For Reynolds, being shot at while ascending from a hostile area was something he was used to. If the Turks had opened fire, he would have advised his pilot of what to do, to minimise damage to the plane.
Hornsby shouted the order for him to bring up the undercarriage, then, as he brought the Shackleton to a steady cruising height, switched on the electrics to allow the valves for the two radars to warm up.
He recalled that on a real sortie, this would be the point at which the radar operator would be sent into the galley to fire up the hob for the first brew, while he waited for his screens to come alive.
Jack Rowse sat behind the pilot’s bulkhead, acting like a real flight engineer by giving Hornsby regular readings for all four engines, while Reynolds kept an eye on the fuel gauge and RPM counter.
Swan was still looking at things below, when he heard the ALISS teleprinter carry out a test print. When it had finished, he leaned over and ripped it off.
Hornsby turned to him.
‘Let me see that, Alex.’ Swan handed it to him and the RAF pilot checked that all the settings were correct.
‘That all looks fine to me.’
As he was speaking, the two radar screens burst into life.
‘Looks like the radars are also functioning okay,’ Swan informed him.
Hornsby asked Reynolds to take the controls of the Shackleton, while he took a look at the screens. The two monitors showed the outline of the coast with various dots scattered to the west. Swan assumed these were the ships of the task force and Hornsby confirmed they were. On one screen, there was little detail, just a web of circles with a few blips, whereas the passive radar screen showed a lot more, including positions and bearings.
Hornsby pointed to a small dot, which was situated to the right of the main cluster of ships.
‘Here’s our mystery sub. Notice the different signature reference from the surface contacts?’
Swan studied the blips on the screen.
‘So, what happens now?’
Hornsby looked through the plane’s windshield.
‘There’s the coast, and all those grey things in the sea are the task force. As soon as we get over them, ALISS will start to read the passive signal from the submarine, and we should have an ID shortly afterwards.’
Hornsby prepared his microphone.
‘Okay gents, I think we’d better make contact with one of those ships.’
Chapter 30
Fifty feet beneath the Mediterranean, Mike Murphy looked through the periscope at his prize. It was there for the taking, just a thousand yards away. On entering Cypriot waters, he had ordered silent running and the overhead lighting had been changed to red. He looked over at Crossman, who seemed to now share in his anxiety to hit the target.
His ‘Executive Officer’ had no idea the target was not an Albanian freighter. The radio transmissions coming from the task force were repetitive, but Murphy had given strict orders not to answer them, yet. He was biding his time. He would answer them, but only when it would be too late to prevent it; by that time, the torpedoes would be well on their way.
Crossman was suddenly suspicious. Why was Murphy choosing to ignore the transmissions? Surely he knew that to continue to do so would look as though they had a hostile intention? He thought of the weaponry that could be used against them if they failed to respond. These ships carried depth charges and torpedoes. Crossman was also aware of the detection equipment they would have, not to mention the anti-submarine helicopters, dropping sonobuoys.
He walked over to Murphy who was still viewing the scope. ‘Mike, I really think we should acknowledge these transmissions.’
Murphy pulled his obsessive eyes away from the viewer and stared angrily at him. ‘If we do that, we’ll give away our position and jeopardise the mission!’
Crossman slammed his hand on the plotting table. ‘Dammit Mike, if we don’t respond, they’ll start coming after us. With things the way they are right now on the island, the British could assume we are there to attack them.’
Murphy smiled. He saw Crossman was becoming anxious and knew he had to try and calm the situation, or he would be in trouble.
‘Relax, Will. The reason we are maintaining silence is so we can slip through undetected. Our target is north of here. All we’ve got to do is remain quiet and get ourselves out of the area.’
Crossman wasn’t convinced. ‘But any minute now they could decide we’re a possible threat and take action.’ Then, something suddenly occurred to him. Why had the British not been informed of this freighter? Surely, with the task force blockade, they would be in an ideal position to intercept it?
Murphy had his eyes in the attack scope, trying his best to ignore Crossman, who was now showing signs of doubt. The captain’s patience was wearing thin. What could he do to ease the mind of this man?
Taking his eyes from the scope, he looked around at the rest of his crew, noticing they all were starting to look confused as to why there was now tension between the two men. He resigned himself and addressed them.
‘Men, if we fail our mission, then those arms will be in the hands of the terrorists, and the blood they spill will also be on our hands. Now I say this. We could respond and bluff our way through, after all, we are supposed to be a Greek navy boat, and would be expected to be here. Or we maintain our silence and evade the British to get to our target. Now, who will go for the first option?’ He observed the unanimous show of hands and decided he had no choice. It was a response that he had not wanted.
With a look of dismay, he addressed them. ‘Okay, we respond.’ He turned to one of the men monitoring the radar. ‘Dimitri, looks like the time has come for your performance. Follow me to the radio room.’ He turned angrily to Crossman. ‘Will, you have the con.’
Crossman nodded, and watched as Murphy snaked his way towards the doorway, followed by the Greek-born American, who was to speak to the British radio operator still attempting to hail them.
On the surface, the destroyer sending the transmission steamed in line with the other ships. Inside the radio room, tension was mounting as the captain had now attended, and was sitting next to the operator.
He listened as the operator tried again. ‘Attention unidentified submarine. This is Her Majesty’s ship, HMS Amersham. We have you on our radar and sonar, and are tracking you. Please identify yourself, and your intentions — over.’
The concerned operator looked over at his captain. ‘This doesn’t look too good, sir.’
Commander James Waring was well aware the situation was not looking good. He would have to contact the flagship, to check procedure. If this submarine was hostile, then he had the means to counteract the threat. But before he could take the appropriate action, there were still certain protocols that needed to be followed. Even in this theatre of what was slowly establishing itself as war.
As far as he was concerned, the latest ceasefire was holding. However, he also knew, since his ship had been on station here, that other ceasefires had already been broken. He looked back at his operator, about to instruct him to contact the flagship, as they would have to get confirmation from admiralty headquarters at Northwood whether to engage with what had now become a target.
Suddenly, a garbled transmission came through the speaker. ‘Attention, Attention, this is zero-one-one-three, Hellenic navy ship Achilles. We are a Tench-class submarine. We have had some problems with our radio equipment, which we had to repair. We are en route for Crete. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. Do you acknowledge, Amersham? Over.’