by Len Deighton
But it was probably the ballroom — with its glazed dome roof — that attracted the men who chose Caledonia as the Studies Centre. Most of its panelling was intact. And, although it had suffered under a decade or two of military footwear, the inlaid sprung floor would still have supported a light fantastic or two. The minstrel's gallery had been extended and glass-faced to make a long Control Room — or 'god box' — from which the Director and his staff could look down upon the War Table.
The Table took up most of the ballroom. It was well over seven yards wide and at least twelve yards long. In the bottom left-hand comer there was the tiny Jan Mayen Island. The North Pole was halfway up the left of the table, the right showed the ragged northern coast of the Soviet Union, from the Laptev Sea and the New Siberian Islands right the way down to Murmansk and a slice of Norway.
The whole Table could be folded away and replaced by other latitudes, but this was our bread and butter. Sections of the Table hinged to give access to plotters who couldn't reach far enough across Lapland to find the Barents Sea. But conveniently close to the bottom edge of the board there was the almost land-locked White Sea which sheltered Archangel, where Soviet Undersea Warfare Command had built a large underground control centre, and a powerful series of transmitters to control the Northern Fleet submarines.
Only a few hundred miles away was the Northern Fleet's HQ at Murmansk, and farther along the Kola Fjord was Poliarnyi. Ice free almost all the year round, from here came the Russian Navy's Tupolev 16s: the gigantic 'Badgers', noses full of guidance radar, slung with intelligence pods and Kennel air-breathers under each wing, so bedecked with missiles and gear that they'd had to extend the runway by five hundred metres to get them into the air. These were the boys that came sniffing into Hamish Sound and down even to the Thames Estuary and out to the Atlantic: timing the defences, listening to the radio traffic and watching the shipping all the way to eastern Canada.
From here too came the big jet flying boats, crammed with homing torpedoes and nuclear depth charges, patrolling the Northern Sea Route in summer, and in winter the Arctic ice. And here were helicopters of all shapes and sizes, from two-seaters to sky cranes. All nice kids without a doubt, but don't think they were staging their all-weather patrols in case some Russian Chris-craft owner needed winching to safety.
'Are we all here?' Ferdy asked, and waited while the last two visitors caught up with us.
It wasn't Ferdy's job to show visiting teams round the Centre, but, now that I was Schlegel's P.A., it wasn't mine either. We compromised; I stayed close to the tour while Ferdy shepherded them through the building.
They'd seen the Blue Suite, where they would sit for a week fighting the battle of the Northern seas. It was a fine room on the first floor, with chubby angels entwined each side of the fireplace and a crystal chandelier. So far the chandelier had survived the drastic changes that had made the elegant library into an Operations Room of the sort that one might find on a Guided Missile Destroyer, only with more central floor space. Adjoining it, a box room had been converted to a Sonar Control Room that we used for special tactical games that were subordinated to the main action. Today the shutters were open and Blue Ops was lighted by daylight, but tomorrow the room would be dark except for the visual disj jlays and the side-lit plastic sheets that depicted the action, bound b y bound.
The library — as we still called it — had a door opening on to the upper gallery. Its fine carved mahogany balustrade provided a place from which one could see the brightly coloured mosaic paving of the entrance hall below. It was easy to imagine it crowded with men in frock coats, talking about Dreadnoughts, and women in ostrich feathers and silk, whispering about Edward VII's love life.
The room adjoining the library, once a small bedroom, was now a conference room with closed-circuit television showing the most vital displays from Blue Ops. This was where the visitors would spend most of their time, watching the V.D.U.s and agonising over whether to resort to nuclear depth charges or abandon their advanced submarines. On the same level there were bathrooms, bedrooms, a well-stocked bar and a sentry to make sure none of the visitors tried to see what was displayed downstairs on the big War Table. For only the ballroom Table showed the true state of affairs for both sides. Blue Suite3 just like Red Suite in the basement, had only the results of reports and analysis. And that was another name for guesswork.
'For the big strategic game we often assume that the coast of northern Norway has already been occupied by the Soviet Union,' said Ferdy. 'If war came, that would be inevitable — and we believe it would be fast.'
