IN THE BATTLE-CODES OF NATO WARSHIPS

THREAT WARNING RED MEANS "ACTION IMMINENT..."

Suddenly the Soviet Union declares 90,000 square

miles of vital Atlantic searoutes the exclusive

territory of the battlefleets of the Warsaw Pact.

On the bridges of warships at sea and in the

corridors of NATO HQ tension mounts

to crisis pitch.

AS A MASSIVE SOVIET TASK FORCE

CONVERGES ON A NATO SQUADRON,

THE WORLD HOLDS ITS BREATH...



Anthony Fox 


Threat Warning Red


Author's note

The paperback edition of this novel, which was first published in hardback in 1979, has been brought forward at rather short notice, and there has been no opportunity to update background political events. So there is no mention of Afghanistan, or Poland, or of the accelerated expansion of the Soviet fleet and weaponry, or - perhaps more importantly - of the disastrous and I believe inexcusable new cuts in the strength of the Royal Navy. The story should therefore be read in the context of 1979, please, not of 1982. A. F. 



Diagram of North Atlantic with exclusion area (threatwaringred-1.jpg)


The principal social service a government can provide is to keep its people alive and free.
Sir John Slessor




Chapter One


The Soviet spy trawler had been on the plot all night, and now with daylight she was easy to see about seven miles east-south-east, beyond the German destroyer. The trawler was one of the Mayak class, with white-painted upperworks and a lot of top-hamper in the form of loops, aerials and antennae, the usual equipment of the spy-ships: and this was a perfectly normal situation, an ordinary morning at sea - the NATO squadron exercising and that mutely hostile Soviet eye on them. So why on earth, Frank Comerford asked himself, did he suddenly get this feeling of some danger or ordeal ahead? Then he remembered: there'd been a signal yesterday about a concentration of spy trawlers off the Shetlands. It was the type of mass deployment of trawlers the Soviets went in for ahead of major NATO exercises: and as there was no such thing about to happen - they'd had the big one, just recently - there was no apparent reason for that swarm up there. He'd forgotten about the signal, but it must have been in his mind while he'd been sleeping, and he knew now why the sight of that solitary Mayak had triggered the presentiment.

All the same, when he looked back on it afterwards it did seem a bit uncanny that one had had such a feeling: because later, in retrospect, you had to recognise that for the NATO squadron who were going to bear the brunt of it, this was where the build-up to the crunch did start. In the Skagerrak on this cool September morning with the sea low, humpy, shiny-green, HMS Devon riding the swell easily with her stabilisers' help, the other two ships astern and the Russian skulking like a jackal down there in the direction of the Skaw.

And a dozen others, he thought again, 400 miles north-west. What the hell for?

He lowered his binoculars. Baden, the German, was on Devon's port quarter and the Canadian, Winnipeg, was level with Baden on the other side. Course two-seven-zero, speed twelve knots. The greyish blur to starboard, northward, was the south coast of Norway. Twenty-five miles away, he guessed, looking at it. But not exactly guessed: as Devon's navigating officer he knew within a mile or two where she was, even though he'd been asleep for the last two hours. He asked Oram, the pink-faced officer of the watch, 'Skipper still got his head down?'

Oram nodded. 'Due for a shake at a quarter past.'

It was ten past seven. Anti-submarine exercises had lasted until just after five, and now there was a full programme of practices and evolutions for the day and night ahead; and two more days and nights of it after that, before they put into Oslo for a spell of civic functions, official receptions and so forth. This NATO squadron was no rest-home for tired sailors.

Oram muttered, 'Should pick up the others pretty soon.' Their Soviet tail had chosen badly last night, when the NATO squadron had split into two groups and separated for night exercises thirty miles apart. Not even a spy ship could be in two places at once, and if the Russians had spun a rouble it must have fallen hammer-and-sickle down instead of up. The other way, they'd have stuck with the Commodore, the American flagship, with the Dutchman and the Dane and the Portuguese. That group's night games had ended by now with a dawn shoot against a towed air target, and the American, Fermenger, was to have been using shells with a new type of nose-fuse from which the Soviets might have recorded some interesting vibrations. Instead they'd elected to cling to this smaller bunch, and they'd have heard nothing they hadn't heard a hundred times before. It had been a routine A/S practice, tracking a small German submarine which had now gone home to Kiel.

Comerford went over to the Decca machine, in the port after corner of the bridge. He didn't envy the spy trawlermen their job. They even steamed in up the NATO ships' tracks when rubbish had been ditched, and scooped up the gash to sort it for items that might be of interest to them. He was checking the ship's position by Decca, getting readings on green and purple and then checking those figures back against the pulsing master-guard to make sure they matched. Decca gave him an intersection at 57 degrees 41 North, 8 degrees 20 East. Now he could check those latitude and longitude figures against the readings on the SINS dials on the bulkhead. SINS stood for Ship's Inertial Navigation System, and it was spot-on. Marvellous to have all these machines to do your work for you. Not that one relied on them all that much; half the satisfaction of his own job was the employment of the navigator's art and this included the use of a basic tool, the sextant, pretty well every day. Any damn fool could read dials. ... He went down the port-side steps and past the lower section of the enclosed bridge, and opened the heavy screen door to the extruding, open-air, wing. A rush of wind met him, cool morning wind, salt-tasting, air bright from the haze of the rising sun astern. The thin cloud-layer screening the sun wouldn't last long, it would melt during the next half-hour, raise the curtain on another sparkling late-summer day. Gulls wheeled squawking over grey-green sea curling from Devon's stem; there was hardly any movement on her as she carved her way into it, parting it and leaving it to mend again astern. The steel deck-plating of the foc'sl  he was looking down at it across the top of the Exocet missile installation and beyond that the twin 4.5" gun-turret - was green-painted, new-looking with the shine of sea-dew on it. Devon was a DLG - destroyer, large, guided-missile - but she was the size of a cruiser and she had a cruiser's complement and power; they'd classified her as a destroyer because the Treasury hadn't been keen to approve the order for a new class of cruiser. Whatever you labelled her she was a compact, handsome ship and, now that she had the French surface-to-surface Exocet missile system, not badly armed. Her main missile system was Seaslug, back aft - Seaslug being surface-to-air and with a surface-to-surface potential too - and there were Seacat mountings on each quarter with anti-missile missiles for close-range defence. To round it off there was that twin 4.5" turret - radar-controlled, quick-firing, automatic. By NATO standards and certainly in comparison with the other ships in this squadron, Devon was well armed. In comparison with the newer Soviet missile-ships - well, that was something else.

She was good-looking as well as functional. But nothing like as pretty as Baden, the German steaming on her port quarter, with that long, high flare of bow and the two sleek, cowled funnels. Baden had no missiles and no helicopter: her teeth were two turrets for'ard and two aft, and torpedoes, and of course anti-submarine weapons. She wasn't just pretty, Comerford thought, she was downright beautiful. She wouldn't be as comfortable to live in as Devon was; even in this low swell she had a lot of motion on her, and in anything like bad weather she was washing down all the time; but she was something to rest your eyes on, all right. ... And she was flying the same flag as Devon and the Canadian on the other quarter flew, and this grey-green wet stuff was the Skagerrak where Jutland was fought in 1916 and where Germans and British had died at each others' hands in numerous actions since that huge one....

Just as he got back to the central bridge there was a squawk from the loudspeaker, from the plot down in the Ops Room. Something about contacts on two-six-six. Those would be the other ships of this squadron: the plot would have had them a long time ago if longer-range radar sets hadn't been shut down to frustrate the AGI, the spy trawler. Within a few minutes the watchkeepers here on the bridge could see them - one of them, to start with, and just upperworks. That would be Fermenger, the American. Gram's assistant, the second officer of the watch, reported with his glasses at his eyes, 'Ship right ahead -' and then, lowering the binoculars and glancing round, seeing the skipper arriving in the bridge at that moment, added '- sir.'

The yeoman of the watch retrieved a clipboard of signals from Devon's captain, who'd held it out sideways without looking to see who'd take it: he'd been reaching with the other hand for his binoculars. Now he'd slid on to his high swivel seat in the starboard for'ard corner, behind his own console of order instruments. He'd have read through that batch of signals before coming up, between being shaken at 0715 and appearing here now at - Comerford checked the time - 0731. They'd been due to rendezvous with the other ships at half past, so this wasn't bad.

'Pilot?'

Ramrod back: up on the high seat he looked enormous. George Henry Ashton was a tall, spare but heavy-boned man, with a big nose and jaw and rather deepset eyes: and as tireless as some kind of robot.

Comerford went across the bridge. 'Morning, sir.'

'Freshen my memory, would you, about the day's programme?'

'There's a shoot at nine, sir.' He was reaching into his pocket for the Daily Orders. 'Towed surface target.' He'd unfolded the pink foolscap sheet. 'The helicopter goes into Kjevik at 8.45.'

For mail - landing it and bringing off any that might be waiting there for them. Kjevik being the airport at Kristiansand.

'When does the shoot finish?'

'Eleven, sir. Balloon runs from eight to nine, I should have mentioned. The helo's due back at eleven-fifteen, and there's an NBCD exercise until twelve-thirty.'

NBCD meant damage-control: Nuclear, Biological and Chemical. Ashton asked him, 'Taking one of the others in tow at some stage, aren't we?'

'We're to be towed by Winnipeg, from twelve-thirty to fourteen hundred. At fourteen-fifteen there's an AA Gunex - firing ships only ourselves, Baden and Winnipeg while the others RAS from White Rover: RAS stood for replenish-at-sea, and White Rover was a tanker, a Royal Fleet Auxiliary, which was operating with the squadron. Comerford added, 'They'll have finished by the time we've had our shoot, and we RAS at sixteen hundred. On completion we rejoin the Commodore for officer-of-the-watch manoeuvres. Then the night exercise programme------'

'Enough to be going on with. Thank you.' There was some talking on the R/T now, from the lower section of the bridge to starboard. Comerford heard an American voice saying, 'Immediate execute, Corpen starboard one eight. Stand by -'

Ashton called down, 'Not us, is it, Yeoman?'

'First division only, sir.'

The Commodore was about to lead the ships which were with him now into a right-wheel, in fact. Then no doubt he'd order this group to join up with him. In Devon's bridge Ashton and Comer-ford watched the American ship through their glasses as her shape began to alter, to lengthen into silhouette as she turned. Fermenger was only three or four years old, one of the latest of the Knox-class frigates and with modifications to cabin and bridge layouts to provide accommodation for an admiral - in this instance a commodore - and his staff. As she swung into profile you could see the distinctive funnel shape, that bulbous expansion that carried masts and search-radar aerials. But her length was already shortening again as she continued round, swinging the rectangular bulk of her helicopter hangar towards them; and now she was piping up on the R/T again, that same American voice laconically addressing the second division now.

Ashton glanced round at the OOW. 'I'll take her.' He told Comerford, 'Shan't need you, pilot. If you're going down, tell the Commander I'd like a word at his convenience.'

'Aye aye, sir.' He was ready for some breakfast; and it was decent of George Henry to dispense with his services. It was also somewhat untypical: there was a certain rigidity both of manner and behaviour from Devon's captain nowadays. Physically he was immensely strong: right now, for instance, he'd had two hours' sleep, and twenty-four hours ago he might have had three or four, but he was alert, vigorous, ready for another day-and-night stretch of work. Unfortunately he expected similar powers of endurance in his subordinates. When Comerford, after twenty-six hours on his feet at one stage of the recent NATO exercises, had been seen yawning, Ashton had suggested he should report to the doctor for a check-up.

The rigidity came out in several areas: in his attitude to disciplinary matters, and a refusal to listen to accounts of difficulties such as machinery breakdowns. And it wouldn't be making his outlook any sunnier now to know that his ship was running on only one boiler. The mechanical seal on the main feed-pump to the starboard one had failed during the basin trial in Kiel on Thursday of last week, prior to departure on the Monday. Devon's Engineer Commander had reported the defect to Ashton and at the same time signalled SPDC, the Spare Parts Distribution Centre at Newcastle, for a replacement. But a strike by loaders at Heathrow had left them still without the spare on that Sunday night when they were due to sail at 0800 next morning.

'Why don't we have a spare on board?'

'We do normally, sir, but we had to hand it over- to Shropshire at Den Helder and there was supposed to be a replacement on the way, but------'

'Either you forgot to order it, or it didn't come and you forgot to chase them?'

'I was going to explain, sir------'

'I don't want explanations, Chief. I want heads of departments I can rely on. What are you going to do about it?'

'We could fit an emergency packing. But that's very unreliable. We can get the spare flown to Oslo now, though, so we'd only be without it for a few days - and meanwhile------'

'Make the emergency repair, but don't flash up that boiler. Make sure the spare seal does reach us in Oslo. Do I have to warn you -' sarcasm creeping in now - 'to arrange in advance for Customs clearance?'

Comerford went down the steps into the thwartships gangway, and into his chartroom. He found Hunt, his yeoman, at work inside. Hunt was a radarman and a volunteer for this job, which consisted mainly of keeping charts and reference books up to date.

'Don't you eat breakfast nowadays?'

Hunt looked round. 'Had it, sir. Wanted to make a start on these north Norway corrections.'

After Oslo, they'd be going north. Comerford heard the yeoman shout, 'Executive, sir!' and Ashton's order into the microphone, 'Starboard fifteen. Revolutions one-five-zero.' Devon was heeling to the turn as he passed behind the bridge and turned aft on the port side, passing the top of the Ops Room lift and then the ladder down to the captain's flat. But that thought about George Henry Ashton's stiffness of manner - and odd thing was that he seemed to shed it when he was out of his own ship. With the Americans, for instance - when he visited Fermenger he was a different man. He was a buddy of the Canadian skipper's too, and of the Dutchman's, with any of them he was - quoting Doug Cooper, head of the WE (standing for Weapons Electrical) department, and Doug having known him from an earlier commission in some other ship - 'Like he used to be - you know, human?'

Comerford rattled down the ladder to the flat outside the wardroom. The door of Alec Holliday's office, labelled COMMANDER, was ajar, and that snarling sound was Holliday's voice going nineteen to the dozen. Not, obviously, a good time to interrupt. However...

'Oh. Sorry if I'm------'

'What the bloody hell------'

Devon's executive officer cut short the explosion, and drew a calming breath. 'All right. What is it, Frank?'

He was really quite a mild-mannered man. Dark, thinning hair and a narrow, tanned face. Distinctly uptight at this moment, though, and there was an air of tension pervading the group of junior officers compressed into the narrow cabin. Comerford wondered what they'd done - or not done - to earn the Commander's wrath this early in the day. He told him, 'Captain wants a word, sir. He's on the bridge. Sorry to bust in.'

'All right. Thank you.' He'd turned back to his audience. 'Now look here------'

Comerford backed out. With the crowd in the narrow space there wasn't room to get out any other way. As he stepped backwards into the flat, someone passing at speed crashed into him, tripped, and staggered on, muttering oaths. Comer-ford's head bounced off the door-jamb: Holliday roared, 'What the fuck is going on out there?'

'Quaint, the old sailor-talk ...' Hooky Winters, Devon's chaplain, had fetched up against the bulkhead: he was, leaning on it, looking surprised. 'Charging backwards out of cabins should be a disciplinary offence.Same as reversing into main roads.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Yes, you should be.' Hooky pushed himself off the bulkhead. It was the shape of his nose that had won him the nickname. And as a padre who'd done such things as parachuting into the Borneo jungle with Royal Marine commandos he could perfectly well stand being knocked about a bit. Comerford said, 'Didn't know you were so fragile.' He nodded towards the wardroom door. 'Coming in for some breakfast?'

'I am indeed.' The chaplain rested a hand on Comerford's shoulder. 'But I've just heard the BBC news broadcast, Frank. Have you?'

'Who wants bad news at this time of day?'

'Like a Soviet takeover of the north-east Atlantic?'

Two thoughts came quickly: one, those trawlers off the Shetlands: two, that Hooky was always full of chat and leg-pulling was his favourite sport. It might have been his way of getting his own back on men who didn't attend his services.

'Hear it over an egg and bacon, may I.'

'If you like. But Notices to Mariners are your pigeon, I presume?'

They were, of course. They were issued weekly from the Hydrographer's office and they gave details of navigational hazards, or changes to lights, buoys, dredged channels, or of the positions of new pipelines, drilling platforms, wrecks. All those corrections that Hunt was putting on the Norwegian charts came out of Notices to Mariners.

Hooky Winters added, 'This 'un was originated in Leningrad.' He nipped open the notebook in which he recorded items for inclusion in the ship's newspaper, the Devon Times, which he edited. He'd found the place now.... 'Prohibited area declared - look, this is only the gist of it, I didn't get every word - prohibited area declared for purposes of manoeuvres by fleet elements of Warsaw Pact countries  area bounded by latitudes fifty-five and sixty degrees north and twenty to thirty degrees west. From------'

'That's a lot of sea...."

But he wasn't getting the point yet. Exercise areas were declared often enough. All right, so it was a big one, but...

'Area declared prohibited to all vessels, and prohibition is to start from -' The chaplain frowned at his notes, evidently finding his own scrawl difficult to-read. Then he checked the date on his wrist-watch and glanced up at Comerford. 'From midnight twenty-first. That's midnight the day after tomorrow.'

'An exclusion area - is that------'

'Right. They're claiming that chunk of ocean for themselves. Indefinitely.'

'Oh, surely-'

Showdown at sea, here and now?

It might not have been unexpected, after the recent bully-boy exercises in Africa, plus the enormous build-up of their deepwater fleet. But you could expect certain developments, see logical outcomes looming, and there was still a shock of surprise when they happened. He felt like waking up out of it, finding it wasn't true.... Winters was looking down at his scribbles again, with a forefinger marking the point he'd reached. 'Notice of termination to be promulgated at later date.' He looked at Comerford. 'Reads to me rather like "period indefinite".'

Comerford was trying to visualise the chart of the north-east Atlantic - south of Iceland, west of Ireland----He said, still only half believing it, 'If you're right with the co-ordinates --'

'I am.'

'- if you are, it's smack across the approaches to the Iceland Gap. And that's - hell, it's impossible!'

Fifty-five to sixty north was a spread of five degrees of latitude, and five times sixty made three hundred - three hundred miles. And from twenty to thirty west would outline an area that was more or less square. He'd check it presently on the chart but a near-enough estimate was that the Soviets were extending their empire to include an area of the Atlantic - the high seas, international waters - three hundred miles by three hundred. Ninety thousand square miles, with vital strategic routes passing through it--- Winters said, 'It's strong-arm stuff, Frank. They're saying "This part of the playground's ours - keep off it!" And if they got away with that - well, what, declare more areas? Across tanker routes perhaps?'

The padre was either thinking fast or he'd already had plenty of time for thought. Comerford, on the other hand, had a sense of unreality.... He said slowly, 'Might be quite - harmless, a mistake 'Frank, wake up! Don't you realise they might have to send us - this squadron?'

If the threat was as real as all that, the Commodore wouldn't long be left in ignorance of it. Wires might be humming already between the power-centres, signals flying between Northwood in Middlesex, where the Royal Navy's C-in-C Fleet was also NATO's C-in-C Eastern Atlantic, and Norfolk in Virginia, USA, where an American admiral who was Supreme Allied Commander Atlantic bossed all of NATO that floated. This squadron was his baby, except that when it happened to be over here it was nursed from North-wood. And in Brussels too - where NATO's overlords lived.... But - send this squadron? To break into Soviet fleet manoeuvres?



Chapter Two


Chris Ozzard felt like a man on holiday. And at this time yesterday he'd felt like one in exile and lumbered with a tedious chore - the Brussels NATO post which he'd occupied before, when he'd been younger and slightly lower on the ladder - in what seemed now like some earlier century.....

(Traffic building up: fast-moving, impatient traffic, several lanes of it and you had to get into the right one in good time for the turn-off. Like now ... slackening speed, edging over.) One reason the earlier days in Brussels seemed so distant was that when he'd been here before, Julie had been alive. She'd loved Brussels, and so had he: the life, the people, the city itself with its mixture of chic and old-world beauty, downtown bustle contrasting with the surrounding peace of woods and lakes.... Skirting some of the greenery now, passing grass and water as he swung his Rover 3500 round the shallow S-bend in the Avenue de Tervuren, getting set to fork right into Boulevard de Woluwe, heading roughly north so as to reach the autoroute where the NATO headquarters sprawled. He was in no hurry to get to work. The NATO routines and the procedures of his own old department seemed to be ticking over very smoothly and he wasn't intending to stir up anything or initiate new systems. In that sense it was like a kind of holiday. Holding the fort for Bob Priest as Assistant Secretary-General for Defence Planning and Policy, while Priest was in the London Clinic having something drastic done to his insides. Chris, who was a Deputy Under-Secretary at the Ministry of Defence but at this time between jobs, about to be promoted to a new one, had been available and of course knew the ropes, so London had offered him to NATO as a temporary replacement and the Secretary-General had welcomed him with open arms, each of them about seven feet long. To clinch the neatness of the arrangement a lawyer friend who worked for one of the international corporations had lent him an old house out at Leefdaal.

A van-driver, swerving out and hooting, accelerating up beside the Rover, was performing the I-give-up trick - that exclusively Bruxellois gesture of exasperation, the letting go of the steering-wheel and the flinging up of both hands. He was combining it with an expression of fury and a rapidly opening and shutting mouth: Chris smiled, waved a hand in apology. His offence had been that he'd been trying to change lanes just as the van had been trying to pass: not intentionally, only through the unfamiliarity of right-hand drive and being immersed in thought - about last night and the Dutch lawyer girl he'd met at the Deans' dinner-party. The second time he'd seen her: and for both of them - he knew it - something had started. The van was dwindling as it roared on, dodging like a woodcock. The inscription on its rear doors was an advertisement for sparking-plugs and someone had written in the dirt below it Emil je t'aime. If it was the irascible van-driver she'd fallen for, Chris thought, she'd be in for a hard time. But that Dutch girl: chemistry? Something like that. In his blood as well as his mind. The first time he'd seen her she'd been heavily escorted and he'd been trapped in the party he was with, but even then he'd thought, Maybe. Why not? Under thirty. No more than five years older than his own son. He'd philosophised: Okay, she's tied up anyway, I've arrived too late. Last night he'd realised that he'd arrived just in time.

He'd taken her hand and held it for - well, probably too long, long enough for it to have been noticed by other guests sitting and standing around in Sir Jocelyn's drawing-room. Her hand at rest in his, and he'd seen the beginnings of a smile, a movement of the wide lips like a flutter, involuntary.... It was a wide mouth: and sensual. He thought, impatient.... He was excited, even then, and her eyes showing amusement now, knowing, reading or guessing at his own reaction to her. Her hand moved, reminding him that he was still holding it: he heard himself saying, 'You couldn't have been here in Brussels eight years ago. You'd have been still at------'

'College. University. Yes, I was.' Gold-brown hair: brown with golden lights in it. 'But you were here, of course.'

