‘Catch 22,’ Druce said sharply. ‘Our priority is the safe delivery of the convoy. D’you think I enjoy this any more than you, captain?’
The index finger of Trevellion’s bony hand pointed to the southern tip of the Outer Hebrides. ‘Detatch her independently with Phoebe to Barra, sir. She can find her way up the Minches. A pity we can’t spare a pilot and observer so that she could maintain constant Lynx cover.’
Druce hesitated, then pricked off the distances with his dividers. ‘She might even catch up with us if she makes the passage of the Pentland Firth … if we’re held up.’ He turned to the communications officer. ‘Make it so, Derek, but show me your draft before you get it off. Repeat the message to the screen.’ He turned to the PWO: ‘What’s the air picture give us?’
‘Nothing much, sir. Haifa dozen Bears north-east of Iceland, reckoned to be searching for Nimrods and to be screening the Northern Fleet’s second battle group. ACLANT’S airsit suggests that the enemy is holding in reserve his main air strike of two regiments of Backfires. He’ll attack when he’s identified the main threat.’
‘Looks uncommonly as if we’re the prime target,’ Druce murmured. ‘The RAF will be standing-by once we’re north of Rockall, but we can’t depend on them -
they’ll have their hands full. God — how we need our own organic air, Pascoe!’
The admiral was sweeping his hand across the Arctic Circle east of Iceland. ‘I’m convinced the Northern Fleet’s second battle group is poised here,’ he emphasized. ‘SATCOM reports grade two detection of surface forces here, and one of our SSN’S got off a Flash Report on one of their two new battle-cruisers.
We’ve got to weigh up the enemy’s capability, Pascoe.’ The admiral turned to his staff officer, operations. ‘What are we up against, SOO, if we meet their battle-cruisers?’
‘They’re powerful ships, sir. With their 32,000 tons and nuclear power, they can hit hard: they’re packed with guided missiles and can out-shoot anything we can range against them. CINCEASTLANT’S Harriers confirm that they’ve their latest carrier with them, the fourth of the Kiev class.’
‘Fifteen V/STOL and twenty choppers,’ the PWO added.
‘Something for our five Harriers to get their claws into,’ Roderick Druce said.
‘I presume the Red Air Force will draw off the RAF’S fighters before they despatch their Backfires to attack us and the convoy.’
‘The Backfires had a go at the Yanks off the Azores, sir. They tried to pre-empt the Carrier Striking Force, but the Yanks weren’t playing this morning.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Our Carrier Striking Force is still covering Kiev and her Strike Group, sir. At noon today the Soviet Force was 150 miles north of Flores, tailed by us bombers; Carrier Striking Force is still shadowing 160 miles to the south. ACLANT is holding up the eastbound convoys until the battle’s decided.’
‘The Azores seem to be the jam in the sandwich, SOO.’
‘It looks as if the enemy is trying to draw the Yanks towards the Soviets’ submarine area west of Gib, sir.’
Trevellion listened in silence.
‘And the sub-surface picture?’ asked Druce. ‘What’ve you got for us?’ The PWO stood back and pointed out the enemy submarine dispositions. Here, in the gaps, the estimations of enemy forces were much firmer: our SSKS, Sosus, Stass and the LRMPS were seeing to that, but for how long could these gallant Nimrods continue to operate?
‘The enemy boats are waiting for us, here, this side of the Faeroes-Shetland Gap, an iron ring from Lousy Bank to the two-hundred-metre line off the Butt of Lewis-two SSNS, probably Victors, coming down from the Iceland-Faeroes Gap; the others are on their billet, a mixed bag of eight SSKS, probably Tangos and Foxtrots.’
‘Interesting,’ Trevellion said. ‘I wonder if you’re thinking as I am, sir?’ A slow grin lit up his gaunt face as he waited for Druce to reply: ‘I’m with you,’ Druce said. ‘They’re all torpedo submarines. The air boys will have first go.’
Trevellion nodded. ‘That’ll be the main threat tomorrow, sir, when the convoy enters its sixty-degree turn to the eastward for the Skroo and Fair Isle.’
‘We’ll still be in deep water, so their SSNS can also have a go,’ Druce said.
‘If, at the same time, their Northern Fleet’s Second Battle Group makes a quick dash south — and manages to co-ordinate its threat with our turn, we’ll be in for a busy evening. ETA for the convoy’s turn, Pascoe?’
‘1900, sir.’
‘We could do with a bit of help,’ Roderick Druce remarked.
‘STANAVFORLANT is belting up from the south, sir,’ SOO said, ‘now that the French have got the Sole Banks well covered. They’ve lost a couple of frigates but they’re cleaning up the enemy SSNS whenever they’re on to a firm contact.
They’re not so hard-stretched with their LRMPS — their Atlantics and Neptunes don’t have to cover such a vast area.’
‘Yes, but the French are farther away and have just sent some of their ships round the Cape in the Indian ocean. What concerns me is our immediate defence of the convoy tomorrow. Relax to Alert Ten, captain. Your fliers have got to get some sleep or they’ll be NBG for tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, sir. We could do with it.’ Trevellion looked up: Craddock was standing there, the communications officer at his side. It was the first time that Trevellion had seen the suspicion of a smile on Craddock’s face.
‘The PMO sends his compliments, sir, because he can’t leave the sick bay,’
Craddock said. ‘He reports that 833’s flight are lucky to have got away with no radiation contamination. He’s given them a jab to make sure. He’ll be up to see you as soon as he’s checked on the others.’
‘Good news,’ Druce said. ‘Are they fit to fly?’
‘Six hours rest, sir. They’ll be fit for duty by 2300 tonight.’
‘Just in time, Wings. I’ll be needing every aircraft from midnight onwards.’
Druce jerked from his seat and began pacing the cramped space between the displays.
‘Get your heads down, all of you,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet again at midnight. I’ll signal my intentions to the escorts then.’
Trevellion climbed to his feet. ‘I’ll talk to the ship’s company at supper, sir.
Would you care to have a word?’
Druce nodded. ‘Thanks, Pascoe. It’s time I talked to them. The next two days will be critical.’
‘Sir?’ The communications officer was loath to interrupt the prowling admiral.
‘Two messages, both priority,’ and he handed the signal sheets across the displays.
After scanning the first, Druce grunted. ‘Ungava Bay’s under way and hoping for twelve knots. Phoebe gives an ETA for Barra Head, 0200 Friday.’ He glanced at the track chart, pricked off the distances. ‘She’ll be two hundred miles astern of us, even if she goes through Pentland.’
‘She’s got Phoebe,’ Trevellion said. ‘And a lot can happen yet to the convoy.’
‘Yes, a lot can happen…’ Druce tailed off as he re-read the signal. He peered up at his flag captain.
‘Well, Pascoe, your aviators seem to have done the trick — ‘ But he never finished his sentence.
‘The First Sea Lord’s on the blower, sir,’ the communications officer interrupted. He passed over the red telephone. The others rose quietly from their seats to make themselves scarce.
‘No, Pascoe, stay.’ Then he was barking at the telephone: ‘Sir. ASW Group Commander here. Yes, sir.’ Trevellion watched Druce’s face for a hint of information. ‘Yes, right away. Aye, aye, sir.’ He handed the instrument back to the signals officer.