Trevellion must be over-tired, for he had been at it non-stop for almost twenty-four hours — the snap judgements and decisions were always exhausting. He was sitting at his command display, his large frame hooped like a fish-hook over the glowing PPI, where the orange light was reflecting on his lined, grey fare. MrKown stiffened as Oileus came up loud and clear on the loop connecting all ships in the Force:
'The sub was quite brazen. Did you get a sniff of her?'
Jesse then chipped in, saying that she had held and confirmed the contact.
'Sonar contact 125°,' the sonar supervisor rapped suddenly. 'Twelve thousand yards from us.' McKown saw the backs stiffening at the displays, noted the Anti-Submarine Warfare Director (the buffer) pin-pointing the contact on the display for the benefit of the PWO (Underwater).
'Tell Perdix to stand-by,' Trevellion snapped. 'We may be needing her.'
This submarine contact was on an unexpected bearing — might even be a Russian deliberately making her presence known. No one knew why they did this, but the deliberate disclosure of their position was not uncommon.
'Turn towards,' the captain ordered. 'Stand-by STWS.' So the Old Man was going to launch his ship-borne torpedoes. Julian Farge had time to think about this contact, because the submarine was much nearer Jesse, and was not an immediate threat to the Force. One of Athabaskan's Sea Kings was dipping on that bearing, five miles to the eastward — she might be going active at any moment.
'Another contact,' the sonar supervisor was reporting.'… Cutting right… possible…' Seconds later: ' Contact compares with doppler. Good visual, moving left.'
'Give us your cut, then,' the buffer goaded impatiently from the ASW display.
'Tracker One cutting through… she's moving out.'
Alastair felt the tension mounting, as it always did when the quarry was confirmed. In the reality of war, either the submarine or Icarus would survive, depending upon who was fastest on the draw.
'Original bearing 105°. Original range 8,500.'
McKown glanced over his right shoulder to the STWS control panel and its switches, where the buffer was waiting.
'Good visual, good audio, PPI and doppler.'
'Good cut, PPI zero-nine-eight… eight-five. Doppler change two high…'
The drill continued until the buffer chipped in:
'What d'you reckon his course? Bearing's steady, isn't it?'
'Drawing slowly right — no cut, no paint… both displays.' McKown heard the sonar operator swearing. '… aah… no no cut, no paint. PPI no echoes. Wish she'd stop mucking about.'
'PPI investigating doppler,' the supervisor reported.
The captain said quietly to Julian Farge:
'We'll have a closer look. There's a fishing vessel between us and the submarine — could be its nets.'
McKown overheard the sonar supervisor muttering to himself as his eyes flickered between the sonar displays. ' That's no bloody fisherman's nets.'
'HE contact one-nine-zero…' the hydrophone effect operator drawled. ' Classified surface ship.' The supervisor raised his eyebrows and grinned.
'The fishing boat's about there,' the captain said. ' I go along with you. Check those co-ordinates.'
The officer of the watch, who was always listening in on the loop, called down from the bridge:
'HE contact one-zero-zero. Classified surface ship, sir.'
There was a short silence and then laughter. This was not the first time that the shadowing Russian AGI (spy ship) had been mistaken for a contact although she had been tailing them for over two days.
Icarus was well out on the south-easterly flank of STANAV-FORLANT which was widely dispersed against air and submarine attacks as it forged on towards Gibraltar. The ships would soon be clear of Cape St Vincent; at this speed, even though Goeben was declared damaged by the umpires, it would be some time before the lurking submarines could gain enough bearing, in order to carry out further attacks before reaching the Straits.
'There's a report coming in,' Julian Farge was telling the captain who had quit his chair to stretch his legs. 'Jesse's LAMPS has picked up a firm contact ten miles ahead of us, but well to the southward. Athabaskan's asking us to cover, sir. The LAMPS has a problem and is returning to mother.'
'Roger. Tell Boss we're replacing,' Trevellion snapped, as he replaced his earphones and mike. 'Fly Perdix off as quickly as you can, as soon as she's reloaded with torpedoes.'
'She's ready now, sir. Hob's just been in again. He and Rollo got some zeds in.'
Captain Trevellion nodded. He was listening to the reports coming in and by his expression, McKown knew something was up. The American LAMPS pilot was cutting in brusquely with Athabaskan: ' No doubt, sir. No doubt at all. Signature gives a nuke. Steaming fast, sir.' A position followed, timed 0347, with course and speed of the contact.
Trevellion nodded to the helicopter controller. ' Tell Perdix to carry out a radar visual search to the south of our sector,' he snapped.' Stand-by execute vectac.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Trevellion looked up, caught McKown's eye. 'Funny thing,' he remarked casually, ' none of our nukes are in the area.'
Bernard Towke relished his supplementary duties of flight deck officer: the responsibility of holding the lives of the pilot and observer in his hands and of safeguarding the handlers was stimulating after the grind of the ship's office. But he was beginning to feel weary: Perdix had been away on radar/visual searches most of the night.
Night flying was an exciting business, but the glamour tended to wear off in the early hours. The drill was so professional now that the flying off and recovery became routine… but Bernie realized what a nightmare his job would be with a less competent pilot. Hob was first class. He flew Perdix as if she was part of him, throwing her about like a shuttlecock.
Towke stamped his feet in the chill of the morning as Hob carried out his final checks on the Lynx. The handling party was scouring the flight deck for scraps of litter which could be sucked into the twin intakes of the engines. The handlers had taken off half the lashings, leaving the remainder and the harpoon to lock Perdix on to her grid. The refuelling was almost complete.
'Off tip socks.'
The handlers moved in the darkness like glow-worms, as they worked by the aid of their shoulder lights to remove the luminous protectors on the blade tips.
For Bernard Towke, hard-bitten by his experiences in the constricted arena of remittances, allotments and pay, there was a touch of drama about night-flying, a heightened excitement he would have found difficult to put into words.
Here, isolated at the end of the ship and connected to the command through only a telephone link, a team of individuals were totally involved in launching a lump of metal into the air; and, then, upon its safe recovery. In these moments, before the engines whined into life, he was overawed by the immensity of the heavens, by the impossible concept of infinity… the scurrying team was about to launch their vital machine a few hundred feet into the air — and for what objective?
It was to defend the exercise of their free will that Hob and Rollo were prepared to haul themselves into the sky at night in an unstable flying machine, to discourage those enemies who wished to destroy our freedom. 'Better red than dead' cut no ice in the navy, one of the three services whose function it was to ensure that the majority could at least make its choice without fear…