'How d'you know?'

'Oh, they told me all about you.' She laughed. 'They' would be Charlotte Dean. 'You know how it is.' He did, of course: he was the odd man out, the bachelor, and she was here to level up the numbers. Sophie Horonje, a lawyer and a member of the Netherlands NATO delegation. Conversation was general, surrounding them, and much too soon he was being introduced to her boss, a hard-eyed, moustached man in his early forties, name of Hugo van Pallendt.

'Number Two in the Netherlands delegation.' Sir Jocelyn Dean, their host, British ambassador and Permanent Representative at NATO, dropped his voice to a murmur. 'Ought to be Number One.

Damn shame and in my view a considerable mistake. We're all most upset about it, Hugo, if that's any compensation.' Chris, facing van Pallendt and with Sir Jocelyn on his right, managed not to look round for another glimpse of Sophie Horonje. But he could hear her laugh as she chatted to some Belgians over by the fireplace. This van Pallendt was a man of medium height - quite a bit shorter than either Chris or Sir Jocelyn - and broad, built like an oarsman or a rugger player. Balding, and with a tanned, muscled face. Chris wondered whether there was a Mrs van Pallendt: whether the relationship between this man and the sexy lawyer girl in his delegation might be anything more than professional. He'd nodded. 'Yes, I heard about it. It is a shame. One can only imagine they have something better in store for you.'

The Dutchman shrugged. 'You are kind to imagine so, but -'

'Let me get you a little more sherry.'

Van Pallendt had figured in a part of the briefing that Chris had been given in London. In a nutshell, he'd been appointed to his present job about eight months ago in the general understanding that he'd be moving up to the top post, the ambassadorial one, when the man then holding it retired. But Pieter Schaapfeld was leaving Brussels this week, and to everyone's surprise the Hague was sending an entirely new man to take the job over van Pallendt's head.

The Dutchman told Chris, 'He's a very talented fellow, you know. What you in England call a "whiz-kid"?'

'They only call 'em that, Hugo, because they're borrowing their English back from the country that's preserved a great deal of it for them in its natural and proper form.' Adam Carlsson, the American ambassador, had a tumbler of scotch in his fist. Grey-haired but athletic looking, and younger than either Chris or van Pallendt. 'Would you agree with me, Mr Ozzard?'

Chris nodded. 'There are some areas of the language you haven't mutilated.' From across the room Sophie met his glance and held it. She was with the Belgians and Carlsson's wife, a strikingly pretty girl about half his age ... well, say two-thirds. Half would have put her just out of high-school. She'd half-smiled, looked away again. Carlsson had laughed: 'I dare say you'd call that generous, for God's sake!'

'But what you haven't mutilated we're doing our best to mangle. Between us we'll make sure nobody knows what the hell they're talking about, before long.'

'There's some have gotten to that point already.... Your wife here, Hugo?'

So there was a Mrs van Pallendt. It turned out she was the skinny redhead whose name he hadn't caught when they'd been introduced earlier on. And from chat during dinner it emerged that they had two daughters. Sophie Horonje told him, 'They were here this summer. I was playing tennis with them almost every day. Very nice, intelligent girls. In fact the van Pallendts are all so -' She'd half closed her eyes, shook her head, stuck for the word she wanted. She said, 'They are a very close, happy family. We are all most fond of them.'

'I'm sorry he's not to be the new ambassador.'

'I think we may all be more than sorry.' The setback wasn't only to the career of Hugo van Pallendt. The background to the new man's appointment was the growing power of left-wingers in the Dutch cabinet. He must have got this post - and with it an influence on NATO policy, that was the fear -in return for co-operation in some other area. Dean and Carlsson - all of them, and by no means least the Secretary-General - were more worried than any of them was letting on.

Charlotte Dean asked him, 'Am I right in thinking you have one son who's in the Navy?'

'Absolutely right. And oddly enough he's currently working for NATO. He's in the guided-missile destroyer Devon, which happens to be our contribution to STANAVFORLANT at the moment.'

'Contribution to what?' A Belgian banker's wife had put the question sideways to van Pallendt. The other one, whose husband was an EEC commissioner, nodded.

'You saved me asking.'

'What were we saying -' Carlsson, the American, nodding towards Chris - 'about the language?' He told the woman who'd asked, 'It's NATO-ese for Standing Naval Force Atlantic. A squadron comprising ships allocated to it by the different NATO powers.'

Sophie asked Chris, 'What age is this son of yours?'

'Sam's twenty-two.'

He saw her thinking it out, doing sums. Deciding Oh heavens, not for me? He was on the autoroute now, the main highway between Brussels and its airport, Zaventem. But he should have aimed off westward, he realised, joined it west of the NATO spread so that he'd have been turning right-handed into it out of the right-hand lane. Now he'd have to pass it, do something dangerous at the intersection where this road linked with Avenue Leopold, and come back again.

But - he checked the time - there wasn't any hurry.

When the men had been left over their port, the Belgian banker - he was either Hunon or Vaux, but the banker and the EEC man were so alike that he wondered whether their wives might spin a coin to decide which man either of them went home with - Hunon, Chris thought this one's name was, asked him what was his job at NATO.

'I'm doing the job of Assistant Secretary-General, Defence Planning and Policy.'

'So I was told.' Hunon smiled, showing yellowish front teeth just tike Vaux's. 'But if I may ask it, what work does this involve?'

Carlsson took the cigar out of his mouth and inspected the evenly burning end. He murmured, 'Might be quicker to ask him what his work does not involve.'

Perhaps the American would save him the trouble of answering. Hoping so, he kept quiet, lazing in a sense of ease and pleasure to which the fragrance of his Havana and the excellence of the port and - above all - the knowledge that pretty soon he'd be talking to the Dutch girl again all contributed. But he was going to have to answer Hunon's question after all; he told him, 'I'm one of the Secretary-General's staff- that's to say, the international secretariat. I'm the official responsible for all those aspects of NATO defence planning which are not purely military: areas where military problems overlap political and economic considerations. You might say I'm at the crossroads between national delegations, the military authorities and the other divisions of the international staff.'

'It would appear -' Hunon had his head on one side, like some kind of bird's - 'a very wide field?'

'It would, and it is.' Sir Jocelyn asked the Belgian, 'You know who I mean by the Secretary-General?'

'But naturally -'

'He has four Assistant Secretaries-General. Ozzard's one of them. It makes him our senior man on the NATO staff, and of course it's very much a key post. He had to help the Secretary-General operate the machinery of the headquarters, and he has to try to get the various nations to work together and to produce agreed, sensible solutions to defence planning problems. Naturally these include questions of military preparedness, readiness to act in an emergency, and so on. It's very much a key job.'

'Yeah.' Carlsson, staring at his fellow ambassador through the smoke-haze, wore a rather sardonic smile. 'So much so that you British made damn sure none of your Allies were going to slip into it when Priest went sick. You had Ozzard here so fast I'm surprised you didn't have him dropped by parachute.'

'Oh, come now, Adam -'

'I'll overlook it this time. But only because your port's the best in town.' Carlsson leant forward, facing right to look past Vaux. 'You're more than welcome, Chris. I really mean that. How long d'you reckon to be with us, did they give you any idea?'

'Until Priest's fit again. With a period of convalescence thrown in, it was mooted that I might be here three months or so. I'd guess at least that long.' He'd refilled his glass and passed the decanter on, making sure that Vaux, on his left, kept it moving. Sir Jocelyn had murmured to him as the women left and they'd all been closing up around the top end of the table, 'Might as well try to educate these chaps, shed a bit of Christian light, eh?' Vaux seemed to know the drill: his glass was well up and the decanter was in Adam Carlsson's hands, Carlsson asking van Pallendt across the table, 'Might we be justified in-assuming this man Ellermet's appointment as Permanent Representative here might not be unconnected with a loggerheads position at the Hague?'

He knew damn well it was. He could only be wanting to see whether van Pallendt would admit it: or hoping to spur him into saying more. Sir Jocelyn was turned in to that conversation as he helped himself to port. Van Pallendt said carefully, 'Philip Ellermet is a stranger to me personally, but I am told he is extremely able. It's true that he is primarily associated with - ah -' he moved his hands leftwards down the table - 'with the newer - er -'

'Exactly.' Carlsson looked unhappy. Chris wondered how he felt about his own administration. Particularly in areas such as the neutron bomb and Soviet involvements in Africa. Sir Jocelyn murmured to Carlsson, 'Well, Adam, we'll see, cross our fences as we get to 'em, eh?' Chris became aware that van Pallendt was staring at him across the table: he seemed thoughtful, or waiting for Chris to say something. Chris obliged, leaning forward and speaking under cover of the others' conversation: 'Your Miss Horonje is charming.'

'You find her so?'

'I find her terrific.'

'Indeed.' A nod, and no change of expression. 'I am so glad,' The Dutchman didn't sound it though. He was studying the end of his cigar, two inches of pale-grey ash. He changed the subject fractionally: 'Will your wife join you here, Mr Ozzard?'

'I'm a widower. My wife died several years ago.'

'Oh - I beg your pardon ...'

Might his attitude to Sophie Horonje be protective - guarding her from the married man - or something more than that, he wondered. Paternal protectiveness, perhaps. How could anyone reasonably sound in mind and limb look at that girl and feel paternal, for God's sake? Sir Jocelyn was asking him, 'They're moving you to a rather interesting field of endeavour, Ozzard, did I hear?'

He nodded. 'I'm looking forward to it.'

'As soon as Priest gets back, I suppose.'

'That's about it, I expect.'

And it was a reason to be cautious, he reminded himself as he swung the Rover right, stopped for his pass to be checked and drove on towards the grove of flagstaff's and the family of national flags adorning them. At the level he was reaching now, the job Whitehall had him earmarked for, it wasn't too good to be vulnerable to gossip. But then, he wasn't there yet. This was Brussels too, as good a place as any for a final fling.

Perhaps not quite final. But when they did move into the new post he would, seriously, have to start taking care. It might be a little tougher for him than for a lot of others: he knew he'd always been seen for what he was, that he lacked the ability to look like an angel when he was behaving like a shit. One reason he knew he'd never have made a politician. He'd parked the car and locked it, and he was walking into the building's open arms, the protruding wings that housed the national delegations, and passing gendarmerie cradling automatic weapons. The guards weren't by any means relaxed or complacent: the way they looked at anyone approaching - at this tall Englishman now, for instance - and the way they held their guns, suggested they were ready and willing, even eager, to let rip. They didn't know his face or any other face: it was action they were watching for, a wrong or suspicious move, suggestion of hostile intent. You tended to walk carefully and to keep your hands in sight. Chris went on in through the wide glass entrance, passing men and women going this way and that, a group chatting here and there in any of a dozen different languages. He found himself glancing at faces: and he was looking for Sophie Horonje.

Nothing like this had happened to him in years. There'd been affairs since Julie had died, but he couldn't remember ever being this hard-hit, or as deeply interested. All right, excited. Maybe less chemistry than middle-aged lust and wishful thinking? He was showing his pass again: the guards were all new since his own previous tour here and so far as they were concerned he was the new boy. He wondered about Sophie's interest in him; if she had one as she'd seemed to have. More than twenty years' difference in their ages: why should she have time to spare for him? Well, if she was -say - thirty, she'd want a man of thirty-five, forty. There wouldn't be so many to pick from though, they'd be married or queer or just plain awful. A forty-year-old bachelor, he thought, must have a wonderful life, if he could stand it___Turning away from the security desk he saw Huguette Ceulemans, his secretary, coming out through the inner doors from the huge lobby, the Salle des Pas Perdus as people called it, and hurrying towards him. She looked both anxious and relieved at seeing him.

She'd never come down before like this.

'Morning, Huguette. Have I been missed?'

'I am afraid so.'

She was Belgian. Neat and attractive in a lilac linen suit and with her dark hair cut short. She had a little pouting mouth and her nose turned up slightly at its tip. She'd fallen into step beside him.

'There is a flap on.'

The way she pronounced it made it 'flop'. She added, 'I thought to make sure you came right up when you got in.'

What had she imagined he'd do - play hopscotch in the car-park? She was having to half run to keep up with him: she told him breathlessly, 'Most of the ambassadors are already here.' Rubbing in the message: and letting him know it was a real flap. They'd paused, and a lift's steel doors slid open. In the middle distance he saw Colonel Huvelin, the Secretary-General's Chief of Security, talking to one of the American delegation; closer, a fat man whose face was unfamiliar to him had stopped to light a cigarette. He smelt it at the first puff - Gitane.... Anyone in this part of the building had security clearance but Huguette evidently didn't know who the man was either, and she was too well trained to take chances. Only a few hundred yards away was a car-assembly plant crawling with Soviet technicians. But she murmured as the doors shut and the lift purred upwards, 'It is all on your desk. There have been several calk. Sir Jocelyn Dean------'

'Him?' Chris checked his watch. 'At this hour?'

'And Admiral Cleary, and------'

'All right, Huguette.' And damn ... The one morning he'd come in late. Late and happy. Third floor: out and left, down the linking passage to Section I which held his own Division. He said, 'It's going to be another lovely day, Huguette. Not at all Brussels weather, is it?' He wasn't going to let her know that he was kicking himself, wishing he'd spent less time lying in the bath and thinking about that Dutch girl, and that he'd taken some faster, more direct route in from Leefdaal.... Long corridors, flooring that silenced footsteps. Passing now on their left the inside entrance, to the Danish delegation's offices. Sir Jocelyn must have got up at cock-crow: alerted by what? He walked through Huguette's office and into his own, and Group Captain Michelsen, who'd retired from the RAF a couple of years ago, jumped up from one of the armchairs.

'Ah!'

'Hang on.' He sat down behind his desk, aware of the girl hovering in the doorway between their offices while he skimmed through the memo she'd prepared for him. To its foot she'd added notes of telephone calls. There was also a photostat copy of a page of Notices to Mariners and a reference map of the North Atlantic with a square of ocean shaded in blue pencil. It was a couple of hundred miles south of Iceland, about midway between Ireland and Greenland.

He read her notes through again, more carefully, then took another check on the Hydrographer's notice.

5916. NORTH EAST ATLANTIC. Leningrad Notice 8430!x. Prohibited Area declared... Michelsen stirred, and cleared his throat. 'I couldn't see it, at first. What there is to fuss about, I mean. Apparently some bright lad in MOD spotted it and rang the alarm to CINCEASTLANT, and his duty officer at Northwood got on to Admiral Cleary at his house.'

CINCEASTLANT meant Commander-in-Chief Eastern Atlantic. That was the NATO hat worn by Admiral Sir Jack Tennant, who was Britain's C-in-C Fleet as well.

Chris nodded without looking up. He-murmured, 'With you in a moment, Mich.'

Could they do this?

Exercise areas had been declared often enough in the past. NATO itself had completed only last month the biggest land, sea and air war-game ever laid on by the West. But you only warned other nations of your intention to hold such an exercise and of possible danger areas, and that was an entirely different thing from saying 'That sea is now our sea, so clear out of it.' If there was going to be something dangerous like missile-firing or bombing involved, in the first instance you didn't arrange to do it on international shipping routes and in the second you didn't issue the warning as an order: the only waters a nation could order others to keep out of were its own coastal belts. Another point was that announcements of exercises should include dates for starting and finishing: this Leningrad announcement, with no terminal date on it, amounted to a claim of sovereignty over open sea.

He looked up, across at the Group Captain.

'Presumably the Soviets are being asked whether they mean this in the way it's phrased. If they do, then certainly we'll have to see they don't get away with it.'

Over our dead bodies ... Faced with a showdown, they might back out. Alternatively, they might be reckoning on a limited and purely naval confrontation, counting on NATO being unwilling to escalate and setting a scene in which they could prove their muscle. Then it would not, he thought, be a matter of our dead bodies. Just Sam's, and his friends'. The possibility of a strictly localised sea war with no risk to civilian populations had often been envisaged.

'Huguette, I want General Garnish on the phone please.' he corrected that: 'No, wait... If he's in the Situation Centre, I'll go down and see him. Just find out, would you?'

Garnish, a Canadian, was Director of Council Operations and Communications. Crisis management was his responsibility; and the hub of his world, the Situation Centre on the ground and first floors and the Communications Centre joined to it, would be the hub of NATO while this lasted. Chris told his secretary, 'I also want a line to Northwood, and a word with Admiral Cleary. After those, please find out whether the Secretary-General can spare me a few minutes."

It was as well to be briefed as thoroughly as possible before one saw the head man. Garnish downstairs would have all the information that was currently available. Pat Cleary, a two-star British admiral, was the representative in Brussels of the American NATO supremo in Norfolk, Virginia. The Supreme Allied Commander Atlantic, short title SACLANT, was the British C-in-C's boss where NATO operations were concerned, and Cleary would know how he was feeling about the Soviet move. But to talk to Jack Tennant was essential too, since he was the man on the spot, the commander closest to the action.

He was thinking, as he watched Michelsen scribbling notes and nibbling the end of his ballpoint, that in Moscow, Leningrad and Severomorsk there'd be men sitting around very much like this -waiting for news, setting up states of readiness, chewing pencils or fingernails. He said, thinking aloud, 'Tennant's bound to move the Standing Naval Force towards the area. By the time they reach it we must have the lines cleared so they can go on in.'

Michelsen glanced up. 'What if that proves difficult?'

NATO's constitution was such that by unanimity by all the partners who might geographically be concerned was a prerequisite to the employment of a NATO force - in this case, of the squadron currently deployed off the southern tip of Norway. The decision would have to be taken in Council by all the Permanent Representatives - ambassadors. From the Council the decision would be passed to the Military Committee, which was also an international body, the representatives of all the Alliance's chiefs of staff. From there, orders would be flashed to the NATO commanders.

Michelsen leant sideways to stub out a cigarette.

'Haven't heard if the new Dutchman's punched the clock yet.'

Chris had begun to think about Ellermet too. It wasn't a good moment for the arrival of that unknown quantity. Although in the meantime there was nothing to stop Admiral Tennant moving die squadron westward. And doing so might serve as a warning to the Soviets that they weren't to be allowed a walkover. They might regard it as bluff, ignore it and go ahead, stick to their present intentions; but if Gorshkov and the Moscow men behind him were only trying their luck, it could be enough to make them think again. At this stage they could easily withdraw, by saying the notice had been badly phrased or issued without political authority - something like that.... A longshot hope, of course. Chris glanced impatiently at his battery of telephones, then back at the airman whose question he hadn't really answered. Didn't need to answer: the man was only fretting, on edge, and partly so because of his senior's late arrival. A temporary chief whom he didn't know and whose performance so far he'd no doubt be comparing unfavourably with what he'd have expected from Bob Priest. Chris said, 'Secretary-General may have called a meeting already. Unless he decides to wait for the Dutchman.'

'Who might snarl the whole thing up?'

'Well.,.' Chris shook his head. 'We can only wait and see.'

'If he did block a decision, what about the American position? What about ours, for that matter?'

Westminster would probably just edge the right way, Chris thought. There'd be screams and heel-drumming from the Left but Downing Street would be likely to survive those traumas and come out on the right side by a whisker. There'd be no problem at all if the NATO decision in Council was straightforward, unobstructed. Just a few tantrums in the Commons, dogs barking while the caravan rolled on___The knife-edge situation would arise if the decision was blocked - as it might be by this Ellermet character. Not long ago a NATO committee had had to consider a document from a Dutch political source criticising spurious - or some such adjective - suspicions of Soviet intentions, and recommending acceptance of Communist participation in NATO governments. Ellermet was likely to be out of that same stable. And if he succeeded in hamstringing the Council now, so that resistance in the Soviet move would become not a NATO but an individual nation-by-nation decision, then Michelson was probably right: the most important card in the pack, the United States, might also be the most uncertain one. The Soviets could well be counting on just this, on the USA's post-Vietnam tendency to shirk involvement. Chris recalled a conversation he'd had only a few months ago with SACLANT, Admiral Eric J. Lassiter USN, when Lassiter had been visiting London and had spent half a day in the Ministry of Defence, discussing a forthcoming exercise that was to be focused on north Norway, on that flank's quick reinforcement and defence against a Soviet attack. The discussion had turned to the underlying realism of that scenario and the fact that a great deal of informed opinion saw a Soviet land-grab up there as a not unlikely move. Admiral Lassiter had stroked his narrow jaw thoughtfully. He was a thin man with a high dome of forehead and piercing, close-together eyes; he had the face of an ascetic and a brain - so one of his British staff officers had told Chris -which moved in a mysterious way and came up with the right answer before anyone else was halfway to the wrong one. He'd commented, about the Norway danger, 'Might not be easy to sell intervention to our people. To the average American dial's a pile of frozen rock with damn-all on it. He wouldn't say it rated a risk of nuclear war.'

This hadn't been Lassiter's own view. Anyone who was in the business of keeping half the world free knew that no piece of territory, frozen or not, did not matter. If you let the wolf take one bite, before long he'd want another. Besides which there were the early-warning radar installations up there.

Chris stared at the world map on the wall opposite his desk. He thought, Norway ... Might they be after two birds with one stone? Or - more likely -using this 'exercise' to ward off transatlantic reinforcement to a Norway which they were about to invade?

The possibility of American hesitation would become a danger only if the Council failed to reach a decision. It wasn't difficult to imagine a situation where, with the use of the NATO squadron ruled out, the only way of calling a Soviet bluff would be for the UK and USA - and Bonn would probably follow Washington - to take action OB their own. Norway might join in, and so might Denmark: although Norway might be preoccupied with her own defence.....But you'd be thinking then of what ships could be mustered, what strike-power brought forward; and in those terms if you had to take the United States out of the line-up you'd be down to very small beer indeed, when it was a force to be set against the enormous strength of the Soviets' northern fleet.

To think of national forces, in fact, was to think in terms of last-resort. The employment of the NATO squadron was an absolute necessity. It wouldn't be a matter of physical strength: set against what the Soviets could bring down from Murmansk STANAVFORLANT would be a mere David against Goliath. But the squadron represented the unity and reality of the Alliance and its readiness to defend itself. It was also a nucleus around which more powerful forces could be gathered, but its real strength was the NATO flag it flew. If that flag had to be hauled down, NATO would be a busted flush, a sham that had been seen to fold when the crunch came. Then there'd be no collective defence and the Soviets would be able to destroy, humiliate, subjugate their chosen victims one by one -resume the game they'd been playing with remarkable success in the pre-NATO days.

Chris glanced again at the silent telephones, and across them at Michelsen. He murmured, 'World-wide communications - fantastic. Internal - bloody awful.'

Well, if a man wouldn't come to a telephone in the first place.. One of them tinkled, and he snatched it up.



Chapter Three


USS Fermenger, flagship of Commodore Harry T. Gahan, was barely moving to the long, low swell as she ploughed her white furrow through it on Devon's port-beam. The Stars and Stripes and the NATO colours stood out in the breeze of her twelve knots speed; there was hardly enough wind apart from that to ruffle the Skaggerak's green surface. Weather conditions could well be on the change though; the forecast hadn't said much, but the barometer had read 1021 early this morning and it was down to 1016 now.

