The Master led off, listing the leading hands with whom he had talked. The others followed, in formal seniority, each summarizing his views on what was wrong in the navy. There was little interruption and much of the criticism was repetition, though couched in different terms. Only a quarter of an hour had elapsed when Trevellion opened the proceedings for general discussion. He sat back, determined to listen, to offer no excuses, make no defence.
It was a shock to listen to these men talking passionately about the Service which they had served for much of their lives. If they criticized, it was not to destroy, but to remedy and to improve — and they evidently realized what enormous difficulties their leaders had surmounted to build today's Fleet. Trevellion felt the prick of pride to have been selected to lead men such as these sitting at the table around him. They were the cream, the backbone of Britain; and the navy had fashioned them, the finest professional sailors in the world. But, if his instinct was right, why were they so unsure for its future? Why were they leaving in such disturbing numbers?
'We've moaned for a long time, sir,' the Master-at-Arms said, 'and I don't want you to think that there's too much wrong with the navy. There's still a lot right, good things like comradeship and runs ashore….'
'When you're not under the glare of the missus,' and they chuckled with the chief stoker.
In the silence that followed, Trevellion rose to his feet. ' I've listened to you, gentlemen,' he said. ' As it happens, I agree with most of what you've said. You've confirmed my personal opinions and I intend to do something about it. I shall be speaking to my' — he corrected himself — ' our officers tonight.'
'Excuse me, sir,' the Master said. 'D'you mean to change things?' His sandy eyebrows were arched, a couple of half-moons above his steely eyes.
'With your general approval,' the captain said. ' After all, we're still a democracy.' He smiled as he looked up, first at Number One and then at each member at the table.
'That's what we'd like, sir,' the Master-at-Arms said quietly. 'That's what we're looking for and we'll back you and your officers all the way, sir.' He pushed back his chair. ' We'll show 'em, sir, who's the crack ship in the fleet.'
'I'll have prayers on the flight deck tomorrow,' the captain said. ' I'll speak to everyone there — and over the broadcast system to those on watch.'
They stood back for him as he made for the door. For the first time since taking command of Icarus, he felt the warmth of loyalty, of comradeship, when they held open the door for him.
10
Captain Pascoe Trevellion had snatched an early breakfast because the ' war' of Exercise ' Clear Lane' was due to become hot at 1000. He realized that he would be on his feet for most of the time during the next ten days. Since clearing the Narrows in Bermuda, the Force was enjoying what was euphemistically termed a 'period of tension' when diplomatic relations between the enemy and NATO were assumed to be strained. At long last even the politicians had ceased to dress up the identification: in the exercise orders, the enemy was Russia — and it did everybody good to know that the hypocrisy was over.
For exercise 'Clear Lane' STANAVFORLANT had remained on White Alert for the last few days — but had come to Blue this morning at dawn: the radar contacts had been picked up during the night. As the visibility improved, the identification of two ships acting as Russian destroyers was confirmed by Jesse's LAMPS helicopter which had been sent up to shadow. First light proved the report right, though the exercise orders described them as different classes: Gloucester, one of our latest Type 425, represented a Kashin who was shadowing on the other side of the Force: and Phoebe, representing a Krivak, was tailing Icarus at half a mile. I suppose it could happen like this, Trevellion thought, but it seems too unreal. The MoD and NATO staffs had a difficult task planning these exercises years in advance. He strolled out to the wings to sniff the air, before the curtain went up.
The sea sparkled where the sunlight touched the breaking waves. The spume drifted upwards from Icarus' dipping bows, floated in rainbow arcs against the horizon, dissipated, then flung high again in ceaseless succession. The waves curled, breaking into white horses at the crests — a perfect day for a submarine at periscope depth: impossible to sight her sticks in this sea state, but the wind was not kicking up the sea too hard to prevent periscopes being picked up on radar.- To the northward Trevellion sighted the dim shape of Gloucester — the Krivak — who had been modified to carry two of the Mark in Sea Harriers.
Trevellion sucked in a draught of the sweet air, a welcome change to the potted stuff inside Icarus' citadel. His watch showed 0820 as he kept an eye on the Krivak following in Icarus' wake. But in reality what a contrast to a Krivak was Phoebe, that splendid frigate, neatly scything through the seas as she shadowed at four hundred yards. Her Exocets, with a range of twenty miles, did not compete with a Krivak's striking power, but were devastating against surface ships within range.
Phoebe was the crack ship of the force: she had put in more steaming time out here in the Atlantic than most. Hamish Carnegie had forged a good ship's company into a first-rate righting team: in Phoebe, his officers rolled up their sleeves and mucked in whenever the occasion demanded. Yet she was run with a firm discipline; Hamish, with his humour and light touch, had managed to strike a happy balance. She was a taut ship. Trevellion felt he could not go far wrong if he emulated Phoebe and Hamish Carnegie's example.
On Sunday, Trevellion had told his officers, '… no more Christian names; address ratings and officers by their rates and ranks; caps are to be worn on the upper deck at all times in harbour; have as few rules as possible, but enforce them rigidly; never turn a blind eye to drunkenness on board, which is a serious offence; uphold a high personal standard of behaviour and language; never admonish a senior rating in front of a junior; never discuss officers in front of ratings, nor among yourselves; and all officers are to set a dignified example of dress when ashore.' To the surprise of Icarus' officers the majority of ratings wished to go ashore in uniform. One of them had told the Master-at-Arms, 'Once we've left the service, most of us want to be identified with the navy; we wear lapel badges or even naval ties. So why can't we show it while we're still in? And the birds like the uniforms.'
The wardroom had been amazed, but had accepted the innovation cheerfully. It would be interesting to see how many other ships would follow suit. Trevellion decided to give this fresh disciplinary approach a three-month's trial.
Trevellion had been too long out here in the wings — Phoebe's bow was scything through the water, less than two cables off the port quarter: with her mythical potential, she was only too lethal for the less powerful Icarus, though not at this range — but Hamish Carnegie would never throw away a trick, so what was he up to?
Trevellion glanced at his watch: 0845… and Phoebe was heeling as she turned away and increased to full speed, her wash threshing white in the deep indigo of the ocean. Hamish was opening the range, as a real Krivak would do.…