‘Emergency exits.’ The loadmaster pointed to the door itself and to two other panels in the fuselage sides. ‘If we go in the water, you must wait until the rotor stops, otherwise…’
He made a sign of slitting his throat.
‘Let in the water first. Then swim out as it sinks. Then pull life-jacket. Not to inflate before leaving aircraft.’
‘Yes, yes. Fine.’
The pre-flight briefings made Andrew more nervous than the flight itself. It was all pointless anyway. Few people survived helicopter crashes — they all knew that.
With a muffled roar the twin jet engines lit and built up their revs to a high-pitched whine. The loadmaster gave him a thumbs-up sign, which Andrew returned. Then with a bowel-churning grind, the gearbox was engaged and the rotors began to turn.
It was almost pitch black inside the helicopter. From time to time as they flew, the loadmaster pulled out a flashlamp and shone it along the bare pipes of the hydraulic system, checking for leaks.
The two aircrew were bulky, anonymous shadows against the amber glow of their instruments; for the next thirty minutes his life lay in their hands.
He thought of home. Patsy. The children: Theresa, Mark, and Anthony struggling to cope with boarding school.
A change in the engine pitch; his heart beat faster.
He cursed himself for being so nervous. Eyes closed, he thought of the task ahead. The Nimrod could cover a greater area than a submarine, although its small sonobuoys lacked the sensitivity of the bigger, more powerful systems in the Tenby.
The tail of the machine dipped, slowing down, it banked right, then left, spreading the search. The loadmaster extended his hands forward and swayed from side to side, indicating the roughness of the water below.
For a good ten minutes they hovered or flew slowly backwards and forwards.
Suddenly the loadmaster touched Andrew on the knee and gave him the thumbs up. They’d found his boat.
The nose dipped, the machine banked and sped in a new direction. Three minutes later Klaasen eased it back into the hover. The loadmaster crouched by the door and wrenched it open, letting in an icy blast. Then he busied himself with the winch, unstrapping the harness, checking the cable and controls.
Klaasen manoeuvred the machine inch by inch. The loadmaster beckoned. Andrew unclipped his belt and slid forward onto the floor, clutching his holdall firmly. The loadmaster slipped the harness over his head. He tightened the strop under his arms and winched the cable taut.
Ahead and below was blackness. Then he saw green and red navigation lights, close together. A boat. A pencil of light from the helicopter pierced the dark, picking out white wave-crests in its search.
It found the smooth, shiny curves of the submarine. The beam followed the casing forward, a sparkle from the foam breaking across the steel, then the fin reaching up. On the top, the pale dots of faces looking up.
He had to land on that? Jesus, it looked so small! As he watched, the periscope and radio mast slid down into the fin so as not to obstruct his descent.
The loadmaster lowered a thin handline, weighted at the bottom. Through his microphone, he directed the pilot until the line was grabbed by a sailor on the bridge. Then he secured the line to Andrew’s harness.
He was ready? Andrew nodded and pulled the rubber hood over his head. It was wet down there and bitterly cold.
A final thumbs up; Andrew felt the winch cable jerk the strop tight under his armpits. He sat on the ledge, legs over the edge. The downdraught from the rotor tugged at the loose folds of his survival suit. A firm push in the small of his back and he was in mid-air.
The cable jolted and jerked. The winchman lowered him a few metres at a time. Arms by the side; that’s what they always tell you. Do nothing; just hang there; leave it to the other guys. It was an act of faith. It had to be.
The wind tugged at his feet; he felt salt spray on his face, or was it rain? Something pulled him sideways against the wind. He remembered the handline.
Suddenly his shins cracked hard against metal. He gasped at the sharp pain. Rough hands grasped his legs, then his waist. The edge of the bridge grazed his buttocks; he was down. The steel grating felt firm underfoot, and the chest-high rim of the conning tower supported his back.
He lurched against it. The submarine rolled like a plastic duck.
‘Welcome to Tenby, sir,’ the burly rating shouted in his ear.
‘Thanks!’ Andrew yelled, trying to beat the din of the machine overhead. ‘There’s a bag to come, and they want this kit of theirs back!’
He slipped the harness off and the rating held the strop to one side to show the winchman it was clear. Within seconds it was gone.
‘Best take the gear off here, sir!’
He unstrapped the life-vest, then struggled with the zips of the survival suit; the rating helped him. In a few moments he was free from the gear and, ducking, began to make his way below. A young officer greeted him at the top of the ladder. As he climbed down inside the tower, a warm blast of air came up to greet him, carrying a familiar smell of machinery and cooking.
He emerged into the control room. A ring of faces greeted him.
‘Hello, I’m Peter Biddle.’
The CO looked no more than a boy, smooth-skinned, fair-haired, waxy pale from the rolling of the boat. Andrew checked the gold bars on his epaulettes to be sure.
‘Andrew Tinker. Glad to be aboard.’
‘Ah, this looks like your kit.’
He glanced past Andrew at the sub-lieutenant carrying the holdall.
‘Good. The sooner we get below in this weather, the better we’ll all feel.’
Andrew heard the clunk of the upper hatch being closed.
‘Upper lid shut and clipped,’ the rating called.
‘Officer of the Watch. Dive the submarine. Let’s clear the datum!’ Commander Biddle ordered.
Shortly afterwards, with the submarine at 180 metres, Biddle led the way to his cabin.
‘Now take a seat,’ he suggested to Andrew, ‘and put me out of my misery. What the hell’s this all about?’
President John McGuire entered the ‘bunker’, as he called it, and closed the door. He was a short man with wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and a nice smile. His National Security Adviser Tom Reynolds was already there, waiting for him.
The room was a new addition to the White House, just big enough to seat a dozen if necessary. Special wire mesh embedded in its walls, floor and ceiling prevented electronic eavesdropping.
‘Okay, Tom. What’ve you got?’
McGuire was nervous. Newly elected, he was still feeling his way through the complexities of foreign policy. He hailed from a midwestern state where he’d built a reputation as a tough and efficient governor, but where Russians were still thought of as hostile aliens from another planet.
‘It’s thin, John. Real thin,’ Reynolds drawled, stroking his long, angular chin.
A former US Air Force General, he’d spent much of his professional life studying the Soviet mind. The President relied on him to read the Russians, but this time he was unsure, and that made him nervous. He clasped and unclasped his hands.
‘The Defense Intelligence Agency has confirmed they’re MiG-29s on that ship, and that it’s called the Rostov…’
‘Goddammit, Tom! I knew that much yesterday! Where are they headed, that’s what I need to know?’
‘And that’s what none of our agencies can tell us yet. It’s weird. Real weird. We’ve not had a whisper out of Cuba or Central America to suggest they’re expecting new fighters. There’s been nothing on the satellites either. The latest pictures from the KH12 over Cuba, Nicaragua, and El Salvador yesterday — the sky was clear, the pix are great, but there’s not the slightest sign they’re getting ready for new planes.’