Then, in the afternoon, Peter Hawke had attended a briefing given by the Director-General of Intelligence personally. His exposition spread universal gloom, a gloom spiced with a certain quickening of the adrenalin. Hawke extracted from his pocket the jottings he had made.
First, the overall American sitrep, based on their latest SOSUS reports: the trickle of Russian submarines through the northern gaps had grown to a deluge, many mere outward than inward bound.
Then the RAF'S Nimrods: particularly significant had been Nimrod Tango's report, from the Greenland Gap. These LRMP (Long Range Maritime Patrol) aircraft had the best long range surveillance: without the initial LRMP detection of Soviet submarines, our ASW frigates, even with their Lynxes, could not get out there in time to foil a determined Soviet submarine. But there were far too few Nimrods in the air — and if things went hot, they would be hurled into the air battle off our coasts; the RAF would have no choice with the ludicrous numbers of aircraft at its disposal. Nimrod Tango, using her radar, sonar and MAD (Magnetic Anomaly Detector) had tracked no less than three nuclears.
The third bit of news was that our Fleet Submarine, HMS Safari, shadowing a Delta II, had stalked the enemy for over eighteen hours until ordered to break off and to resume her billet.
Perhaps the most worrying incident had been the fourth on the agenda: the British master of one of our vices, Celtic Warrior, early this morning had identified a Russian cruiser as Azov, one of the latest Karas. The master's telex had, between its lines, told a remarkable story:
Celtic Warrior, fully laden with crude for Milford Haven, was clearing the southerly end of the Mozambique Channel when she was ordered to heave-to by the Russian cruiser. Captain Morgan had no option. Under the shadow of her guns, Azov had brazenly sent a boarding party across in her pinnace and demanded to see the ship's papers. Explaining away his contravention of international law, the Russian stated his suspicion that the oil was intended for South Africa, contrary to the sanctions imposed by the United Nations. Celtic Warrior was ordered to follow the Russian cruiser into Lourenco Marques. Evidently feigning acquiescence, Captain Morgan had pushed out an immediate Mayday which had alerted the us Fleet units to the north. As soon as the Russian boarding party jumped back into its pinnace, Captain Morgan had put his wheel hard over and telegraphs to full ahead. To avoid collision, Azov had been forced to get out of the way. Celtic Warrior had removed a touch of Russian paint in a glancing blow aft, as the tanker churned ahead. The British master, refusing to be bullied, had won the day. Azov shadowed for an hour, then broke off…, What Captain Morgan did not know was that only five days ago the Russian fishing fleet off Cape Province had been so exasperating the South Africans that a South African Fast Attack Craft had arrested a Soviet trawler and escorted her into Simonstown. The Celtic Warrior incident had underlined the Russian's point: the oil route to Europe was very vulnerable.
Another incident in this potentially explosive area was a recent brawl between American sailors from the Ike, on a courtesy visit to Mombasa, and a posse of Russian Merchant sailors in a bar on the waterfront. The incident was losing nothing in the telling over the radio nets of African states. It was all the more embarrassing because the Soviet matelots' behaviour was undoubtedly more inhibited than the traditional, happy-go-lucky attitude of the doughboys.
Hawke studied the sitrep: the enemy was winning without firing a shot. And nearer home, the tension was mounting — the Kremlin was certainly pushing it at the moment, the first real aggression since Brezhnev had departed from the scene. A lone Soviet ship, always hove-to on the edge of the limits off Shetland, had been replaced by a standing patrol of anti-submarine ships. They flaunted their presence, perhaps to advertise their deep-sea trawlers off the Brent field who, with their bottom trawls and gear, could clobber our oil line from the rigs to Sollom Voe or destroy it with divers, if they chose.
The telephone on his desk trilled.
'ANCS here, sir. VCNS has asked me to get through direct: he's just been called by the Chief, sir. "Clear Lane" has been cancelled.'
'What's happening to the Force?'
'Dispersing, sir. STANAVFORLANT is ordered back to its operational area; Icarus was detached earlier because she's due for Christmas leave on the twenty-third. Glorious and her group are rejoining EASTLANT, sir.'
'Thanks, Brian.'
Hawke replaced the phone. A numbness spread across his lower abdomen: the pain materialized more often these days, now the pressure was on.
13
Geordie Baines, Senior Security Officer, slammed shut the inside rear door of the blue Princess, then jumped into the seat beside the Wren driver.
'Step on it, Sue,' he muttered. 'We're running late.' He slipped into his safety belt, then half-turned to keep one eye on his charge who was sitting in silence on the inside back seat. Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Anthony Layde, GCB, MVO, was strangely quiet this morning. He usually had a word for Geordie Baines and his Wren driver. Sue glanced at Geordie in surprise: the clandestine meeting at Number Ten and the departure from the rear entrance pointed to unusual goings on — exasperating, with only three days before Christmas and this the last Saturday.
Sir Anthony became First Sea Lord at the right moment. He was a communications man, Geordie knew that. It was rumoured that the considerable effort devoted to jamming and electronic warfare was due largely to Layde's influence and drive… that secret world, a sinister twilight domain where espionage and security forces clashed ruthlessly across their frontiers; amorphous, undefined frontiers of spy and counterspy. Geordie Baines half-lived in this secret world; he was told no more than he needed to know in order to guard his protege's — and he pressed with the palm of his hand the reassuring bulge of the Smith and Wesson beneath his armpit. The nation's serenity depended on the protection of the First Sea Lord against an IRA or other murderer's bullet. Sue was glancing at her route plan, slipping the Princess down to third, as she swung the car through the gates of NATO'S and Fleet's headquarters, the First Sea Lord unsmiling as he returned the sentries' salutes. The Princess glided to a standstill. Baines jumped out, opened his passenger's door. The swifter he propelled the Old Man down through the steel door and into the underground bunker, the sooner he'd breathe a sigh of relief.
Sir Anthony's cup of coffee awaited him, his naval assistant hovering in the background. In the dim lighting, the First Sea Lord recognized the familiar figures as they rose to him while he found his way to his desk. From this operations room deep underground, the Defence Chiefs could be in touch within seconds with any unit around the world.
He nodded to Hawke and Andrew Kemp; the First Sea Lord felt a twinge of satisfaction: he had picked a good 'un when selecting the new Controller, ' Please carry on,' he said quietly. ' We've a lot on our slop chit this morning, gentlemen.'
The emergency meeting began, the staff captain standing by the projector as he presented the briefing. Sir Anthony's heart sank, as the chap methodically went over the dismal catalogue of the week: Celtic Warrior; the exodus of the Russian nukes from the Med; the movements in the Baltic and Kola. The voice droned on in the semi-darkness….
The First Sea Lord realized once again how much easier was his task because of the far-sightedness of his predecessors. But he needed time, a few, vital years for bringing to fruition the plans they had fought for so long, supported by so little. The grit of those misunderstood admirals of the seventies, officers who had to persevere against an impossible economic and political climate had ensured continuity, disproved the theory that the Royal Navy was merely a legend. But the race was touch-and-go, much as it must have been after Munich in 1938. He and his friends in the other Services knew how narrow was the margin for survival… and Sir Anthony sighed to himself. Britain's survival depended upon retaining control of the Atlantic and the North Sea. With one ear he picked up the thread of the briefing which had still not reached last Tuesday….