Once he'd put it even more bluntly than that to a group of senior officers from afnorth at Kolsaas. None of them, especially the Norwegians, had proved readily convertible to Ferdy's instant strategy.
But today there were no Norwegians. I looked at them, all lined up along the War Table. Behind the two V.I.P. American admirals and their aides, there was the usual rag-bag: cocky thirty-year-olds, earnest forty-year-olds, desperate fifty-year-olds, career officers who, in their ill-chosen civilian suits, looked more like insurance salesmen. There were seldom any surprises. An elderly, soft-spoken New Zealand Captain from the purchasing commission, a bald Dutch senior intelligence officer, two American submarine Captains, fresh from a stiff tour at cincpac, a civilian war-game specialist from saclant (Striking Fleet), some embassy freeloaders and a one-eyed German who'd already confided to us twice that he'd sunk over a hundred thousand tons of Allied shipping. 'During the war, of course,' he added, but we had only his word on that.
'There's a problem with all these games,' warned one of the embassy attaches, a Canadian. 'If you don't introduce the element of chance — dice or random machine — you get no idea of what happens in war. But introduce it, and you're into the gambling business.'
I winked at Ferdy but he had to keep a straight face while this Canadian mastermind was looking at him. We'd often said that no matter how slow you lake the briefing, one of these hooray's is going to ask that very question. You could put it on the big machine and trip it for a print-out.
'It is not a war-game in that sense,' said Ferdy. He smoothed his rumpled hair. 'You do better to regard it as a historical reconstruction.'
'I don't dig you,' said the Canadian.
'Some history might be instructive, other aspects of history less so. If you learn from experience here, then that of course is splendid, but it's dangerous to start off thinking of the process as a future event.'
'Is that why your set-up is civilian operated?'
'Perhaps it is,' said Ferdy. Nervously he picked up one of the plastic plot markers from that morning's test run-through. 'Let's be clear. We don't control any Fleet elements from here and neither do we predict what they might do in any future action. Once we made a strenuous effort to stop the word "game" being used about anything we do here — "studies" is the operative word — but it was no use, people like "game" better.'
'That's because your material is too out of date by the time it's ready for the Table?' said the Dutchmen.
'The material used here is collected from intelligence ships and aircraft. We probably could radio it back and have fairly recent data on the Table, but unless we processed the game at the same speed as an actual battle there would be little or no advantage.'
'I'll tell you something, Mr Foxwell,' said the German Captain, 'If, God forbid, we ever have to start retransmitting electronic intelligence from the Barents Sea…' he tapped the War Table, '… I'll give you a dozen five-figure groups before they trip the nuclear minefields and end your game for ever.'
The New Zealand officer said, 'And game-time is always much slower than normal?'
'Yes, for many reasons it has to be. Tomorrow, when you are in the Blue Suite trying to control this ocean full of ships, submarines and aircraft, worrying about supplies and air cover for your bases — when you're trying to judge which of the sighting reports are a Soviet strike force, and which are liver spots, you'll wish you had double the
bound time that you'll get.'
'But you'll fight us single-handed?' said the German.
'No,' said Ferdy, 'I'll have the same size staff that you'll have.'
I interrupted him. 'Mr Foxwell is being modest,' I said. 'Red Suite Command Staff is a coveted assignment for those of us who want to catch up on their light fiction.'
'I've been the Red Admiral many times by now,' said Ferdy. 'I can remember so many of the computer responses for my logistics. I can keep the overall line-up in my mind's eye more easily than you'll be able to. And I know all the tactics you are likely to pull out of the hat. By the way, have you decided which of you will be with me on the winning side?'
'Me,' said one of the American submarine Captains.
'The confidence you display, Mr Foxwell.' The German smiled acidly. 'Is that because the standard of visiting staff officers is so low, or are you so expert?' He licked his lips as if tasting the last drips of lemon juice.
