Free Shadow Hunter by Geoffrey Archer Page B

another. The outing was described as a ‘photo-opportunity’ to get aerial shots of the
Eisenhower
and of a Soviet ship that was passing them in the opposite direction about ten miles away.
    â€˜It’s a merchantman,’ the PIO commander explained. ‘But we treat all Soviet ships as hostile. Even if they’re not warships, they’re sure as hell spying on us.’
    The helicopters took off and flew in tandem, one hundred yards apart.
    The television correspondent wore an intercom headset so he could tell the pilot of his cameraman’s requirements. Their first request was for a couple of circuits of the
Eisenhower
.
    Satisfied they’d shot the carrier from every conceivable angle, the helicopter banked away to the south to fly low and fast towards the Soviet freighter’s position, which had been radioed to the helicopter from a Hawkeye radar plane circling overhead.
    â€˜She’s some sort of container ship, ’bout twenty thousand tons, called the
Rostov
. We believe she’s headed for Cuba, but don’t quote me . . .’ the commander shouted above the grinding whine of the helicopter’s machinery.
    â€˜How do you know that’s where she’s going?’ the correspondent bellowed back.
    The commander put his finger to his lips conspiratorially.
    â€˜Not allowed to tell!’
    The cameraman had been sitting with his legs out of the open side-door while filming, a safety harness buckledround his chest attached at the other end to a hook on the helicopter’s roof. But the wind was bitterly cold, and the crew-chief closed the door again for the transit to the next location.
    There was little room inside. This was an anti-submarine machine, packed with sonar screens, control panels, and a massive winch for dunking the heavy sonar transducer in and out of the sea. There was a nauseating reek of hot oil.
    â€˜Okay . . . We got the Sov on the nose,’ the pilot’s voice drawled over the intercom. ‘We’re comin’ up astern. We’ll pass left of her then turn right across her bows, and come back the other side. Okay?’
    â€˜That’ll be just great,’ the correspondent answered, tapping his cameraman on the shoulder to be ready.
    The crew chief slid back the big square door and the cold blast of air took their breath away. The tail of the Sea King sank as the pilot slowed to fifty knots. The grey-green sea surged a hundred feet below, the wind whipping white streams of spray from the wave caps.
    To their left the black hull and cream superstructure of the freighter came into view. The correspondent pointed at it unnecessarily; the cameraman was already filming. On the funnel a red band bore the hammer and sickle. They’d need a close-up of that; the correspondent saw the cameraman’s fingers press the zoom button. Good boy! He didn’t need to be told.
    Rusting red and orange containers were stacked on the outer edges of the deck, forming a corral with a space at the centre. There was something stored there. Fin-like objects, cocooned in pale fabric.
    The helicopter reached the bows of the freighter and turned across them, giving the cameraman a long, continuous shot, showing the ship from 360 degrees.
    â€˜See that stuff in the middle there?’ the correspondent’s voice crackled in the throat microphone. ‘Can’t see what it is. Can you?’
    â€˜Look like wings to me,’ the pilot answered.
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜Wings. Aircraft wings. Could be MiGs. With the rest of the planes in the boxes.’
    â€˜Shit man! We gotta get a closer look at that!’
    â€˜I can go round again if you want, but I can’t get closer’n two hundred and fifty feet. Otherwise the big man has me against the wall for harassing the Russians!’
    â€˜Let’s try it!’
    The correspondent put his lips close to the cameraman’s ear and told him to focus on the cargo in the middle