‘That confirms it, Pascoe,’ he said with a gleam in his eye. ‘The Kremlin’s been through on the hot line. No more nuclear missiles, providing we lay off the NDBS.’ He grinned broadly. ‘The Yanks down south reckon they’ve had a massacre too with their NDBS. An enemy nuke had only to declare herself and the bomb does the rest.’
‘That’s good, sir. I loathe the things.’ Trevellion stroked his chin with his long fingers, in that typical gesture of his. ‘The enemy will be busy rearming tonight in the Northern Fleet’s battle groups, sir. We can take off our cricket boxes and so can the EASTLANT ships.’
But Trevellion still felt the apprehension of those around him. A conventional HE-headed missile was still a formidable weapon and could inflict terrible damage.
Chapter 18
Aircrewman Osgood never saw Rockall with its colonies of gannets but, during the last of 833’s Jez runs, he glimpsed the red marker lights on the rigs that were still operating the oil-wells on the edge of the Rockall Trough. He wouldn’t have chosen to be working there just at the moment…
When they had debriefed from their first watch sortie, they waited for the Sea Harriers to scramble. Two Harriers were sent off to the west to discourage a group of positively identified Backfires which had been picked up by the Force’s AEW Nimrod.
Osgood was trying to prevent his eyelids, as heavy as dumbbells, from closing while 833 flew through the murk again, two sorties later. Though he had snatched four hours’ sleep and enjoyed an unhurried dinner of beef and spuds, which should have set him up, he still craved sleep-and the stodgy meal did nothing to stimulate him. The ordeal of existing under the cloud of a murder charge wasn’t affecting his sleep one jot.
He had told them at the murder inquiry exactly what he had seen and he could do no more. Petty Officer Kotta swore until he was purple in the face that Osgood had committed the crime, but the evidence from 4N8 were mounting against the PO.
Although Toastie Cole had told them very little in the inquiry, what he did let slip did Kotta no good. Being under open arrest didn’t restrict Osgood, and made no difference under present conditions — the mess was going out of its way to make life easy for him. As for his pain over Gwen, he was learning to lock up his anxiety inside himself.
Dunker was putting the final touches to his plot half an hour to go before Hob and Grog got them to their screen position sixty-five miles south-east of the radio beacon of Akraberg on Suderoe, the southernmost island of the Faeroes group. Every helo which could fly was in the air, their crews ‘ operating round the clock to protect the convoy which followed 140 miles astern of the Mother. Thank God, STANAVFORLANT had joined in the nick of time. Osgood knew that, for him at least, these next few hours would be crucial. Death had already depleted the squadron, and the present routine left him little time for feeling sorry for himself.
‘Ready for the Jez?’ Dunker asked. ‘We’ll be in position shortly.’
‘All ready, sir,’ Osgood responded. ‘Ball’s ready too.’
Osgood lapsed back into his musing as he tried to make himself more comfortable in his canvas seat. He hadn’t known what he was letting himself in for when he’d transferred to the Fleet Air Arm. In less than a week he had gathered as much experience as he would in ten years of peacetime. Things had happened fast during the last forty-eight hours.
‘Five minutes to go,’ Dunker called.
They were almost on billet. The next few hours would see it all over for them, perhaps, as the enemy subs closed in at speed for the kill off Position Juliett.
Down south, the Yanks had clobbered the Soviet Strike Group which had been menacing the convoys, so perhaps our Carrier Striking Group Two might do the same up here. The battle between the giants had taken place at dawn, 150 miles east of San Miguel in the Azores. Each side had been waiting for the other to make the first move, but at dawn the Soviet Strike Group struck. There were no details as yet, except that one of the big Soviet carriers had been sunk with heavy loss of life. The Americans had suffered too, mostly from concerted attacks from Backfires. By all accounts, it had been a bloody battle of attrition.
833 was flying in conditions which would have been beyond the limit ten days ago — force eight for the past six days, and still no sign of letting up as the tail of the equinoctials continued to create atrocious weather. But, if it hadn’t been for the wind yesterday, might not all the choppers have been caught by the fall-out from the nuclear exchange?
For Osgood — and almost everyone in the ship — this was the first taste of waiting for probable extinction. Funnily enough, he felt quite calm about it, sitting in the back of Sea King 833. Calm, but he didn’t relish the encounter.
‘1450’ Dunker called. ‘Are you ready up-front to go in? Take her down to cloud-base, Hob.’
‘Roger,’ Hob acknowledged. ‘Tally-ho, one thousand feet.’ Osgood checked his buoys. 833 was falling out of the sky, Hob revelling in being free of restrictions. The chat ceased, each man intent on his drill. They were out here, alone but for 822 and 827, the lives of thousands of men and dozens of ships depending on their skill and resolution. 817 was guard cab this time: the lives of three chopper crews hung on her alertness against the much-feared Anvil.
Chapter 19
‘The next two hours will decide the issue,’ Druce said conversationally.
Trevellion fumbled in his jacket for his tobacco pouch. Methodically he pressed the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe as he watched Druce flicking his dividers across the chart.
‘The Northern Fleet has to engage now if it wants to attack the convoy,’ Druce remarked.
Everything depended upon when to open fire. All electronic counter-countermeasures depended upon this decision. Trevellion smiled briefly as he remembered the gunner’s remark: ‘Sir, our anti-missile missile has just shot itself down.’ Technical intelligence was the key to all operations these days. The commander who knew most about the other side’s weapons and EW would win this war. At last, official policy didn’t insist that he waited for the enemy to open fire on him.
There was precious little room around the general operations plot where Druce was considering the tactical moves open to him. The GOP, being linked to the radars and computers, could predict future moves of the enemy, and, with its longer range and time scale, was a vital tool in the coming battle. Trevellion pulled at the anti-flash hood which was stifling him. It was hot, clad in anti-flash gear, but at least they weren’t wearing helmets as the men in exposed positions were forced to do. Pascoe checked the ship’s time against the plot: 1640.
‘Consider the enemy’s intentions first,’ Druce said. ‘I met Stukalov once: I’m not surprised he’s C-in-C of their Northern Battle Fleet. Where are we at the moment, SOO?’
The staff officer, operations indicated the blue crosses on the surface of the plot, timed at 1700.
Trevellion listened in silence as the dispositions were marked off: HX-OS 1 was safely past the enemy SSN line and managing to maintain its speed of advance: the convoy should be up to its II goo ETA in two hours time for the turn at Position Juliett towards Fair Isle.
Force Q, minus Phoebe, with Furious at its centre on a continuous ‘weave’ zigzag, was disposed along a line of bearing 115°-295°. The Sea Kings were eighty miles ahead, flushing the enemy submarine line in the Faeroes-Shetland gap. Druce had maintained room to manoeuvre, as the convoy approached its vital turn.