Bikini State Red

By Paul Whiteman

1990s. An unfortunate coincidence on the North Norfolk coast leads to the mysterious disappearance of Lieutenant John McAdam. Commander Tom Falconer has just taken early retirement from the Royal Navy to explore pastures new with Alice Silk, the woman in his life. But a farewell night out with a few naval colleagues is the start of a web of intrigue, espionage, treason and murder into which he and Alice become increasingly involved.

When rumours of a novel British guided weapons system hit the already tense situation, hard-line Russian militarists plot to seize the intelligence for themselves. With the agents taking increasingly desperate and dangerous measures, international incidents at sea trigger the clandestine security alert – Bikini State Red.

Uncertainties mount. Rogue elements are in play. 

And John McAdam is still missing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Oct 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781838597320

Paul Whiteman

Paul Whiteman worked professionally as a medical doctor and research scientist. His interests in maritime affairs started as a Sea Cadet in the 1950s. He has skippered his own boat around the English coast. Now Cambridge-based, his amateur interests also include the design and development of autonomous robotic systems.

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Contents

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Part One

Athena

Born, fully armed, from the head of Zeus, she is the virgin goddess of wisdom and prudent warfare.

1

This is a tale of events in the early 1990s.

Sunday 27th September

The coincidence was unfortunate.

The salt marshes of North Norfolk stretch out to the North Sea. The land is flat and prone to flooding. In places the heaped shingle sea defences separate marsh and shoreline. It’s a birdwatcher’s paradise, free from the usual paraphernalia of coastal resorts. That was why John McAdam was there. The others were there because it is secluded and desolate, and an ideal place to smuggle in goods via the North Sea.

As twilight dwindled, Charles Fisher turned the motor launch towards a deserted stretch of shore between Cley Beach and Blakeney Point. A few minutes later he cut the engine to run the boat gently aground in front of the sea defences. Jimmy Tarrant fixed a temporary mooring line to steady the boat against the rising tide. Fisher and Tarrant were ex-marines. They had served with the SBS, the Special Boat Service – the naval equivalent of the SAS. Now they were mercenaries. The other man aboard, known only as Tremain, was coordinator of the operation. He called them into the cabin for a final briefing and handed over the first payment. Tremain was running late and needed to make the long trek across the shingles and marshes to get to the village of Cley-next-the-Sea, where his car was waiting.

‘From now on we contact each other using the agreed procedure.’ Tremain started to climb ashore.

‘Hold on!’ urged Tarrant. ‘Someone’s coming.’

Lieutenant John McAdam strolled slowly along the shore, enjoying the late-September evening, imbibing the gentle roar of the sea and the swishing of the waves as they broke over the sand and shingle. There was a hint of rain in the air. The small boat in the distance had not yet caught his attention. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was glad Mary had made the decision to take the children to her mother’s house in London. The boys constantly demanded his attention. He wanted desperately to spend the last few days of his leave alone with Mary. She understood – she always did. And she never complained about his long periods at sea – though he knew they made her unhappy. He began to think about how things might work out after his retirement from the navy in two years’ time. There was no chance of promotion now. It wasn’t just the kudos – the pension too. ‘Pity,’ he muttered, forcing back a pang of resentment.

His attention turned to the boat perched upright on its bilge keels on the shingle. She was a little beauty. The light was fading fast but he just had to look her over before turning back.

Tremain grabbed his binoculars.

‘Looks like a bloody birdwatcher – they get everywhere,’ remarked Tarrant.

Tremain adjusted the focus, straining his eyes to get a good view of the face in the fading light. The blue serge naval-issue jumper confirmed his worst suspicions. ‘Damn and blast! I know that man. If he recognises me the operation is compromised.’

‘You mean cancelled?’ Fisher’s thoughts focused immediately on the prospect of diminishing revenue.

‘Hope not,’ replied Tremain. ‘Let’s see if he minds his own business. If he is who I think he is, we have a problem.’

‘There’s no one else around – what if he disappears?’ suggested Tarrant.

‘You’re mad,’ retorted Fisher.

Tremain ushered them back into the cabin. ‘We’ll have to play it by ear.’

The lieutenant continued walking towards the boat. Tremain jumped over the side onto the sea-covered shingle and marched towards him. McAdam stopped in his tracks.

‘McAdam, isn’t it?’

‘Yes – but…’

‘Well, well – what a coincidence! Now, old chap, no need for formalities.’ Tremain grasped the lieutenant’s arm just above the elbow and led him away from the boat. ‘So, what are you doing here?’