Astern of Fermenger steamed the Dutch frigate Marnix; in her wake the Portuguese Alvarez Pereira, a Joao-cluss frigate and the tiddler of the squadron, was making harder work of it. Following Pereira was the Danish frigate HDMS Jylland, with black tops to funnels that seemed overlarge on a ship with such low freeboard.

That made the port column, while here abeam of them to starboard Devon led FGS Baden and HMCS Winnipeg. The three of them would be having their practice shoot as soon as Devon's helo had taken off and the range was clear.

Astern, still about seven miles away, a white dot with the sun gleaming on it, was the Soviet spy-ship, the AGI - Auxiliary Gatherer of Intelligence.

A lone seagull floated just above the bridge, using small slantings of its wings to keep perfect station. Comerford glanced over at the Russian again; then he went in and across to the other wing, the starboard side, to check on where the target might have got to.

There - just for'ard of the beam. Its bright orange colour made it easy to spot. The Danish patrol-boat towing it was almost invisible.

'All clear now, by the looks of it.'

He looked round. Jack Maunsell, the ship's First Lieutenant, had binoculars at his eyes. Rotund, ginger-headed, light blue eyes in a lot of freckles; he was a lieutenant-commander of about the same seniority as Comerford. He lowered his glasses. 'From the fact our Commodore has buggered up the programme, do we reckon they're sending us to do or die?'

'I'd guess it's likely.'

'Think they'd get a move on, wouldn't you?'

The fishing-boats seemed to have disappeared. Twenty minutes ago they'd looked like messing up the shoot. He told Maunsell, 'We've plenty of time to get there. Deadline's midnight die day after tomorrow. And we've got the target here, we wouldn't want to waste it when it's already paid for, would we?'

'And another shoot this afternoon, I gather.'

Sleeve target this afternoon, an AA shoot. But the day's schedule had been curtailed. The tanker had been summoned to an earlier rendezvous, and the squadron's course was south-west now to close the distance between themselves and their oil supply more rapidly. Refuelling for these three ships would start when the Gunex finished, at about 11.30, and the other four would RAS during the early part of the afternoon while Devon, Winnipeg and Baden were carrying out their AA shoot. Further orders were to come after that, and it was a fairly safe bet that they'd involve a transit westward towards the north of Scotland, which would be the way to the 'prohibited' area.

Maunsell pushed himself off the varnished rail.

'I'm going down. Bang-bangs soon.'

From here to Cape Wrath via the Pentland Firth would be a run of 400 miles. Then from Cape Wrath out into the Atlantic, to the north-east corner of the area, would be another 450. And they had forty-eight hours from midnight tonight to the Soviets' deadline.

No problem there: plenty of time, he thought, for Gahan to finish this particular game of bowls.... He heard the sudden racket from Devon's stern as the Wessex helo took off, and he moved out to the point of the wing, looking aft to see the camouflage-painted machine perform its noisy act of levitation. It made him think of the Commodore again - of Harry T. Gahan, who looked a bit like a comparatively youthful Big John Wayne and had a similarly slow, grating voice and irreverence of manner. At a luncheon party aboard Fermenger when the squadron had been in Kiel, a young Canadian helicopter pilot had been sounding off at boring length about the beauties of helos and the aesthetic pleasure he got from flying them; he'd been boring a German civilian, an official of some sort, with this single enthusiasm of his, and he'd just observed that the helicopter had the same hovering technique as the hummingbird, when Harry T. interrupted by asking him whether he'd spent much time in the Caribbean.

'No sir, Commodore, I guess I never------'

'Well, let me tell you. The humming-bird has a purple ass-hole. How d'you rate there, Lieutenant?'

The Wessex helo was going into Kristiansand .with mail and for mail. Its cruising speed was ninety knots, so it would be on the ground at Kjevik in half an hour; then it would have to wait until this shoot was over before it could land-on again.

He heard the pipe, 'White action. GDR and GDP crews dose up.' The shoot itself, like all kinds of action, would be directed from the Ops Room. And Ashton would be going down there; so he -Comerford - ought to be keeping an eye on things in the bridge. He got there just in time: George Henry was sliding off his stool, and Harry Piper, officer of the watch, had already donned his headset so that he was linked to the Ops Room 'Open Line' circuit. His assistant OOW was Alan Spread, a young sub-lieutenant whose strangely bulbous nose had earned him the nickname 'Snozzle'.

Ashton slung his glasses on the back-rest of the high stool, stalked down the port-side steps and vanished in the direction of the Ops Room lift. Alec Holliday, the Commander, arrived from aft a few moments later. Comerford nodded to him; Piper muttered, 'Morning, sir.'

'Where's our little Russky friend?' He'd gone over to the 978 radar and put his eyes to the viewing slot. Comerford told him, 'Right astern. Off the screen, sir.' The 978 was mounted halfway up the foremast and it had a blind sector right aft. Comerford added, 'You can see him from the wing.'

'I think I can forgo that pleasure.' Glancing towards the flagship, the Commander frowned. 'Aren't we astern of station?'

Piper had been just about to make an adjustment anyway: he'd already reached up to the deckhead and pulled down the quartermaster's microphone on its hinged bracket. He said into it now, 'Up four revolutions.'

'Up four revolutions, sir.' The acknowledgement came from a loudspeaker, from the steering position on 2 Deck, three levels down from this one. Piper told Spread, 'Check our distance from Fermenger.' 'Aye aye, sir.' 'Snozzle' picked up the hand-held rangefinder, station-keeper. Alec Holliday eased himself up on to the Captain's seat, gazed down at Devon's powerful stem lancing the grey slopes of sea. He asked Comerford, 'Can we get there ahead of the bloody Soviets?'

'We can make it by the deadline.' He looked at the Commander. 'If timing's important. Do you think it matters?'

'I'd think that as a point of principle -' Holliday checked, interrupted himself: 'Here we go then!' Down on the foc'sl beyond the grey steel of the Exocet missile installation the 4.5" turret suddenly sprang round to point its twin barrels out over the starboard bow. In the old days, the turret had Drained round - slowly, with a kind of ponderous menace. Now they jumped. Devon's was making small, violent jerks as the computer-fed transmitting station on 4 Deck, five decks down, adjusted its aim for it. Comerford lifted his glasses to focus them on the distant orange dayglo target.

Ashton had stepped into the one-man lift, slammed its gates and pressed the 'descend' button. The lift shot downwards with a kind of hooting noise, a whirr of machinery like a muffled shriek as the cage plummeted three decks and stopped dead. He unlatched the gates in almost total darkness and slid them open, stepped out into aglow of diffuse and scattered lights, a sound-web of orders, reports hollow-sounding from speakers and backed by the hum of the ship's machinery. He shut the gates behind him. The lift was intended to allow him and a few other key people very rapid transition between bridge and Ops Room, and it was extremely useful except that in heavy weather the flexing of the ship's structure could bend the shaft and immobilise the cage halfway up or down. Not a happy prospect for a captain whose ship might be in action at the time. Nearly opposite the lift gates was the tiny, cupboard-like space that was his - Ashton's - sea-cabin. Then one step beyond it and he was in the entrance to the Ops Room, which to a stranger's eye might seem like a setting for some SF drama. It was a big compartment under a low deckhead, illuminated only where light was necessary or natural, such as the glow on the big radar/sonar plots and the orange faces of the radar displays. There were about two dozen of these, mounted in pairs and the pairs set either on their own or in banks, according to their functions. On the after bulkhead was the Chief Yeoman's bench-type desk and a hatch connecting to the Communications Office; a smaller desk in this nearer corner was one that Ashton and his Operations Officer, Tommy Buchanan, could use during quiet spells. Buchanan, a lieutenant-commander, tall and fair-haired, was in the centre of the space, wearing his headset and tinkering with the tote half of one of the radar units. The tote was the right-hand display and it had rows of push-buttons which you could use to ask the computer questions; and you could also use the joystick or joyball, whichever type of control it had, to 'hook' targets that you wanted the computer to hold on to and track. Buchanan was an AAWO, which stood for And Air Warfare Officer. This meant he was a more highly skilled animal than a mere PWO, Principal Warfare Officer, namely Lionel Kemp and PWO2 Noel Lebihan, both lieutenants and both in headsets near the tables where radar plotters also with phones on jabbed and chalked at the tables' surface with greasy pencils, constantly updating the picture on the plastic. The radar/sonar pictures came partly from underneath the tables, projected upwards, and partly from reports through those ear-pieces. Ashton and his PWOs and Buchanan could see at a glance at any moment whatever was happening - floating, moving, flying - on or above or below the surface of the sea around the ship.

On their right arms the plotters wore the forked-lightning symbol of the radarman; a star above it showed they'd achieved the first professional qualification in that rate. If there was another star below it too, a glance at the left arm would probably discover the fouled-anchor sign of a leading seaman. Some of them, Ashton thought, looked younger than his own sons, the youngest of whom was fifteen. Actually, none of these sailors could be less than seventeen. At forty-eight Ashton was exactly twice the average age of his ship's company.

He'd glanced at the plot and seen what there was to be seen; he perched himself on his stool and reached up to the deckhead for his headset. In one ear, when he'd got it on, he'd be connected to the Open Line, an audio-circuit linking him to the officer of the watch and to the navigating officer, chief yeoman, PWOs I and 2 and the EW - electronic warfare - director. In the other earphone he'd be listening to the Tactical Circuit, an external R/T link with the Commodore and the other ships in company. Having the two voice-circuits simultaneously and sometimes with both talking at once, one into each ear, took a bit of getting used to at first. He wasn't sure whether it would be easier or more confusing for, say, the German captain, who with a similar system would have his own language in one ear and English in the other. At least there'd be no doubt which ear he was listening with. Ashton removed his gold-peaked cap and put it on a corner of the plot behind him, settled the phones over his ears. The scene around him was one of quiet and smooth routine: these were highly trained youngsters working as a team and maintaining a high standard of performance. In terms of personnel, he thought, theoretically we should run rings around the Soviets, when the chips were down. If we could match them in ships and weapons, of course----The Russians had a 70 per cent conscripted lower deck and the greatest difficulty persuading even a very small percentage of the conscripts to sign on again when their obligatory period of service was completed. The Royal Navy CHI the other hand was a 100 per cent volunteer force, and the standard of its personnel was extremely high - in terms of intelligence and self-discipline - in a Service that was in tune with the modern world. Only a short time ago Ash ton would have felt safe enough in this belief to have left out the word 'theoretically'. And on the face of it, things did look pretty good.... He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he stared around. That 'on the face of it' had been another qualification. He noticed Douglas Cooper, Commander (W), at the far end of Ops Room where the plastic see-through damage-control diagram of the ship was, and the other sign up close to the deckhead currently announcing Threat Warning White - meaning unlikely - for all three dimensions, air and surface and subsurface. He wondered, Is there enough iron in them now? They're clever and quick and they're all here because they want to be: but are they tough enough? Might the machines, technology, have made life too easy? Wasn't everything too relaxed, too comfortable  too clever? The changes had come gradually. He'd been a part of them and wholeheartedly in favour of them, moving with the times and seeing only the good results, the benefits. Then suddenly, not long ago, he'd found himself looking round and asking himself whether the Navy hadn't become too civilised, whether these better-educated and rather cosseted modern sailors would find in themselves the resilience and the fighting edge which previous generations of British seamen had always somehow pulled out of the hat: or rather out of lousy living conditions, rigid discipline and damn few thanks.

Because it wouldn't be any picnic, when it did come.

Well, the modern structure was hallowed now, it was a sacred cow and you couldn't shake a stick at it unless you wanted to be labelled reactionary, out of date. Then you'd be out on your ear: which was unthinkable. Not because he'd regard himself as finished or incapable of making a success elsewhere, but simply because this was the life he'd always wanted, the only life he'd ever wanted. So he'd kept his misgivings to himself and they'd stayed in there, nagging at him, tautening his nerves and shortening his temper. Not least of all because he had a sense of cowardice, a feeling that in the best interests of the Service perhaps he should be speaking out.

Nobody could be sure of the answers until the crunch came. As it might, conceivably, out of this Notice to Mariners affair. If the politicians didn't settle it, if they weren't in the process of settling it at this very moment. Two days' grace: then, if the Whitehall gentry hadn't persuaded Moscow to retract, there might be answers coming up that no computer could supply.

Cooper, he saw, had young Ozzard with him. Both of them in white overalls. The Commander (EW) thick-set, curly haired, with the look of a good-natured bruiser: Ozzard, a lot taller and thinner than his departmental chief, stooping to listen with that patient, faint amusement on his face while Cooper talked fast as he always did, gesturing with his blunt-fingered, rather square-shaped hands, expounding something highly technical no doubt. Young Ozzard's father was a kingpin in MOD, apparently. His son looked like a weeping willow but he was a pleasant young man and very bright. It was not at all usual these days to find an Old Etonian in the junior ranks of the Navy, and it was even less usual to find one who was a technical specialist. Cooper said the boy was brilliant, truly outstanding. But then, Douglas Cooper had always been biased in favour of his own people. One had to bear it in mind, often. Ozzard was leaving the Ops Room now: he'd be going down to his missile deck or to the MTER, the Seaslug system's Missile Test Equipment Room. He'd just gone when a voice boomed out with the sound-effect of someone shouting with his head in a barrel, 'White system closed up and cleared away!'

That had been the voice of the Master Gunner, Sub-Lieutenant Mike Critchlow, speaking from the MRS TS - the medium-range system's transmitting station. The 4.5" gun and its control was also known as the White system; red and green systems being the Seacat anti-aircraft missile launchers port and starboard. The 4.5" TS where Critchlow was presiding at the moment was right below this compartment but two decks lower in the ship.

Now the Gun Director, a Chief PO who was sitting behind radar displays and with a whole battery of control switches and indicator lights at his elbow in the corner known as the GDR, took up the routine war-cries.

'Surface - blind - joyball!'

The joyball was like an undersized billiard ball housed in a recess in the console. You needed only one fingertip to turn it around in any direction at all, and this controlled the marking device on the tote display, the thing that hooked the target and showed it to the computer.

'Load the hoists with surface practice!'

Under the 4.5" turret, at about this same level in the ship, projectiles and cartridges would be manhandled into hoists that would carry them up into the gunhouse.

'White - salvoes!'

'Salvoes' was the order to the gun's crew to load. The Master Gunner reported, 'Radar confirms towed target.' Critchlow was 'Bullet Bosun' too - Explosives Accounting Officer. But the only explosives being used now were the cartridges, the cordite that would drive the projectiles out of the gun. The shells would not explode, only fall into the sea and throw up splashes that could be marked. A year ago, Mike Critchlow had been a Gunner's Mate.

Ashton said into his mouthpiece, 'Captain approves.'

'Engage!'

In the TS the first pair of shell-splashes showed clearly on a radar scan, and the PO at that end of the cluttered space reported 'One short, one over.'

Straddle. Critchlow, with a microphone in one hand and his weight against the side of the Box Eleven - Admiralty Fire Control Box Mark XI - ordered 'Shoot!' for salvo number two.

Blue lights flashed in the console, indicating left gun fired - right gun fired. PO Hetherihgton at the tallboy kept his foot down on the pedal. They were in timed-alternate firing now: so long as the guns were loaded and ready to catch the electronic pulse, they'd fire. If the men in the turret were too slow with the loading they might miss a pulse now and then, and then they wouldn't get off the twenty rounds per gun per minute that had been set on the order-instrument in the TS. PO Roach at the Box Eleven had a ship-shaped image of the target in front of him, and a dot of blue light that had to be kept adjusted to its centre-line. In return for that small attention die Box Eleven was providing a suggested target speed and inclination. This target wasn't altering either its course or its speed and Devon's guns ought to have been straddling all the time. Roach glanced up at Barney Slight, the CEA2 who was responsible, amongst other things, for the maintenance of all this electronic gear.

'Be doin' this for real soon, Barney ol' son.'

Slight ignored him. This wasn't a time for chat, as Roach well knew.

The turret jerked, jerked back again fractionally but just as violently, as the servo-control driving hydraulic motors adjusted the guns' aim to offset a tiny variation in Devon's course. Here inside the gun-house the guns themselves were red-painted and so was the large hydraulic ram below them, in the centre and under the front of the breech-end of the twin mounting, controlling elevation. The rest of the paintwork was green or white, except for the shiny-black steel deck. Able Seaman Dukes slammed another round into the loading tray and Makepeace, gun captain, dropped the cartridge in behind it and then, in one seemingly continuous flow of movement, hit the pad with the back of his fist so that the ram flashed over faster than a left from AH, ran back again as the left gun fired. The shell had gone into the breech so fast - right gun loaded now, and fired  so fast that there'd been nothing to see except a blue-green streak. Dukes hissed, 'Load o' cobblers then, that buzz.'

Makepeace was a leading hand. He never took any notice of Dukes' chat; for all the effect it had, Dukes could have been talking to himself. Both men wore anti-static boots and anti-flash gear.

Each shell weighed fifty-six pounds; Dukes looked as if he was handling them like toys, feather-light, but after a while he'd feel it and start grunting. Cordite stink building up, as it always did after a few rounds, wasn't much help. Crash-bang: slam ... But it wasn't so very noisy. Seasickness could be about the worst thing, in bad weather with the turret's jerking and the reek of cordite. Dukes said, 'About the Russkies makin' trouble like.' You couldn't see the OOQ, officer of the quarters, who was tucked up above and behind the breech-end. A PO, by the name of Sampson. Dukes banged in another shell: 'Wouldn't be carrying' on with this lark, would we?' Left breech open for a split second as the right gun fired: you glimpsed daylight and then cordite smoke gushed back and it was shut and a round and a cartridge going in: left gun fired. Dukes shouted, 'Stands to reason, don't it?' Makepeace hit the pad and the ram whipped over: right gun loaded: it caught the pulse from the automatic timing, fired----- 'Stop loading, stop loading, stop loading!'

By order of Sub-Lieutenant Critchlow, Master Gunner, down in the TS. Makepeace had his arm raised with the hand open, a signal to the OOQ, that the gun was empty. Dukes said, relaxing, 'Just as well, you ask me. All them bloody ships they got.'

The last BBC news bulletin had made no mention of the Soviet claim to a section of the North Atlantic. None of the morning signals that Comerford had seen had referred to it either. Baden and Winnipeg had finished their shoots on time and now the squadron had made its rendezvous with the oiler.

The Wessex helicopter had landed about five minutes ago, and the order had been piped to fall out from flying stations. There'd be mail to be sorted and distributed and there'd be some bags of it for the other ships too. The Commodore would be told how many there were for which ships and he'd then decide how it was to be passed round or collected: by seaboat would be the usual way, but it could otherwise be transferred by helo - if there was flying scheduled - or by jackstay.

Mail: Frank Comerford knew there'd be a letter from Susie. There always was. Might even be two----Her letters were always much the same: warm, cheerful, telling him everything she'd done, seen or heard, and how much she was looking forward to April, to being his wife----Bloody marvellous. She'd be a perfect one for Frank Comerford, who knew he wasn't exactly a Don Juan or scintillating in any way. He thought of himself as rather dull, a plodder: and was aware of being generally looked on as a fairly decent, reliable sort of man. Sound ... Other men confided in him, younger officers asked him for advice. As, strangely enough, girls did with Susie. It was a fact, they'd laughed about it often, but they were the same kind of people - the kind other people, maybe brighter ones at that, brought their problems to. Because, he'd wondered sometimes, one was so damn dull that one wasn't expected to have problems of one's own?

Susie wasn't dull. Far from it. He knew he was damn lucky to have got her.

White Rover lay fine on Devon's starboard bow. He was going to have to concentrate now.... He was in the open bridge wing on the starboard side, ready to con Devon up alongside the tanker to get her oil. It was a routine evolution, which the squadron carried out every forty-eight hours. To keep the tanks topped up was obviously sensible, and for the NATO ships it was especially so, in order that the force should always be in a state to comply with one of the main functions laid down for it: immediate- deployment to the scene of. any possible contingency situation to reaffirm the solidarity of the NATO Alliance and provide a visible deterrent force ... Like now. He narrowed his eyes, estimating the distance-abeam at which Devon on her present course would run up beside the oiler. White Rover was steering due north at twelve knots and Devon was rapidly overhauling her. Lying off astern were Baden and Winnipeg. Baden would fuel simultaneously from the other side as soon as Devon was joined up and had the oil flowing.

You needed a good hand on the wheel, for this close-quarters work. Comerford was using the bridge-wing microphone. Alec Holliday was beside him, getting a lungful of air before going below for the NBCD exercise. Below Devon's starboard yardarm, flag Romeo, a yellow cross on red ground, fluttered at the dip. Two miles ahead of the tanker Fermenger was a small grey end-on shape, and the occasional burst of voices on R/T was Commodore Harry T. Grahan shifting Marnix, Jylland and Pereira around in a sector-screening exercise.

The spy-ship had been left astern in the run down to meet this oiler, but radar still had the little bastard on the plot.

Comerford raised the microphone. 'Steer zero-zero-one.'

100 feet was the distance apart for the fuelling operation. By altering one degree to starboard he thought he'd be getting it about right. Not that there was anything very difficult about it, in daylight and with the sea as calm as this. At night in bad weather it could be quite exciting.

Coming up close now ...

Devon's stem almost level with White Raver's rounded stern. A fat man in singlet and white trousers waving from that stern, and a sailor on Devon's foc'sl waving back. Quite a bit of movement on the tanker: when you put two ships close together it showed up that much more, and there was nearly always more swell running than you'd thought. Alec Holliday was leaning over the wing screen, checking that Jack Maunsell had his party ready down there, and the engine-room team too, under the Senior, Lieutenant-Commander Pete Hayes. All of them wearing their hard hats, Maunsell's with 1st Lt painted on it. Wires under strain were lethal things. Yeoman Dyson had come out into the wing, and Captain Ashton had left the bridge and was standing in the doorway. One good thing about Ashton was that once he'd decided he could trust you he left you to get on with it. Behind his shoulder Bruce Fry, the helo Flight Commander, peered out amiably at the scene. Fry was still in his goon suit.

Comerford held the microphone a few inches from his face, watching carefully as Devon's bow came up to overlap the oiler's stern. He thought, Now ... 'Stop both engines.'

'Stop both engines, sir. Both engines stopped.'

'Revolutions one-zero-two.'

Setting revs for twelve knots, to match the tanker's speed, ready for when he ordered the destroyer's engines to be put ahead again. For the moment her screws were idle, her momentum carrying her on into the beam-to-beam position.

'Half ahead both engines!'

Putting the power on again to catch her before she lost way, hold her there exactly as she slid up to where she had to be. It was a quicker, neater way of doing it than creeping up and gradually adjusting speed.

'Duck!'

