The officer of the watch was a huddled heap in the corner, the engineer nowhere to be seen. Ducrois felt the ship plunging downwards, the deck subsiding beneath him, his guts thumping his diaphragm. Ever downwards she slewed, gripped in the vortex, on the far side of the fluid mountain. The electric light had gone and the mini-wheel spun uselessly in his hands. Water spurted through the bridge door, which normally stood seventy feet above the waterline.
Slowly it dawned on him that the ship was beginning to roll rhythmically, no longer being catapulted from one side to the other, the indicator showing 25° to starboard then 15° back to port and gradually decreasing. He loosened his grasp on the compass and glanced to port to see the glorious light from the sky again.
Huge seas raged past him, still of hurricane height.
He stabbed at the manoeuvring controls, but there was no response. He yelled at the officer of the watch, who was now scrabbling to his feet to stare at the television screen monitoring the engine-room: ‘Rudder’s jammed at starboard twenty. Where the hell’s the power?’
‘Sorry, sir. The automatic cut-out’s operated. The chief’s on his way up, but all electrical power’s gone.’
‘Officer of the Watch, for Pete’s sake.’ Ducrois was venting his spleen on the young officer. ‘Where the hell’s the quartermaster?’
‘Fetching me some cigarettes, sir, when it happened.’
Ducrois did not trust himself. He stomped to the front of the bridge, glared through the broken plate-glass. He drew in his breath as he took in the scene which met his eyes.
Over half the container boxes had gone: most of the outboard Samson posts and uprights had snapped off, those remaining being bent like reeds in the wind. The remaining container boxes were piled in confusion, jammed haphazardly together.
Those nearest the bridge structure seemed to have suffered less but, for’d, most of the red ammunition containers had vanished. Amidships, what was left had been flung into a pile on the starboard side which accounted for the ten-degree list.
Several boxes hung over both sides, held by heaven knew what, like beads on a necklace. At each roll, boxes thumped against the ship’s side, the clanging reverberating throughout the ship. The scared face of the quartermaster showed in the starboard doorway of the bridge.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
As the quartermaster entered, Ducrois saw a group of helicopters two miles off.
They were flying across his stern, bound north-east, probably trying to find their carrier. Then the “master realized that the fire was out, extinguished by the mountainous seas.
The bridge clock had stopped at 1246 and he checked his wrist-watch before going out to the wings to see for himself what damage the convoy had suffered. It was 1250 — only four minutes since that nuclear explosion. The thing must have been a submarine-launched missile with a nuke warhead: it must have been fired from the other side where the other chopper flight was still operating. He strode briskly across his bridge and stepped outside on to the starboard wing.
He thought he had had enough surprises for the afternoon, but he counted five more mushroom clouds, dark and sinister, spreading across the sky above the eastern horizon: the missiles must have been deceived by our ECM because the bursts were wide. They had obviously detonated during Ungava’s minutes of near-disaster, for he had not heard the explosions nor felt their pressure waves.
He began to count the ships from this side. As he began to check the numbers, a sixth hump erupted on the horizon, to the left of another flight of Sea Kings, to the eastward. His stomach heaved; he felt nauseated. Ungava Bay could never survive another ordeal like the last.
He followed the closest flight of helicopters, saw them bank steeply, turning away from the nuclear cloud: those boys bore a charmed life. 1252: it was about time the mate made his report … Ducrois counted twelve ships in all, most of them still steaming, some circling like Ungava Bay, shaken or damaged.
But there was no sign of those three in the port column adjacent to his… The tail-end Charlies in his and the commodore’s column were both on fire. One of them was a trooper and he turned his face away, feeling sick, as he watched them trying to lower boats while a frigate nosed beneath the trooper’s transom. It was a gallant effort, but she could only damage herself in this weather. He hurried back into the bridge to check on the other side. Through the shattered windows he could see another escort racing through the seas, spray shooting masthead-high as she butted into the swell — but pygmy stuff compared to what Ungava Bay had just endured.
‘Captain, sir.’
He turned towards the mate who, at the back of the bridge, was waiting for the chief by the screen door.
‘I’m trying to get the turbos going, sir,’ the chief puffed. ‘The port diesel generator has a fractured mounting, but we’re starting number one now: that should restore lighting and give us back our hydraulics.’
‘Fifteen feet of plating’s gone on the port quarter, sir,’ the grey-faced mate said, ‘just above the waterline.’ He wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Our geigers are crackling like crickets, so we’ll have to decontaminate before we can get at the damage. Water’s pouring into the pump room where a plate’s stove in. The sooner the chief can give us power on the main line the better.’
Ducrois was master of himself and his ship again. This emergency was something he understood, a problem requiring seamanship and engineering skills.
‘Okay. What about the main engines, chief?’
The overweight engineer officer shook his head: ‘Boiler feed’s gone, sir — but nothing we can’t fix. The boys are on to it. I’ll have to look at the turbines.
I’m worried about the port ahead turbine: may have fractured feet. If all’s well, I shouldn’t be too long with the starboard engine.’
‘Any idea?’
‘Two hours, sir.’ He shook his head again, his lugubrious face expressionless.
‘That’s being optimistic.’
The master pointed for’d through the windows: ‘We’ve got to square that off before I can get under way again. You’ve got two more hours, you and every available hand, while we wait for the chief. I can’t risk knocking a hole in her.’
‘We’re a long way from Oslo, sir.’
‘And it’s going to be lonely out here,’ Ducrois said, ‘on our Jack, a sitting duck in the middle of the Soviet submarine packs.’ He glanced at them both: ‘Turn out the lifeboats, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Just in case. Leave ‘em on the gripes.’
Chapter 17
Trevellion heard the screening curtains of the ops room rustling behind him ‘833 flight landing-on now, sir ‘
Wings held the curtain for him and together they went outside to the passageway alongside Flyco where they could look down upon the flight deck Trevellion heard the pipe, ‘Romeo section to right, aft is out of bounds, repeat out of bounds ‘
For the past hour the ship had been at full nuclear biological chemical defence ‘They must have been through the nuclear cloud, sir We tracked them but though they did their best to dodge the bursts, they must have been close ‘
The contaminated water fell like rain, Pascoe knew, and he did not see how 833 and her flight could have missed being drenched by the stuff The carrier had managed to stay clear of the wind path and the dosimeters were still showing negative radio-activity 833 was landing on spot 7 1/2 which had already been sprayed with the decontamination agent It was as well that they had exercised this drill so often, because the aircrewman opening the door and jumping out was Osgood, brand new to the game Because of the contamination risk no one could help, so the aircrewman and observer had to secure the lashings themselves 817 and 822 were hovering off the ship’s port quarter, waiting while 833 was washed down with the special foam The decontamination squad and the PMO, in their disposable plastic suits, were standing by while Osgood finished his lashings Then Osgood was standing back and giving a thumbs-up the pilot shut down the power The crew tumbled out, were frisked by the PMO with his dosimeter, then, in single file, they hurried along the treated carpet which led across the flight deck to the screen door opening into the ship’s citadel The decontamination squad was moving in, grotesque in anti-gas respirators and plastic suits Two of them were scrambling across the Sea King to fill in all intakes before the spraying began Trevellion watched them, depressed by this foul brand of warfare, until the second wash-down with sea water was finished The handlers moved in and she was trundled to spot 4817 was approaching, crabbing sideways in response to the batsman ‘Thanks, Wings,’ Trevellion said ‘The training’s paying off Let me know when the aircraft will be airworthy again ‘