‘I’m on leave.’

‘Do you live here?’

‘No – just having a short holiday.’

‘I see – on your own, are you?’

‘I am today. My wife’s meeting me in Cley tomorrow.’

‘Look here, old chap, I’ll have to take you into my confidence. You’ve stumbled across an important undercover operation. Don’t discuss this with anyone – including your naval colleagues. Understand?’

‘No problem.’

‘Is there anyone else with you who might have seen us, or might come looking for you here?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see anyone else on your way here?’

‘No, it’s deserted now; not even a car at Cley Beach.’

‘Except yours?’ enquired Tremain.

‘Not even mine, the wife’s got it. I walked from Cley.’

‘Really?’ Tremain squeezed the lieutenant’s arm encouragingly. ‘Is someone expecting you back tonight?’

McAdam hesitated before answering. ‘No, I’m alone in the cottage tonight.’

‘Excellent!’ responded Tremain. ‘Then I expect you would like to look over the boat.’

McAdam was intrigued and climbed eagerly aboard.

Tremain stood in the wheelhouse, blocking the entrance to the forecabin. ‘Quite an instrument panel for a small boat, eh?’

‘Fantastic!’ McAdam recognised some of the equipment, the latest in electronic navigation. The other devices were less familiar.

Before the conversation could develop further, Tremain called out to Fisher and Tarrant. McAdam’s curiosity turned to unease when two Viking-like characters built like the proverbial brick houses emerged from the cabin.

‘Meet my friends, Charles and James.’

Fisher shook hands briefly. Tremain nodded. Tarrant suddenly grasped McAdam’s extended hand and flung him face downwards onto the deck. The lieutenant was silenced by a heavy blow to the back of the head.

*

John McAdam struggled to wake up from his bad dream, but the throbbing pain in his head and the pounding noise intensified.

‘What the bloody hell…?’ His mind jolted to consciousness – and with reality came fear.

It was a moonless night. The navigation lights were off. In the open-backed wheelhouse of the launch, two men shouted to each other above the rush of the sea and a large diesel engine pumping away at full power. McAdam lay motionless on the deck near the stern among a large heap of mouldy-smelling ropes. The boat was planing with bow high and stern close to the swirling sea. The showers of cold spray sharpened his senses. But he felt sick and dizzy and his head was still throbbing.

Suddenly, one of the men clambered towards him. McAdam feigned coma and gritted his teeth. He managed to stifle a yell and remain motionless after a painful kick in the back.

Tarrant returned to the wheelhouse. ‘He’s not going anywhere.’

‘We’ll dump him soon and get the hell out of here,’ replied Fisher.

It started to rain.

McAdam knew he had only one chance. He slowly lifted his head to gain sight of the men over the top of the large engine casing which loomed above him amidships. Their backs were towards him. He thought he could see shore lights astern. McAdam struggled to remove his boots, took a deep inhalation of air and slid quickly over the starboard side into the foaming sea. He forced himself down three metres and stayed underwater for a good minute. The noise of the motor cruiser got progressively fainter. The sea was rough for swimming but provided cover. The rain, now heavy, further decreased visibility. The lieutenant struck out for land. Soon he could hear nothing but sea and wind.

The sound of the engine returned. McAdam stopped his steady crawling stroke, trod water and looked around. A light searched across the sea, catching the spray and causing luminescent halos. The boat passed by at speed. The light suddenly flashed his way. He dipped under the water momentarily but had no stamina left for prolonged submersion. The rain and the waves sheltered his head from view. The boat made several more excursions but none came near.

The exhausted lieutenant struggled on. The tidal stream swept him east of Cley. His steady stroke had become a thrashing motion, and he was only just keeping his head above water. He was choking and almost on the verge of giving up when the dark outline of the dyke appeared before him. With a final desperate effort he lurched towards it and, unexpectedly soon, his feet touched the sandy shingle. He managed to crawl halfway up the embankment before collapsing.

*

The shrill chanting of seabirds aroused McAdam some hours later. Cold, dazed and feverish, he lay there, too weak to get up. The shore was deserted and misty. Somehow it seemed safer now that dawn had broken. But the head injury was taking its toll. The lieutenant passed in and out of consciousness.

He heard vague sounds of trudging feet. Soon hands were lifting him off the shingle. McAdam opened his eyes and tried to focus. The images were blurred – but he saw enough.