Holliday had yelled it. Down on the foc'sl men waiting to receive the tanker's lines took cover, and here in the bridge wing they all ducked below the level of the screen as a seaman in the tanker fired a Coston gun and the line came streaking over. The Coston shots tended to go wild sometimes, and if the weight on the end of the line, the bolt which the gun fired, hit anyone, he'd feel it. But the line was draped across Devon's foc'sl and now a second one had landed further for'ard. The first was being rushed aft towards the fuelling point and hauled in at the same time; the other was being brought in for'ard and coiled down on the green steel deck.

'Revolutions nine-six.'

'Revolutions nine-six, sir. Revolutions nine-six passed and repeated, sir.'

'Steer zero-zero-zero.'

'Yes,' Ashton approved. 'Bit close to her, I'd say.' Comerford nodded without looking round. They'd got the hawser over and secured it to the jackstay fitting on the superstructure; in the tanker, that end of the wire was triced up high so that its slant was downwards towards Devon. And now the hose was rushing down it on the traveller, shooting down the wire with some of Maunsell's party hauling in on the line secured to it. Within seconds a shout from down below there told Comerford that the connection had been made, the hose nozzle engaged in the deck connection. He glanced at Dyson - who hadn't needed to be told: the yeoman bawled, 'Bravo close-up!' Flag B shot up to the yardarm, an announcement and warning that fuelling was in progress.

'Steer zero-zero-one.'

The sea in the gap between the two ships was like rapids in a section of fast-flowing river. Tumbling, heaping, boiling, racing away astern. It would be a hell of a thing to fall into. And that was another story about Harry T., the Commodore - how he'd fallen from a jackstay into a sea like that one. The jackstay transfer was similar to this fuelling operation: you rigged a rope hawser between two ships steaming parallel to each other as Devon and the tanker were doing now, and the rope had a traveller that ran on it with a sheave, a snatch-block; there was a strop hanging from the traveller. You put the strop around yourself under your arms, and held the two parts of the strop together roughly in front of your chin; then you simply hung with your body straight and got pulled across from one ship to the other. In this squadron it was often done. For one thing it was the standard way of storing ship - embarking stores, which was invariably done at sea, from an RFA fleet-replenishment ship. It was also a perfectly normal way for the Commodore and members of his Staff to have themselves transferred from ship to ship, as they often did. What was distinctly unusual was for the rope to break - as it had on an occasion when Harry T. Gahan had been en route from his flagship to a Norwegian frigate There'd been a biggish sea running, which was partly why he hadn't made the trip by seaboat.

Devon hadn't joined the squadron at that time. The British contribution then had been a Leander-class frigate.

There was a procedure laid down for this particular kind of accident. If the rope parted with a man on it, the jackstay parties in both ships had immediately to cut the rope at their ships' sides. If it wasn't done, and very quickly, the man in the water would be carried astern and swung violently against the ship which still had him attached to Her. In fact he'd be dragged under her, and in this event his chances of survival were quite small.

When Harry T.'s rope snapped and he was dropped into a very angry sea, it was in the Norwegian frigate that the axeman missed with his swing and thus failed to cut the rope, then made it worse by letting the axe fly out of his hands and go overboard so that he couldn't take a second shot at it.

Gahan had the strop around his barrel-like chest under his arms, and the top end of it was held fast by the trailing rope so that it was kept taut around him. He was swept in a fast arc which ended with his being slammed like a pendulum against the frigate's quarter. He would have gone under her then if he hadn't been unusually strong, as well as having retained full use of his wits: he managed, against all the pull of the rope and the battering of the sea and another bang or two against the Norwegian's side, to get the strop up over his arms and shoulders and thus free himself. Swept away astern, he was picked up a few minutes later by a boat from the British frigate. Manoeuvring into position for the rescue, getting the seaboat into the water and back again to a ladder flung over the Leander's side, had given her captain time to prepare a welcome. As the dripping, battered Commodore came lurching over the side he was met by this British captain at the salute, and a side-party piping, and a steward with a silver salver on which stood a glass of whisky and a silver box of cigarettes.

Harry T. returned the salutes, poured the neat Scotch down his throat, and picked a cigarette out of the box in his large, wet fingers. He peered at it, scowled, and put it back, sopping, on the salver.

'Jesus. Don't you have any real cigarettes?'

Baden had seen Devon's flag Bravo go close up and she was making her approach now to the tanker's starboard side. Winnipeg, a mile astern, would move, up and take the place of either Devon or the German when the first one of them finished. That depended on how much Baden was taking.' A freshwater hose was sliding over towards Devon, coming along that wire the same way as the fuel pipe had. These revs seemed about right: White Rover must be doing a bit less than the twelve knots ordered. And distance - Comerford turned his binoculars towards the foc'sl, where the other Coston shot had brought over a distance-line. A sailor down there was keeping it taut by hand, and its other end was hitched to the tanker's rail; it was marked with small flags at twenty-foot intervals, so that by keeping the fifth mark close to your own ship's side you had an exact measure of the gap.

He looked at his watch. Eleven-forty. Alec Holliday had gone down to supervise the NBCD exercise. Hatches would be shut, men here and there declared dead or wounded, light circuits broken and smoke-fumes released, imaginary fires and flooding dealt with. So much more pleasant, Comerford thought, to spend an hour up here in the fresh air, with the sun showing through now and then, gleaming on the ships and on the racing foam between them. An hour was about as long as the fuelling would take. Then they'd cast off from the tanker, and the officer of the watch who was kicking his heels inside there could take over, and he - Frank Comerford -would be in nice time to go down for a spot of lunch.

Not a bad way, he thought, to earn a living. Someone else had the same idea: Tim Bradshaw, just relieved inside there as second OOW, came out into the wing, drew a deep breath, stretched. Sub-Lieutenant Bradshaw always looked as if he was trying not to laugh. Comerford glanced round at him. 'All right?'

'Marvellous, sir.' He did laugh. 'World's full of people who'd pay thousands for a cruise like this.'

'A cruise to the Iceland Gap?'

''Are we going there?'

Ashton came out behind him, and he stood aside. 'Sorry, sir.' Ashton stood for a moment watching across the tanker at what he could see of Baden gliding up alongside. Now he'd turned, and he went quickly up the ladder - steel rungs fixed to the superstructure - to the higher conning platform, the roof of the bridge. Climbing like some great bony ape ... Another very large man, Comerford reflected. As powerful as Harry T. himself. And when one thought about it, wasn't physical strength - or weren't, say, exceptional powers of endurance, essential attributes nowadays for command at sea? The machines, electronics, the viciously effective weapons systems, hadn't made life easier at the top: since everything happened much more quickly and at vastly greater distances, the action-threat was constant, round the clock. And you could hit or be hit at almost any range. So commanders had to be as near capable as possible of doing without sleep. Comerford thought he'd measure up all right if he got the chance. He was no heavyweight like Ashton or Gahan but he was fit enough, rugged enough; he didn't agree with Ashton that letting out a yawn after more than twenty-four hours on the go indicated physical disability.

CPO Rule, the Chief Yeoman, shot out like a rabbit from a hutch and scurried up the ladder with a clipboard of signals between his teeth. Comerford heard a few monosyllables as he spoke to Ashton up there. Young Bradshaw was tilting his head, trying to hear what was going on. Now he'd moved inside, out of the way as Ashton came down, followed by the Chief Yeoman. He glanced across the seething gap of sea at White Rover and the German destroyer's cowled funnel-tops visible beyond her - Baden had her flag 'R' close up now. He told Comerford, 'Boat trip at sixteen-hundred. You and me to Fermenger. Commanding Officers' conference, optional to bring navigators.'

'Aye aye -'

'And -' Ashton glanced round. 'Show him that signal, Chief.'

'Sir.' Rule handed Comerford the clipboard.

One Kara-class cruiser, two Krivak destroyers and one Kazbek-class tanker had been reported in position 3 degrees East, 68 North at 0600. The Soviet squadron was steering 240 degrees at 15 knots.

Comerford said evenly, 'Must have sailed a couple of days ago.'

'Obviously ... Pilot, I'll take over here. Go and put that lot on the chart, would you?'




Chapter Four


Chris had had a luncheon appointment, but at the height of the morning's toing and froing he'd thought it wise to telephone his guest, a German general who was Assistant Director of Management and Logistics on the International Military Staff, and suggest they might postpone it until the dust had settled. Then everything had begun to quieten as the processes of crisis-management got into their stride and various endeavours were initiated in the diplomatic field; from his own point of view here in NATO he'd done what he could, for the time being, to oil the wheels. A Council meeting had been called for 3.30 pm, and Philip Ellermet, the new ambassador of the Netherlands, was due to fly in from the Hague in time for it. Chris had learnt this during his mid-morning session with the Secretary-General. Ellermet's plane would be landing at 3 pm, not at Zaventem but at the military airport, Melsbroek, and he was to be met and brought straight to Evere.

By noon, things were quiet. And nothing could be done until the Council met. On Chris's desk there was only routine stuff: and what had been in the back of his mind, suppressed for a few hours and struggling now for space in which to stretch its muscles, swept thoughts of routine, committee work and such-like, under the office carpet. He rang through on an internal line to the Netherlands delegation, and asked for Miss Horonje.

'Who is calling her, please?'

'Christopher Ozzard.'

'One moment please, Mr Ozzard.'

He waited, wondering if she'd even recognise his name.

'Hello, Mr Ozzard?'

'No. It's Chris.'

'Well, in the office, you know how------'

'Yes, Sophie, I know.' Might have been on the moon, it wouldn't have made any difference. He said, 'I warned you last night I'd ring and ask you to lunch with me.'

'Some time - but today of all days?'

'Your man's due in at three or thereabouts, and we'll be getting round the table downstairs at half past. After that there may not be time to breathe, let alone eat, for some while. So I thought -while there is a moment?'

'We're so busy, you see.' He waited, and she'd paused: she added, 'It could wait, perhaps------'

'No. It can't.' He could hear her breath over the wire. 'Please?' He thought, Now I've told her . .. 'Well, all right, but------'

'Downstairs, in half an hour?'

'Do you mean in the restaurant?'

'No, let's go out. I'll be at the front entrance at twelve-forty, waiting for you.'

Replacing the telephone, he buzzed through to his secretary on the intercom.

'Huguette - be an angel, see if you can get me a table for two at the Villa-Lorraine for one o'clock?'

Her eyes were hazel. He'd been thinking of them since last night as green, but they had that flecky mixture in them; at first glance they did look green but when you could look into them more closely you realised that there was a predominance of light-brown. He was looking into them closely, now, across a small side-table in the Villa Lorraine, which was near the Bois de la Cambre and off the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt where most of the ambassadors, EEC commissioners and kings of industry had their houses. If it wasn't one of the top ten most expensive restaurants in Europe, he thought it probably should have been.

There'dv been a melon to start with and then rognons sautes, and now they were drinking coffee.

'How long is it since your wife died?'

'About six years. Not very long after I finished my tour here at NATO last time.... Where were you six years ago?'

When she'd come into the restaurant just about every head in it had turned to look at her. Female as well as male heads. And this was Brussels, where elegant women weren't exactly rare.

Six years ago, she told him, she'd just qualified and she'd been working in a legal practice at the Hague. Her uncle was a judge and she had a half-brother who was about the best-known barrister in the country; her father, who was dead, had been a cabinet minister, and those of her family connections who weren't in the legal profession seemed to be in politics.

'Is that how you came to be in your job here?'

'Well, yes. Through the van Pallendts, you see. My family and theirs have been friends for many years. I had to compete for the appointment, of course, but-'

She paused, as the waiter topped up her glass. She was smiling slightly, looking at him: she was long-necked, and a little pulse was beating in her throat. He knew exactly what that long, smooth throat would feel like when his lips touched it.

The waiter went away. Chris said, 'You don't look like a girl who has to work for her living.'

'I work very hard, though.'

'I like your dress.'

'Oh.' It was a green-and-white print tunic. 'Good.' She glanced down at it. 'It's by Sonia Rykiel.'

'Good God, is it really?' Laughing: with her head back, looking at him under her lashes, and so stunningly attractive that it wasn't easy to just sit and look. . . . He told her, 'You're easily the best-looking girl I've ever taken out to lunch. By a mile.'

'Well...'

'The first time I saw you - when you were hemmed in by colonels and other assorted------'

'We've seen each other before last night?'

'Certainly we have.' He thought he saw a nicker of caution, a defensive look: he told her, 'I'm sorry if I seem to be - sort of rushing you. I have a sensation of time being limited, other things crowding in on us.'

'As they are.'

'And you do have a - a certain impact.' 'I should be more careful, then. I'm sorry.'

'Tell you what.' He sat back. 'Let's talk shop.'

'Good heavens------'

'Do you mind?'

'Of course not.'

'I was in danger of getting carried away. And earlier on you mentioned your relations in politics, those family connections, and I mentally crossed my fingers, meaning to ask you about this new man, Ellermet. D'you know much about him?'

'Enough.' She touched the stem of her glass, frowning at it. 'What would you like to know?'

'Anything there is.'

'Well - he's quite young - I don't think he's forty yet------'

'An infant, then.'

'You give me the impression that you're too age-conscious, Chris.' Her eyes had flickered at him, then away again. Then she was looking at him, going on about Philip Ellermet. 'He was a schoolteacher, and he had an American wife who divorced him------'

'What for?'

'There was a very good reason. And she was rich - a rich family in the States. Connecticut I think. But there was no public scandal------'

'Should there have been?'

'There could have. But it was settled without publicity and the girl went back to her own people. Now he has a French wife, only about - perhaps twenty-five. He came into politics through a trade union, I suppose the teachers' one, and now - as you know, he's quite powerful. He says he is not a Communist, but -' she shrugged - 'the Communists support him. Certainly he does not behave like one in his own life - except for the things he says, his behaviour in front of the cameras, all that. He has rich friends, he is often in the Mediterranean - Sardinia mostly - that sort of living.'

'Perhaps he managed to hang on to some of the American girl's money.'

'Not at all.'

'You sound sure of it.'

'I am a lawyer, you know, it's my field. The father-in-law got all his daughter's money back for her, and it was a deal for making a - well, for keeping it private and discreet, you know?'

He didn't, but he thought he might get to it eventually.

'What about the new wife, the French one?'

'She's a left-wing journalist.'

'And does she swan around in Sardinia and places?'

'I don't believe so. They are not together much, or so one hears. Which is not surprising, if you knew '

She'd cut off, decided not to say it. He prompted, 'If I knew?'

'He could be blackmailed. If anyone------'

'On what grounds?'

'Could have been.' Shaking her head. 'He could not be, because there is no - evidence, anything, you see. It's all old and forgotten. In any case you couldn't seriously contemplate------'

'For heaven's sake, of course not. It's just that one likes to know all one can about the opposition, to know what makes him tick. If he if to be in opposition. Have any of his public utterances been overtly anti-NATO?'

'Did you ask me here to interrogate me like this?'

'Could you really imagine I might have done?'

'Easily.'

'I wasn't aware you knew anything about him, Sophie. All I knew was I wanted to see you again as soon as possible. And as often as possible. I feel it now even more strongly. I feel I can't -' he leant towards her - 'can't wait for you, not for a minute, let alone days or------'

'Patience is said to be a virtue?'

'Well, it's some time since I checked on mine, to tell you the truth. Virtues, I mean. But - Sophie, patience - if one mustered enough of it, patience wouldn't necessarily have to be its own reward, would it?'

She stared at him.

'You certainly - ask straight questions. And - a little soon?' 'It's all often days since we first saw each other."

'I'm sorry, I don't remember -'

'Since I first saw you, then.' He'd signalled for the bill. 'I'm sorry. I will be patient. At least I'll try ...'

Driving back, he told her about the house he'd been lent at Leefdaal. She knew the village: she'd visited it, walked round its antique part, the old Kerkring.

'That's exactly where I am.'

'One of those old crumbly houses?'

'Fourteenth century, parts of it. Your English is just about perfect, you know.'

'Thank you.'

'I don't envy you in your situation with Ambassador Ellermet. Having to work under him.'

'I think it cannot be for long. We must stay through this awful business, but when it's over I think Hugo will resign, and so shall I.'

'Leave Brussels?' He'd turned quickly to look at her.

'Chris, be careful!'

'Sorry -'

'Not necessarily leave Brussels at once.'

Nothing to say to that: only feel the wave of excitement sweep through him. She was silent too: it was as if he'd drawn it out of her and she wished he hadn't. He had an urge to make a U-turn, drive her out to Leefdaal, bolt that old front door--- 'Even if I did not resign I'd soon be fired. I'll resign before that can happen.'

'So long as you don't disappear.' He was braking, slowing for the NATO entrance. Then after the guards had checked his pass he moved the car on to where she'd have only a short walk to the glass entrance. He leant over to let her out.

'You take my breath away, Sophie. I'm - stunned. Will you come out to Leefdaal?'

'Not until all this is------'

'When it's over?'

'Perhaps. If you'll forget what I said about - you know, blackmail?'

He assured her, 'It's already forgotten. What were the grounds, that they hushed up?'

She'd laughed. Climbing out, telling him, 'I'm not sure you're a nice person, Chris ...'

He knew damn well he wasn't. She'd turned, waved, gone on into the building: and he had to put her out of his mind now, concentrate on other, less joyous matters. Not easy, at the first wrench ... Driving slowly towards the parking area he began the process with a mind-clearing exercise, going over what would be likely to happen after the Council meeting adjourned this afternoon without decision. As, with this Dutchman arriving, it was bound to do....

Unless they were all wrong about Ellermet, of course. Assumption of high responsibilities did sometimes change men's spots. But on die other hand, the timing, the apparent coincidence of his coming now and die Soviet move: one had a hunch that it couldn't be just coincidence.

Well, the Standing Naval Force Atlantic would continue its transit towards the Orkneys. Jack Tennant, after a transatlantic tele-talk with Eric Lassiter, had ordered Gahan to have his squadron close to the north-east corner of the disputed area by midnight the day after tomorrow. Both admirals had been warned that there could be a delay before a firm decision could be wrung out of the Council: both had snarled, and might soon be spitting blood. From the moment the meeting aborted this afternoon the lines from Northwood in England and Norfolk in the USA would start heating up.

In Brussels other ambassadors - Carlsson and Dean as starters - would try to get Ellermet into a corner and knock sense into him.

From a dozen other capitals NATO governments would be exerting pressure on the Hague, and some of them would instruct their defence ministries to start work on plans for naval operations outside the NATO umbrella. The French were already doing it: a squadron of missile-ships was being brought to immediate readiness in Brest. It was curious, Chris thought, that the one NATO power which did not have any forces permanently allocated to NATO command should be the first to act. But knowing the French, it figured.

There'd just be time, he reckoned, for a check on what was new in the Situation Centre, before this meeting. The Centre was the equivalent of an Ops Room - manned all round the clock, and in normal times an intelligence and information centre where reports from all over the world were collated, analysed, the results displayed on maps and wall-charts. Now there'd be a focus on the crisis area and its periphery. The security of the northern flank, for instance, and any Soviet troop or tank movements in Central Europe, as well as naval moves towards that Soviet-claimed square of ocean, would be under close surveillance.

Chris reached the glass doors at a kind of lope: thinking that an attack across Finland was more likely now than it would be in a month or two when climatic changes would make a fast land transit much more difficult. As he hurried in, a calm, amused voice carried after him.... 'There is no hurry, Monsieur Ozzard.'

Max Anders, the officer in charge of Security in this headquarters, was a captain in the Belgian army. A tall young man in a grey suit, dark-blue tie. His job was quite distinct from Colonel Huvelin's, who was advisor on Security for NATO as a whole. But Anders still had his hands full: particularly on the occasions when Heads" of State assembled here, quite a few of them accompanied by their own bodyguards, quick-eyed professionals with bulging shoulder holsters and itchy trigger-fingers. The shoot-out at the OK corral, Anders had said, might have looked like an old ladies' tea party, compared to what could happen in that Council chamber if just one man lost his cool.

'You may not be in a hurry, Captain.'

Chris had slowed, looking round at him. He nodded to one of the other security men. He wasn't intending to go to his office; he could make a quick call to Huguette from the Situation Centre to see if she had anything urgent for him.

Anders smiled. 'And you need not be, Monsieur. It has all been - how you say - postpone.'

'The meeting?'

He'd turned back: he and Anders stood face to face, people filtering around them. If you'd cleared the crowd out you could have had a couple of tennis games going in this salle. Anders said, 'The Secretary-General is still awaiting the arrive of the ambassador from the Hague. His flight was much delayed.'

'I see ... Well, thank you.'

'At your service, Monsieur.'

He thought, as he walked away slowly now across the great cavern of a hall, that a special military flight would only be arriving late if it had taken off late. Might Ellermet have been held up by his own people, might they have been putting a squeeze on him before they sent him on his way?

Sophie might have an answer: and it would be an excuse to ring her in her office....

He wouldn't, though.

'Mr Ozzard?'

Lieutenant-General Wassard, Danish army, Director of the International Military Staff, had stopped in front of him. Chris would have walked right into him if the Dane hadn't seen him bearing down.

'Sorry, General. You caught me sending up a short prayer.'

'Be careful. They'll catch it on one of their goddamn satellites.'




Chapter Five


The sea had come up a bit and the wind, which had veered to south-south-west during the last hour, was blowing spray that streamed off the ranging crests of white-streaked green. Beautiful to look at, in this bright, sparkling weather, and no discomfort in it at all - not at any rate for Devon with her two pairs of stabilisers. She wasn't feeling it at all. Baden, however, small and unstabilised, was rhythmically stopping to dip her long foc'sl into it, spooning up the green stuff and tossing back white froth to decorate her graceful length: length that was shortening now from this angle of view as Devon came up on the squadron's quarter at twenty knots, smashing the little waves aside, closing in to take station two cables' lengths astern of the German. She'd been the last of the three ships in the second division to shoot at the sleeve target, and during this Gunex the other four had completed their fuelling from White Rover, now Devon was rejoining the formed squadron on a course of 230 degrees, south-westward, more or less right into wind and sea.

Ashton said quietly into the helmsman's microphone, 'Revolutions one-five-zero. Starboard ten.'

'Starboard ten, sir ... One-five-zero revolutions passed, sir.'

There were rev indicators here in the front of the bridge, so you could see how quickly and how accurately the order reached the engine-room watchkeepers and was acted on. Not in the engine-room as in the old days, but in the MCO, the machinery control room. Engineers didn't stand bathed in sweat on steel gratings nowadays; they sat behind a console-desk of switches, dials, pushbuttons.

Ashton was easing her in astern of the squadron, tucking her stem into the creamy froth of Baden's wake. 150 revolutions would give about eighteen knots, so he'd be cutting the speed again in a minute, as soon as he had her in station. The Commodore had put himself, Fermenger, as the leading ship of an imaginary centre column, stationing Marnix on his port beam with Alvarez Pereira and Jylland in line-astern of her, and Winnipeg leading Baden and now Devon in a starboard column. So he was centrally placed for when the squadron hove-to and lowered boats to send their captains over.

