by Craig Thomas
* * *
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."
"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 squall
s. 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.
"Express One to Karpaty — Express One to Karpaty, over."
The pilot's voice in his headphones startled Ardenyev with the immediacy of their attempt to land on the rescue ship's helipad. He strained his eyes forward, but could not even see the illuminated, circular platform. The Karpaty was a blur of lights seen through the still-running tears that streamed across the cockpit canopy and the windscreen of the MiL. The rescue ship was tiny, and they seemed to be making no visible progress towards it.
"Karpaty to Express One. We read you, and have you on radar. Range eight point five kilometres. Over."
"Weather conditions, Karpaty?"
"Winds oh-five-oh, thirty-five knots, gusting to forty-five. Sea state five to six, waves varying ten to twenty feet. What are your intentions? Over."
The pilot looked across at Ardenyev. He seemed satisfied by the glum, strained silence he observed. Ardenyev considered the shadow of the Kiev beyond the lights of the rescue ship. And rejected them.
"Well?" the pilot asked.
"Can you get down?"
"It's on the edge. I don't recommend trying —"
"Express Two to Express One, over."
"Go ahead, Express Two."
"Are we going down?"
"I don't like it."
"We can make it. I'll go in first, if you like. Over."
"You haven't got all night," Ardenyev remarked, looking at his watch. They were running perhaps thirty minutes behind schedule already. A diversion to the Kiev, and then a sea transfer back to the Karpaty would delay them perhaps as much as two hours. Dolohov would find that delay unacceptable. The Proteus might be located at any moment, and Ardenyev had no wish to be still airborne when that happened. "We're late."
"I fly this crate, not you, Captain. My judgement is all that counts, and my judgement tells me to divert to the carrier." The pilot was calm, irritated with his passenger but unafraid. He assumed his authority would carry the day.
"Hold on, Express One — I'll set down first. When Karpaty has filled my tanks, I'll get out of your way." The other pilot sounded to Ardenyev to be less afraid, yet he wondered whether his own pilot might not be right.
"Express Two — I suggest we divert to Kiev."
Ardenyev's pilot's face was tight with anger, resentment, and something deeper which might have been self-contempt. Ardenyev watched, in a new mood of satisfaction, as the second MiL surged ahead and below them, towards the Karpaty. His pilot was playing safe, they would get down now. It meant only that Orlov and Blue Section would be kitting out by the time they arrived, and amused at their superiority.
The second MiL banked, looking uncertain for a moment below them, as if turning towards the surface of the black ocean itself rather than to the Christmas tree of the ship. Then it appeared to steady and level, and began to nervously, cautiously approach the stern of the rescue ship. The helipad was now a white-lit dish, no bigger than a dinner plate from their altitude. The radio chatter between the pilot and the ship flicked back and forth in his headset, suggesting routine, orderliness, expertise.
Ardenyev's pilot brought his MiL almost to the hover, as if they were drifting with the wind's assistance, feather-like. Yet when Ardenyev glanced across at him, the man's knuckles were white. It did not indicate mental or emotional strain, merely made Ardenyev aware of the turbulence outside; its heaving against the fragile canopy of the helicopter. The pressure to move them, overturn them, crush them, was like a great depth of seawater. Once the image made contact with reality, a circuit was formed that alarmed him. The slow-motion below was fraught, dangerous now.
The fly-like MiL drifted towards the helipad. Ardenyev could see tiny figures on the deck, and their bent shapes, their clinging to rails and surfaces, indicated the force of the wind. Its volume seemed to increase outside.