The rear-admiral shook his head. "A one-time code. We would need all their computer cards, and then know which one."
"Very well. It was probably a recall signal. What of the aircraft?"
"A British Nimrod. It will be watching us."
"You see my point, Admiral? Once they understand what we are doing, they will attempt to intervene. There will be evidence, photographs, computer print-outs. It will all serve to complicate matters."
"Yes, sir."
"Temperature sensors, sonar, infra-red — all useless." Dolohov rubbed his chin, staring at the ceiling above his head. In a quiet voice, he said, "Likelihood. Likelihood. If there was some element of choice open to the British captain — eh?" He turned to the rear-admiral. "If he was able to decide, at least to some extent, his final location, where would it be? A ledge, a cleft, a depression? Feed into the computers every detail of every chart and every sounding we have of your fifty square miles. If necessary, we can send down divers — before Ardenyev's team are let loose. Or we can use submersibles with searchlights — " Dolohov was elated again. He controlled, he contributed, he conceived. "Yes, yes. We must be prepared." Then, seeing that the rear-admiral had not moved, he motioned him away. "Get on with it, get on with it!"
Twelve twenty-nine. Clark had joined him, together with Copeland, one of the less reluctant members of the "Chessboard Counter" team. He had requested a conversation with Eastoe, the pilot and captain of the Nimrod. The high-speed, frequency-agile transmissions would delay question and answer but not prevent it. When Eastoe spoke, his words would be recorded on the Nimrod, speeded up to a spitting blur of sound transmitted on frequencies that changed more than a hundred times a second, re-recorded in MoD, slowed and amplified for Aubrey. Then his words would take the same few seconds to reach Eastoe in comprehensible form.
"What's she doing now, Ethan?" he asked suddenly. "Proteus, I mean?"
"Getting the hell out, if her captain's got any sense," Clark replied gloomily.
"You really think they're on to her, don't you?" Copeland challenged Clark. Clark nodded, his face saturnine with experience, even prescience. "I can't believe that — " Copeland turned to Aubrey and added: "Nor should you, sir. “Leopard” is undetectable, and they'll have taken no action against her."
"Ah," Aubrey said. "Would they not?" Copeland shook his head vigorously. "I wish I shared your faith, young man."
The communications officer approached them. Transmission time, Mr Aubrey." He was punctiliously polite, but here was little respect. As if Aubrey had somehow, by some underhand trick, succeeded to the commodore's job and salary and pension..
"Thank you — we'll come over."
Aubrey ushered Clark and Copeland towards the communications console with its banks of switches and reels of tape. Almost as they arrived, a red light blinked on, and a tape began to whirl at near impossible speed. A spit of noise like static.
"The Nimrod's transmitting," Copeland explained offhandedly.
"Thank you."
The communications console operator typed on the bank of switches like a competent secretary. Another tape began to turn, slowly. After more than a minute-and-a-half it stopped and the operator rewound it. Aubrey was aware of the other people gathered behind him, much as men might have gathered around a radio for the cricket Scoreboard.
Eastoe's voice, a man Aubrey did not know. Nevertheless, informed of the ETNA order and aware of its significance, Eastoe addressed his words to Aubrey.
Call sign. Identification. Then: "We have concluded a square search of the area, dropping patterns of sonar buoys while surveying the area by means of infra-red and radar. There is a great deal of Soviet naval activity, surface and sub-surface — " Clark scribbled the co-ordinates, even though they were already being fed into the map's computer. "We have identified by sonar at least four hunter-killer submarines in the immediate area, and the VTOL carrier Kiev and the rescue ship ident is confirmed.
There are other surface units of the Northern Fleet engaged in what appear to be sonar searches of the area. Infra-red and radar is also being extensively and intensively used by all surface and sub-surface vessels — "
"They're looking for her," Clark remarked unnecessarily.
"We conclude an intensive search of a very small area of the seabed, especially inshore. Two Tupolev “Bear”-Cs function exactly similar to our own, are also on station in the immediate area. All units are aware of us, we conclude. Over."
Aubrey glanced around at Clark, then at Copeland.
"You can speak to Squadron Leader Eastoe now," Copeland informed him.
"I realise that, young man. I am merely considering my reply." Aubrey remarked frostily. He paused. The open channel hummed in the silence.
"Squadron Leader," he began without introduction, "you evidently have no trace of the Proteus. Is it your opinion, your considered opinion, that the submarine has received your message and is acting upon it? Over."
The fast tape whirled, and again there was the little asthmatic cough of sound. Then the humming silence again, into which Pyott's drawl dropped theatrically, startling Aubrey.
"Not quite as easy as you thought, Kenneth?"
Aubrey did not turn round. Pyott had entered the room without his noticing. Aubrey sensed a lofty acquiescence in his tone.
"Ah, Giles," he said, "I'm afraid things don't look awfully sunny, just at the moment." Aubrey's own voice was similarly affected, announcing the draw, the honourable compromise. Pyott pushed past Clark and arrived at his shoulder.
"Have they got her?" he asked. Genuine guilt, concern.
"We don't know. I" ve asked the captain of the Nimrod to make a guess."
Tape whirl, then the slow tape, then Eastoe's unemotional voice.
"My guess is she's on the bottom, not moving." A pause, then, as Eastoe realised that Aubrey could not comment immediately, he continued: The submarines and surface ships are concentrating in a very, very small area. Either they" ve lost contact altogether, or they have a pretty good idea where they'll find her. Over."
Immediately, Aubrey said, "In your estimation, is the Proteus damaged?"
"You're not serious, Kenneth?" Pyott asked while they waited for Eastoe's reply.
Aubrey looked at him. "The possibility has to be considered. If they are searching a very small area, it may be because they suspect, even know, she can't move out of that area."
"God," Pyott breathed, and his face was slack and grey, much older. His mouth was slightly open, and he looked very unintelligent.
"I don't think we could raise Him on this set," Clark observed, having overheard Pyott's admission of negligence, culpability. Pyott glanced at the American malevolently. Clark raised his hands, palms outwards. "OK, I'm not crowing, Pyott." Giles Pyott nodded.
Then Eastoe's voice, as naturally, it seemed, as if he was in the room with them. "It's possible, sir." Aubrey's astuteness had won Eastoe's respect, at least for the moment. The search appears to be concentrated well inshore, but it isn't being extended outside a certain radius. They're refining the search all the time, they're not widening it. I think she's in there somewhere. Over."
Aubrey looked at Clark. "Could they have damaged her, Ethan?"
"It's possible."
"How?"
Clark considered the problem. "Wire-guided torpedo, maybe. If they got a temperature trace —" Hidden fear now made itself apparent on his face. "Wake-homing — yes." He shook his head. Copeland's face was lengthened with realisation, complicity in fear. Clark cleared his throat. "If they got some kind of heat trace, and then used a wake-homing torpedo, maybe with a proximity fuse, then the torpedo would follow the Proteus's wake like a hound. Yes, it could be done."