It looked like being a dampish boat trip, Comerford thought.

'Midships.'

'Midships, sir.'

'Revolutions one-two-six. Port five.'

'Port five, sir - one-two-six revs passed -'

'Steer two-two-nine.' Ashton glanced round at his navigating officer. 'Presumably we'll have an alteration to starboard before we heave-to.'

To give a lee to the boats. Comerford nodded, glanced at Oram, who was officer of the watch. 'Starboard side, then. You could tip off the First Lieutenant.' Sub-Lieutenant Wally Beale, and OOW, saw both of them looking at him: he hesitated, then the penny dropped, and he moved towards the telephones on the port side. Alec Holliday said as he came up the port-side steps, 'Don't bother - he knows. We're all awake down there, you know.' Oram told Beale - who was looking confused now - 'Belay that.' Beale hung the phone on its stand again: he wasn't stupid, but he had a tendency to daydream and then he went off the wavelength. Comerford made a mental note to administer some shock-treatment: but not in Ashton's presence.

Devon was in station now and the squadron was a hollow rectangle of ships moving at fifteen knots. Sea gleaming in the sunshine, shiny-green with wind-driven spray like fringes flying from its crests. He swung his glasses round slowly. The smoke on the port bow hung over an eastbound freighter, and on the beam was a passenger ship, probably a ferry bound for Gothenburg, which had passed ahead of the squadron half an hour ago. Some little fishing boats were hull-down and well clear; but the spy trawler was still with them, on the port quarter and steering west across the squadron's sterns, about five miles away. Anticipating, perhaps, that the next move would be westward? They'd leave the trawler behind quickly enough once they started the transit in earnest.

Holliday had moved up to stand near Ashton. 'I'm ready to take over when you want me to, sir.'

'Yes.'

Ashton wasn't in the sunniest of moods. The surface shoot this morning had been disappointing enough, but this afternoon's, the anti-aircraft Gunex, had been strikingly bad. Baden had done well, Winnipeg hadn't missed a trick, and Devon, who reckoned herself to have the edge on the rest of the squadron in the gunnery department, wouldn't have hit the sleeve target if it had been a static zeppelin. Those had been Holliday's words. Five minutes ago Doug Cooper had come up to the bridge and told Ashton there was undoubtedly some fault in the MRS control system and that he and his CEAs were working flat out to trace it. Ashton had asked him coldly, 'The Gunex performance this morning suggested you might have some error somewhere. What did you do about it then - anything?'

Cooper had nodded. 'Might've been better off if I hadn't, sir. It's all my silly fault, I'm afraid. I rather jumped to what seemed an obvious conclusion. I thought it was an MV problem, and -well, probably over corrected for that, and it's obviously something else entirely.'

Ashton sat still, looking at him. Cooper knew perfectly well that George Henry disliked having the details of technical failures spelt out to him, but he still had to go on with it. MV, muzzle velocity, is calculated on barrel wear and modified by temperature and pressure conditions; he'd decided that one of the MV corrections was being applied the wrong way, thus doubling a small latent error. Having changed it he'd expected the AA shoot to be a good one. Now, his theory having been proved wrong, he was starting again from scratch and going through every stage of the control system.

'Seems rather a hit-or-miss approach to maintenance?'

'As I said, it's entirely my fault.' Unruffled, genial, wanting only to get below and back into the pursuit of this latest 'wobbly'. A bit puzzled, Comerford could see, at Ashton's wanting all the details.

One could guess the reason for it. George Henry would shortly be hobnobbing with the Commodore and with his fellow captains, and it wasn't unlikely that he'd have his leg pulled. He'd have liked to have had some simple - if possible, crushing - answer ready for them.

The Commodore has signalled that seconds-in-command were to take charge of ships during this conference, and carry out man-overboard practices and internal drills. Gahan wasn't a man for having ships hang around doing nothing: even so, it seemed he might be anticipating a long meeting. If there was so much to discuss, a logical assumption might be that the squadron would be heading for a showdown with the Soviets.

Pete Hayes, the 'Senior' -second-in-command of the engine-room department - had muttered over his soup at lunch in the wardroom, 'Better than frigging around after wretched Icelandic gunboats, wouldn't it?' Hayes was a quiet, balding, much-married man with about five children. Comerford agreed with him about the Icelandic business. So did most people: including Bruce Fry, the Flight Commander: he'd looked up from a pork chop that he was hacking at as if it was a lump of wood.

'You can say that again, Pete. Except the bums in Whitehall who were so keen for us to beat up the Icelanders might get cold feet over Kara class cruisers?'

'Fortunately -' 'Pay', the Commander (Supply) had just joined them - 'fortunately our Foreign Office won't get the chance to bugger this one up. It's up to their excellencies in Brussels, isn't it?'

Comerford suggested to Martin Pentecost, the Paymaster, 'Dare say the FCO could still shove an oar in, though.'

'Exactly what they are.' Fry put his knife and fork down. 'I give up. The tensile strength of this ex-pig defies dismemberment with hand-took. Wish to God we could mess as well as the ship's company do.' He nodded at Comerford. 'That's what they are, Frank, in Whitehall. A lot of 'ores in bowler 'ats.'

'Actually -' a voice from further down the table - 'very few of them wear such things nowadays.'

'Ah.' Comerford nodded to Sam Ozzard. 'I'm sure nobody was talking about the Ministry of Defence, in any case.'

The Flight Commander shook his head. 'Heavens, no. Cross me 'eart and------'

'The old man's been shifted, anyway. He's not in MOD now.'

'Oh God.' Fry looked anxious. 'Please don't tell me they've drafted him to the Foreign Office?'

'No, I won't tell you that.' Ozzard waved an envelope. 'Only just heard - in the mail you brought. They've sent him to Brussels, to a NATO job he was doing a few years ago. He's filling in for some character who's gone sick. He's Assistant Secretary-General for Defence Planning and Policy. I think it means he'll be fairly heavily involved in this fuss.'

'Crikey.' Pete Hayes leant back, with a hand to his bald head. 'Anything like you, is he?'

A string of colour had run to Fermenger's yardarm and Comerford, focusing his glasses on it at the same time as the Captain and Gilbert Oram raised theirs, identified the blue-and-white stripes of the turn pendant at the top of it: then below it the green-white-red of the starboard pendant, and flag 4 and----- Yeoman Dyson beat him to it. 'Turn forty-five degrees to starboard, sir!'

'Very good.'

Ashton lowered his binoculars. Devon's own answering pendant would be close up now, meaning 'signal understood', and so was Baden's, right ahead of them, and Jylland's on Devon's port beam; it was just running close up now on the Portuguese frigate ahead of Jutland. A 45-degree turn to starboard would turn the squadron away from the wind and as Ashton had predicted a few minutes ago it would provide a lee, shelter for the lowering of seaboats on the ships' starboard sides.

Now an American voice came crackling over the R/T. The set was in the lower starboard area of the bridge, the part the communicators used.

'Crow, this is Spaniel. Over.'

PO Dyson cleared his throat. 'Spaniel, this is Crow. Loud an' clear. Over.'

'Crow. This is Spaniel. When we heave-to, Commodore proposes you should call with your boat at Baden for Captain Kreis en route to Fermenger. Over.'

Ashton called out to his yeoman, 'Say "with great pleasure".' Dyson passed it. Spaniel asked Eagle if he'd got that, and Helmut Kreis, who as the most fluent English-speaker in the ship he commanded nearly always came on the R/T in person, said 'You are most kind, Crow. Over.'

'Fox, this is Spaniel. Over,'

'This is Fox. You wish me to stop by for Puma? Over.'

Puma was the R/T call-sign for Alvarez Pereira. Spaniel said yes, that had been in his mind, since Fox mentioned it. Fox said in his Scandinavian-lilting English that he'd be very glad to do so, and Puma expressed gratitude.

'Elephant, Moose, this is Spaniel. Your boats should be clear of my side before the other two make it. Over.'

Comerford heard the hiss and thump of a signal arriving through the air-tube from the Communications Office. Dyson, still occupied with the R/T, had told his killick signalman of the watch to see to it. Now he'd signed off on the telephone, and at the same moment that alteration-of-course signal dropped from the flagship's yardarm.

'Executive, sir!'

'Starboard fifteen.' This was a turn, as opposed to a wheel, and it would change the formation of the squadron from a rectangle to a diamond. Winnipeg would now become the leading ship with Baden and Devon in quarterline from her to starboard and Fermenger and Marnix in quarterline to port. Alvarez Pereira would be dead astern of the flagship and Jylland, at the tail-end of the diamond, astern of Winnipeg. All seven ships were swinging round simultaneously: and a new flag-hoist had whipped up to the American's yardarm.

'Midships.'

Dyson called up to the central bridge/Speed zero, sir!'

'Very good. Port wheel, steer two-seven-five.'

The heave-to signal wouldn't become an order to act on until the Commodore made it executive by hauling it down. And Pereira's answering pendant wasn't close up yet. Ashton told Alec Holliday over his shoulder, 'Take over please, Alec.' He added, 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do.'

'You can count on it, sir.' The Commander's eyes were on that flag-hoist. The squadron had settled into its new shape, except that Baden was ahead of station and would presumably be reducing speed in order to drop back to where she should be. Ashton looked at Comerford: 'We'd better not keep the boat waiting. Got your charts?'

He had - rolled in polythene for protection against spray when they were in the boat. He also had his lifejacket, and he fished it out of the corner and began to struggle into it. Ash ton's chief steward was at the bottom of the steps with another. Dyson called, 'Executive, sir!'

Holliday said into the wheelhouse microphone, 'Stop both engines.'

'Stop both engines, sir!'

As Ashton turned to go down the port-side steps, Leading Signalman Hallet came up on the starboard side with a signal on his clipboard. Ashton had glanced at him vaguely and moved on: Hallet said, 'Captain, sir - important -'

'Damn it. All right.' He took the board, frowned at the words scrawled on the signal form. A 'hot' signal, straight from the MCO in the receiving operator's scrawl. Ashton's eyebrows rose slightly: now he'd handed it back to the signalman. 'Show it to the Commander.' He went quickly down the steps, snatching his lifejacket from the steward: Thank you, Chief.' In the port-side passage, pounding aft - like, Comerford thought, a Yeti on urgent business - he bawled over his shoulder. 'That's from SACLANT repeated CINCEASTLANT. In the event of Fermenger being zapped, Devon becomes flagship.'

Capped... Americanisms even before we're in the boat? It was only that the word sounded odd, coming from Ashton who was so very English. A contradictory character, George Henry ...

Supreme Allied Commander Atlantic's signal wouldn't have said anything about anyone being 'zapped'. It would have stated that in the event of Commodore Gahan becoming incapacitated Captain Ashton would assume command of the squadron. Something like that, Comerford and Ashton were side by side, holding the wire rail on Devon's, quarter where Maunsell had had the ladder rigged; they watched the motorboat with its dayglo-jacketed crew come rolling, bouncing towards the ladder's dangling foot. Lying stopped, the ship was rolling quite a bit. The motorboat was sheltered by her bulk towering over it, but it was still shooting up and dropping ten or fifteen feet each way as ship and boat moved in opposite directions. The gap between them varied too, according to Devon's roll. You had to climb down the chain-and-wood ladder, pause near the highest point of the boat's rise, then nip over smartly as it reached the top. In fact you had to be a second or two ahead of that, because if you were at all late or slow in making the move the boat would have fallen away before you could get into it. Which could have embarrassing results - in bad weather, highly dangerous ones.

Ashton, sitting ramrod-straight in the sternsheets, shouted up to the boat's coxswain as he swung his craft off the side, 'A pint of beer for you, cox'n, if I don't get my trousers wet!'

'Aye aye, sir.' The coxswain nodded. But he'd be either very clever or very lucky if he was going to win that pint. 'Do me best, sir.'

'You know we're to call at Baden?' 'Aye, sir.' The coxswain's eyes were on the sea up near Devon's bow where in a few moments he'd be driving his boat out of her lee. He'd need to have her bow-on to the direction of the wind, if he was going to keep her dry: so he'd steer well out now and be on that upwind course before he crossed her bow: and that way he'd be pointing right at Baden, who'd been on Devon's port bow when the squadron had hove-to. What was more, he'd be in a position to hold that course until they were in Baden's lee. Ashton, looking up at him, seeing him smiling complacently as he thought it out and decided it wasn't going to be difficult at all, called out to him, 'The tricky bit will be when we leave Baden!' 'Reckon we'll manage, sir.'

'Buy me a pint if you don't?'

The coxswain glanced down at him. 'It's your trousers, sir.'

Ashton was laughing. Comerford wondered whether it was the prospect of some excitement that was lessening his reserve. If so, a vote of thanks to Leningrad----The boat was out in the wind now, bow-on to it, scooting and crashing over the waves, the coxswain leaning forward, slit-eyed, making sure of it. It wouldn't be the pint of beer so much as the bet itself and the challenge to his professional competence: and already they were feeling the shelter of the German's lee, the coxswain grinning to himself now as he steered straight for the jumping-ladder where a group of men stood watching the boat's approach----Comerford saw Ashton look up sharply: he'd opened his mouth as if he was going to say something to the coxswain and had then thought better of it: now he was staring anxiously at Baden's low freeboard looming up ahead much too rapidly for comfort, and Comerford thought he was right, that they were going to muff it badly: then suddenly the motorboat seemed to lose all her way - all at once, like a suddenly backed sail - and she'd swung in a fast pivoting movement, stopped alongside - as perfectly, as smartly as it could have been done, her gunwale four inches from the destroyer's dark-grey paintwork, fenders and boathooks there in the nick of time.

Comerford heard Ashton mutter, 'I'll be damned.' Helmut Kreis, dropping into the sternsheets, resettled his high-fronted cap and waved a hand towards the lieutenant-commander who'd accompanied him.

'Kapitan-leutnant Braun you know, Captain?'

'Indeed I do.' Ashton smiled pleasantly as he acknowledged Braun's salute. 'How are you, Commander?'

'I am very well, sir, thank you."

'And you, Helmut? How's tricks?'

The motorboat's bowman had slung Baden's bag of mail to a German sailor who'd come halfway down the ladder for it, and he'd grabbed it, passed it on to reaching hands above him. Kreis smiled as he sat down beside Ashton. He had a face that seemed to be all chin and cheekbones. 'So you are postmen too. Many thanks ... I think, George, the trick will be not to become too wet now?'

'No chance of that.' Ashton's eyes met the coxswain's. He nodded. 'Carry on, please.' He looked back, poker-faced, at Kreis. 'We won't ship a drop. Care to bet on it?'

"Speaking for myself, I always enjoy these reunions.'

It was his way of speaking as much as his appearance that gave Harry T. Gahan his likeness to John Wayne. He'd just lowered his powerful frame into the chair at the end of the table, and he was glancing round at his assembled captains. 'And this one, I guess, is somewhat special. That's to say, it looks like we may be in business soon for real.' He leant back, putting a flame to his cigarette. He'd already passed them round, but had found the Canadian, Hynes, and Femenger's captain, Pete Bruckner, his only customers. Joao de Oliveria, the swarthy man who commanded Alvarez Pereira, had accepted one of Joe Wentholt's Dutch cigars, Captain Anker Krabbe of Jylland didn't smoke, Helmut Kreis was stuffing a pipe, and Ashton had lit an English cigarette. Behind the Commodore on chairs set back from the table sat his staff: Rolf Aars, the Norwegian three-striper who was CSO, Chief Staff Officer; Hans Schmuckle, the German Staff Officer Operations; Alex van Hartogh, Dutch, the Staff ASWO - Anti-Submarine Warfare Officer; and the redheaded Lieutenant-Commander Tim Barnes, Royal Navy, Staff Communications Officer. There was a side-table near them, and Comerford had put his charts and notebook on it; there were only two other non-COs present, Braun from Baden and Garry Roberts from Winnipeg. This was a big cabin, occupying the whole area under Fermenger's bridge, so it had windows on three sides. But it was pretty full with this crowd spread around the two tables - and one more now as the Commodore's secretary, Lieutenant Julius Black USN, pulled a chair up on Comerford's right.

'Don't you care for tea, Daryl?'

Daryl Hynes, captain of Winnipeg, shook his crewcut head. A short, stocky Canadian with small, hard eyes; when he looked at you it was as if he was trying to decide where to land the first blow.

'No sir, Commodore, I do not.'

'Didn't they offer you some bog juice?'

'Ah -' Hynes's small eyes widened momentarily - 'They did not have that temerity, sir.'

Everyone laughed, except for Ashton, who murmured with his eyes on the deckhead, smoke curling from his lips, 'Bog juice. My God.' Gahan told him, 'You just don't have an educated palate, George.' Bog juice was a non-alcoholic liquid that came in two colours, red and green, and got served up with meals in US warships. The red, in Comerford's view, tasted like cough-mixture and the green like disinfectant. The other choices available in Femenger's wardroom were iced tea and iced water, and the consensus of opinion among non-Americans was that the water was safest if you had to drink anything at all.

'Well now.' Gahan leant forward with his forearms carrying his weight on the table. 'The situation in which we find ourselves at present is as follows. The Soviets have seen fit to declare a large piece of the north-east Atlantic exclusive to Warsaw Pact ships, and stated that all vessels of other nationalities are prohibited from entering it.' He snorted. 'Which of course is a load of crap, and I believe you will all agree there are only two alternatives before us. One, the Soviets back down. Two, we have a state of confrontation and if we aren't damn careful, of war.'

Helmut Kreis broke the silence: 'That is one hell of a word, sir.'

'Sure it is. And we will be very careful. But would you suggest a better word for it?'

'I would not interfere with the Commodore's choice of words. I think for myself, though, I would settle for the "confrontation".'.

'Fine, Captain. But if both sides stand their ground and the Soviets are not careful then there isn't a hell of a lot of difference, is there?' He glanced over his shoulder. 'Who has that transcript?'

'Here, sir.' Tim Barnes leant over, and Gahan took a typed sheet from him. 'Thank you ... I will now read to you, gentlemen, a translation of a broadcast that was put out on Moscow radio two hours ago and which has since been relayed to us by SACLANT.' He paused, glancing up at them. 'I suggest you hold on to your seats.'

Ashton leant forward, with his eyes on Gahan. Joe Wentholt removed the cigar from his mouth and frowned at the wet end of it. A solid, red-faced man. Kreis had his head back, eyes narrowed, fixed on the Commodore. Daryl Hynes's head was lowered, eyes gleaming under the thick black brows. De Oliveira leant with elbows on the table, hands cupped round his blue-black jowls. Pete Bruckner, the American, was relaxed, wearing the look of mild amusement he always seemed to have when he was listening to Harry T. He was a quiet man, philosophical, more like a young professor than a missile-ship's captain. Anker Krabbe sat bolt upright, immobile and tense, brown eyes steady on the big man at the end of the table.

Gahan cleared his throat: then he read out in his slow, quiet voice, As little as one month ago the militaristic Western Alliance; NATO, carried out naval, military and air-force war practice on a huge and provocative ' scale, reaching at times close to the borders of certain nations of the Warsaw Pact and so crowding the North Atlantic ocean with warships of all types, including many carrying missiles, that legitimate cargo-carrying vessels of peace-loving countries were in several instances placed in danger. In the face of such openly threatening displays, inevitably directed against the USSR, it is necessary for the security of the peoples of the USSR that their fleets should also be in a position to conduct training exercises, and an announcement has consequently been made, through appropriate channels of international maritime communication, giving warning that naval and naval-air operations will be carried out, commencing a i September, in one clearly defined area of the north-east Atlantic. The statement of positive geographical limits.is in accordance with the desire of the Soviet Government and people that no harm should come to vessels of other nations legitimately employed in the purposes of world trade. It is all the more astonishing therefore that the Soviet announcement has been greeted by the aggressive NATO powers with howls of protest, recrimination and even threats that NATO ships might be sent to disrupt the conduct of the manoeuvres. The Government of the USSR emphatically rejects these threats and the attempt to prevent the testing of Soviet ships, aircraft and equipment, and the training of Soviet sailors and airmen, which is so evidently essential for the defence of the Soviet homeland. The NATO powers are warned that the Soviet Northern Fleet and elements of the Soviet Naval Air Force will be conducting practices as has already been announced, that these practices will include the firing of missiles, and that due notice having been given nothing will be permitted to interfere with the programme. Should NATO-commanded ships or aircraft, or ships or aircraft of individual NATO powers enter the area in question, they will be placing themselves in the gravest danger and no responsibility for their safety will be accepted by the Government of the USSR.

Gahan dropped the transcript on the table in front of him. Nobody spoke: you could hear ship-noises, sea-sounds, feel the list as Fermenger heeled to a turn and then the abrupt cessation of vibration as her engines were stopped. Picking up a 'man overboard', Comerford guessed. The 'man' would be a dummy or a buoy.

Anker Krabbe slapped the edge of the table, and laughed. All the others looked at him. He said, 'By God, but they are twisters] They are making it us - NATO - who are wrong!'

'I think we could have expected that much.' Gahan nodded. 'The point I want to make is simply this: that we have all of us to accept this thing as being for real. The diplomats may find some way out or they may not - that's their business - but right here and now, and henceforth unless we hear differently, we - STANAVFORLANT -are heading for where there is likely to be some action.'

Ashton asked, 'Do we have orders to enter that area?'

'As of this moment - no, we do not. But the NATO Council -is meeting in Brussels this afternoon and we should get word pretty ' soon. With luck, maybe, before you go back -to your own ships. In any event we have two days in hand before the deadline of midnight twenty-first, and my orders are to have the squadron in a position ten miles due east of Position Alfa at 2000 hours twenty-first. Now Alfa is the north-east corner of the area they're saying is theirs. Then going clockwise, the south-east corner is Bravo, south-west is Charlie, north-west is Delta.' He swung round towards the navigator's table: 'Got that?'

They had, and the captains who'd come unaccompanied were making their own notes. Harry T. went on, 'At that time and place we are to rendezvous with a tanker - no name yet - and immediately RAS. So by the time the deadline strikes we'll be on the spot to enter the area and with full fuel-tanks. The same tanker will remain with us and operate with us and she will of course require escort when she's in that area. But she'll be available to the French - well, I'll come to that a little later on----Now, during the transit westward we'll be having some Gunex and radar tracking exercises. The Norwegian port visits have been cancelled, of course, but otherwise we'll be continuing the work-up programme so far as circumstances permit. In fact right inside that area, unless we're interfered with, normal training activities will be carried on.... Commander Aars here -' he glanced back at his CSO - 'Rolf, you have the exercise programme on paper, am I right?'

'I have copies for everybody, sir.' The Norwegian was a gloomy-looking man. Except that he always looked like that and that US naval ships were dry, you'd have thought he might have a hangover. Actually he was a great asset to a party, as Devon's wardroom had discovered a couple of weeks ago in Den Helder. He added, 'Some of the serials have not yet been confirmed, sir, as you know.'

