Frigate

'This is Hotel Uniform. Roger… wait one.'

Julian Farge was frantically tracing the data on his underwater display. The picture was beginning to make sense: precise range remained the problem….

'Tell the observer and pilot of Perdix to stand-by by a vectac,' the captain ordered. 'Report as soon as they're armed and ready.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Trevellion was strained to a tension he had not felt for a long time. This encounter was for reaclass="underline" an enemy submarine was ahead of him there, also waiting to judge what category of adversary was facing him.

'Twenty-two knots,' he ordered. In these winter conditions, the sonar was still effective at this, his maximum operational speed.

'Looks like a nuke, sir,' Farge reported. ' Bravo One confirms Victor ii signature.'

'What time are you using as datum?'

'Now, sir, 1144. Bravo One's getting out a track and speed at any moment.'

'Right.' He looked round, caught the first lieutenant's eye. Jewkes was standing unnoticed in the corner, watching developments — probably wanting to know what to do about dinner.…

'Go to Action Stations, Number One, just in case.'

'Action Stations…? Aye, aye, sir.' Jewkes hurried from the ops room and half a minute later the pipe was being made. Trevellion heard feet pounding down the passageways, felt the bulkhead doors banging shut. He was taking no chances, though we were officially still at peace….

At 1153 the Nimrod came through again:

'This is Bravo One — Hotel Uniform,' the unconcerned voice was a caricature of one of those old war films — the classical, imperturbable, moustachioed pilot officer…

'Sorry to desert you fish-heads, but we'll have to leave you. I'm approaching my limits: they'll take a dim view if I have to ditch this kite because we've run out of gas. Over.'

Pascoe replied into the common link. ' How long can you stick around?'

'Another ten minutes — I couldn't find another chum,' the pilot went on. ' We're a bit pushed at the moment. Over.'

'Thank you, Bravo One. Can you give me an estimated range of the contact?'

These RAF boys must be out on their hunkers: they were flying around the clock, desperately short-handed, pushed to the limit with no aircraft in reserve against the overwhelming numbers of the enemy. These Nimrods, upon whom these first days of the Second Battle of the Atlantic depended, were helpless if they ran into trouble in these latitudes: they must be priority targets for the Backfires. What use was an inflatable raft in this sea, in this cold? Better to disintegrate from a missile hit than to snuff it through exposure. The pilot was chipping in perkily again:

'Hotel Uniform, you are now 225° from point zero, timed 1134. Bogey's been steering one-four-zero, speed five… wait one.' The voice cut in, alert now: ' She's going deep.'

'Thanks again, Bravo One,' Trevellion said. ' We're going to miss you.'

'Finish the good work, Hotel Uniform. We claim half the bonus.' He was just rounding off when his voice sharpened:

'Bogey's speeding up, altering to starboard. I'll hold on another few minutes.' There was a long wait, the tension in the ops room broken only by the murmur from the sonar room.

'Bloody good-o…!' The pilot's voice came over excitedly. ' She's doing thirty-three knots plus — really, she is. Thirty-three plus and her heading is 210°. Range to you now thirty-six miles. Time 1203. Hotel Uniform: must go now. Over.' A guest leaving after dinner could not have been more polite.

'Roger,' the captain replied. ' We have the plot. Good luck and safe return. Out.'

Trevellion jerked towards the helicopter controller who was crouched over his HCO'S display.

'Fly off the Lynx,' he rapped. 'Vectak. How many minutes flying time to datum?'

'Sixteen minutes, sir, if the bogey maintains her speed.'

Trevellion snapped into the command intercom:

'Officer of the Watch, turn into the wind. Double up the lookouts. Even in this bloody vis. we might get a visual of her periscopes.'

Hob and Rollo had been itching to become airborne for the interminable half-hours which had crawled around the ops room clock. Now, with take-off drill nearing completion, Hob felt elated. The flight deck officer's batons were sweeping into the air… all set: he swivelled Perdix on her wheels, gave her full boost, retracted the harpoon. Lifting her, his heart sang… they were away, climbing to port and watching their ship merging into the black sea, invisible when she was darkened. The flight deck lights, dimmed blue and eerie, flicked out — Perdix was on her own, airborne: time 1205.

'Heading zero-two-five,' Rollo ordered coolly through the intercom. He spoke so quietly that sometimes he was difficult to hear: the next minutes promised to be busy, so there must be no slip-ups through bad communication drill.

'Heading oh-two-five,' Hob sang out. 'Four hundred feet, speed one-three-oh.'

'Roger.' Rollo, a man of few words, was talkative tonight. ' I'll give you a stand-by. Fifteen minutes on this heading. We'll try our luck with the MAD bird first — the Nimrod seemed pretty positive.'

The HCO came in loud and clear from Icarus' ops room. The vectac was going to plan: they had exercised it so often. ' You should be over her in two minutes,' his voice cut in. ' I still have no range — passive only.'

Rollo was tapping the glass of his watch. Hob glanced at the time: unbelievable that they had been in the air fifteen minutes. Only another ten before they ought to be landing again because of the MoD safety restriction.

'Two hundred feet,' Rollo ordered. 'Carry out MAD patterns. I'm lowering the MAD bird.'

Hob brought Perdix down gently, eased to cruise speed. Rollo needed a chance with his magic box. Hob brought her across the mean line, nodded when he was at the ordered height — the MAD bird would be fifty feet above the sea now.

'Bring her round to port: two-two-three.'

Hob repeated the heading, swung Perdix round. It was always reassuring to know that the HCO was overhearing their procedures.

'Possibly MAD contact,' Rollo shouted suddenly. 'Heading one-eight-oh to port.'

'Heading two-two-three,' responded Hob, 'altering to one-eight-oh.' He was astonished at the swift contact.

A stickler for detail was Rollo. Hob felt the Lynx dip as she assumed her tail-up attitude. : he'd take her along steadily at cruise speed, give the MAD bird another chance. Slowly did it, patience, the methodical approach… the sea was very close under him, the flecks of white horses scarring the gleaming surface. Periscopes would be impossible to spot in these conditions.

Then Rollo was shouting, in his excitement forgetting the racket he was making through the headset.

'MAD confirmation!' he yelled. Seconds later, after adjusting his receivers, he passed Hob the heading.

'Two-one-nine,' he ordered.' One more run, Hob.' Then he was reporting the contact back to mother: ' Bravo One's contact confirmed,' he said, his voice rising.

'Am localizing with ASRBS. Will amplify. Time 1218. Over.' 'Roger,' the HCO replied calmly. 'Come to first degree of readiness.'

At 1213, the kapitan of the Red Banner nuclear fleet submarine, SSN 329 reduced her speed to slow two. Remaining at 270 metres, he waited for her way to come off before ordering an all-round passive sonar sweep.

'No hydrophone effect; no active,' the chief sonar operator reported.' All round sweep completed, Kapitan.'

At least the active pinging from somewhere to the south-west had ceased — those sinister transmissions emitting from nowhere, suddenly blasting against the pressure hull, swamping them with sound waves — was always unnerving, down at these depths. But he had better play safe.