'I'll tell you my secret,' said Ferdy. 'You're mostly experienced naval men with many years of sea duty. All sailors are romantics. You look at this table and you see frigates, cruisers and nuclear subs. You hear the breakers, smell the warm diesel and hear the voices of old friends. Committing those units — and the men inside them — to battle is a traumatic experience for you. You hesitate, you vacillate, you die.'
'And you are not a naval man, Mr Foxwell?' the German asked.
'As far as I'm concerned,' said Ferdy, 'you're just a bag of plastic markers.' He picked up one of the plot markers that gave the strength, direction and identity of a naval force steaming past the Jan Mayen Island. Gently he tossed it into the air and caught it. Then he hurled it into the far corner of the room where it landed with a noise of breaking plastic.
The War Room was silent. The two Admirals continued to look at Ferdy with the same polite interest with which champions eye contenders at weigh-ins.
'Then we'll see you all tomorrow, gentlemen,' said Ferdy. 'And come out fighting.'
Chapter Seven
The success or failure of all games will be measured only by the lessons learned through post-game analysis (pogana). In this respect the object of each game is not victory.
'NOTES FOR WARGAMERS'. STUDIES CENTRE. LONDON
WHEN THERE was a game in progress, the Studies Centre became a different sort of place. The mess served forty lunches and there wasn't even standing room in the upstairs bar. My new job as Schlegel's personal assistant meant that I spent a great deal of time in. the Control Room looking down from the balcony to the War Table. Also I was one of the few people permitted to visit both Blue Suite and Red Suite while the game was in progress.
Ferdy and his five deputies were in Red Ops in the basement. His conference room adjoining it was seldom used unless a real crisis occurred. Ferdy liked to be in the darkened Ops Room watching the Visual Display Units and arguing with the plotters. Even then he got bored sometimes, and would invent complex disputes just so that Schlegel would send me down there to sort it out. Not that there was ever an outward sign of the pandemonium that was in the staff's minds. Even in Blue Suite on the first day they were cool calm and collected, reading data print-outs or asking for clarification from one of the Technical referees.
Like the opening moves in a chess game, the first few bounds were predictable. The knight's opening — and its offensive-defensive posture — was directly comparable with both sides putting their nuclear subs up close to the coastal cities of the enemy. For such a move inhibited attacks on them (for fear the submarine's atomic missiles would be triggered by depth charges and their cities destroyed). Pulling the bishops out through the gaps could be likened to the fighting for the northern coastline of Arctic Norway, for the Russian Navy needed ice-free ports to utilize its full surface fighting strength in the Atlantic.
The winter struggle for ports below the drift-ice limits was more a matter of luck than judgment. The invasion of Norway by Russian land forces was not designed by Red Suite. Ferdy had to read it off the big computer. Its progress depended upon strategic games played by nato and the U.S.N. at other places and other times. A Russian air-supplied move through the long finger of Finland that pointed at Tromso leaves the naval arm to pursue its oven war. But an amphibious bid for the port of Narvik relegates the submarines to defensive roles and puts Red Suite into the intricate business of ice-breaking, Northern Route patrols, convoy escorts; and it means devoting all the air to defensive umbrellas.
Ferdy was lucky; the current strategic theory was that Sweden and Finland would resist an overland movement, and this centred the fighting too far east to drain Northern Fleet resources, Ferdy breathed a sigh of relief when he read the Land Forces report off the teleprinter.
He offered me one of his best cigars. I waved it away. 'I'm trying to stop.'
'Bad timing,' said Ferdy. He carefully cut the Punch Suprema and offered one to the American submariner who was acting as his aide. 'A stogie, kid?'
'No thanks, comrade.'
Ferdy puffed gently as the cigar started to glow. 'And I'll want air recce and the exact limit of the drift-ice.'
'We've got that,' said the submariner.
'We've got the seasonal average. I want it exactly.' He scribbled a request for the air reconnaissance and a clerk 'typed ü: onto the teleprinter that was connected to Schlegel's Control Balcony.
'The forecast is two miles with a four thousand foot ceiling,' said the weather clerk.
The clerk at the teleprinter waited for Control to reply before reading off the answer. 'They are giving us two Be-10's Mallow flying boats, out of Murmansk.'