'Yeah. But they will be, I'd guess. It's the target-towing aircraft out of Scotland we haven't heard about yet, right?"

'That is correct, sir.'

'Well, you'll have this amended programme to take away with you, gentlemen. The first Gunex is tomorrow forenoon, though, and we're leaving the dark hours clear to tonight and tomorrow night you'll get some unaccustomed rest. I suggest we all make the most of it since I don't suppose any of us is likely to get much from here on.... Now, we can expect to be shadowed. There's a pack of about sixteen Soviet and East German trawlers at this moment in the vicinity of the Shetlands. They are not fishing and they have the usual equipment and I'd say it's likely they'll be deployed to cover the approaches to the area. We may also be honoured with visits from the soviet Naval Air Force - Badgers, Bears, Blinders maybe. With any luck we may see a few of our own too.'

The Commodore flattened his cigarette stub under the ball of his thumb. Comerford had seen him do that before, and had expected a smell of scorching flesh: but Gahan hide was evidently fireproof. He'd put another Came"! in his mouth and he was lighting it. From over their heads came the occasional shout as helmsman and lee helm acknowledged manoeuvring orders. The steering of Fermenger was done from the bridge itself, not from down in the snip's guts as it was in Devon. Gahan expelled smoke powerfully from his nostrils. He said, 'I doubt they'll send us the Rules of Engagement for a day or so, but let me tell you now that our general purpose will be solely to establish a NATO presence. We know - because they're already at sea, and maybe that's only an advance party - we know there will be Soviet ships exercising. And we'll keep out of their hair so long as we can do so without being pushed out of the area. What matters is to be there - nothing else.... Oh well, one other function we may be tasked with. What SACLANT has requested the DPC should authorise is for this squadron to deploy in the disputed area and stay in it until the Soviet claim to it is withdrawn, and also that we should provide escort and safe passage through the area to any vessel of any nationality which may request or stand in need of such escort.' He looked round at them. 'Could keep us a little busy. I don't know. Could be a lot of ships'll be rerouted. Shouldn't be, but it could. And now this thing I started to talk about before - it's likely we'll be supported by a French squadron out of Brest. I don't have any information as to what kind of ships or how many of 'em, or whether they'd come under my command or not. My hope would be to have them operating in co-operation and maybe to my orders but on their own as a TU.'

TU stood for Task Unit.

'Having said all that, here's a somewhat contradictory point I have to make. We'll be getting this French group - incidentally they'll be routed around the south of Ireland and up to position Bravo, and we'll most likely start by meeting up with them so they can RAS from our tanker - we'll be getting them, but that's all. It's a French initiative, not something anyone else has asked for. The intention is that this squadron in establishing a presence will be doing so in a representative capacity, not at all in the sense of a show of force. Nor will there be any suggestion from our side that we're aiming to force a showdown or start a shooting war. This is very, very important, gentlemen. Whatever the Rules of Engagement are when we get them, you can bet they'll be accenting the cautious approach. It is not unlikely, therefore, that before this thing's over we'll be called upon to exercise extreme forbearance in the face of Soviet provocation. And we can not, repeat not, expect the US Cavalry to come galloping to our rescue if we're being pushed around a little.'

'Ah - excuse me, Commodore.' The Portuguese, de Oliveira, wanted to interrupt. Gahan nodded to him pleasantly. 'Go ahead, Captain.'

'I am wondering - you say US Cavalry -' he smiled, to show he knew it was a joke, then stopped smiling just as abruptly - 'but perhaps the Carrier Strike Force------'

'Not a hope in hell.'

'Not?'

They should switch the R/T call-signs, Comerford thought. De Oliveira, not the Commodore, ought to be 'Spaniel'. He had that droopy, baggy-faced look. Gahan was explaining to him, 'Admiral Lassiter might feel inclined to, but he's hog-tied. To start with, as I've just said, the NATO attitude is to be firm, but strictly non-escalatory. Second, no national force - which includes the Strike Fleet - is under SACLANT command until the nation concerned allocates that force to him. This wouldn't happen anywhere short of a general alert. Before a general alert, Admiral Lassiter can't move his carriers without presidential authority.' Gahan stared down the table at Alvarez Pereira's captain through a cloud of his own cigarette smoke. Either he was wondering whether the Portuguese was understanding much of what he was saying, or that rather distant look came from letting his mind roam several thousand miles to Norfolk, Virginia, to the neat rows of slab-like World War 2 brick buildings with their neat green lawns and the winter-flowering camellia hedges, and among them the NATO building with its inevitable fifteen flagpoles and the shiny cannon dating back to - what, the Spanish-American War? Black US Marine Corps guards in white gloves directing traffic: more of them inside, manning the quarterdeck desk where they'd check your pass or ask your business. Upstairs, after you'd passed rows and rows of unpretentious, boxlike offices, you'd come to Lassiter's own unpretentious suite: and inside it you'd find the man himself, the Supreme Allied Commander Atlantic who, like these men round a table in the Skagerrak, would be waiting anxiously for a decision to come out of Brussels. 'He's in a straitjacket.' Gahan nodded. 'Believe me. Even with a general alert he'd need presidential authority.'

'Ah.' The Portuguese looked even sadder. Ashton cleared his throat, and asked, 'The presidential authority that's the key to it -one imagines that circumstances could arise in which it would -would not be withheld?'

Gahan stared at him. Comerford thought it had been a peculiar question: then he saw Pete Bruckner chuckling and Ashton's unnaturally blank look, and realised that he was being sarcastic, teasing the Commodore. Gahan's eyes drifted around, settled again on the Englishman.

'Yeah. While I think of it, George, that was about the lousiest Gunex you did this afternoon that I ever saw.'

Helmut Kreis burst out laughing. The Dane smiled, shook his head as if he was listening to children quarrelling. Daryl Hynes said, grinning, 'Can't win 'em all, George.' Gahan hadn't changed his expression; he went on in his low drawl, 'You'll have taken my points, I hope, as a general appraisal of the situation we're facing. In short, we'll be on our own and we will act in as unprovocative a manner as circumstances allow. Now let's have some details on the transit, exercise schedules, communications.' He looked round at his Norwegian CSO: 'Rolf- shoot first, will you?'

At the end of the enormous conference room, interpreters watched from a glass-fronted balcony above the doors. Below them, seemingly elliptical from their angle of sight, the round hollow-centred table was surrounded by the ambassadors of fifteen sovereign states. Each ambassador had an advisor or two behind him, and a microphone on the table in front of him.

It was the new man from the Netherlands at whom the Secretary-General, who was sitting at the far end of the table, facing die glassed-in gallery, was looking now: at whom most of the other Permanent Representatives were also looking.

Sir Jocelyn Dean was one of them, Chris noticed. Sir Jocelyn was wearing his most bland cher collegue expression. Hoping to God, no doubt, that this new fellow wasn't the shit he was cracked up to be. Adam Carlsson, the US Ambassador, was one of the few who had not been looking at the Dutchman during the latter's attempts to catch the Secretary-General's eye. Perhaps Carlsson was too sure already of what was coming? He and the Englishman had already spoken; Sir Jocelyn had proposed that the Standing Naval Force should be deployed in that disputed area of the Atlantic, and Carls-son had added his government's view that such a course was not only desirable but imperative. All round the table there'd been nods and murmurs of agreement.

Chris was sitting on the Secretary-General's left and he had his own staff, including Michelson, behind him. The new delegate from the Hague was directly opposite, occupying a position at about seven o'clock - if you took the Secretary-General's end as being twelve o'clock. Chris saw Hugo van Pallendt and another of the Netherlands team behind Ellermet. Van Pallendt looked depressed.

The Secretary-General intoned, 'The distinguished Ambassador of the Netherlands.'

Ellermet leant forward and bent the microphone's flexible support to bring it a little closer. He was a pale, nervy man and he had peculiarly staring eyes. Floppy, boyish hair fell over his forehead so that he was constantly pushing it back. His eyebrows were extremely mobile and they were raised now as he looked across at the Secretary-General. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt; an inch of handkerchief showed at the suit's top pocket. The similarity of his attire to that of all the other ambassadors might have been what was giving Sir Jocelyn Dean, who was a believer in the 'outward sign', his last-minute hopes.

'Mr Chairman ...'

Ellermet was looking stern now, Chris noted. Frowning slightly, nodding rapidly as if to express agreement in advance with whatever he was about to say.

'We have before us the proposal from the Ambassador of the United Kingdom and support for that proposal by the Ambassador of the United States. We have also a statement broadcast a short "time ago on Moscow radio: at least, / have, and I have also seen a transcript on display in your Situation Centre just now, but I have this copy here and in case some of your Excellencies may not have had the opportunity to consider it I should like to read it to you now.'

Sir Jocelyn glanced at Adam Carlsson, on his left. On Carlsson's aides side the Secretary-General sat staring with a polite lack of interest at the Dutchman. Carlsson, meeting Sir Jocelyn's glance, had moved one eyebrow slightly, and sighed. Sir Jocelyn raised his head and looked across the table at his cher collegue from Bonn; the German, sitting at four o'clock, had just thrown a glance of despair at the Frenchman on his right.

Ellermet was reading out the text of the Soviet broadcast. He was nodding a lot and he seemed to be putting a great deal of feeling into it. He'd come to the end of it now, though.

'- no responsibility for their safety will be accepted by the Government of the USSR.'

Ellermet moved that page aside and put the rest of his notes on top of it. His hands, resting on the table, opened in a gesture of helplessness.

'I find myself at a loss. It seems to me self-evident that if NATO can hold the exercises, the Warsaw Pact countries are entitled to do the same? In Helsinki it was agreed that notice of intentions to conduct such exercises should be given in advance, and this is what the government of the USSR has done, surely? I find myself at a loss because I cannot comprehend the attitude of the Ambassador of the United Kingdom or that of the Ambassador of the United States. I do not understand why there should be resentment of the Soviet Union's intentions, and even more so now, particularly at a time when the entire world - oh well, perhaps I should say most of the rest of the world, and certainly the Soviet Union itself- is working day and night in sincere attempts to implement not only the letter but also the spirit of Helsinki----No. I consider the proposal to send the Standing Naval Force to disrupt these perfectly legitimate Soviet naval exercises is unjustified, dangerous in the extreme, and, in the sense that such provocation and resultant confrontation could well lead to the outbreak of full-scale war, highly irresponsible.'

He looked up from his notes, directly at the Secretary-General. Shaking his head now ... 'Mr Secretary-General, the government of the Netherlands could never agree to proposals such as the one before this Council today. My government considers that NATO, if it is to serve any useful purpose at all, must be a force for peace, for co-operation not only between states but also between systems, and never, never for such acts of aggression as the one proposed.'

Apparently he'd finished. And the meeting, Chris thought, might just as well adjourn. They weren't going to achieve anything today around this table - where, heaven knew, so much had been achieved. All the other bits of machinery would have to be activated now: pressure here on Ellermet, pressure on the Hague government from all the different capitals, and the preparation of a non-NATO naval force.

He'd expected this, but it still made him feel sick to see and hear it happening.

'The distinguished Ambassador of the Federal Republic of Germany.'

Chris had noticed that the Secretary-General only inserted the adjective 'distinguished' when he was feeling particularly expansive. In this case it might have been a sign of his relief at having for the time being heard the last of Ellermet. The German, Herr Otto Heusinger, a small man with one of the most luxuriant heads of hair in an assembly where baldness or at least partial baldness seemed to be the norm, was quietly expressing the view that the Ambassador of the Netherlands" had evidently not grasped the essentials of the issue facing the Alliance. Nobody, Heusinger pointed out, had the slightest objection to the Soviets conducting naval exercises, or to their issuing notices of intention to hold such manoeuvres and specifying the areas in which they would take place. What the Soviets had done that was objectionable was that they had seen fit to attempt to bar the world's shipping from a huge area of international waters. They had no right to do this, and the attempt must be resisted--- Ellermet smiling, shaking his head - as if he'd caught the German ambassador trying to pull a fast one and wasn't going to let him get away with it. And the Secretary-General had given the floor to the Ambassador of France.

'The President and government of France agree wholeheartedly with the proposals for the establishment of a NATO presence in the area which the USSR has given notice it would like to steal from the international community of nations.' Anatole de Bosque glanced across the bottom segment of the round table at the new Dutch ambassador. He looked away again with only the mildest expression of distaste: perhaps with faint surprise as well, though, at finding such a creature in his presence. He told the Secretary-General, 'My government desires me to inform the Council that irrespective of the decision taken here today, warships of the navy of France will of a certainty be deployed in the area in question. Should there be an attack on one or more of them under any circumstances whatever, all concerned should be aware that in accordance with Articles 5 and 6 of the North Atlantic Treaty, such a violation of civilised international conduct would be deemed an attack on all 15 members of me Alliance. Monsieur the Ambassador of the Netherlands, who has only so recently taken up his appointment and who, judging by his oration of a few minutes ago, may have some rather surprising gaps m his awareness of what constitutes normal conduct between nations, should perhaps be requested to note that in Article 5 it is stated that an armed attack against any one member of the Alliance shall be considered an attack against them all: and that in Article 6 it was made clear that such "armed attack" would include any attack on the forces, vessels or aircraft of the Parties.'

Ellermet indicated a desire to speak again, but the Frenchman hadn't finished. He suggested to the Secretary-General that it might be as well for what he had just said to-be brought to the attention of the Soviet government, and since Monsieur l'ambassadeur des Pays Bos had found himself able to bring to this NATO Council a message from the government or naval authorities, whatever it might be, of the Soviet Union, perhaps he would be agreeable similarly to convey this message to where that other one came from.

Several of the ambassadors chuckled. Adam Carlsson smiled warmly at Anatole de Bosque. The Secretary-General 'recognised' the Ambassador of the Netherlands. Ellermet, speaking quickly and angrily now, said that he was unwilling to believe that what he had been listening to could represent a deliberate attempt to misrepresent the perfectly legitimate actions of the government of the USSR....

Chris thought, Blackmail? Sophie had said, He could be blackmailed. Then she'd tried to take it back. But if she was right, wouldn't someone, somewhere, know how? 'Left standard rudder.'

'Left standard rudder, aye!'

The sailor behind Fermenger's wheel was tall, gangling, about nineteen. Flinging the wheel around, then yelling loudly like an old-time sailorman with a high wind's racket to shout down, 'Sir, my rudder is left fifteen degrees!'

'Very well.' Laconic acknowledgment from Tony Jacorelli, lieutenant jg, last of the junior officers doing this 'man overboard' stunt. Jacorelli had taken over from a young ensign named Thomp son, and Thompson had done a better job, Comerford thought, than Jacorelli was about to do.

Tim Barnes had brought Comerford up here, while Harry T. ended his conference with a private chat with his captains. All round the horizon ships were circling, dropping markers and picking them up again: and three miles from Fermenger on a north-westerly bearing the Mayak-class spy trawler was paddling slowly westward, actually inside the spread of the NATO squadron now.

Jacorelli, seeing his arrangements weren't going to work out, snapped, 'Rudder left twenty!'

'Left twenty, aye!'

'Engine stop!'

'Engine stop aye!' The shrieked acknowledgement came from lee helm. In a British ship he'd be called the telegraphman. In some areas, Comerford had observed, Americans clung more closely to the old traditional forms than the British did. He knew the names of these young officers, for instance, because when each finished his turn he made a formal report to the Exec, Dan Gregory, naming the officer who'd relieved him and now had the deck. Lee helm, a black sailor who seemed to be grinning all the time, had had his double buzz of acknowledgement on the console in front of him: he bawled, 'Answers engine stopped, sir!' 'Very well ... Rudder amidships.'

'Rudder amidships, aye! Sir, my rudder is amidships!'

'Engine back one-third.'

'Engine back one-third, sir!'

Dan Gregory, a pale, heavy-built man perched on the captain's seat, stared bleakly at the AGI. A few minutes ago he'd been murmuring confidentially to Comerford about some girl in Kiel, a Swedish widow. She'd almost fainted when she'd first seen him, Gregory said, on account he was the living image of her recently dead husband. They'd spent about forty-eight hours in bed together and he was out of his mind about her, even planning to leave his wife and family.

He looked sane enough. But good God, even Americans now, unfolding their personal problems to Frank Comerford--- 'Engine stop. Left full rudder.'

The wind had dropped while they'd been down below. It was as it had been in the morning, low swell and hardly any broken water.

'You have it all fouled up, Mr Jacorelli.' Dan's comment had been drowned in the screams of acknowledgement from helm and Ice helm. He'd said it again: and added, 'Take her right around and scan over, for Christ's sake.' He was staring round the bridge, glaring at each man in turn. It was a very spacious bridge, with a section CD its starboard side for the use of the Commodore and his staff. In die after bulkhead on that side was a door leading down to Harry T.'s quarters and also to Combat, which in Devon was called the Ops Room.

Dan Gregory asked Comerford, 'Like a coke, Frank?'

'Oh no, thanks.'

'Be no trouble.' He jerked his head towards a diminutive black bridge messenger. 'He'll fetch you one, if------'

'Really, thanks.'

'Okay.' Gregory looked at the messenger. 'You can go back to sleep, O'Hara.' He added, 'Long as I don't catch him at it... How was it down there? We goin' to war?'

'No word from Brussels yet. Council's meeting there this after-noon.' Comerford shrugged. 'But they'll have to use us, won't they?'

'Yeah.' Gregory looked at Barnes. 'That your view, Tim?'

We can't always back off, can we?'

'Okay, so they send us in. What then?'

Barnes shrugged. 'Your guess is as good as mine.'

Comerford was focusing binoculars on Devon. She was about four miles away, beam-on and stopped or nearly stopped. It was interesting to see one's own ship from the outside at sea; when you were in her you forgot what she looked like. He thought she was easily the most handsome ship in this squadron - despite Baden's prettiness....

He lowered the glasses. Gregory was checking on Jacorelli's new manoeuvring; now he'd turned back to the Britishers. 'Would you say that if we call the Soviets' bluff by going in there they'll back off?'

Comerford hung the glasses where he'd found them. Barnes said, Yes. If it is a bluff.'

'Well, I don't know.' The Exec spoke quietly. 'They learnt a lesson when Kennedy made Khrushchev pull out of Cuba. Lesson was Don't start anything you can't finish' He was staring at the AGI again, 'Translated into modern Soviet Russian that comes out as Don't make a move until you have such strength or position of advantage that you cannot lose. And they've been adhering to that rule, all right.'

'Those African------'

'Sure. They had it made, didn't they?'

'So you'd suppose they're expecting to win this one too?'

'Well ...' Gregory's eyes rested on the spy ship. It was just hanging around there, staying with the squadron, its white-painted superstructure clean-looking in the sun. He murmured, 'When I look at that thing, it's like I'm looking at a pair of eyes. Behind 'em what I see is - well, what do they have in their Northern Fleet? Just counting the big ones - the Karas, Krestas, Sverdlovs, Chapaevs - and Moskva's, there, that helo cruiser, not to mention Kiev ... Say what, fifteen, sixteen cruisers plus that pair?' He shrugged. 'Let's not think about how many DLGs. So  well, yeah; I'm supposing something like that, Frank, I guess.'

Checking on what Jacorelli was up to, he whistled. 'By God, looks like he has it about right, this time!'

Jacorelli threw him a slightly baleful glance.

'Rudder amidships. Engine back two-thirds.'

'Rudder amidships, aye!'

'Engine back two-thirds, aye!'

'Sir, my rudder is amidships!'

'Answers, engine back two-thirds, sir1.' 'Very well.' Jacorelli was peering for'ard through the glass front of the bridge, downwards at Fermenger's grey-painted foc'sl and the bright orange life-ring close now as the engine churning astern took the way off her. With a single-screwed ship like this it wouldn't be all that easy, Comerford thought; certainly she'd take a bit of getting used to. There was a jumping-ladder over the foc'sl on the starboard side and a sailor was getting set to climb down it and hook the ring up.

'Engine stop.'

'Engine stop, aye!'

Jacorelli was looking at the Exec, waiting for some word of approval. Gregory said, 'He'd have drowned but you'd have gotten the body back all right.' He turned to Comerford. 'My guess is the Soviets will be figuring they have it all sewn up. They have the position of strength and I very strongly doubt they're playing games.'

They'd recovered the life-ring. Gregory checked the time and the way the ship was pointing, and stared all round at the others of the squadron. Baden, Winnipeg and Pereira had evidently completed their drills too; they were close together, lying stopped. Devon was heading towards them. Gregory had crossed to the front-centre of the bridge and he was squinting over the bearing-ring of the gyro repeater: he told Jacorelli, 'Right to two-five-zero, Lieutenant, turns for ten knots.' He came back to the corner by the captain's seat: Barnes had moved away, and Gregory spoke quietly to Comerford.

'That I just told you, about that problem I have, Frank - just between us, huh?"

Comerford nodded. 'If you wanted my opinion, Dan ..." Gregory stared at him: Comerford asked him, 'Do you want it?'

'I'd be glad to hear it.'

'Don't bugger your life up. And your family's.'

'Sounds easy.' Gregory scowled. 'I tell you, it is not. That kid needs me, she's kind of - I don't know, lost, or -' He cut himself short. 'Here's your captain.'

Ashton looked glum. Behind him Pete Bruckner looked furious. George Henry told Comerford, Gregory and Barnes, 'No decision. Council's adjourned and meets again tomorrow.'

Gregory blinked, astonished. Comerford felt much the same. It was Gregory who broke the short, shocked silence; he asked his own captain, 'They - er - they going to make us chicken out?' 'No, of course they are damn well not!'

The question seemed to have enraged Bruckner or to have released rage already in him. Stalking over to his seat and heaving himself up into it he didn't look in the least philosophical or professorial. Only like a man who was spitting mad. Comerford tried to consider for a moment what it would be like if the squadron were sent to that waiting position near the area's top-right corner and then halted, obliged to skirt round the Soviet-ordained limits, accept Soviet orders on the high sea. He could understand Bruckner's sense of outrage, but he pushed it out of his mind: it was too unpleasant a prospect to think about. Ashton met his questioning stare, and shook his head. 'That's all we know. Get a decision from the next meeting, perhaps.' Commodore Gahan had come up into the other side of the bridge through that starboard door; Barnes moved over towards him. They'd be calling the squadron together now and transferring the COs back to their own ships. Harry T. noticed Pete Bruckner's savage expression, and growled, 'Not the end of the world yet, Captain. We have two days, you know.' Bruckner nodded, but he didn't look any less foul-tempered. Dan Gregory murmured, watching him, 'Oh Jesus, what a sweet two days...'

Chris flopped into the chair behind the desk. He felt depressed, and also murderous. It would have been a pleasure personally to have throttled the distinguished Ambassador of the Netherlands: there'd have been joy in it....

It wasn't only that action had been blocked, right here at the source of power and decision-making: the whole operation had so plainly been co-ordinated. They'd so to speak started a fire and simultaneously cut off the water supply. It wouldn't stop here either: you could be sure that where individual nations might take action on their own there'd be plans cut and dried for marches, protests, riots.

