It couldn't last long. Lloyd felt weary, and depressed. It was hard to believe that the Nimrod had heard them, knew where they were and what had happened. No one knew. No one at all.
The decoded message from the Proteus unrolled on the screen of the Nimrod's display unit with the kind of stutter given to the pages of a book when they are riffled quickly. Squadron Leader Eastoe bent over the shoulder of his communications officer, and sensed the man's shoulder adopt the quiver of excitement that was evident in his own body. Like an audience of two. they were experiencing the same emotions, the gamut of surprise, shock, satisfaction, hope, and anxiety that the words had little apparent power to evoke.
When the message began repeating on the screen, Eastoe straightened and rubbed his cheeks with his hands. He yawned, surprising himself, then realised it was a ploy of the mind to gain time; time for consideration. Proteus on the seabed, position unknown, immobilised by a reduced warhead torpedo, surrounded by Russian vessels, surface and sub-surface. It did not bear consideration.
"Inform MoD immediately — Flash, code of the day. Poor sods."
"Skipper — " A voice behind him, the Nav/Attack officer in his niche in the fuselage of the Nimrod.
Eastoe crossed to him. Beyond the man's head the porthole-type window revealed the late slow grey dawn beginning outside; only at their altitude, and above the cloud cover. Below them, the Kiev and other surface vessels would be moving through darkness still, and beneath them Proteus lay in the permanent darkness of the seabed, where hunter-killers attempted to sniff her out.
"What is it, Bob?"
"Something's happening down there, on the rescue ship."
"You mean in connection with last night's little party?"
""Karpaty is changing course, moving closer to the Kiev."
"I wonder why. You think one of those two choppers crashed on landing, mm?"
"Yes, skipper, surface wind would have made a landing very dicey. There was that quick infra-red reading, and I'm almost sure only one chopper eventually moved off in the direction of the carrier."
"Then what did they deliver, or try to deliver, to the rescue ship?" Eastoe considered, staring out of the tiny window, down at the roof of the cloud cover, lightening in its greyness, but thick and solid as the roof of a forest. Eastoe felt a detachment he did not enjoy, and which somehow interfered with his thinking. Being on-station, just watching, for so many hours had deadened the reality of what they could only see by means of radar and sonar and infra-red. Detachment; making thought and decision unimportant, without urgency. "Some sort of team? Experts? People important enough to be ferried out in this weather, anyway. Now you think they're going to transfer to the rescue ship?"
"I do."
"Okay, Bob, I'll tell Aubrey. Leave it up to him. We'll be off duty in a couple of hours, anyway. Someone else's problem, then."
Eastoe went forward again, into the cockpit of the Nimrod.
"Anything, skipper?"
"Signal from Proteus," Eastoe replied glumly.
"Bad?"
"She's been hit, Terry."
"Christ — they're all right?"
"At the moment. But she can't move."
"He was taking a chance, sending up a buoy."
"Wouldn't you want someone to know?" Eastoe paused. "Now who the hell was in those two Russian choppers, and why do they need to get aboard the Karpaty so desperately?"
"Skipper —?"
"Doesn't matter. It's Aubrey's problem, not ours." Eastoe got out of his seat again. "Call up Bardufoss — tell them we're off-watch in an hour, and we'll need to refuel. Meanwhile, I'll tell Mr Aubrey straight away. He might need time to think."
"You saw what happened last night, Captain Ardenyev. I can't guarantee any greater degree of success this morning." The captain of the carrier Kiev studied his hands, folded together on the table in his cabin. To Ardenyev he appeared carved, unyielding, even unsympathetic. Yet he was right. A helicopter transfer to the Karpaty could not be risked. He even wondered whether his team, Red Section, would board another helicopter. When they reached the Karpaty by whatever means, Ardenyev was uncertain of their reaction. The scorched plates, the damaged, twisted rail — he'd seen them through binoculars from the bridge as the grey, pallid light filtered through the heavy cloud — would be too potent, too evident a reminder of their mates, their rivals.
Then it will have to be by launch, sir."
The captain of the carrier looked up. "I'm not unsympathetic, Captain. I am as concerned for the success of this operation as you are. Which is why I must minimise the risks with regard to your — depleted forces."
Dolohov had signalled the carrier during the night, when he had been informed of the MiL's crash and the loss of Blue Section. His message had been terse, steely, anxious. It had not been humane. He had asked, principally, whether the mission could now be completed. He had not expected a reply in the negative, and Ardenyev had not given him such an answer. Instead, he had assured the admiral that the Proteus could still be boarded by Red Section working alone, as soon as they found her.
For Ardenyev, it seemed the only answer he could give, the only possible outcome of his mission. His team wasn't ready, perhaps it never would be. He could only attempt to purge them of fear and shock and grief through action. Desperation might prove effective.
"I understand, sir. I'll assemble my men on the boat deck immediately."
"Very good, Captain. And good luck."
"Sir."
Ten minutes later, Ardenyev was forced to admit that Teplov had done his best with them, and the older men — Shadrin, Petrov and Nikitin — would do, but the two younger members of the team, Vanilov and Kuzin, were unnaturally pale; cold so that they shivered beneath their immersion suits. It was really their mates who had died, all the younger ones. They seemed hunched and aged, standing amid the others in the companion-way to the aft starboard boatdeck. The movement of the carrier in the waves, slow and sliding and almost rhythmical, seemed to unsettle them even though they were experienced sailors.
"Very well," Ardenyev said, "as soon as we" ve transferred to Karpaty, I'll want a very thorough equipment check. It could take hours, I'll want it done in one. If a signal is picked up from that sub again, we'll be going straight down to her. Okay?"
He scrutinised them in turn, not especially selecting the two younger men, but with his eyes upon each face until there was a nod of acquiescence. In one or two gestures, there seemed almost to be a quiet enthusiasm. Not from Vanilov or Kuzin, perhaps, but from Teplov and Shadrin certainly. It would have to do.
He turned to the watertight door, and swung the handle. The wind seemed to howl through the slight gap he had opened. He pushed against a resistance as heavy as a human body, and they were assailed by flying spray. They were below the flight deck, on a narrow, railed ledge on the starboard side of the carrier where two of the ship's four big launches were positioned on their davits. A sailor waved them forward, towards the launch allocated to them and which had been manned in readiness. White-faced, white-handed sailors fussed around the davits, ready to swing the launch out over the water and lower it into the waves.
"Come on, come on," Ardenyev said, hurrying them aboard, clapping each of them on the shoulder as they passed him, climbing the ladder into the launch. Ardenyev followed them, then leapt down again on to the boatdeck as one sailor lost his footing as the deck pitched. He grabbed the man's arm and hoisted him to his feet. He grinned at the sailor, who nodded his thanks. Ardenyev understood how everything except the activities of the moment had gone a long distance from him, and prayed that their mission would begin soon and would have the same numbing, enclosing effect on Red Section. He climbed the ladder again, ducked through the doorway, and joined the officer in charge of the launch, a junior lieutenant, in the wheelhouse.