Nato’s immediate retaliatory attack by the RAF and Royal Norwegian Air Force low-level fighter-bombers on Polyarnyy, the submarine base in the Kola inlet, had demonstrated the West’s resolution. Losses had been devastating — only two aircraft from the two squadrons had returned to base. It would be some time before the results of the raid could be known, but for three hours there had been no more raids on land targets from either side.
The difficulty in attacking Polyarnyy lay in the use of weapons: the two British SSBNS on patrol were capable only of nuclear attack, and the Soviet onslaught against Plymouth had been with high explosive. The only American submarine-punched missiles fitted with HE warheads were Harpoons, which had a range of sixty miles — too short to fire from inside Norwegian waters, even if the Russians were not occupying Nordland. And for a submarine to approach within forty miles of the Karelian coast, where the waters were shallow, presumably thickly mined and constantly patrolled, was an unrealistic proposition. The Tomahawk, the long-range submarine-launched cruise missile was undoubtedly standing-by in the wings if the gallant attack by the RAF and RNAF proved to have been fruitless.
The admiral’s flag-lieutenant and personal pilot saluted behind him. ‘Excuse me, sir: the admiral wonders whether you would join him for supper in his sea-cabin when you’ve finished on the bridge?’
‘Thanks, Flags. About ten minutes.’
The flag-captain’s eyes searched the horizon, checking once again. The scene was one of frenzied activity as the airlift from Culdrose swung into its stride. The Fleet Air Arm’s headquarters at Yeovilton had flung in every available aircraft to complete this risky operation as swiftly as possible. Thank God, it was a night evolution, though darkness made the task trickier for the helicopter crews.
Flying the flag of Force Q’s ASW Group Commander, Furious was one of Nato’s few and valuable CAHS and therefore vital to the protection of Atlantic sea lanes: she must be presumed a high value target for the enemy in this imminent Atlantic battle. Trevellion considered that, even if the less important store items had not been embarked, he must take Furious clear of the Western Approaches before dawn: all the evidence pointed to enemy submarines in the offing. Furious’ escorts, the Nato destroyers and frigates, were out there in the gathering darkness, patrolling to seaward to guard Mother. Trevellion pursed his lips — he knew what a frigate’s life was all about.
‘I’ll be in the admiral’s sea-cabin,’ he said, nodding at the senior watchkeeper.
He walked aft to his sea-cabin at the back of the bridge and whirred the razor over his face: he had to stoop for the mirror and was startled by the haggard face staring back at him. Semi-circles of tiredness sagged beneath his clear, grey eyes. And now, with weariness evident after the intensity of these weeks working up his ship, his gaunt face, with its hooked nose and protuberant cheek bones, was more drawn than ever: i was not surprising that the troops called him ‘Old Chough’ But the Cornish chough was a canny bird, and had a remarkable knack of survival. Trevellion was over six feet two and, having boxed and played rugger for the United Services in his youth, he sensed, when visiting the wardroom and messdecks, that his demeanour bred a certain respect.
He smoothed down his thinning, greying hair and crossed the flat towards the ASW
Group Commander’s cabin where Rear-Admiral Roderick Druce, AFC, was awaiting him. Rear-Admiral Boyd, Flag Officer Carriers and COMSTRIGRUTWO, was stuck somewhere in the Norwegian Sea.
‘Come in, Pascoe,’ the ebullient voice invited. The admiral swept his hand towards the other chair. ‘Gin? No, you don’t, do you?’
‘I could do with some squash, sir.’
Trevellion felt the moment of incredulity and faint embarrassment, but he had become used to the reaction over the years. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
Roderick Druce was a caricaturist’s dream: bushy, black eyebrows and a plump, double-chinned, jovial face, with dark brown eyes alive with humour. Trevellion liked this rollicking admiral whose enthusiasm infected men wherever he went.
‘I thought we could go through things, Pascoe, before we get under way: you’ll be needing sleep before the last of your Sea Kings is embarked.’ The steward, who had been hovering in the background, drew the curtain across the doorway.
‘About half an hour,’ Druce called to him. ‘The captain’s joining me for supper.’ He faced Trevellion and raised his glass. ‘Good hunting, Pascoe.’
Trevellion smiled. ‘Same to you, sir, and many of ‘em.’ But he felt the falseness of the traditional attitude before the blood and guts were spilled.
Unadulterated horror awaited them in those vast, heaving wastes across which the first convoys would be sailing within the next few hours.
‘D’ye hear the PM’S speech?’
‘No, sir. I was off the Smalls at the time.’
‘Very good, I thought. Put the choice simply and succinctly. Since Afghanistan, we have woken up to the reality of the Soviet threat and we won’t let them get away with their occupation of Northern Norway. The PM presented the Russian arguments which don’t bear scrutiny: they’ve made it plain that we can never win a long war in Europe, because we can’t reinforce our Nato armies. But to prevent these reinforcements from reaching Europe, the Russian Fleet will first have to win several sea battles in the Med, the Indian Ocean and of course the one that really counts.’ The Atlantic was an hour’s steaming from where Furious now gyrated.
Trevellion downed his drink in one gulp. The admiral pulled down the world map on the bulkhead.
‘There, the Med. I’ve just heard that the Turks have totally mined the Dardanelles and the Bosporus. They’re on a war footing and fighting fiercely, but it’s all too late. The Black Sea Fleet slipped weeks ago into the Eastern Med.’
‘Where’s the Yanks’ Sixth Fleet, sir?’
‘In the Western Basin, blocking the Straits where Flag Officer Gib’s minelayers are busy. The Soviet Mediterranean Fleet will have to fight its way out to reach the Atlantic.’
‘It’s after the Carrier Striking Force, sir.’
Druce nodded. ‘The Russians are hard pushed in the Gulf area. The American mobile force hasn’t been wasting time. As you know, their base at Berbera, which the Russians had conveniently built for them, is only 170 miles across the Red Sea from Aden; Djibouti, 140; and their Kenya base is only two days steaming from Socotra.’
‘The Russian base at Tamridah?’
‘A hot seat, I’d reckon, if I happened to be a Soviet commanding officer in that area. And Oman, with its American island base of Masiran still uncompleted, can watch the Strait of Hormuz as easily as the rock apes can goof across the Straits of Gibraltar. Hormuz isn’t much wider.’
‘Afghanistan was the biggest mistake the Russians ever made, sir.’
‘I’m not so sure but they were surprised at the speed which a nation they considered degenerate could unite to face the., challenge.’
‘Not so sure, sir?’
‘I think the Kremlin calculated the political effects of their invasion of Afghanistan down to the last detail. The threat to our Gulf oil has diverted considerable American naval effort from the Atlantic.’
In the silence, Trevellion could hear the background scream of jet engines and the flutter of rotors as the helicopters arrived and departed across the darkened flight deck, less than twenty yards outside.
‘The Kremlin reckoned that the crisis would evaporate with time,’ Trevellion said, ‘like Hungary and Czechoslovakia. But the Soviets have the Third World to contend with now — and India and Pakistan have a lot of Moslems too.’