You set up democratic institutions with built-in safeguards for their democratic operation - like the unanimity principle in the Council. The enemy used those rules, gave them a twist and strangled you with them. To beat them, you'd have to discard the bloody principles, play their way.

, One of his phones clinked, and he answered it. Huguette told him in her pretty accent, 'I have Mr Colin Murray on this line, sir.'

'Well done. Put him through, please ... Colin?'

'Hello there, Chris!'

Warmth, enthusiasm: and it was understandable. When Chris moved into his new Whitehall job he'd become Murray's chief. Murray knew it. He'd also know that one of three men, of whom he was one, would be moving up to sit at the departmental head's right hand. While from Chris's point of view Colin Murray had certain -experience from earlier employment elsewhere which gave him special usefulness now.

'I expect you're busy, Colin.. I am too, and the subject's personal, so - can I get you at your home number tonight?'

'Don't see why not.'

'Name a time after nine o'clock, and give me the number?'

'Nine thirty, if that suits you.' He gave him a Hampstead number. 'Anything serious?'

'For the moment, I'm not even calling you.'

'Check. And - naturally, anything I can do, Chris.'

'That's what I'm counting on. Thank you.'

He hung up. The call had lasted twenty-five seconds. Tonight's would be a longer one. At least one would be doing something.,., He couldn't see that diplomatic pressure here or there was likely to pay off. The bastards had it set up, they weren't going to let go just because someone asked them nicely. And they'd built the muscle: they didn't need to be nice themselves or even smell.nice, now.

Philip Ellermet wasn't even a first-class enemy or significant as a personality. He was a jackal, not a. lion, a nonentity being used as a front-man by those who wanted NATO dead. But he was one of them. As crunch-time neared and the moves were made they had to creep out of their holes, acknowledge their allegiances. You heard the snarling of the small-fry first: if you waited for the roar of the lions the battle might be lost.




Chapter Six


Devon forged north-westward at sixteen knots on Fermenger's starboard beam with the others of the squadron astern of diem in two columns. A starry sky and a juvenile moon low in the south made all the ships clearly visible, would have done so even without the semi-luminous white froths of their bow-waves and wakes. A depression moving north-eastwards across the North Sea had brought the wind back to south again and would soon enough bring clouds, but the wind was only about force 3 and the ship was steady as she would have been in dock.

Gilbert Oram was officer of the watch and as usual he had Beale as his number two. In the lower part of the bridge on the starboard side were two signalmen - one of them a leading hand - and in the shack at the rear of the bridge a bosun's mate kept an eye on routine matters such as watch-changing, piping orders from time to time into the broadcast system and chatting to the bridge messenger, who brewed tea with such frequency that the flow seemed uninterrupted. It was a quiet, peaceful scene, very different from recent nights, which had been packed with the various exercises of the work-up programme. Comerford leant against the captain's seat in the bridge's starboard for'ard corner and swept the horizon ahead with his binoculars. He'd just looked into his chartroom and found Hunt there cleaning up old charts; Hunt had explained that he'd been trying to watch the film The Exorcist, which for the past hour had been showing in the Junior Rates' Dining Hall on I Deck, but hadn't been able to stick it out. He hadn't felt much like turning in and having nightmares about it either, so he'd come up here to clear his mind.

'All screams and growls an' muck comin' out of her mouth. If you ask me it's bloody horrible.'

There wasn't anything in sight ahead. The nearest land would be the south-westerly bulge of Norway between Kristiansand and Stavanger, and that was roughly sixty miles north-east of the squadron's present position. Comerford had taken a set of stars at dusk and die resultant fix was on the chart, labelled 1940. If they maintained this course and speed they'd be in the Pentland Firth at about teatime tomorrow, 20 September.

'It's a pleasant evening.' He spoke softly. You tended to, at night on the bridge with dials and other small sources of light softly glow ing and the thrumming of the ship's engines, ship noises and sea messes, such a steady background to the silence that you could forget it was there. A kind of watchful peace, but tonight with special ingredients in it: the possibility of action ahead and the frustration of uncertainty.... He asked Oram, 'Anything on the plot?'

'Passed some trawlers and a coaster a while ago, and an east-bound tanker.'

'No AGI.'

'Left him astern hours ago.'

There'd be another, Comerford thought, before long. The last BBC news bulletin had reported that the Soviet trawlers which had been gathering off the Shetlands were deploying southward and eastward across the North Sea. There had also been mention of that Moscow Radio broadcast and an analysis by a political correspondent of the difference between a legitimate warning of forthcoming exercises and this unprecedented declaration of an 'exclusion area'. Efforts were being made through diplomatic channels, the announcer had said, to persuade the Soviet authorities to withdraw or amend the exclusion order and to conduct their naval manoeuvres with customary regard to the safety of vessels of other nations.

There'd been no mention of NATO or of this squadron.

Comerford went down the steps to the transverse passage and along past his chartroom to the starboard screen door. It was kept shut at night, to keep the cold night air out of the ship; but it was cold night air he felt like breathing now, so he pulled off the one clip and pushed the door open, went out into the dark wing and shut the door again behind him.

There was someone out there already. He could make out an officer's cap above a white boiler-suit.

-Jumbo?'

A laugh: 'Not that fat... Morrison, sir.'

'Oh. Sorry ... Evening.'

Andy Morrison was one of the younger engineer lieutenants. Comerford's eyes were getting used to the dark now, and he could see that the overalled figure was only about half as thick as Jumbo Nichols'. Morrison had a prominently jutting jaw though, and in silhouette against the lighter background of the sea, the star-shine on it, he'd taken it for Nichols' stiff yellow beard.

'Nice night.'

'Yeah. Guess it is."

All he knew about Morrison was that he hadn't been in the ship long. He asked him. 'This your first sea job?'

'No, I did a year in a Leander before this.'

Before going to sea he'd have been put through a four-year degree-course at Manadon engineering college, and he'd have spent a year at Dartmouth before that. So he'd be about twenty-four, twenty-five now.

The Leanders and other frigates were going to have to stay in service for thirty years instead of the originally planned twenty, as one of the results in Defence cut-backs. By the time they were replaced they'd be old crocks. Comerford made some comment about it, and Morrison said, 'Goes for us too. Staggering around on one boiler. Not much of a state to face the Soviets, are we?'

'The other boiler can be flashed up if we need it.'

'Sure. But it's only an emergency packing on that feed-pump. It mightn't last five minutes.'

'Let's hope we don't need it, then. And we can still get twenty-five, twenty-six knots with the gas-turbine boost.'

'Be darned lucky.' In the dark, the young engineer sniffed loudly. 'Twenty-four flat-out'd be good going. Devon's no chicken, is she?'

Comerford was trying to identify such stars as were visible. On this side and with the ship on a course of 300 degrees the only ones in sight that he'd used for his fix this evening were Polaris broad on the bow and Deneb almost astern. There were a lot more cloud-patches than he'd realised, and if it went on thickening, morning stars might be difficult to find.

Morrison asked him, 'You married?'

'Not yet. Due to be in April, though.'

'Well, good luck ... I did it just before we left Pompey.'

He meant he'd got married then. Comerford remembered: there'd been some party in the wardroom.

'Won't be sorry to get back, I don't mind telling you.'

Comerford could well imagine people's attitudes to long stints at sea being drastically changed by marriage. In his case, it would be all right: he and Susie knew exactly what the snags would be and what the benefits would be too. He also knew for certain that he could be on the other side of the world and not need to worry for a second about anything on the domestic front. Susie had been around, earned her own living and looked after herself for some years now: she'd cope at her end and he would at his, and in between whiles it would be heaven on earth.

He said to Morrison, 'There's a lot of shore-time to be done, you know, as well as sea jobs. You have that to look forward to.'

'Yes. I suppose I have.'

'It's also said that long breaks are actually good for a marriage. When you get together again it's like a new one.'

Morrison said, yes, there was that, of course----He was obviously unhappy about it though. He blurted suddenly, 'Had a letter from her today - in the mail that came off from Kjevik. She says why don't I chuck it up, get some decent job ashore?'

More of other men's troubles, he thought. Gregory and his Swede: the senselessness of it. But perhaps this was the difference, this way of thinking, perhaps it was this that made one dull, that pointed wild Swedish widows at other men?

Might Susie find him dull, he wondered, after they'd been married for a few years?

He told Morrison, 'I'd let it ride, if I were you. Give it a try, see how you feel in a year's time.'

'But if she feels like this -'

'Well, tell her okay, if it doesn't work out you will think about leaving. Let her know you feel as she does but you think it'd be sensible to hang on a while."

He thought, I ought to bloody well charge for it.... In the house at Leefdaal, in the big room which took up the whole of the top floor, Chris Ozzard hunched a shoulder to hold the receiver at his ear while he added water to a tumbler of Scotch whisky.

Nine-thirty. His call was going through to Hampstead. Colin Murray would be waiting for it, in a room with its door shut to keep his family out of earshot.

Second whisky of the night, and it would be the last. Alcohol didn't suit crises: you need sharpened wits, not blunted ones, and some new emergency could blow up at any minute.

There'd been no whisper from the northern flank, no sign of any Soviet land preparations for a move into Norway, no hint of troop movements elsewhere, no sailings or detectable preparation of assault craft or trooping aircraft. There were naval movements up north and the usual sailings of submarines into and out of Polyarny in the Kola Inlet: none of it was unusual, although the forthcoming naval exercises would have made increased naval activity unsur prising. But the appearance of normality up there was no proof that an attack was not in the wind: all it told you was that the punches, if any, weren't being signalled.

The operator said he had that number now: and Colin Murray's voice came through.

'That's you, Chris?' "

'That's me. Or this is I, as they probably say in Hampstead. Are you alone there?'

'Sure. What can I do for you?'

'It could take a lot of doing.'

'Often does.'

'It's by way of being private, Colin. As you'll have guessed. It's a matter of the ends justifying the means and my head being on the block if the cat got out of the sack. It's also a longshot chance in a somewhat desperate situation with quite enormous consequences. Still want to help?'

Murray grunted: added, 'As you knew I would.'

'I didn't know, just hoped ... Colin, there is a politician from the Hague-'

'Who joined you in your ivory tower today and flung a spanner in?'

'Exactly it. Well done. Colin, it's the past I'm interested in. There's something nasty in the woodshed and I've no idea what, only that it exists. You'll have contacts at the Hague: you may even find a lead in London. There'd be a file or two, surely. One distinct possibility - he had a first wife, American, who ran home to mother after a hushed-up unopposed divorce. More than likely it's in that."

'What a nice job.'

'You don't have to take it on.'

'Well, for old times' sake ... Rather needles in haystacks though, you'll agree?'

'At one time it would have been right up your street, though. And either by luck or good judgement - which I'm told you have pouring out of your ears -'

'How long have I got?'

'I'd like to have the answers now, this minute. But since the impossible takes a little longer -just bloody fast, Colin?'

'Hey-ho ...'

'You'll have my eternal gratitude."

'Oh, I'll be counting on it.'

Hanging up, he reached for his whisky. He noticed that his hand shook slightly as it closed on the glass. It was a very long shot and an illicit one, and it could very easily result in the lid being slammed on the career of Christopher Ozzard. And it wasn't a game he'd ever played before: it scared him. Sipping whisky, staring at the telephone, wondering if anyone other than Colin Murray might have had an ear or a recorder on that line.

Five-thirty: Comerford swung his legs out of the bunk and slid down to the deck. The cup of tea which the bridge messenger had brought when he'd come to shake him was still too hot to drink: so he'd left it, switched on the light and plugged in his razor. No time to waste, because Morning Civil Twilight today was at 0455 GMT - or 0555 BST, the time the ship was keeping. He had twenty minutes now to get dressed and be up top there ready with his sextant. Still hardly any motion on the ship: there'd been so much calm weather lately that when it got back to normal a lot of people wouldn't feel too well for a while. Himself included.

He'd finished shaving and blown the stubble out of his razor: heat-wise the tea was drinkable, otherwise barely. Dressing, he thought about Dan Gregory and Dan's wife back in the States, how she'd feel when she heard about the Swede. Imagine that happening to Susie: the sheer horror of doing such a thing to her: standing with the cup in his hand, trying to imagine the unimaginable..,. Quarter to the hour. He pulled a reefer on over his jersey, to keep the dawn cold out, jammed his cap on, opened the cabin door and switched the light out. Like trying to see oneself as a murderer: then thinking of Dan Gregory, who'd always seemed such a decent fellow----He'd turned left and he was going for'ard, towards his chartroom and the bridge, but first he'd take a look out in the bridge wing. He pushed the clip off the port-side screen door and stepped.,, out.

Fermenger was easy to see on the beam there, and the other three ships astern of her too. Quite a lot of cloud: but it was slow-moving, with biggish clear patches and stars showing. So he'd get his fix, all right. Inside again and passing behind the bridge en route to his chartroom he heard Ashton's voice and some chat between bridge and plot: a voice that he thought was Harry Piper's reporting, 'EW office confirms it's another AGI, sir.'

Hunt was in the chartroom, waiting for him.

'Morning. Sounds like we've a few of our little pals around.'

'Like fleas on a dog's back, sir.' Hunt passed him the notebook in which last night he'd listed likely stars for this morning's fix: he'd listed six, and one planet, with their dawn bearings and elevations. The planet was Jupiter. He scanned the list, memorising it, while Hunt checked one of the deckwatches against the chronometer.

'We'll go up on top this morning.' His yeoman nodded. If you had a clear sky so that you could use any stars that suited you, one of the bridge wings would do, but with a smaller choice it was best to be on the bridge roof where none of the sky was blanked off by obstructions. In bad weather that flat top was tricky, though, since there was nothing to hold on to, no rail or anything. Comerford wiped dust from the sextant's eye-piece. 'What's the barometer doing?'

'Steady at 1014, sir.'

'That low's missed us then.' He went out cradling the sextant, and Hunt followed with the deckwatch in its wooden case and a notebook and pencil. Up on top the wind was cold and you felt the ship's motion more, because of the extra height and the extra sway from side to side. He looked around to select his stars, needing ones that were spaced out around the compass so as to get clear-cut intersections from the position lines.

He told Hunt, 'I'll use Betelgeuse, Castor and Alpheratz, in that order.'

'Aye, sir.' Hunt was squatting near him on the steel deck with the deckwatch case open and a pencil-torch in his left hand while he scribbled the names of the stars down in his notebook. Betelgeuse was on bearing 160 degrees, which on this course put it on the port quarter. Elevation about thirty-five degrees. Comerford raised his sextant, settled its telescope on the star and began slowly to bring it down to brush the dark rim of the horizon.

'Stand by ...' Hunt's eyes were fixed on the deckwatch's circling second hand. 'Now!' He read off the altitude he'd taken - his sextant had its own small light on it - and while the yeoman was scribbling that and the time to the nearest second in his notebook he swung left, picked out Castor just for'ard of the beam and somewhat higher in the sky. 'Stand by ..."

Then Alpheratz, sixty on the port bow. There was time now to look around, take in the scenery and the weather, enjoy the sight of the grey ships with the faint shine of dawn on them, phosphorescent wakes becoming less sharply white as the light grew, and black sea turning grey; the cloud-patches' eastern edges were acquiring rims of brightness. The sea was a bit choppy this morning, and Alvarez Pereira, the smallest ship in the squadron and unstabilised, was making it look like hard work. Devon, as usual, was having the easiest time of all of them. Rather a scratch collection, he thought, to be on its way to defy the Soviet seaborne hordes: but this very fee: imparted to the plunging ships - in this beholder's eye - a certain kind of beauty--- If the politicians turned the squadron back the shame would be unbearable. It wouldn't be the squadron's shame, but it would feel like it and it would be intolerable: and it was not unlikely, he thought, watching dawn streak the sea and ships with silver and edge the eastern horizon with pinkish gold, that in such circumstances there'd be men in the Royal Navy who'd no longer be prepared to serve.

Then what?

Better go down and work out those stars, he thought. Hunt had gone down some minutes ago. He climbed down the rungs on the port side, holding the sextant close against his chest for its own protection. Inside the screen door, he met Doug Cooper coming out of the passage that led aft past the officers' cabins.

'Morning, sir.'

'Oh shut up, Frank.' The Commander (WE) scowled at him. He looked as if he hadn't shaved yet. He stumbled up the steps into the bridge, and Comerford went on past and into his chartroom.

In the bridge, Ashton glanced round, lowering his binoculars. Doug Cooper said, 'Morning, Sir.'

'Ah. Morning, Cooper. What's the state of the White control system?'

'Well.' Cooper rubbed his jaw. 'Proof of the pudding's in the eating, sir, but------'

'You'll be able to prove it at eleven this forenoon. We've an AA shoot then.'

'Oh, fine -'

.'Will it be?'

'I was looking for you at about one o'clock this morning, sir, actually. We'd located the trouble and------'

'What sort of trouble?'

He hesitated, glancing at Alec Holliday, who'd just arrived in the bridge. 'Bit silly, really. Mix-up of the fine-motion amplifiers in the turret assembly. I should've cottoned on to it myself much earlier, but I was off on a wrong tack. If I'd ordered a check-tune of the turret we'd have bowled it out hours earlier.'

At about eleven o'clock last night Barney Slight, CEA2, had gone to find his Section Officer, Jumbo Nichols, to tell him that so far he'd drawn a blank and to ask for guidance. Nichols hadn't been in his cabin though, because he himself had been looking for Doug Cooper, who'd been called to investigate a completely different 'wobbly', something in the Sonar system. Slight ran into Sam Ozzard instead; Sam had been reading technical journals in the wardroom and was on his way to his cabin to turn in, and the CEA2 asked him if he knew where Lieutenant Nichols was.

'Damned if I do.' The Etonian had given the question a moment's thought. 'Not in his bunk, I take it?'

'No, he's not. Wouldn't be, now with this White------'

'Any joy with that?'

'No, sir.' Slight looked exhausted and dispirited. He'd been working at it ever since the AA shoot had shown up the defect. He told Sam Ozzard, 'Tried just about the lot.' He began to turn away. 'I dunno. Better go on looking, I------'

'Did you - er -' Ozzard looked as if he'd thought of something, and the PO stopped, turned back like a man who was prepared to consider even straws; Ozzard asked him, 'Since the previous Gunex - I mean the last we did before yesterday's two shoots - you'd have done some maintenance routines, obviously.' Tall and skinny, he looked a bit like a heron, with his slight stoop and long, stalky legs. He suggested, 'What've you done just recently - say since we left Kiel?'

'Morning we sailed - Monday, that was -' he frowned as he put his weary mind to it - 'and a bloody 'orrible morning it was too, I'll tell you -'

'Well, exactly.' Sam Ozzard nodded. 'They'd given you a thankyou party in Winnipeg the night before, for helping them out as you had?' He smiled. 'Rather my point, old Slight.'

'I wasn't still pissed, if that's------'

'Okay, but you looked like a walking corpse.' Sam nodded sympathetically. 'Canadians do have parties, don't they?'

Slight was staring at him, thinking it out. He began, 'Well, all I done was -'

Some memory had hit him. His eyes widened: he leant sideways, resting one shoulder against the bulkhead. 'Oh, bugger it ...' A hand rose to hold his forehead as if it hurt him. He said slowly, 'I was testing the fine-motion amplifiers ...'

'Took 'em out of the assembly and along to the EMR?'

EMR stood for Electronic Maintenance Room, and the test would have included changing the transformer tappings. A routine maintenance procedure. Ozzard suggested, 'The follow of the turret would have been sloppy if you hadn't set them back to the right tappings, wouldn't it? More than enough to mess up the shoot?'

'I'd best go and------'

'Wait a minute.' Ozzard suggested, 'If you do find it, might be better if you'd worked it out on your own. I mean in the circumstances - as you're not going to look too clever anyway?'

'You mean------'

'Forget we had this chat.'

'Well, that's------'

'Except for that, tell Commander Cooper the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He'll give you hell, but you've never done anything stupid before and it's ten to one he'll keep it in the department - right?'

Now Doug Cooper told George Henry, in the bridge, 'The CEA2 on that section, PO Slight, actually located it and put it right. Once be knew what it was we were home and dry.'

'Slight?' Ashton seemed puzzled. 'What was it I heard about -Slight ...' He shook his head. 'Just - damn it, yesterday, or -' He mapped his long, bony fingers suddenly: 'Got it! Winnipeg. Yesterday at the conference in Fermenger, Winnipeg's captain thanked me for the help he'd had from us. Apparently this man Slight worked practically right through the weekend on some defect or other for them.' He nodded at Cooper. 'I've a note of it on my desk, to ask you to congratulate him for me. It's just the sort of squadron cooperation that's most helpful.'

Behind them, Piper was ordering a reduction of four revs per minute and a change of two degrees in course, to adjust Devon's station on the flagship. Ashton said to Doug, 'This morning's shoot will be a good one, then.'

'I hope so, sir.'

'No hope about it. If it isn't 100 per cent I'll want your reasons in writing.' He reached for the binoculars. 'Piper, where's the AGI.




Chapter Seven


Chris was in the Situation Centre and he had last night's signals in front of him, plus a resume of the Atlantic-crisis. It didn't make for light relief.

The Kara-class cruiser with the two guided-missile destroyers and their tanker were now approaching the Iceland-Faroes gap. About 200 miles from it. And 150 miles astern of that squadron a second lot, a more powerful group, was overhauling the first at twenty-five knots. This new group consisted of two Kresta II-class cruisers, two Kashin-class guided-missile destroyers, and six Skorys. Put that lot, he thought, against the scratch assembly of bits and pieces plugging westward now towards their 'exercise area'. The strength of the Soviet task-force wouldn't be much encouragement to Western politicians whose knees might already be a-tremble....

He felt more despondent, suddenly, than he had since the business had first started: and a large part of it was the idea of blackmailing Ellermet, the growing feeling that he couldn't do it. A hand grasped his shoulder, with much the effect of a horse's bite. Turning, actually in pain from it, he found the hand belonged to Pat Cleary, SACLANT's representative in Brussels. Cleary had evidently just arrived.

'Seen all that junk, have you?'

'Why didn't we know about this second squadron earlier?'

'We did. Midnight eighteenth they were reported on 28 East. But they were arsing about - turned back at one stage, just local exercises was what it looked like. And this business didn't blow up until the nineteenth - yesterday, eh?' He tapped the chart. 'They'll have caught up the tanker and her escort by midnight tonight. Here, off Iceland. And from there at fifteen knots, which is the speed of the slower group and which they'll most likely come down to when they join them, they'll have a comfortable twenty-four hours' steaming to reach point Alfa.'

The admiral ran a blunt forefinger down the charted track. He added, 'Not that there's anything to say they'll hold that course. Happens to be the shortest route to the area, that's all.'

Chris nodded to Pete Garnish, the Canadian, who'd just joined them. He asked Cleary, 'Be a bit crowded, when our squadron arrives there with them?'

