He could just pick out the smudge of the aging Phoebe’s outline, four miles to the northward. She and Brazen were the point-defence ships, their job being to shoot down with their Sea Cat and Sea Wolf missiles any aircraft which penetrated the area defences put up by the air defence ship, HMS Gloucester. The Type 42 destroyer could cover the whole force with her Sea Darts, providing her supply of missiles was adequate and that her reloading drill was slick enough.
Both she and FGN Koln, the Type 22 German frigate, were invisible in the night; and somewhere miles ahead, steaming westwards (and no doubt hoping that the carrier would soon catch up on her) was the heart of the whole force: Oileus, the Dutch fast combat support ship, who previously had been with STANAVFORLANT when Trevellion had commanded Icarus. Oileus was a fine ship, relatively modern and purpose-built. An improved Poolster, she could make twenty-one knots and, with sonar, two Sea Kings and three Lynxes, she could screen herself against submarine attack. A pity we had not been able to build similar ships, Trevellion thought gloomily. The British contribution, though manned by an excellent crew of Royal Fleet Auxiliary officers and men, was the obsolescent Resolve, capable of only sixteen knots. Now carrying weapons and ammunition, she had to be diverted up the Irish Sea to wait for the arrival of HX-OS i off Northern Ireland… Feeling the chill as first light dawned, Trevellion moved back into the bridge.
‘Coming on to the clearing bearing,’ the navigating officer reported. ‘New course, 263°, sir.’
‘Bring her round. Start the zig on an MLA of 263°. Increase to twenty-four knots.’
The carrier swung to her rhumb-line course which would take her to her rendezvous with the Canadian convoy. Spread around the lightening horizon, the grey smudges of Force Q’s escorts were beginning to show up. Far ahead above the horizon line, the pinhead of Oileus’ masthead showed intermittently as the carrier began to plunge rhythmically into the Atlantic swell. Trevellion strode a few yards to the Flyco bridge where Craddock was supervising the first flights of the day.
‘Better get them off as soon as you can, Wings. The wind’s blowing the dirt away.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Craddock turned in his chair and nodded to Little F, the flying lieutenant-commander in charge of the flying details.
Trevellion felt reassured by his airmen. The team was by no means perfect yet, but the next few weeks would bring things up to scratch. Of one thing he was sure: Jasper Craddock was a ruthless Commander, Air, tough and demanding. Only time would show what his aircrews were made of; the result of the coming struggle depended upon these young men already assembling on the flight deck. So be it, Trevellion thought. The Russians had their objectives: to destroy our shipping and to sink our warships. But Nato, the us navy and the Royal Navy would give the Soviet Fleet such a bloody nose that it would be pleading for mercy before the agony was over. Trevellion handed the ship over to the officer of the watch and walked quietly from his bridge.
Trevellion was too experienced to be able to share the excitement of his officers. He well knew what these next weeks would be like; he was one of the few who had not only been in action but survived.
Outside the door of his sea-cabin, the communications officer confronted him with a signaclass="underline" CINCCHAN had stumbled upon a field of complex enemy mines close to the Channel light vessel, where two British ships and a neutral had been sunk. All shipping was being diverted. From now onwards Force Q would be keeping radio and radar silence.
‘Back to the Mark i eyeball,’ he murmured as he initialled the message.
He pulled the curtain across the doorway (all doors had been landed during the last dockyard refit because of the jamming risk from sudden shock). He glanced at the photograph of Rowena, then heaved himself on to his bunk and turned on the dim lighting. For an instant, he jettisoned his awesome responsibilities not only the safekeeping of his ship and a thousand officers and men but the safe arrival of this entire Canadian convoy depended upon Furious and her covering force. He turned wearily on his side and extracted a small Bible from the drawer under his bunk. The page fell open where it always did. His father’s faded underlining of the passage was still just visible: ‘Have I not commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee withersoever thou goest.’
Trevellion flipped shut the small book, replaced it beneath his bunk and snapped out the light.
Chapter 7
The restrained atmosphere in the briefing room, Hob realized, was due not so much to the presence of the first eleven (Squadron co, Little F and even Wings were already seated in the front row), but because of the news flooding in from all directions. It was now 0130 on Sunday, six hours after 814 Squadron had flown on, and no doubt remained: Soviet submarines had started attacking the convoys assembling off the American ports.
Hob, sitting in the second row, with his crew around him, shook his head: as senior pilot he had nothing to add to the briefing. He had done all he could to bring his pilots up to scratch and it was now up to them. He saw the ops officer glance at Wings, the redoubtable Jasper Craddock, whose jaw was jutting aggressively and whose obstinate mouth was set grimly, as if he was spoiling for a fight. Even if Craddock wasn’t respected by everyone, as his predecessors had always been in ‘Old Fury’, he was certainly feared by his pilots. He was a driver impelled, some said, by ambition, because this was his last chance for promotion to captain. Craddock nodded: the ops officer opened the briefing by handing over to the duty met. officer.
The projector flicked on and the screen glared brightly in front of them, the weather forecasts for the next six and twenty-four hours demonstrated by the dark pressure lines heralding the lows and highs in their area and in the Atlantic. ‘Force six, increasing to seven, perhaps gale eight,’ the unemotional Welsh voice continued. ‘The equinoctials, which didn’t materialize at the end of March, seem to be late this year, judging by the lows building up in the western Atlantic and off Iceland: they could be more ferocious than usual.’
As Hob scribbled the essential details of the forecast on to the surface of his knee pad, Duggie Mann, the Squadron co, stood up in the front row to address his fliers:
‘Usual emergency procedures if you run into trouble,’ he said. ‘Stick with your aircraft if you can. Any questions?’
Hob raised his hand:
‘May we break silence for maydays or for an emergency return to Mother, sir?’
‘No. We’re at war now.’ The co added, a grin twitching the corners of his wide mouth: ‘The homing beacons on your survival suits should get us to you.’
‘The water’s tropical down here,’ the pilot of 819 contributed. ‘Dolce vita after North Cape.’
The duty pilot took over when Duggie Mann sat down. He looked up at the crew duty list and rattled off the chalked-in details: ‘Advanced offensive Jez sweep: aircrafts 827 and 819; pilots Gamble and Trewby; crew, Gooch and Osgood; fuel, normal limits; armament, two Mark 46 torpedoes.’
Hob was watching 819’s Aircrewman Osgood, swathed in his flying gear, and smiled — there was someone who had shared those bloody awful moments in the Arctic seas. And, of course, it had been a proud moment when they had collected their gongs at the Palace with the other Icarus sailors.