The chat had taken place at the briefing — each aircrew knew that both aircraft were armed with Serpents (their code word for the torpedoes) and that they had four and a half hours’ endurance until 0500 — Charlie-time — the moment they had to quit the screen in order to regain the carrier.
‘Okay in the back?’ Hob asked.
‘Yeah nothing to do,’ Dunker said. ‘We should pick up Oileus at 0320. Brazen should be with her at 0430.’
They settled down to the long haul westwards. The wind seemed to be easing, but visibility at this height remained poor. Hob handed the cab over to Grog. It would have been easy, in the relative cosiness of the dimly-lit cockpit, where the only light came from the illuminated dials, to allow drowsiness to affect them, but tonight, for the first time in their lives, they were out on the hunt for real. They were here, ahead of ‘Old Fury’ to fight her through the enemy’s encircling submarine force. Furious was steaming too fast to use her or the escorts’ sonars, so her safety depended entirely upon her own helicopters.
The minutes slipped by and Hob jumped in the darkness when Dunker’s voice cut in suddenly through the background scream of the vibrating machine.
‘Oileus ought to be coming up soon, Hob.’
The time was 0252 and, as Hob took over his lever again, he heard the chatter of radio messages coming through to the observer.
‘What’s up, Dunker?’ Hob asked as soon as there was a break.
‘The policy’s changed: hundred per cent radio and radar freedom,’ the voice from the back said. ‘Telebrief completed with Flyco. I’m through to D: he’s coming in now…’
While the observer concentrated on the messages pouring through from D, the flying director in the ops room, Hob and Grog checked their electronic gear: it was good to be in touch with the world again on this dark night, reassuring to be able to use the radar and IFF. 819 was a couple of miles astern of station but was overhauling quickly: she too had got the buzz.
‘Hob,’ Dunker called, ‘things are warming up. The sitrep gives fifteen SSNS between 47° and 50° north, disposed northwest, south-east. Nimrods have confirmed two SSNS, and possibly a third whose position is still not localized.
The confirmed contacts are Charlies, one on each side of Mother’s M L A, thirty four miles from us and closing at speed. Oileus is reversing course to close Mother at full speed. They should meet at 0640, but Brazen is pushing on at full speed to join Oileus by 0500. Brazen’s Lynx is joining Oileus’ Sea Kings who are screening her forty miles to the westward. They’ll start pinging as soon as they’re in position.’
‘What about us?’
‘Hold on — D’s coming through…’
So, Hob thought, Rear-Admiral Roderick Druce had changed his mind. He was determined to fight his way through and, by blasting the area with active sonar transmissions from all sources to scare the daylights out of the attacking Charlies, which were torpedo-firing boats, though a missile attack could not be ruled out if the Nimrods’ signature classifications were wrong.
‘Hey, you up front…’
‘Yep, Bunker?’
‘819 and us and two of Oileus’ Big Dippers are to form a Jez screen fifteen miles astern of her. We can attack any sub. contact immediately: normal procedures.’ Then he was getting through to 819, in code, referring to Oileus as ‘Clara’. ‘819, this is 827. Stand by to lay a Jez barrier. Clara seven miles decimal four.’ The co-pilot was tracing his finger on the small display in the cockpit and Hob could distinctly see the blip of the replenishment ship.
‘Take the cab up, Hob,’ Dunker called. ‘Fifteen hundred feet. Oileus is turning back now and I’m in contact. We’ll pass over her and set up our Jez as soon as we pick up their Big Dippers.’
‘Radalt out.’
Hob took her up while in the back Wally and Dunker prepared the sonobuoys.
‘There she is.’
It was Grog who first saw her wash, a white snake in the black sea below. Dunker was on the air again, talking to 819 as their Dutch friends closed fast from the left:
‘819, this is 827. Two Big Dippers joining ahead at fifteen hundred feet, one hundred knots. I carry two Serpents and we have no restrictions.’
Then Hob heard the guttural voices of the Dutchmen, and. 57’ when he glanced to port, he saw 849’s and 850’s red lights winking while the Dutch Sea Kings approached. He could see Oileus plainly, her ghostly outline rolling rhythmically while she ploughed before the south-westerly swell.
‘Heading 268°,’ Dunker ordered. ‘Stand by to lay first Jez in eight minutes time.’
In the back, Dunker and Wally were still preparing the buoys and their plots.
The 195 sonar body would be ready in a few minutes, all-set for immediate lowering if they had to go active. Dunker was on the line: ‘Better be slick with the lay, Hob. Nimrod Uniform’s just come up: Charlie number two’s overhauling fast — doesn’t seem to give a damn she’s being tailed.
She’ll be within torpedo range of Clara in seventeen minutes, if she can get through our active screen.’
Chapter 9
By 0325, as the grey twilight lightened into dawn, 827 and 819 were carrying out their Jez routines five miles astern of the FCSS, Oileus. In the back end of 827, the aircrewman, Wally, was operating his Jez: concentrating over his table, his pencil poised as he watched the frequency lines on the roll of paper creeping across his plot, he was unusually silent.
The action astern of them had concentrated the minds of everyone. Dunker, sitting in the observer’s seat opposite the Jez operator, was also glued to his sixteen-inch ground-stabilized plot, a radar display angled up at 45° so that he could trace the tracks of any target on to the display, which also served as a plotting surface. His plot showed the true motion; not only did he always know where he was relative to all other ships and aircraft, but he could track the position of other helicopters and ships in the screen as well as the courses and speeds of the enemy.
‘Okay, Hob, new heading 245°.’
Out to the westward, they listened to the action as Oileus’ Sea Kings, 849 and 850, and Brazen’s Lynx carried out the first kill. The SSN had inexplicably committed suicide by continuing dived at thirty-two knots towards Oileus. The chase had been thrilling to overhear, but after the first involuntary cheer, the silence after the torpedo kill had left the occupants of 827 stunned: the sound of the enemy’s bulkheads exploding at depth was not pleasant.
Hob and Grog had nothing to do up-front during a Jez sortie, but today they would not carry out any practices. Hob was up at fifteen hundred feet to get a better all-round view of the field — the Jez operator had become used to Oileus’ noise and that of Brazen who was already in radar contact with the Dutchman. It was at 0334 that 849 came up with the doubtful frequency signature which alerted everyone … but it was quickly ignored after 819 had investigated along a track of 077°. 849 must have been confused by Oileus’ signature as the ship threshed eastwards towards the shelter of mother’s approaching screen.
After the false alarm, Brazen streamed her foxer (an acoustic decoy), and Oileus followed her example. Distraught by the underwater racket, Wally was muttering filthy oaths at the back; Grog was still chuckling when the atmosphere became electric.
‘I’ve got a frequency coming up,’ Wally announced.
Hob looked down at the sea, now a steely grey. Oileus was pounding to the east; closing her was Brazen, a frigate of the Broadsword class whose sleek, functional lines plunged into the swell, the spume rising high above her bridge as she careered westwards.
‘Okay,’ Wally reported sharply from the back end, where he crouched over his Jez plot, facing the port side. ‘Okay, I’ve got a target on buoy five.’