The Second Sea Lord, Vice-Admiral Peter Hawke, was thankful to reach the warmth of his office: it was difficult to feel cheerful on this dreary afternoon. After the ' clinical efficiency of Northwood, it was pleasant to return to the familiar friendliness of this ageing building. This backwater was the brain cell of the Services; and he, like most senior officers, had long ago learned its mysteries, become accustomed to its musty corridors with their fading aura of the pre-war days.
His PA Wren officer rose from her desk, as he peeled off his greatcoat. 'Captain Trevellion is due here at four o'clock, sir.'
He strode into his office: spacious and decorated traditionally with sombre dignity, mahogany furniture and dark blue leather chairs, a room he appreciated when he needed serenity. He slumped into his chair and stretched his legs before him, exhausted by the abortive Northwood meeting.
The First Sea Lord himself in the presence of the NATO ' top brass' had stressed the importance of the report which the Director General of Intelligence had presented so succinctly: the Soviet merchant vessel, Arcturus Star, had been detected carrying the most modem of mines: she could have laid them when and where she wanted in Rotterdam's approaches and thereby have closed Europe's northern port. Arcturus Star need not be the sole Russian ship to be so equipped… but the weight of the top military men could not budge Europe's politicians. The Staff's demand to search any Soviet ships using NATO ports was peremptorily refused — on no account must the Russians be irritated from detente. In Hawke's opinion, this policy of appeasement was a fundamental error when dealing with the Soviets. He would, if he had his way, annoy them to the utmost, on every possible occasion, to display to the world and to their own people the falsity and hypocrisy of their system. He would bung agents into Russia from every conceivable quarter, to stir up the malcontents in their own disintegrating empire. The USSR was no Union, nor had ever been; it was certainly not socialist, and to call itself a republic was an insult to that honourable system.
The Second Sea Lord sighed, rose slowly from his chair to stand, hands behind his back; the question of leadership was another problem which was exercising many minds at this moment. And because Vice-Admiral Peter Hawke was also Chief of Naval Personnel, his main responsibility concerned the selection, training and appointment of officers — not an easy job in these tempestuous days of social change. The eighties were very different from the thirties and forties when Hawke's generation had been trained; moulded in naval tradition and forged in the crucible of war they had learnt the real meaning of service under the leadership of men whose quality was almost tangible. Nowadays it had become fashionable to talk of ' management' but too often the jargon was a soft option to pander to the anti-elitism brigade, both in industry and in the Services. It was not surprising that some of today's young officers did not know where they were going, confused by both the insidious influence of a welfare state and disillusioned by insufficient firm guidance from their own senior officers — senior officers who were also influenced by the pressures of contemporary opinion. After these disquieting reports from his personnel team, Hawke had decided to send for Pascoe Trevellion, an impressive member of that committee…
His PA was tapping softly on the door:
'Captain Trevellion is here, sir.'
Hawke was not going to rush this meeting and encouraged Trevellion to relax in the arm chair in front of his desk.
'Well, Trevellion, what d'you make of your new appointment? Icarus will be a challenge after two years sitting on your backside at MoD.'
'Your Personnel Liaison Team prevented much harm to that part of my anatomy, sir.'
'It's a long time since you were my commander.'
'Seven years, sir. I'm looking forward to a small ship.'
'Tell me,' — and Hawke pressed together the tips of his outspread fingers — 'how are you going to run your frigate? I've read your recent report but I'd be interested in hearing your personal views on today's discipline.'
Peter Hawke settled himself back in his arm chair, the better to assess this unusual officer. Since those early days during his first carrier command he had watched Pascoe Trevellion; later, with the Personnel Liaison Team, Trevellion had been deceptively quiet and self-contained, needing to project no image — perhaps it was the tragedy of his private life which gave him inner strength. He had talked unfashionable common sense on the subject of discipline; although often in the minority he never balked at risking offence to his seniors if he was convinced he was right.
'Did you know your predecessor, Roger Nicolson?' he asked, breaking into Trevellion's views on discipline.
'A year senior — I never really knew him.'
'He's been overworking, so I've had to listen to the doctors. You're in luck to be taking over from him — right place, right time.'
'Glad to be getting to sea again, sir.'
The Second Sea Lord prided himself on his ability to judge character: he was pretty certain he had selected the right man here and could confidently commend him to the First Sea Lord. He met Trevellion's gaze, liked what he saw in those steady grey eyes, sunk deep in their sockets. His large nose was hooked and his face was lean and gaunt. His ears stuck out from the great head, the brown hair of which was beginning to thin across the top.
Pascoe Trevellion was a man you could trust, thought Hawke — as straight a chap as he had ever met. Perhaps it was his strict self-discipline that made him the man he was? He neither smoked nor drank, which made him different to the others. He had been an outstanding athlete, playing for the navy in most games.
Trevellion was a big man in both senses of the word: over six feet two, with long arms and huge hands, he moved like an amiable bear. He walked with a long, springing stride; and when talking to you, he kept his hands behind his back as he leaned forwards to hear better. Hawke could not remember which was Trevellion's bad ear, but he could certainly recall the battle he had fought on Trevellion's behalf to avoid an adverse medical decision on the officer's future.
Yes, an unusual man and, at forty-two, still in the zone for the rarified strata of promotion. He was a thinker, a quality which had mixed blessings. He was passionately fond of history and had written an outspoken paper to Their Lordships on their decision to discontinue the teaching of naval history at Greenwich. Trevellion's view was similar to the Second Sea Lord's: this decision cut at the roots of the navy.
Trevellion's face was lighting up with that genial grin of his.
'What's amusing you, Trevellion?'
'I was remembering the day you hit the lock gate in Antwerp, sir.'
'Best forgotten, I think…' Hawke chuckled. He had become incensed with their Belgian pilot, but his second in command had remained silent, evidently containing his mirth.
'Trevellion, you've done nearly two years in my Personal Liaison Team, so you know what I'm looking for when I talk of morale and discipline.'
'One's complementary to the other.'
'Who told you that?'
'You did, sir.'
The Second Sea Lord smiled as he leaned forward:
'You know, don't you, that Roger Nicolson has had a nervous breakdown? Strange, because he seemed relaxed — if anything, too casual…' He hesitated, then again glanced at Trevellion. ' I like a taut ship. See what you can do about it. I've not relieved her first lieutenant; he's holding the weight until he hands over to you.'
'Bermuda, sir?'
'Yes. I'm afraid you'll have no time to become used to the ship. Things are hotting up politically and there will be NATO exercises in the Atlantic almost as soon as you arrive. How quickly can you be ready to fly?'