Joey turned to the screen, as did the rest of the group.
“These are the Wolf-class rapid-response vessels which have already been despatched by the Royal Navy. They’re fully loaded and expected on the scene within twelve hours. They were taking part in an exercise which you don’t need to know anything about. They were already in the Southern Hemisphere and easy to re-deploy. They’ll be the first to arrive.”
Eight sleek warships appeared in a tight formation. Each pushed a hue bow wave, indicating that they were travelling flat out.
“The US has released some larger and slower vessels carrying larger weapons, but they also have further to travel. France has committed to respond—they should be on the scene soon after the UK vanguard and before the Americans. They will be carrying conventional weapons only. You are essentially the traffic cop on point duty. Your responsibility will be to guide each vessel in and out and ensure there are no collisions. I don’t have to tell you how disastrous that could be.
“All commands will be issued in English. I haven’t time to provide linguists with the necessary security clearance, but we don’t anticipate any problems there.”
“Information, Sir,” Dave interrupted. “Brenda is native-fluent in French. We have some back-up if need be.”
“Duly noted.” Groth acknowledged. “The vessels will be instructed to prime their payloads once they are above the trench, then drop them and depart immediately. The weapons will be detonated by an electronic charge, not by pressure depth. This leaves ultimate control in our hands and gives the final vessels time to steam away from the danger zone before the button is pressed. Once the first few bombs are activated, the chain reaction they initiate will complete the process.
“I can’t say yet how many non-NATO pact countries will respond positively, but you’ll have your hands full controlling the shipping lanes. It’s going to get crowded out there before we’re finished, so I suggest you all get what rest you can in the meantime. The ships on your screen are about six, maybe seven hours from reaching the trench. Good luck.”
The phone line went dead. On-screen, the British ships continued to spear through the featureless waves of an anonymous sector of what was presumably the South Pacific. They appeared to be coming from somewhere southwest of their present location. Dave suspected they’d been on manoeuvres in the vicinity of the Falklands, sabre-rattling to remind Argentina to respect the wishes of the islands’ residents.
“The brigadier’s right,” Dave said. “We all need a rest—especially you, Joey. You haven’t left this room since we arrived. Now, sod off and lie down before you fall down. We can’t afford to have you collapse on the job. Without you, none of us have got a clue how any of this equipment works.”
Joey wasn’t going to give up without a fight, of course, but Dave knew him well enough to talk him round, make him see sense.
“The phone will be manned anyway, Joey. I can sleep anywhere—just ask Brenda. Now, no more arguments. I’m taking the first shift. If it makes you feel any better, I promise I’ll wake you if it rings. But you’ve got to get some proper sleep.”
***
The phone remained stubbornly silent through the remainder of the afternoon and evening, but Dave wasn’t surprised by that. It was too early to expect anything of significance to show on the overall operations map. The main screen continued to show the convoy of eight Wolf destroyers arrowing through an empty sector of open sea, their wakes demonstrating a single-minded intention to arrive at their destination as swiftly as possible.
At one point, it occurred to Dave that the resolution and clarity on the screen were exceptional. It was being relayed via an orbiting satellite who-knew-how-many miles above the scene but could just as easily have been taken from a low-flying spotter plane equipped with the latest in tele lenses. Probably top-class military equipment, he thought to himself, and more than likely still being tested—by us, amongst others.
He had to think hard before reconciling that it was now night where he was, so looking at a full daylight scene at the other end of the world was to be expected. He was aware of information being plotted on other screens around the room, but either they showed graphs and charts, or they were clearly marked ‘radar’.
He could tell they were being updated automatically from an outside source. He could also see there were considerably more dots on each screen than there had been. They were in different colours and all converging steadily on a rendezvous point further along the British convoy’s projected course. He’d had no radar training and was therefore not in a position to interpret the figures, but he understood what Groth had meant when he spoke of this particular sector of the world’s largest ocean becoming ‘crowded’ before the operation reached its climax.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I’m glad to see you—” Joey checked the ID photocard pinned to the soldier’s breast pocket. “—Sergeant Jackson. We’re a random group of amateurs trying to cope with a situation that needs trained pros. I take it you’re the senior officer?”
“That’s right, Doctor Hart. And from what the brig told me at our briefing, you’ve all done a remarkable job.”
“We’ve done our best,” Joey replied humbly. “The brigadier has been a great help, even at the far end of a phone line. There are plenty of rooms available for you and your team. D’you need a few minutes to settle in and unpack, or…?”
Joey paused as the sergeant raised his hand and turned to point at two squaddies, then at the stack of luggage and equipment stashed in the corridor.
“They’ll sort out my kit as well as their own. The sooner I get to the ops room the better. Lead on, Doctor. Let’s see what’s happening. The Insats team will join us as soon as they’ve billeted.”
Eddie ended a phone call as Joey entered the control room. He scribbled a few more words on a notepad—presumably the last phrase of the message he’d been taking—and waved it above his head. “Looks like another UK incident.”
