, has it? She’s got to you, is that what this is all about?’

  The MD looked slightly embarrassed but wasn’t giving anything away. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean.’

  ‘Oh yes you do you. She told me that you’d found out about us a couple of weeks ago. Just before we broke up.’

  ‘OK, if we are going to lay our cards on the table, then yes. But you screwing our head accountant under the nose of her husband, who is on the board, was hardly the best career development tactic I’ve seen. When she found out that you were also shagging half the women in the building, she wasn’t exactly pleased and we both know how vindictive she can be.

  ‘Tell me about it. And it wasn’t half the women in the building it was just one other. Oh bugger, I’m the one being screwed now aren’t I?’

  ‘Look Marcel, you’ve got yourself into this mess and if I let you stay, I lose my head accountant and probably my job as well when her husband finds out. Now take the package, go on an extended holiday or something. Go and get another job or come back and see us in a year or two. Who knows, things may have changed enough for us to take you back.’

  And that was it. Suddenly deflated, Marcel knew he had no choice. Realising the hopelessness of his position, he spun around and walked out without another word. Out of the MD’s office, out of his own office and out of the company he had worked for, for so long. It was like falling off a cliff.

  And so he found himself here, sitting in this little cafe, where he used to drink all those years ago as a student. It was as if all that intervening time had just been wiped out.

  Maybe he should have tried harder to talk the MD round but on reflection, he was pretty sure he was doomed whatever he tried. Damn that woman. Mind you she had been the most inventive and demanding lover that Marcel had ever had. He couldn’t help but smile inwardly at some of the memories that assailed him.

  Suddenly his erotic, self pitying reverie was interrupted. There were footsteps behind him and then a voice with a strange accent. ‘Excuse me but am I addressing Monsieur Marcel Bertrand the engineer who until recently worked for Aerospatiale?’

  Startled, Marcel looked up and saw a tall, good looking man, in an ill fitting business suit. He had a dark, tanned face and
short black hair. His athletic build and almost martial bearing clashed strongly with the way he was dressed.

  ‘And who wants to know?’

  ‘My apologies monsieur. I am Captain Juan Mendez and I am currently the Naval Attaché in the Argentine embassy.’

  Marcel was puzzled. What on earth could this man want with him? The stranger pulled out a seat opposite Marcel and sat down without invitation. ‘I have been trying to find you for some time monsieur. I hope you don’t mind me talking to you but I have an urgent request to make. But excuse my rudeness. Can I order you another coffee or something stronger?’

  Marcel shook his head. ‘No thanks, I have had far too much already,’ he said with a smile. ‘Now what is it that’s so important?’

  The stranger considered his words. ‘Monsieur, I believe you worked on missiles?’

  Marcel simply nodded.

  ‘And those were Exocet?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘I’ve been told that there are very few people in the world who fully understand how these modern weapons work and that the people who design them are like chess grand masters. I have also heard that you’re the best. Is that true?’

  Marcel couldn’t help feeling flattered. He was clever enough to recognise the man’s words for what they were but as it accorded with his own opinion of himself, he couldn’t help but start to feel a strong liking for this strange man. ‘Thank you monsieur, I do believe I have some skill in that area but how did you find me and what do you want from me?’

  Looking him straight in the eye, Captain Mendez said, ‘we obviously keep an eye on all people who could be of help to us. As I’m sure you know, we have recently installed the Exocet system on our ships and aircraft but we really could do with your expertise. A friend of mine in your old company told me that you might be looking for work. My government needs your help monsieur and we are willing to pay a great deal to get it. ’ He mentioned a sum of money that made Marcel’s eyes open wide. ‘The only thing we ask is that you come to Argentina and keep the whole thing secret. You will be extremely well looked after and let’s face it, there is nothing to keep you in France is there?’