‘The admiral has decided to charge straight through the present SSN threat across our track,’ SOO concluded. ‘He’s requested COMSUBEASTLANT to withdraw his fleet submarines from.our area for the next eight hours while we steam through.’
‘We can attack any sub. contact?’ Craddock asked.
‘Yes, unrestricted between 10°and 20° west, and 48° and 51° north.’
‘Where are the main surface units of the Northern Fleet?’ Little F asked.
‘If they’re still north of Iceland, they’re not in a very healthy position, are they?’ Craddock added.
‘Not since Carrier Striking Group Two reached its area east of Jan Mayen,’ SOO agreed. ‘Rear-Admiral Boyd, COMSTRIGRUTWO, is steaming slowly eastwards, trying to tempt the Northern Fleet after him. There are signs that the feint is succeeding. The Northern Fleet turned east-north-east an hour ago and increased speed. Our Carrier Striking Force south of Iceland has begun to move north-east, to close the trap if the Northern Fleet turns nasty.’
‘What about EW?’ Craddock asked.
‘Silent policy, except for enemy reports.’
‘And the enemy?’
‘He’s been silent too: cat-and-mouse until recently, except that he’s just started total jamming in the Iceland area, to protect his Northern Fleet, I imagine.’
Craddock nodded when the staff officer had switched off the projector. ‘Now we can get on with the war.’
Chapter 8
Hob hurried up to the air maintenance control room where 827’s pilot, Grog Peterson, and the crews were waiting. Hob signed for his aircraft: all vital defects were made good. In the flat, they slipped on their bone domes, and fitted their throat mikes. Hob helped Dunker, a relatively inexperienced observer who had been paired off with Wally Gooch, an old hand at aircrewmanship. This practice was established now — sharing and balancing experience instead of manning selected aircraft totally with top-notch crews, as used to be the custom. They helped each other to adjust their survival packs slung about their backs; Dunker Davies leaned against the screen door. On the flight deck the wind buffeted their faces.
Hob sucked in his breath as the cold air hit them. The night was very dark, the vis. was right down, and it was blowing hard already. He hadn’t flown on a night like this for months. He’d be relieved when this lot was over and he was again on board Mother, down below and deep in his pit. Bent against the wind whistling across the flight deck, they fought their way to spot 3 where 827 awaited them, rotors flicking in the eerie, violet sheen of the night lighting. There she crouched, that ponderous cab for which he now had a superstitious attachment.
The handlers stood aside as the fresh crew floundered towards the doorways. The marshal raised his hand in greeting and Hob waved back.
Dunker was climbing in through the back door. He had plenty to do checking points as he took over from his predecessor, adjusting his seat, tightening the belts. Already fully briefed, he was immediately plotting Mother’s position on the grid, laying off the course for the rendezvous with Oileus. He’d need all his skills tonight: there would be no help from Mother because of radio silence, a fact which made D, the flying director in the operations room, feel more than frustrated.
‘Rotors running, refuelled and armed,’ the exhausted but out-going pilot grinned happily, after they had plugged in their intercoms. ‘Hope you enjoy it.’ With his co-pilot, Grog Peterson, Hob began their vital actions: ‘My lever,’ he said quietly, once they had all checked communications through their bone domes.
‘Your lever,’ Grog acknowledged.
As Hob was reaching the end of his extensive list of checks, Dunker, the observer, piped up: ‘Nearly ready in the back; Wally’s just strapping in.’
Hob said: ‘Am ready for STAB.’ He could select either STAB, the stabilizing system, ‘in’ or ‘out’, depending on whether he wanted automatic or manual. He gave a thumbs-up to the marshal with the two illuminated batons glowing in his hands, whom Hob could see through the window. The batons lifted. Hob could test his STAB.
‘STAB in,’ Grog reported.
‘Lifting,’ Hob said. ”For que coming in.’
He pulled in the lever to apply power; at the same instant, with his pedal he counteracted the tail rotor thrust, while he played with the cyclic the forward and backward control to lift the helicopter vertically from the deck: this was a critical operation, particularly as he was lifting off ‘heavy’, even in this wind. Grog was monitoring the instruments for the post take-off checks.
Hob lifted the machine upwards, then off to the left, towards the ship’s, side.
Grog was peering left through his window to make sure his sky was clear, while Hob kept his eyes on the marshal — only he could warn the pilot if there was someone in the way or if something was going wrong … if the marshal signalled ‘hold’, Hob had to obey. Hob applied power and took 827 across the darkened ship and away, climbing above the sparkling phosphoresence of her surging bow-waves.
Dunker was calling over the intercom:
‘Opening heading 263°.’
‘Roger,’ Hob acknowledged. “263°.’
As Hob climbed away, parallel to the ship in the inky blackness of the night, he pushed the nose forward and lifted her up, testing for the first time the maximum power on each engine.
He monitored the torque gauge while Grog checked the gas generator speed and the turbine inlet temperatures:
‘Power good,’ he said. ”For que limiting 110 per cent. Standby for radalt,’ he added.
Hob pushed her down to two hundred feet, but the sea was invisible beneath them.
Grog checked that the two radar height channels were matched and then he plugged Hob into the radalt.
‘Radalt coming in — now. Three, two, one,’ Grog said. ‘Radalt in.’
Hob felt the jolt.
‘Bug moving,’ Grog retorted.
The helo was now being controlled for height by the radar altimeter which was very accurate below two hundred feet; at this height the aircraft was flown automatically by the flight control system. Hob had no need to touch the collective — the lever which controlled the up-and-down motion — even if a gust caught her, because the system would automatically compensate.
Grog checked the lights. Off to starboard, Hob could distinguish Sig’s port light, their only visual link. It was lonely here in the dark cab on a black night, keeping radio silence. They carried out their pre-dip checks, so that they could go active at immediate notice. The sortie was up to Dunker now.
The observer had set up on his chart his position for latitude and longitude; and had also marked his grid position for easy reference. He would remain on his scale of five miles to the inch unless 827 became engaged in a hunt, when he would increase to one mile to the inch. He was sorting out his plot and trying to identify the other ships in the area, including Furious and her screen. He had picked up 819 and was signalling to her by lamp that he was ready to act as Dip Boss.
Wartime communications were very different from those in their peacetime exercises when radio chatter had made things so easy. With several enemy Charlie submarines ahead of the Force, to transmit would have been suicide for Mother.