“The US cavalry’s arrived, Eddie.” Joey gestured to the man next to him. “Sergeant Jackson’s in charge now. The others will be with us as soon as they’ve stashed their gear. What’s the score?”
“This one’s from mid-Wales. Small town not far from Aberystwyth. They’ve had about a fortnight’s rainfall in the last twenty-four hours, and the walls of the dam at the head of a local reservoir have been breached. The RAF is evacuating people.” He brought the note across the room as he read from it. “The weather station at Valley on Anglesey rang it in. Someone who asked for you by name when he called—Martin Dring?”
“Yeah. We go way back. He’s no scaremonger and knows more than most people about weather patterns.”
Joey studied the note and handed it to Sergeant Jackson, who scanned it indifferently.
“My colleague reckons there’s a connection with the last tremor travelling south, most likely point of origin somewhere in Cumbria,” Joey explained, mindful that the newly arrived military leader probably wasn’t qualified to interpret the densely packed columns and rows of figures on the printout Eddie had in his other hand. Nevertheless, Jackson gave it a cursory look-over when Joey passed it his way.
“D’you mean there might be a connection between these earth tremors and the recent bad weather?”
“It’s a theory,” Joey confirmed. “So far, we’ve no idea how we might test it, but…” He shrugged and started scribbling some figures on a scratchpad. “Is the weather still as bad? I’ve almost forgotten what outside looks like.”
Eddie grumbled to no-one in particular, “I’m going stir-crazy here.”
Jackson handed the paperwork to Joey with a nod of thanks. “You’d better file these somewhere. I’m sure you can use the data more efficiently than I could. Now, show me the radar screens. That’s something I can make sense of.”
***
“The NATO flotilla has mustered and is approaching the drop zone from the north in close formation. ETA at present speed approximately two hours.
”
“Acknowledged, Sergeant. Task Force Two approaching from the south and west. They ought to be further away from the drop zone. What’s your assessment of their progress?” Groth’s clear, clipped diction was without emotion, businesslike, a calming influence to ease the tension developing with each minute that passed.
“The timing of when the last few vessels dump their payload may get a bit tight, Sir, but on paper, there’s time enough for maximum coverage. We have a window of three, perhaps four hours before depth pressure will make the explosive charges unstable. We may be able to delay remote detonation an extra hour, but not much more. With empty holds and steaming at full speed, they should be at least fifty nautical miles from ground zero. It’s tight, but as long as there are no mishaps, they should be able to ride the wave.”
“Is radiation likely to be a factor?”
Sergeant Jackson winced and stared at the map for several long seconds.
“We’re in unknown territory here, Sir,” he said, gravely. “All the testing of nuclear warheads under controlled conditions over the last sixty years and more have been just that. Tests. I don’t have to remind you what happened when a single device was detonated at Hiroshima.”
“I accept that—reluctantly. And the total tonnage of conventional weapons involved is also unprecedented.”
A trace of emotion crept into Groth’s voice, which even the artificial timbre of the PA speakers couldn’t disguise.
“We have limited choice—in truth, none whatsoever. The trench has to be sealed, and permanently. We get one shot at this. We have to get it right, first time.”
Jackson wiped his brow and straightened up as if the brigadier had suddenly entered the room.
“The nuclear warheads will be buried beneath conventional weapons. The megatonnes—gigatonnes—of rock displaced by the blast will be far greater than the estimated capacity of the trench. Any radiation released by the blast is expected to be contained beneath target depth where it will combine with the molten core of the planet. That, Sir, is the conclusion of the scientists who attempted a risk assessment for this scenario.”
“Sergeant, your team—which specifically includes all civilian personnel—will continue to be the eyes and ears of the operation. Get all vessels out of the area as swiftly and as far away as possible. Instruct all ships to head west and disperse into open waters.”
“All the world leaders have been alerted and summoned to London. They will be briefed, and remote detonation will be carried out from a location somewhere in the UK.”
“Your first responsibility is to direct all shipping away from ground zero post-haste. Your second objective—which is also vital—will be to buy us as much time as you possibly can before the executive decision to detonate has to be taken.”
“Understood, Brigadier.”
“And may God have mercy on us all.”
Sergeant Jackson was stunned into silence. Before he could draw the breath needed to respond, the opportunity passed as, true to form, Groth ended his call without the formality of a signing-off protocol. To the civilian members of the team who had become accustomed to the brigadier’s modus operandi, the familiar hum of an open telephone line seemed louder than ever before.
***
“Orders from High Command, Sir.”
The scene on the bridge of HMS Liverpool was being replicated almost simultaneously on the bridge of every other warship in the NATO flotilla as they reached a sector of the sea directly above the northern limit of the Mariana Trench.
The instructions were clear. The fleet was to realign into two columns two nautical miles apart. After releasing their payloads, the right-hand column was ordered to pull slightly ahead of their partner to allow room to manoeuvre before turning hard to starboard and steaming away from the trench at full speed.
“It sounds simple,” grunted Liverpool’s captain, “but it’s going to be very, very tight. There’s no room whatsoever for error. It’s like Come Dancing on Ice but with a formation team of sixty-thousand-tonne warships. Still, orders is orders. We just have to trust that the traffic cops back in Blighty keep their eye on the ball and keep us all a safe distance apart as we turn.”