2

Monday 28th September

Alice Silk bounded effortlessly through the waves of humanity in London’s West End. Commander Tom Falconer trailed wearily behind.

‘We’re going in here,’ she instructed, guiding Tom into the third clothes shop.

‘Navigating frigates through busy shipping lanes was easier than this,’ joked Tom.

‘This is it!’ announced Alice, snatching a jacket from a rack. ‘It’s you, it really is.’

Alice was twenty-six, tall and elegant. And, thanks to grooming at a well-known ladies’ college, she had confidence and style. Her persuasive posturing was beginning to attract attention in Jaeger. Tom bought the jacket, grabbed Alice’s hand, hauled her out of the store and hailed a passing taxi. They sank into the soft, welcoming seats and simultaneously burst into laughter.

Commander Falconer had recently turned forty. After twenty years’ service as a seaman officer, and much against the advice of Rear Admiral Richard Claydon, he had taken early retirement from the Royal Navy. He met Alice at an exhibition at the Royal Academy. He was on leave at the time. Oil painting was his hobby. Alice was a professional in the world of the fine arts, a cognoscente. It was all they had in common – but they soon became lovers. Tom moved into Alice’s small, but valuable, flat in a fashionable mews in Belgravia. Thanks to the navy they had so far spent only short periods together during their two-year affair.

Tom stared thoughtfully out of the cab window. He was now a civilian. Tonight would be a landmark. He had arranged to meet a few close naval colleagues at a Turkish restaurant in town. They were all officers on his frigate. The old crew would soon be splitting up – they were due back from leave at the end of the week.

It was late afternoon when their taxi turned off Belgrave Square into the mews, a quaint little lane providing a village-like haven in the metropolis.

We’ve an hour before Scottie arrives,’ Tom called from the bathroom.

Alice entered and handed him a cognac. She sat briefly and admired her man. He was physically tough, a bit on the chubby side, with unruly brown-Labrador-coloured hair and a wicked twinkle in his eyes. The thick but well-trimmed ginger beard gave him that nautical look.

‘Hope you don’t mind being chauffeur tonight?’ said Tom.

‘Of course not – and I’ll meet your friends at last. Don’t be too long in that bath – I want to look my best with all those prime male specimens around.’ Alice giggled as she left the bathroom.

He didn’t reply.

‘You’re not jealous, are you?’

Tom laughed. ‘Oh no – apart from the fact they’re younger than me.’

The bath was not as relaxing as usual – Tom hastily finished washing. Alice had met John McAdam and his wife, Mary, but not the others. What would they think of his beautiful young girlfriend? And this was his final farewell to a life at sea and the comradeship peculiar to the navy.

*

Surgeon Lieutenant Commander Paul Scott emerged from Knightsbridge Underground Station into drizzling rain and made his way briskly towards Belgravia. ‘Scottie’ had joined the navy as a surgeon at the age of thirty-one. He had just completed his training period of general officer duties, spending the last few months aboard Tom Falconer’s frigate in the North Atlantic. The two men had become good friends.

Alice opened the door, hesitating momentarily as the good-looking man with blond hair stood awkwardly on the step.

‘Alice! It’s wonderful to meet you at last.’ Paul kissed her precipitously on the cheek. He removed his wet raincoat to reveal an expensive, well-tailored dark blue suit. Alice was pleased she had managed to persuade Tom to buy a new outfit.

Tom appeared and ushered them into the small lounge. Scottie opened a carrier bag and produced a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt. The conversation was pleasant but Alice was slightly unnerved by their guest. His display of panache was a bit overpowering, even for her.

Paul Scott mentally analysed Alice’s features – her tall, slender build, elfin nose, black urchin-styled hair, warm, sensuous lips and those questioning pale blue eyes. Sensing her discomfort, he quickly became self-conscious of his indulgence.

‘So, Paul – why did you leave the NHS and join the navy?’ asked Alice pointedly.

‘I’d finished my specialist training as an accident surgeon but got fed up with waiting for a suitable consultant appointment.’

‘A lot of competition, I suppose,’ added Alice.

‘I just felt like a change – and I love the sea.’

‘So, what’s your next move?’ asked Tom.

‘I’m due for a stint of shore-based training, but before that I may be on another mission with Nigel and Mike.’

‘What’s it all about?’

‘Haven’t a clue yet. I’m hoping Nigel will enlighten me tonight.’

‘It’s nice to know that some of the old crew will still be together,’ added Tom. ‘I believe poor John McAdam will be shore-based at Devonport for a while.’