Ferdy ran a red chinagraph pencil across the map, mating a line to divide the White Sea from the Barents Sea at its narrowest place. The clerk at the teleprinter took the Be-io's punch card and asked the computer the arming details of the: jet flying boats that Ferdy was going to use. They were equipped with rockets, homing torpedoes and depth charges. Ferdy nodded and passed the print-out to the submariner.
'Put them up earliest,' said Ferdy. He turned to me. 'Schlegel will bring that cloud down and write those flying boats off you see.'
'Don't be stupid, Ferdy. That weather comes off the computer, you know that.'
Ferdy smiled grimly.
I'd continued to use the personal locker in the Red Ops, more because clearing it might have offended Ferdy than because it was very convenient to me. I went through into the narrow locker room and let the door bang closed behind me before switching on the lights.
There were eight lockers there, one for each of the Ops Room staff, and a couple of spares. Mine had a Playboy nude stuck on the door, a legacy from its previous owner. The erotic effect was not enhanced by the portrait of Beethoven that Ferdy had carefully matched and pasted over the head of it. Or by the football boots that some unknown collage artist had added a week later. By that time, there were not many people who didn't: know whose locksr it was. So now that the corner of the door had been bent at rig it angles wüit a Hunt instrument, and the contents ransacked, I was inclined to take it personally.
'My locker's been forced, Ferdy.'
'I noticed that,' said Ferdy.
'Thanks a lot,' I said.
'Shouting won't help things,' said Ferdy.
'How's about letting me in on what will help things,' I said.
'Is anything missing?' the American boy asked,
'No,' I said. 'Not as far as I can see.'
'Well, there you are,' said Ferdy.
'I'll toddle,' I said.
'You'll tell Schlegel I want weather?'
'I'll tell him,' I said. 'But he'll get it off the computer like I told you.'
'You put some weather on the line,' said Ferdy. 'Or don't bother about dinner tonight.'
'You don't get out of it as easy as that,' I said. 'See you at eight.'
Ferdy nodded. 'Now we're going to put some sonobuoys into the Kara, and we'll start a search with the Mallow flying boats. Take a good look at the weather reports and then pla
ce them.'
The young American submariner had removed his uniform jacket and now he loosened his tie. He pushed the plastic markers that were the Russian flying boats along the line of the ice-limits. The ocean, which had always seemed so empty to him, was now a network of detection stations and seabed sonar. The flying boats were the most effective weapon of all, for they could land on the water and lower their detectors into it to get beneath the anticline of the layered water. Then they could bring out their short-range Magnetic Anomaly Detectors to confirm that it was a big metal sub down there, and not just a whale or a patch of warm water.
'What about the ice-limits?' the boy asked.
'Forget it — bang your flying boats down wherever you want them to start the search.'
'On the ice?'
'They've got wheels — either the ice is thick enough to lake the weight of them or they'll float.'
The boy turned to me. 'Did the Russians ever do that?'
'No,' I said. 'But it would certainly change the tactical maps if is was possible.'
'It'd shake up the electronics,' said the boy. 'It's about forty tons of airplane — she'd be a thin scattering of rivets and radio tubes if you did that with her.' He held the plastic marker in his hand, hovering above the deep water channel where the attacking U.S. submarines would probably turn to reach the Russian coastline.
'Place those damned markers,' said Ferdy. 'This is a war, not a safety week.'
'Jesus,' whispered the boy, and now he was out there in the freezing ocean with those two Mallows, laden with A.S.W. equipment, right over him. 'There's just no place to hide if you do that.'
* * *
It's a rare event that I'm home early enough to worry about the parking regulations, Marjorie was even earlier. She was already dressed up and ready to go to Ferdy's dinner party that evening. She was relaxed and beautiful and determined to mother me. She made a big pot of coffee and added a plate of Florentina sticky cakes to the tray placed within arm's reach of my favourite chair. She offered to put her car in the lock-up so that there would be room for mine on the meter. And before she went to move both cars herself, she told me for the third time that my suit was laid out on the bed and there was a clean shirt in the top drawer. And she was beautiful, clever and she loved me.