Similar discussions were echoing around the command consoles of every vessel in the convoy as the ships paired off and positioned themselves above the target. Radio silence was imposed, but with typical naval resourcefulness, each ship remained in constant contact with its running mate using mirrors to semaphore Morse messages so they could fine-tune their speeds and relative distances from each other.
***
At Bidston Hill, the Insats military team had paired off with the original civilian amateurs and familiarised themselves with the intended procedures by carrying out dummy runs up to the point of issuing the final order to release their weapons.
“The crucial move—and the one we have to make sure happens on time—is going to be the ‘hard a-starboard’ after they’ve dumped their payload.”
“I can plot out the angles for you, Sergeant,” Joey said, “but we’re going to need input from someone who knows how much space a vessel that size needs to change course, especially at speed, and safely.”
“The brigadier has all that data at his fingertips. I’m sure he’ll have a team of experts on hand to advise him, as he’s no personal experience of naval operations. All we need to do is keep him updated with what we see happening on radar. He will decide the best time to hit the Big Red Button based on what we tell him.”
Joey looked around the room. Three of the professional soldiers sat by three computer screens, partnered with Eddie, Dave and Errol. One screen provided a bird’s eye view of a flotilla of ships; the remaining two showed radar screens on which the approaching fleets converged from the north and the south.
“Even I can see that the northern group is a lot closer than the other one,” Joey said. “As long as they can drop their cargo and scarper, they can be well on their way before the second wave arrives from the south.”
“The theory’s all very well, Doctor Hart, but it might only take one breakdown—or worse, a collision. If either of the ships involved is still carrying its load, the consequences don’t bear thinking about.”
“So Groth wasn’t exaggerating when he said our role as ‘traffic cops’ is vital. Am I glad you army guys came to make sure it all runs smoothly.” Joey sat with Jackson at a central desk, which had been cleared of all papers and anything else that wasn’t nailed in place in order to serve as clearing house for data from the screen consoles and instructions from outside.
“You were doing a terrific job before we arrived,” Sergeant Jackson countered. “Don’t be so modest about it. You saw for yourself—your team members didn’t need a great deal of coaching. They cottoned on straight away. You must have been following the recommended army data-processing practices already.”
Brenda appeared at the door, pushing a trolley laden with a stainless steel urn of impressive dimensions, cups, plates and all the standard accessories. A crew change followed her through the doors and relieved the three soldiers sitting at the radar screens.
“This team is fully rested. They’ll take the night watch on their own. I’ll rotate my personnel as fairly as I can if we’re here for a couple of days, but the night watch will undertake solo shifts. We’re used to long work spells, and it wouldn’t be fair to subject civilians to such intense concentration for six hours at a time—possibly more.”
Automatically, Joey glanced at his watch. Being indoors and with no window to give him a glimpse of the outside world, he hadn’t realised the swift passage of time. His brain rebelled. He couldn’t prevent a yawn of painful, jaw-cracking dimensions. Sergeant Jackson rounded on him immediately.
“You’re all in, too. And you didn’t tell me when we arrived how long you’ve been on your feet.”
“Too bloody long.” Joey was suddenly too tired to protest or muster the mental alertness to lie convincingly.
The NCO stoo
d and assumed a waspish, enunciated command voice that could have penetrated the foot-thick walls of a lead-lined nuclear shelter. He named the failures and sexual foibles of Joey’s immediate family tree over three or four generations, then told him explicitly and at length exactly what he intended to do to Joey if he caught him out of bed at any time in the next eight hours.
“There’s still at least two hours before the first ships of Task Force One arrive at ground zero. This is a good time for all personnel not bound by army regs to get what rest they can. Tomorrow’s going to be a very long day.”
***
“Task Force Two, sitrep.”
The southern contingent’s instructions were being relayed from Australia, but the point of origin and where every operational decision was now being taken was an undisclosed base in England.
“Making twenty knots, sea calm, visibility good. All vessels holding station one nautical mile from designated partners. Over.”
“Understood, Two Leader. Can you estimate distance to target or approximate ETA?”
“In these seas, three hours at current speed.”
“Stand by.”
A British voice replaced that of the Australian commander-in-chief in the captain’s cabin.
“Task Force Two, the CC in Adelaide will continue to monitor transmissions. They may even offer information and suggestions, but all future orders will come from the UK. We can save time by speaking to both fleets simultaneously.”
“Roger that, London.”
“My name is Brigadier Groth, and I didn’t say I was in London. Confirm receipt of the revised chain of command. Over.”
“Understood.”
“Command Officer, Task Force One. Confirmation please.”
“Understood, Brigadier.”
“Task Force One, you are re-classified as Wolf Pack One until this operation is complete. Similarly, Task Force Two, you are now Wolf Pack Two. All operational orders will come direct from me. Where possible, emails will follow to confirm your orders, but do not, repeat do not wait for them before initiating any action. Confirm.”
Taking the Heat Page 16