‘Why poor?’ asked Alice.

Tom explained. ‘When John joined the navy he was too old to get a full career commission. Promotion is less automatic. That’s why he’s still a lieutenant. It’s a sensitive point.’

*

The traffic and parking in London were as unpredictable as ever. They arrived at the restaurant later than intended. Lieutenant Commander Nigel Hannay and Lieutenant Mike Morris were already well ensconced at the bar. After the introductions an exuberant Hannay insisted on champagne all round. Alice basked in the toasts and admiring glances. Hannay bubbled with good humour. He was a bear-like man and well over six feet. His light brown hair was receding and he looked older than his thirty-eight years. He smiled and laughed with his whole face.

The waiter arrived to take orders.

‘Where on earth is John McAdam?’ asked Mike Morris. ‘It’s not like him to be late.’

‘John and Mary are coming back from Norfolk today – maybe they got held up somewhere,’ replied Tom as he turned to the waiter. ‘Give us another ten minutes.’

John McAdam did not arrive.

Alice arranged to pick Tom up later. She returned to the flat to catch up on paperwork. The last few days had been hectic, and wonderful, but her new business venture was also demanding serious attention.

Back in the restaurant, the conversation centred initially on Alice – and the flat in Belgravia. No one asked about managing on the naval pension. But Morris came up with the question Tom was most dreading.

‘Have you decided what to do next?’

‘Nothing for a while,’ replied Tom. ‘I’m going to settle into a civilian way of life and examine my options carefully before committing myself.’

‘Sounds sensible,’ said Mike unconvincingly.

The food arrived. Scottie took the opportunity to change the subject. ‘Nigel, I’ll probably be joining you and Mike in about three weeks. What’s this next mission about?’

Hannay went coy and dithered uncharacteristically.

Tom laughed. ‘You can whisper in Scottie’s ear if you wish, but I’m still subject to the Official Secrets Act.’

‘Sure, Tom, why shouldn’t you know – it’s just another weapons trial in the North Atlantic with yet another top-secret widget about which, to date, we have been told virtually nothing. On return from leave, Mike and I will be holed up for a couple of weeks with the boffins at AWRE.’

‘At least I now know where we’re going,’ said Scottie. ‘Pity it’s not somewhere warmer.’

The floor show started. The men turned their attention from matters naval to the belly dancer who had just made a flamboyant, whirling entrance onto the stage. The shapely young woman, who could have passed for Turkish, danced her heart out for the sparse Monday-night audience. Inevitably, she descended from the stage and danced for each table in turn. By the time she reached the naval officers she already had several ten-pound notes tucked into her scanty attire.

Tom was the first to receive her attention, with a dazzling back-bend shimmy. The men admired her athleticism, and her body. Unable to keep a straight face, Tom soon gave in and tucked a note gently under her hip-band. Hannay teased her mercilessly with a twenty-pound note until she danced on the table. Wearing a cocky leer, Mike Morris made the girl work overlong before he clumsily pushed a carefully rolled-up crisp new note under her bra strap. She winced as the sharp edges abraded her soft, silky skin. Mike apologised. The girl laughed it off – she was used to such things. Pointedly, she turned to Paul Scott and danced for him. He was enticed onto the stage and, much to the delight of the audience, gave a stylish display of dancing with the girl. Mike put on a brave face and joined in the revelry.

As the dancer made her exit the waiter appeared with a message. It was Alice – on the telephone.

‘Tom, Mary McAdam just phoned from Norfolk. She’s distraught – John’s disappeared.’

‘What?! When did she last see him?’

‘Yesterday, but they planned to meet at their cottage in Cley this morning. She thought he went birdwatching while she was away. She’s contacted police and hospitals – absolutely nothing. Tom, I told her you would phone – she’s desperate.’

‘Alice, could you drive me to Norfolk tonight?’

‘No problem – but it’ll be late.’

‘I doubt Mary will be sleeping. Throw a few things in a case and tell her we’re coming. Oh, and bring my binoculars too – I might need to scour the coast and the marshes.’

Tom looked distracted when he returned to the table.

‘Problem, Tom?’ asked Scottie.

‘Yes. Mary McAdam phoned to say that John is missing. It seems he went birdwatching but failed to return.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Mike. ‘He likes to do that in isolated parts of the North Norfolk coast. There are nasty rip currents in some places.’

‘I’m sure John would have known about that,’ replied Tom.

In solemn mood, they waited for Alice.

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