So, when the crunch came, the Force was on its own.
‘833’s safely on, sir.’ Craddock came in on the internal link. ‘I’m having to use the main lift to strike her down into the hangar. The sea’s too bad for the side lift.’
‘Well done, Wings,’ Trevellion said ‘Get her below before CAP One lands on to re-arm I’ll be needing the Harriers again in a hurry ‘
‘Time to refuel, sir3’
‘№ 1’ Pascoe regretted his impatient retort, even as he shouted it ‘Get them back into the Badgers ‘ He called to the officer of the watch ‘Bring her back to port to her ML A of 215°’
Gloucester and the rest of the force were pushing out their ECM The first Backfires had fired their missiles ‘Main raid 075° forty,’ the PWO (Air) was telling the GDB ‘Gloucester’s taking them with Sea Darts ‘ He paused, then continued calmly ‘They’re loud and clear on 993 You should have no problem in picking ‘em up when they’re coming in They’re on the forty-eight-mile range scale ‘
‘Fire the chaff,’ the captain ordered To Trevellion, it seemed only seconds before the PWO was calling out ‘Here they come1 Just entering the twenty-four-mile range scale ‘
‘Birds fired, sir1’ There was time for the chaff to bloom, the wind was about right ‘Okay,’ called the imperturbable chief petty officer in the GDB ‘I’ve got her ‘ His unshakeable confidence reassured the men incarcerated in this sombre, steel room ‘Missile’s now within twenty miles, sir Low bogey air attack’ A-arcs open ‘
Seconds later the operator was reporting again, calm as a judge ‘Crossing rate’s going to be too great for us Okay, I’m happy with 232-0,’ he called, quoting the target identification number of the target ‘I’ve got track of it You keep an eye out for the other — she should be coming in ‘
The Sea Cats could take only missiles coming towards, Trevellion well knew, but could they prevent this one from hitting Oileus? ‘We’re not able to acquire, sir It’s not a threat to us There’s no way Koln can take it either I’m tracking east’
Trevellion watched the operators, silent, eyes glued to their PPIS, the fingertips of their right hands twiddling the white tracking-knobs at the side of their scans He could hear the Bofors pounding away the Force was down to point-defence ‘CAP One coming in, sir,’ Craddock called ‘Request vertical landing ‘
‘Affirmative ‘
Trevellion had nothing but admiration for these Sea Harriers He did not have to alter the carrier into the wind, even in this gale he could hear the background roar of their nozzles even from the ops room and then, suddenly, bedlam broke loose in the Force as the first regiment of Backfires came in low, streaking along the horizon at two hundred feet He never knew how many there were — only that the area defence ships and the point-defence system were overwhelmed Gloucester’s Sea Slugs caught one of them The bomber in its wake caught the disintegrating debris and plunged, flaming, into the sea They swept in, over thirty of them, some firing at the Force, the remainder flashing on towards the convoy But STANAVFORLANT was ready and had already fired its chaff The air controller was shouting above the tumult a second regiment was on its way At the same instant, the PWO announced that the Northern Fleet had fired its surface-to-surface SS-N — I2s The Bears and Badgers were guiding them in, but it was doubtful whether CAP Two could get in among them in time The running battle off Iceland was still at fever pitch One of the battle-cruisers, with its attendant force of cruisers and DDGS, was breaking through and dashing towards the convoy The SS-N — I2 attacks were murderous, swamping the ECCM put up by the convoy Trevellion listened to the commodore’s reports of the devastation the missiles were causing among the ships of his convoy, in spite of the clouds of chaff drifting downwind above HX-OS i ‘Low bogey, zero-four-five, one decimal — ‘
The ops room was tense while they listened to the GDB, Old Fury’s penultimate line of defence Trevellion held his breath, waiting with the others The Sea Cats were taking the lone missile and tracking it in He listened to the clipped reports — and then the anti-missiles were going wide, deceived by the ‘
ECCM of the approaching enemy missile which was skimming at wavetop height above the breaking seas.
Trevellion braced himself, itching to be on his bridge. He tensed for the impact, then, hearing the thumping of the Bofors, their barking penetrating even the steel-reinforced ops room, he jumped up from the command chair. ‘I’m going to the bridge,’ he growled.
If the missile evaded the steel splinters from the-Bofors’ barrage, nothing could now save the carrier from a direct hit.
Chapter 21
Hob Gamble scrambled from the door of his cab, bent double and raced after his crew who were already half-way across the pitching, slippery deck. He ducked as the Sea Cats opened fire from the island. As he ran, he heard the roar from the first of the Sea Harriers returning to rearm. The armourers crouched against the superstructure, waiting to pounce out with the Skyflash missiles.
The handlers were bringing up on the after lift the last of the cabs — any helo which could stay in the sky was good enough now. The men in the coloured jerkins were struggling frenziedly, their trolleys sliding on the greasy deck as the carrier dipped, plunging into the hungry, malevolent seas with which they were learning to live. Hob reached the screen door which Osgood was holding open against the roll. It slammed behind him and, as Hob was reporting the duff port engine, he felt a tap on his shoulder:
‘SPLOT,’ the duty pilot said. ‘Wings wants you in Flyco.’
Slinging his bone dome at Osgood, Hob hurried along the passage and climbed the ladders to the bridge. He pushed out through the final door to the enclosed flat to watch the flight deck, while he regained his breath.
The expanse of wet steel glistened silver-grey in the approaching dusk, where the handlers were wrestling with the Sea King on the main lift which was appearing from beneath deck level. The Bofors were pounding away and he recognized the phumph! of the Sea Cats as the launchers loosed off their second salvo. He saw the spurts of smoke, watched the missiles discharging — this was only the second time he had seen the operation — and then, inexplicably, a blast of air sent him reeling backwards. He splayed his hands to save himself as an orange flash blinded him momentarily. He heard the roar of an explosion, felt the ship shudder. Then another, and another, three in all, at split-second intervals. There was a searing blast of heat, the smell of burning and again that strange, fluttering noise. Dazed, he picked himself from the deck, as Trevellion pushed past him, hurrying to the bridge.
Hob shook his head to clear his reeling senses. He glanced over the lip of the screen abutting the after end of the Flyco projection.
The Flyco bridge was a tangled mass of twisted steel. The projection itself was hanging askew at a crazy angle over the flight deck. The mangled remains of the control centre were burning and from inside the inferno, the groans of trapped men escaped above the crackling flames and the battering of the wind. Hob glanced aft to where the second missile had struck.
Black smoke was beginning to spurt from the hole where the main lift had been.
He could see the lift, canted upwards, blown sideways. The helicopter, lying on its side, was burning fiercely, the crimson flames fanned by the wind. The fuel had ignited and the lift area was a sea of fire. The driver of the trolley had been caught underneath his towing trolley. The fire fighters were trying to extract the poor fellow but they were being beaten back by the inferno. Hob turned away, shocked, but then saw more bodies sprawled at the base of the after end of the island.