Frigate

'Patrol depth,' he ordered.' Trail the CSS.'

Those active transmissions must have been from one of STANAVFORLANT'S frigates, away to the north-west… but that was from the wrong bearing… what went on? They must have emanated from a frigate, for why else was the Nimrod vectoring the swine? LRMPS did not' dunk' and there were no Sea Kings within range: the helicopter carrier was a hundred miles to the north-west. Could the transmissions originate from a detached frigate belonging to STANAVFORLANT…?

'Let's have a look at the identification tables, pilot,' he said, holding out his hand. 'Look up NATO'S STANAVFORLANT escorts.' While waiting for the identification, he felt the boat levelling neatly.

'Eighty metres, sir.' It was a relief to have the first lieutenant on the trimming during action stations.

'Very good. Maintain patrol depth.'

Boris Zragevski tried to control his impatience… he'd wait on the ess report before going on up for a quick look. The weapons officer was on the line:

'Category 2 acquisition from ess, sir: audio and air pulse vibration anomalies, strength three. Bearing zero-one-zero.'

Damn… Zragevski hesitated, unsure of his next move. He loathed uncertainty, liked knowing where he was going…

'Stream CSS to six kilometres,' he snapped. ' Periscope depth, First Lieutenant.' He rubbed his hands together, flexing his fingers, itching to get at the periscope handles. He would not risk giving away his position by using his radar. A quick, visual look, nothing more… conditions ought to be good up top, as good as could be expected at this time of the year — even the dim twilight faded by 1330 on these winter days.

'Thirty metres, sir.'

'Up periscope.' The steel tube hissed as it slid upwards. He fitted his squat body into the seat, snapped open the handles, squinted through the eyepieces while waiting for the break-surface.

'Twenty-five, sir. Periscope depth.'

He twitched his thumb. The operator settled the stick, the water splashed against the periscope prism; the smear vanished and suddenly he could see….

He caught his breath, surprised by the brightness of the flaring lights to the north: the aurora borealis was certainly putting on its best performance tonight — orange, violet and blue, carmine and deep, pulsing greens — the polar horizon was exploding in a panoply of light… He slapped the handles shut. The stick slid downwards. He'd give it thirty seconds before the next look. His watch showed 1216 and twenty seconds….

'Up periscope.' The periscope engineer was used to his kapitan and they made a good team: most importantly, the petty officer had learned to read his master's mind.

Zragevski stopped abruptly in the middle of his all-round sweep. Above the glistening horizon, silhouetted against the kaleidoscope was the unmistakable outline of a helicopter — ugly and ungainly, it was hovering at no more than twenty metres above the sea. Zragevski felt the kick in his guts: he detested helos and particularly these latest Lynxs of the enemy's. The British certainly knew how to operate them, how to exploit their capabilities as an integral of a destroyer's armoury. He snapped shut the handles. The tube slid beneath the surface.

'Anything on CSS? Radio or radar modes?'

'Negative, sir — audio, thermal and APV only.'

'Emergency change of depth, Number One. 270 metres. Don't speed up.'

The high-pitched alarm warbled through the boat; the watertight doors slammed. 329 lifted her tail as the internal trimming took charge. At 1220, she started to level off, Number One having her neatly under control.

'260… 275 metres, sir.'

Boris Zragevski had made up his mind. He nodded acknowledgement, then ordered:

'Course 220°. Full ahead three.' He swung round on the commissar who was watching points close behind him.

'It's all right, Dmitri,' he laughed. 'A quick dash'll get us out of this — and we'll catch the frigate bending.' But Number One wasn't smiling as the kapitan added:

'Remain at action stations, Number One; you can open up watertight doors.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'And plot?'

'Sir?'

'Let me know when fifteen minutes are up.'

'Aye, aye, sir… Fifteen minutes at thirty-four knots.'

The kapitan glanced at the control room deck. When he slowed down at 1234 he would know finally whether he was in real trouble or not. He kept the information to himself: at least, he now had the authority to remedy the situation by force. The duel was developing into a personal conflict, a cat-and-mouse game between an unknown enemy frigate commander and himself. This could develop into a decisive fight in the depths of the sea, secretly, silently, without anyone the wiser. He strolled to his cabin to reflect for a few moments. The hum of the turbines, driven by superheated steam generated by the reactors bubbling a few yards from his feet, was a perpetual background to his thinking.…

The ship would be safe for a few more minutes in the hands of the first lieutenant. Number One was competent and would make a sound submarine CO. When this hunt was over Zragevski would settle down to his paperwork and recommend his second-in-command for the CO's qualifying course.

The pilot of the Lynx, Icarus Flight, preferred to remain in manual while laying the ASRBS: in spite of the AFCS (Automatic Flight Control System) there was a lot to be said for keeping positive control in his own hands: the flecked surface the sea swirling two hundred feet beneath the cab seemed close enough in this half-light.

'Ten degrees to starboard,' Rollo commanded. 'Steady… hold it, Hob.'

And so it went on, Rollo working feverishly while he bent over his PPI and plot. For the first time Hob felt the excitement of this chase, a hot one this time, and for real, not a dreary exercise with one of our own ping-running submarines.

Icarus' ops room team were good now. The HCO had vectored them smack on. Now it was just a case of tailing that invisible monster cracking along at thirty-three plus knots down in the deeps, course two-two-five…. The captain had just authorized the use of Sea Spray, the best radar Hob had used for years: sensitive, and with good presentation, it picked up seagulls and floating beer cans. Just as well, because this Force 4 and its white horses certainly favoured the submarine.

'HCO — Perdix: stand by first ASRB pattern. Over.'

Rollo nodded. He needed a few minutes' warning: he was flat out even though Hob had taken over the search radar. The ASRBS were ready but still needed dropping and, in addition to this, the fish must be checked for action — just in case. If things became hot, the Mark 465 only needed to be dropped, their homing heads would do the rest. Icarus would tell Rollo when to drop. After all these years, it seemed too fantastic — how could this awful game of Russian roulette, with eternity the stakes and not merely the destruction of one of the two protagonists, really happen?

At 1235 the HCO cut in:

'Bogey's HE decreasing. Execute vectac. Stand-by first drop. Steer two-three-oh, over.'

'Roger.'

Hob was concentrating on his course, his eyes jerking between the compass and radar.

'Heading two-three-oh.' He was flying at a hundred feet now. The speed was good and Rollo had moved aft alongside the 196 ASRB.

'Left ten… steady,' the HCO ordered. 'Stand-by to drop.' Hob glanced over his shoulder. Rollo was crouched over the chute, waiting.

'Drop — drop — drop!' came the tense voice of the HCO.

'One gone!'

Hob held Perdix level then, when they saw the buoy bobbing in the water, brought her slowly back for Rollo to lay the remainder of the pattern. The sub. must be within range of the ASRB now — the active transmissions could be receiving Rollo's attention at any second.