In the van of the centre column was the commodore’s ship, his burgee streaming proudly from the halyards abaft the bridge. She looked like the ex-France, the swash-buckling ship with elegant lines which the Norwegians had bought and renamed Norway. Hob counted four ships astern of her, all modern, some container, some bulk, others general cargo. There must be five miles between each and at least six between the centre column and its neighbours. Probably another five miles separated the outer column from the intermediate, a total width of twenty-two miles: the convoy must cover 330 square miles. The ships were deliberately not following in each others’ wakes while they zigzagged.
Tail-end Charlie was obviously having trouble keeping up: an escorting frigate was wheeling astern of her charges and screening one ship which, even from up here, seemed to be badly knocked about amidships.
Ungava Bay, one of the most important in the eighteen-ship convoy, was easily recognizable tucked away in the second column, the second ship from the rear.
With her huge car decks, the ship was specially designed for awkward loads. The heavy stuff stowed well below: the cranes, tank-transporters and earth-shifting gear. The army tracked vehicles were normally awkward cargo but Ungava Bay’s car decks easily coped with the lot. The Canadian Division’s small arms ammunition, spares and light guns were stowed in container boxes on deck, almost to the height of the bridge.
‘The commodore’s just signalled,’ reported Dunker. ‘He wants to share us with Mother so that the Yanks can go home to cover the BOEU 2 convoy. I suggest we screen thirty miles ahead until Mother joins.’
‘Okay, Dunker. Heading?’
‘058°. They want us to act as visual link with Mother.’
‘Heading 058°,’ Hob confirmed. ‘Fifteen hundred feet, hundred knots.’
‘Fine. That’ll give me time to take down the commodore’s signals. He’s passing casualty details now.’
Hob and Grog had little to do now but listen to Dunker decoding the sitreps. Hob glanced at Grog when the first one came in: the nuclear onslaught on PH-LH 4 had all but annihilated it, without warning. Among the twenty-eight ships overwhelmed had been nine Frenchmen. A message had just come in from ACLANT indicating that France had declared herself this morning for the Western Allies.
Her force de frappe of five second-generation SSBNS was at the disposal of Nato, as was her fleet. ACLANT was immediately deploying French surface units into the Atlantic to relieve STANAVFORLANT, whose mission was to fill the void left by the Carrier Striking Force being forced to dash down south to the Azores. All French land forces were mobilized and were taking up their positions on the central plain beside their Nato friends.
Just as disconcerting for Hob and the rest of the crew was the report that five choppers had been brought down when attacking lone, detached SSNS. So far, no cause could be given, but it was assumed that enemy submarines possessed an unknown capability for destroying hovering helicopters. Grog made a wry face as he glanced at Hob. ‘Seems to bear out your Icarus skylark, Hob,’ he volunteered cheerfully. MOD was still reticent, but a code name, Anvil, had been allocated to the suspected retaliatory weapon.
The next item was unexpected. In accordance with a previous Allied warning to the Soviets, Nato ships were now to use, when suitable, nuclear depth bombs (NDBS) against confirmed enemy sub. contacts. Each sortie of 814 Squadron’s ASW
Sea Kings was to be armed with at least one NDB.
‘Phew!’ Hob muttered. ‘Hotting up a bit.’
The commodore then passed his convoy disposition, emphasizing that Valiant, one of the oldest fleet submarines, was acting independently twenty miles ahead of the convoy.
‘That’s all,’ Dunker reported. ‘Stand by to lay, Ozzie.’
Then, as Hob eased to ninety knots, he heard the observer recording a Flash Report from ACLANT.
‘Flash — flash — flash!’ Hob heard Dunker repeating. ‘Major enemy surface units steering south-east from Cape Farewell.’ Then another report, probably as a result of the Nimrod and the SOSUS analyses: ‘Nine SSNS confirmed on a NWSE line crossing HX track, centre of axis 35°W.’
‘That’ll be enough to keep Force Q awake,’ Dunker added. ‘Hold your heading at that, Hob. Drop, drop, drop.’ Hob watched the sonobuoys tipping into the sea.
Neither he nor Grog had much to say: ahead, an enemy striking force, taking advantage of the changing dispositions in the Nato forces, had slipped through the GreenlandIceland gap. Major units of the Northern Fleet were charging southward to challenge Force Q and the Canadian convoy it was shielding.
‘Let’s hope the Harriers are airborne,’ Grog said.
‘Druce won’t miss a trick,’ Hob said. ‘I can imagine his nostrils breathing fire and brimstone already.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Grog said quietly. ‘He’s too bloody brave.’
But in both pilots’ minds lurked an ugly thought. At least nine enemy SSNS lay in wait, less than 250 miles ahead. It was the squadron’s job to winkle them out and to destroy them, with NDBS if need be. No one liked using these depth-bombs; but neither did the Sea King crews relish being shot from the sky by the mysterious Anvil.
‘Field laid,’ Dunker reported. ‘Heading 350°.’
The drill continued, but in the shuddering, roaring machine each man was marooned by his own thoughts.
Chapter 13
Sea Kings 833 and 829 landed at 0520 on spots 5 and 3.
The handlers took longer than usual as they struggled in the wind to secure the lashings.
Aircrewman Osgood slid open the door and jumped on to the deck. Crouching against the gale, they leaned to the great ship’s motion as she pitched and yawed in the quartering sea. Her massive bow rose majestically as she lifted to the swell racing beneath her forefoot; the flight deck canted, the ship rolling rhythmically like the dignified matron she was. The screen door slammed shut behind them. Hob signed off the aircraft arid then they made their way down into the warmth ‘tween decks. A rapid debriefing, coffee and something to eat and Osgood would crash out in record time: he was pooped.
But the debriefing was not the crisp routine to which they were accustomed. The ops officer was determined to bring them up to date on the tactical situation in the Atlantic. Osgood was content, as he loosened his overalls and lolled back on the benches; the fug and the sudden lifting of tension after four hours of concentration in Sea King 833 were a sensual pleasure. The voice of the ops officer droned on. The bright glare of the Atlantic map which showed on the screen was all that prevented him from nodding off… but the precarious situation of Force Q and the Canadian convoy for the next thirty-six hours made him sit up.
Three red lines were slashed across the convoy’s trackline: A, the nearest within a day’s steaming; B, the central, close to Rockall which Force Q should reach before midnight on Wednesday; and C, the furthest, clipping the edge of the Faeroes Bank, where the convoy had to turn to starboard at Position Juliett, for the passage through the OrkneysShetland gap. The enemy submarine lines were crescent-shaped, curving to contain the advance of the convoys. The Nimrods, virtually defenceless from Soviet long-range aircraft, had whittled down 9’ the SOSUS detections and a clear picture had emerged: line A consisted of thirty-plus SSNS; B, twenty; and C, four. All SSNS were some hundred miles apart. As the convoy approached line A, the offensive patrol line was closing, like the claws of a crab. At a speed of thirty knots, two attacking submarines could straddle the HX convoy within ninety minutes — a minimum of six SSNS could concentrate on the convoy, if necessary. Valiant, the British SSN patrolling independently ahead of the convoy, would have a field day, once she got in among them. The enemy could also stand off at horizon range to attack with sub-surface missiles, if he wanted.