"Do we accept that it has been done, and act accordingly?"
"I — guess so," Clark replied.
"No," Copeland said softly.
"What action, Kenneth?" Pyott asked.
"Diplomatic, of course, through the Norwegians. And practical. What other vessels do we have in the area?"
"Not much — and far away. Maybe the closest is a day's sailing from the Tanafjord."
"I see. I wouldn't like to escalate NATO activity in the area, anyway, with the present Soviet concentration of vessels." He paused. "I shall instruct Eastoe to monitor and report continuously. It would seem that, at the moment, the Red Banner Fleet cannot find our elusive submarine. That situation may not exist for much longer. There is a rescue ship in the area — Eastoe must monitor its activities with particular care. Meanwhile, gentlemen, we must consider all possible scenarios for the prevention of the loss of the “Leopard” equipment to the Russians. Even at the expense of the Proteus herself."
Aubrey turned back to the communications console. It was a few seconds before his audience realised the implications of his statement and the uproar prevented him from completing his instructions to Eastoe and the Nimrod.
The sand dunes on the northern side of the airfield at Kinloss appeared momentarily through the lashing rain, and then vanished again. Tendrils of low cloud were pulled and dragged like bundles of worn grey cloth across the higher ground. Glimpses of hills and mountains were just discernible between the heavier squalls. Three RAF Nimrods gleamed in the rain, their nose sections shielded under protective covers, and the only colour in the scene was the brilliant red of a lone Hawk trainer. All four aircraft were lifeless, abandoned like exhibits in some open-air museum.
The controller watched, from the fuggy warmth of the control tower, a khaki-coloured crew bus returning across the concrete, its lights fuzzily globed by the rain, its whole appearance hunched, its roof shining like a snail's shell. Beyond it, two red anti-collision lights winked rhythmically, and a fourth Nimrod was just discernible. A fuel bowser edged cautiously away from it. Because of his headset, the scene had no sound for the controller, not even that of the incessant rain beating on the control tower roof and windows.
"Kinloss tower — Kestrel One-six requesting taxi clearance."
"Roger, Kestrel One-six. You're cleared to the holding point, runway Zero Eight."
Take-off conditions were bordering on the critical. A decision taken on the station would have resulted in the Nimrod's flight being cancelled. The controller disliked the interference of civilians with all the habitual ferocity of the long-serving officer. Eastoe was over the Barents Sea, waiting for his relief Nimrod. This crew were going to take off in distinctly risky conditions at the order of the same civilian, a little old man from the intelligence service. The controller had not been present at the crew's briefing, and the station commander had not seen fit to inform him either of Eastoe's mission or of the origin of their orders from Whitehall. That small resentment flickered through the controller's mind like one of the anti-collision lights out there in the murk.
If he kept quite still, he could line up the nearest Nimrod's fin with a joint in the concrete. He could see the shudders through the airframe as the wind buffeted it. Someone in a nice warm Whitehall office — ah, tea Miss Smithers, excellent, is it still raining outside? — giving easy orders with his mouth full of digestive biscuit and risking other people's lives —
The Nimrod Kestrel One-six was almost invisible now, tail-on to him, its winking red lights accompanied by white strobe lights. They alone announced its presence and movement.
"Kestrel One-six — Kinloss tower. You have your clearance."
"Affirmative."
"Roger. One-six. You are cleared for a left-hand turn out above five hundred feet."
The lighting board showed all the lights on the taxiway and the runway to be on. A telephone near him blinked its light, and the duty corporal picked it up, interrupting his making out of the movements slip. The controller lifted one headphone, and caught the information that Flying Officer Harris was sick and would not be reporting for the first shift the next day. He replaced the headphone.
"Kestrel One-six ready to line up."
"Kestrel One-six, you are cleared to line up, runway Zero Eight, for immediate take off. Wind zero-two-zero, gusting thirty-two."
"Roger, Kinloss tower. Kestrel One-six rolling."
The controller picked up his binoculars, and stared into the gloom. At first, there were only the pinpricks of the lights, then a slate-grey and white moving shape began sliding down the corridor of high-intensity lights, the shape resolving itself into the familiar outline of the Nimrod. He imagined the pilot's struggle to hold the aircraft steady against the fierce cross-wind.
The nose wheel began to lift from the runway. The four huge Spey engines began acting like hoses, blasting sheets of water up from the runway beneath them. Fog flickered across the wings as the change in pressure condensed the water vapour. The Nimrod began to disappear almost immediately.
"Kestrel One-six, I'm aborting."
"Roger —"
Too late, he thought, too late.
"I can't hold her — I'm off the left of the runway —"
The controller could see only one indication of the whereabouts and the danger of the Nimrod. The spray of water thrown up had changed colour, dyed with brown earth as the aircraft ploughed across the field alongside the runway.
"The port leg's giving way!"
"No."
Then there was a silence that seemed interminable, he and the corporal staring frozenly at one another, until he managed to clear his throat and speak.
"Kestrel One-six, do you read, Kestrel One-six."
No flame, no explosion, nothing. The corporal's finger touched the emergency button. He could hear the alarm through his headphones.
"Kestrel One-six —"
A bloom of orange through the rain and murk, like a distant bonfire or a beacon. The windows rattled with the explosion, which he heard dully. Irrelevantly, yet with intense hostility, he heard the voice he had earlier imagined. Sorry to hear that. Miss Smithers. All dead, I suppose. Is there any more tea?
It had been so easy, and so pointless. The dull orange glow enlarged and brightened.
Chapter Seven: FOUND
The helicopter dropped through the murk, and there were no longer rags of cloud and a sensation of unreality. The night was empty, blacker than the cloud and the wind squalled around the cramped cabin with a demented shrieking that Ardenyev simply could not accustom himself to accept or ignore. Only the momentary absence of the snow and sleet reduced the unnerving reality of the wind's strength and velocity, because he could no longer see the wind as a visible, flying whiteness against the dark.
Then he spotted the Karpaty, below and to port of them. Blazing with light like a North Sea oil platform, yet tiny and insubstantial, her lights revealing the pinprick flecks of wave-crests against the black sea. Beyond Karpaty, outlined like an incomplete puzzle-drawing by her navigation lights, was the bulk of the Kiev. Even at her greater distance, she seemed more secure, more a haven than the rescue ship.
The second MiL emerged beside them, dropping into view, an eggshell of faint light.