'Jack Tennant's dealing with that.' Cleary nodded briefly. 'Hello, Pete ... Tennant's telling Gahan to aim off a bit. Depending on which way the Soviets move when they get there, our boys'll enter the area about fifty miles further south.' He scowled at Chris. 'If they are permitted to enter the area. What's anyone doing about that? Anything?'

Chris shrugged. 'Diplomatic pressures -'

'Christ. And I thought I'd seen everything.' The ginger head shook angrily. 'I tell you, Eric Lassiter's hopping mad. And------'

'I doubt if any of us feels exactly happy with the situation, Pat.'

Cleary glared at him. Then he nodded, relaxing. Garnish had moved away: there was a lot going on and his staff were busy. The admiral muttered, 'If you had Eric on the blower eight times a day and five times a night, raving mad and believe me I mean mad, you'd know what's giving me bloody ulcers.... He seems to think / ought to be able to swing it, for God's sake!'

'Everybody's trying, Pat.'

'Anyone tried poison?'

'Ah.' Chris nodded. 'That would be a neat solution.'

Ludicrous, he thought. Just one man, putting the free world in greater danger than it had faced since Cuba. And having to let him doit... Hardly surprising that one thought - not entirely joking - of poison: and not joking at all, of blackmail.

Difficult to believe that one had actually started that ball rolling. Looking at Cleary, thinking about it, wondering what the man's reaction would be if he told him. Horror? Bluff encouragement?

It would take a lot of courage, if it came to it, if Murray did come up with something. Chris wondered whether he'd find that much nerve: and with the doubt came the hope that Murray would draw a blank.

He walked slowly down the length of the room, glancing at charts and diagrams. Everyone so busy - and to no damn purpose, ultimately. The Council meeting this afternoon would be as ineffectual as yesterday's: and all this time the Standing Naval Force was getting closer to the area and to the converging Soviet task-force. When they got close enough for the humiliation to be unmistakable, they'd have to be ordered to turn away.

It couldn't be allowed to happen. Not just for that small humiliation, but for all the consequences that would follow from it. It would be the beginning of the end, the entry to a new age of darkness. He thought, If Colin gets me anything, I'll have to use it. Garnish had just hurried back to Pat Cleary with what looked like a new signal. Chris rejoined them.

'News?'

Cleary said, with his eyes on the message, 'French have more guts than the rest of us.' He passed the teletype to Chris. It was an announcement from Paris to the effect that one cruiser, Courbet, and two DLGs, Saint Croix and Jean Bart, would sail from Brest this forenoon for exercises in the north-east Atlantic. Cleary told him, 'Courbet is Suffren class. Dirty great radome. D'you know, like a balloon to look at? And Masurka surface-to-air missiles. The destroyers are modified Type 475 with Exocet missiles and Lynx helicopters. Rather a well-balanced force, I'd say----You busy for lunch today?'

He'd thought of trying to get hold of Sophie. Not only because he felt like having her with him - resting his eyes on her, talking to her: he'd called her number more than once last night, and got no answer.... But also because he'd been thinking about the fact that she'd started him thinking about blackmail, and although she'd immediately seemed to draw back from the idea it was possible she'd sown the seed deliberately. Hoping he'd rise to the bait, to Hugo van Pallendt's great personal advantage. If that was how it was, she might come across with a bit more help; if he made it easy for her by asking for it, she might tell him what she'd meant when she'd said He could be blackmailed.... Pat Cleary was scowling at him. 'All right, I'll lunch alone!'

'Sorry. I do have a slightly indefinite arrangement -'

'Give her my love."

'I'm sure she'd treasure it.... Pat, is anything being done about Rules of Engagement?'

'Yes.' The admiral nodded. Rules of Engagement told a force commander - Gahan, in this case - how close he could take his ships to the enemy's, and whether guns could be trained, and so forth. Cleary said, 'I've got Eric Lassiter's proposals, for approval by the DPC. Not that it looks as if such a question will arise.'

'Don't give up hope. Diplomats have been known to pull cats out of bags.'

'I'd shove the cat in a bag. With a bloody great stone for ballast.'

'Yes.' He turned away. 'If I find I am free for lunch------'

'Chris.' Cleary had caught hold of his arm. 'Don't they realise what's at stake? Can't anyone do anything?' *

Only Fermenger and Devon were shooting in this forenoon Gunex, and the flagship had already taken her turn. Devon was on her beam and they were four miles ahead of the rest of the squadron, which meanwhile was maintaining the north-westerly course and sixteen-knot speed.

'Do you wish to remain at battle stations, sir?'

Dan Gregory had asked the question into the microphone of the headset he was wearing: Bruckner answered from down in Combat, "Yeah, I guess I do.'

'Aye aye, sir.' Gregory pushed the phones off his ears and stared out over bumpy, white-flecked sea at Devon. The towing aircraft with its streamed drogue target had gone out northward and was out of sight, but it would appear again shortly, crossing the bow from right to left.

At battle stations all the bridge personnel had helmets on and trousers tucked into their socks as an anti-flash precaution. Gregory's helmet was stencilled XO and Nichol Wemmer's - Wemmer had the deck - bore the letters OOD. The young sailors at the wheel and telegraphs were marked HELM and LEE respectively, while the talkers - four youngsters, three of them black, all wearing headsets -were labelled according to the communications circuits that they were linked to. The very small one with the letters JL on his helmet - he was connected to Combat and to lookouts for'ard and aft - had just asked Cy 'Porkchop' Lawson whether he, Lawson, reckoned the British ship would knock the target down. .>

'She's not supposed to do that.'

'Betcha she will, then.'

Cy shook his head. He was a tall negro wearing lieutenant's bars on his shoulders and gilt emblems on the collar of his khaki shirt indicating that he was the ship's Catering Officer. The emblems were shaped a bit like chops, which was what gave rise to that nickname. He was leaning on his elbows on the small chart table in the port for'ard corner of the bridge; this battle-station role was signals officer on R/T communications, and this was where the set was located. He shook his head again. 'Nope. Sleeve targets cost plenty. An' it takes a pilot a half-hour or so to let out a fresh one. That's if he has one, even. They ain't just old sacks, you know, they got radar, all sorts o'stuff in 'em. You might hit the towing wire by accident but you sure wouldn't aim to hit it.'

He glanced up at Dan Gregory, who was above him on the cap tain's swivel seat, for confirmation. Gregory wasn't taking any notice though, and the talker said doggedly, 'Betcha Coke.'

'Okay.'

' Two Cokes?"

'One.'

The talker caught lee helm's eye, and grinned. Then Devon opened fire - a small, deep boom.... Dan Gregory's glasses came up to focus on her, pointing across the bridge to see her out through the starboard windows. She'd fired again: you heard the thump of the explosion and immediately afterwards saw the flash of it, and then, behind that, the puff of cordite smoke. She was shooting in timed-alternate now: five - six - seven Bruckner came up from Combat. Gregory slid off the seat, and Cy Lawson straightened his long, lean frame beside the R/T set. The JL talker moved away aft to about the limit of the cable on his headset, and the bosun's mate, a thickset young sailor with a spotty chin and wearing a helmet marked BMOW, told him in a murmur, 'You lost a Coke there, boy.'

'Hell I did. That's only the first run. Have two, won't they, same's we did?'

Bruckner looked closely at his Exec. Now he was shaking his head as if something was worrying him. Gregory patted the swivel seat: 'Been keeping that warm for you, Captain.'

'You don't look so good, Dan.'

'I don't?'

He was trying to see his reflection in the glass of the bridge windows. Bruckner suggested very quietly, 'You have that woman on your mind. Right?'

'Oh. Well.' Gregory shifted the position of the helmet on his head. He shrugged. 'Maybe. Sure, I think about her, all right. I think about getting back to Kiel one day soon, too.'

'You have a wife, Dan.'

'I know. I am very much aware of------'

'This Swede tells you you're the reincarnation of her late lamented spouse and she sheds tears all over you while you're screwing her so you think Boy, here's Romance; Here's fuckin' Destiny - and the hell with Mary, mark her for the trash-heap, she's only good enough to drag from one coast to the other and nurse your------'

'Your picture of the situation is somewhat distorted, Captain.' Gregory's eyes had turned hard in his pale, rather heavy face. 'I is not on the make. Nor was she. We simply happened - well, _____)

'Like you met at some damn party and she didn't have anything much else to do so she took you home to bed, sure, that's------'

'No, sir. Not at all like that. It's not so easy to explain just how it was, unfortunately, but if you met her you'd pretty quickly see what I mean, what kind of a person------'

'Be able to explain it all right to Mary, though, will you?'

Gregory winced. Then he turned his head and looked steadily at his captain. 'I can only repeat - one, I can't help how I feel, and two, this is not what you imagine it might be, not just some cheap------'

'Target's turned, sir!'

Jacorelli, lieutenant jg, had called it from the wing on that side.

'Very well.' Bruckner shook his head as he glanced back at Gregory. He murmured, 'I'm extremely concerned for you, Dan. Mary is a damn fine girl. I wouldn't care to see you two on the rocks. Those kids of yours------'

'I know. I think about that too. I------'

Devon had opened fire on the target's second run. Bruckner's voice came up to a normal level: 'I'll be in Combat. You may relax from battle stations when they complete this run.'

'Aye aye, sir.' Gregory watched him cross the bridge and leave it by the port-side door. It had been an odd time to pick, he thought, for a discussion of that kind. Pete Bruckner must have had it on his mind, been inhibited from raising the subject until he'd suddenly just burst out with it. Gregory wished he hadn't said anything in the first place: he'd wanted to talk about it, though, needed to: and he and Bruckner knew each other very well, from way back. In Vietnam Pete had been a Task Group Commander of river patrol boats in the Delta area, Rachiya, and Dan Gregory as a young lieutenant had commanded one of the boats under him. But if old Pete thought that entitled him to interfere now between himself and Inge, he'd better think harder.

'What you goofing at me like that for, Porkchop?'

Cy Lawson shook his head. From off to starboard came the rapid thudding of Devon's guns.

'Just thoughts, sort of tricklin' through.'

'Thoughts, eh?'

The tall lieutenant nodded, fiddling at one of the knobs on his R/T set. Gregory asked him, 'What thoughts?'

'Oh, hell, I don't know. Like some of us get lucky an' some don't?'

He grinned. 'Don't let it disturb you, sir. I have sharp ears but I have a closed mouth too.'

The R/T set hummed into life.

'Spaniel, this is Crow. Serial completed. I say again, serial completed.'

Gregory called over to the officer of the deck, 'Mr Wemmer -'

'Sir?'

'You may relax battledress on the bridge, Mr Wemmer, and light the smoking lamps.'

Sir Jack Tennant, CINCEASTLANT, speaking from his headquarters at Northwood in Middlesex, wanted to know if Chris had any fresh angles on what was happening in Brussels or on what was likely to emerge from the meeting this afternoon. That was how the call began - calmly. Tennant mentioned that he'd been speaking to Pat Cleary only a short while ago.

'I doubt if I know anything Pat doesn't. Whether the meeting will produce anything useful I can't say.'

'What does the Secretary-General think of the situation?'

'I'm seeing him in -' Chris checked the time - 'in about half an hour.'

He heard Tennant sigh. Then - 'Chris, I'm under a lot of pressure here. Political, it's being asked why STANAVFORLANT is moving towards that area - which incidentally is being referred to in some quarters as the Soviet naval exercise area - when the NATO Council have rejected the proposal to send it in. That is also a quote. I don't know where the leak came from -'

'Not difficult to guess.'

'Is it true Jocelyn Dean's being called to London?'

'When?'

'Supposed to be on his way. It was in a news broadcast, quarter of an hour ago.'

'It's unlikely. With a meeting arranged for three o'clock.'

'I - thought you'd know, one way or the other.... Listen, now, Chris. I don't care a fish's tit how it's done or who does it, but somehow I want authorisation to send that squadron in. In years there's been nothing one half so vital as the need to do this. If we can't do it, we've had it - truly, you could forget about Defence cuts because there wouldn't be any Defence to cut, we'd have given up Defence. You and I could learn market-gardening or interior decorating: and I can tell you I'd be a damn sight happier growing cabbages than presiding over the dissolution of the West's capacity to resist. That's what we're up against, d'you realise it?'

'You're preaching to the converted, Jack. Have you taken any soundings in MOD about possible national action?'

Tennant swore. Then he added, with his voice in taut control, 'Yes. I did take soundings. Only I was aground before I started. Whitehall's scared out of its rubber pants. I'm supposed to be C-in-C Fleet, right? Well, I hear the PM's told the Chief of Defence Staff privately that he thinks if we moved any ships in that direction he'd be dealing with a general strike and rioting in the streets. He thinks they have that already set up. Of course he's shit-scared of his own left wing, and they'll be rattling their ballpoint pens, but -well, it might be just a mixture of bluff and panic - panic on the PM's part - but it's real enough to them, to him, and unfortunately that's what counts. And meanwhile nine-tenths of the country is still watching its telly and flocking to its bingo halls and generally tossing itself off, and I've a nasty feeling that by the time anyone wakes up to what's happening it may be too damn late. That includes your lot there in Brussels.'

'We're all very well aware------'

'Then for Christ's sake shove the spurs in somewhere! If you leave it too long, from what I hear on the grapevine there'll be national governments - this shower being one of 'em - pulling out their ambassadors. Ships too, maybe. Playing safe, they'd call it! Even right now, if it's true Dean's on his way here -'

'I'll find that out. I don't think he can be----Jack, what about the Americans?'

'What about 'em?'

'National action, without NATO?'

'Not a hope. President may be seeing some glimmers of reality -Lassiter thinks he may be - but he's got bloody Congress on his back. Well, you know all about that, for God's sake. And of course he's got to shake 'em off, but he's starting a bit damn late for anything to happen now. I talked this morning with North Audley Street, floating an idea of working with the French - that if the US sent some ships along with them and we found one or two to join the party we'd have something worth showing. All I got was sympathy and long digressions. Anyway, with our lords and masters here having fainting fits I doubt we'd get very far into it.... Chris, I think it can only be worked at your end. I'm saying my prayers and looking to you to see they get answered.'

Tall order, Chris thought. He wasn't so sure of his influence with the Almighty. Aiming a bit lower, he put a call through to the British national delegation, for Sir Jocelyn Dean. Not only to find out whether he was on his way to London, but to check with him, if he was still around, whether there might be anything new in the wind: something that could make an attempt to coerce Ellermet unnecessary.

Sir Jocelyn had left Brussels. Back tomorrow afternoon.

Might ring Sophie now, Chris thought___ But until he'd had his meeting with the Secretary-General and knew what the programme was he couldn't be sure of having the time for a lunch date: and what was more, if he didn't hurry he'd be late for this appointment----He shot out, got there fast, and waiting in the outer office he imagined Sophie at her desk wondering why he hadn't called---- An aide came out: 'Mr Ozzard please ...'

The head man had several matters he wanted to discuss with him, mostly concerned with the work of the Defence Review Committee, of which Chris was chairman. But first there was the postponement of today's Council meeting. Three Permanent Representatives, the ambassadors of the UK, the Netherlands and Denmark, had requested a postponement, and all three had left for consultations in their own capitals.

Did this suggest, Chris asked, that Britain and Denmark were likely to adopt the attitude taken yesterday by the Dutchman?

The Secretary-General had no reason to believe so. On the other hand the fact that consultations were considered necessary did indicate a possibility of some shift. It was as likely though, one might imagine, that the Netherlands ambassador might change his attitude. In any case, all three had agreed to be back at Evere by noon tomorrow, and the meeting was therefore rescheduled for early afternoon.

Some discussion followed now on the crisis and the dangers implicit in a failure to respond to the Soviet challenge. NATO's chief naturally had strong views on it: in a nutshell, that surrender of the right to freedom of navigation on the world's oceans would be tantamount to surrender, period. But he believed that continuing efforts in various quarters, efforts being made now in several world capitals and also in the UN in New York, might still avert disaster. However, for the time being, everything that could be done was being done, and there remained these further items to be looked at--- Back in his own department, Chris rang through to the Netherlands delegation and asked for Miss Horonje. The girl on the telephone said she was most sorry, but Miss Horonje was out of town. A private matter, a family emergency, had called her suddenly to the Hague.

Emergency or not, he thought it was odd she hadn't let him know. Particularly as she'd been out last night: she could have guessed that he'd have been trying to ring her....

'Any idea how long she may be away?'

'Only one day, I think. She is expected to be here tomorrow morning, so she would come back tonight or the early morning flight, perhaps. Is there some other person you would like to speak with?'

There was not. He thanked her, and hung up: then buzzed for Huguette, asked her to call Admiral deary's secretary to inform the Admiral that if he was still free for lunch he'd be happy to join him. Huguette smiled charmingly and said, 'At once, sir.' For Huguette, life was a bowl of roses. For Jack Tennant's nine-tenths, too: their, problems were such headaches as where to go for next year's summer holidays. For himself, one of a handful of men whose primary aim was to ensure that those people still had some areas of personal choice left to them by next summer, the prospect of defeat had a filthy taste.




Chapter Eight


Comerford was working in his chartroom and he could feel the steady butting vibrations as Devon drove through the short, steep waves. Wind was up to about force 4 and on the bow, and it looked like being roughish when in three hours' time the squadron got into the Pentland Firth. Then, out on the other side of Scotland, they'd be steaming into a westerly force 5 or 6 which, judging by present forecasts, might by late evening blow up into a gale.

Pereira and Jylland were out ahead, ready for their turn to shoot. There'd been an interval while the first towing aircraft had been on its way back to the mainland and a second one coming out, and during that time the Commodore had reformed the squadron into a single line abreast, except for the pair detached ahead. There'd been a civilian plane hanging around for some while not long ago, and it had very probably been filming, perhaps for television news; line-abreast would look good from the air, and this may have been in the mind of Harry T. Gahan.

There was a lot of data, all from recently received signals, to be put on the chart. For one thing, the squadron's own route had been changed. Instead of heading straight across for point Alfa, the disputed area's north-east corner, CINCEASTLANT had now ordered them to rendezvous with a tanker at 1430 tomorrow afternoon in 58 degrees 13' North, 14 degrees 00' West. It was a spot just thirty-five miles from the island of Rockall and it meant that after they'd got round Scotland they'd be turning down on to a course which, if they held to it beyond that rendezvous position, would bring them into the area about halfway down, 150 miles south of Alfa. And yet to keep the rendezvous would mean making-good fifteen knots. You could expect a north-easterly set of about one knot and a strong headwind too, so that on one boiler Devon wasn't going to have much to spare.

'Right.' He told Hunt, his yeoman, 'Shove that signal log over, will you.' He had to put the French and the Soviets into the picture now. Behind him, he heard someone pull the door back: Ash ton came into the chartroom.

'What's it look like?' .

'Well.' Comerford pointed to the track he'd ruled on, from north of Cape Wrath to the Rockall position and continuing from there to the area's eastern edge. 'Here's the R/V with the tanker, sir. We'll have to make good fifteen knots and that'll mean revs for about seventeen.' Tommy Buchanan, the Operations Officer, had come in behind Ashton: Hunt saw that the place was getting crowded, and slid out. Buchanan suggested, 'Could flash up the other boiler, sir?'

'No. Shouldn't need it.' He'd spoken gruffly, as if it annoyed him to be reminded that his ship was lame. Since the AA shoot he'd been in particularly good form, despite the general feeling of uncertainty that was affecting just about everyone. The shoot had gone off splendidly: in the first run all except the first shot had been TTBs - target-triggered bursts - and in the second pass there hadn't been even one miss.

Comerford pointed with the tips of the dividers at tomorrow's rendezvous position.

'If we start the RAS dead on time, and say four hours at twelve knots - seven ships, four hours?' Ashton nodded. 'Then at 1830 we'd be about here. Leaves us 150 miles, on the same course, before we reach the boundary. So whatever happens we can't make it by the midnight deadline.'

'Beginning to wonder if they'll let us go in at all.'

Ashton had said it slowly, quietly. Tommy Buchanan went on staring at the chart. He was as tall as Ashton and as wide-shouldered but slimmer from there down. Married, one daughter in the toddling stage, and a bird in every place they called at, usually a startlingly pretty one. Smug about it, too ... Frank Comerford erased that thought: it was mostly that he himself sometimes felt a trifle envious.

'CINCEASTLANT has no option. He's got to have us there, ready to go in. If we're stopped it'll be the politicians' doing___ Where will the French be when we get there?'

Comerford ran the parallel ruler over and set it for a track from Brest north-westward, a straight run all the way to point B, the south-east corner. According to Northwood's signal the speed-of-advance of the French squadron was to be eighteen knots, and he marked DR positions along the track accordingly, at four-hour intervals. The French would have left Fastnet astern by 4 am tomorrow and by noon they'd be on 14 west. At the midnight deadline they'd still have about sixty miles to cover.

'They should be on Tom Tiddler's ground about 3.30 am, sir.'

Buchanan muttered, 'Few hours ahead of us, then.' Behind them, someone cleared his throat theatrically. Comerford was working on the upper part of the chart, putting the Soviet task-force on it. Glancing round, he saw the new arrival was Hooky Winters. Ashton asked him, 'What can we do for you, Padre?'

Thought you'd want to know, sir - news bulletin a few minutes ago.'

'Well?'

'British, Danish and Dutch ambassadors to NATO have been recalled by their governments for consultations. Ours is already on his way to London. And -' he paused: Buchanan had begun to make some comment. He'd checked, shaking his head: 'Sorry.' Winters went on, 'Demo fuss in Paris, a protest march against their squadron sailing. They're drafting in a lot of extra coppers, riot squads, whatever.'

'Thank you, Padre.' Ashton turned back to the chart, where Comerford had put on a position for the Soviet ships and was running a course from it to the area's top-right corner, Alfa. Behind the three of them Winters boomed genially, 'Oh sorry, Alec -'

'Getting fat, Hooky, that's your problem.' Alec Holliday stood aside to let the chaplain out. Then he reported to Ashton, 'Ready for your defaulters, sir.'

Defaulters were men on charges, up for disciplinary offences. Ashton asked the Commander, 'How many? Three, is it?'

'Only two, sir.'

'I'll be down in - five minutes.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Comerford pointed at the position he'd just pencilled on for the Soviet force and marked '2359/20'. He'd transferred the position from the bigger chart.

'Midnight tonight, sir - according to Northwood the faster group will have caught up the tanker and its escorts at about this point.'

The Soviets would then. - at midnight - have Stokksnes, on Iceland's south-east coast, eighty miles on their starboard beam.

'That course is two-two-five. If we reckon on fifteen knots - that's if they stay together at the tanker's present speed - they could be at Alfa by about 7 pm tomorrow.'

'Twelve hours ahead of us.'

Ashton drummed his large fingers on the chart. Harry T. in Fermenger would have this same picture on his chart too; and he'd be thinking about the tactics he'd adopt after his squadron crossed that border, the north-south line between Alfa and Bravo. If it crossed it. Ashton said, 'If the Soviets go in at Alfa that much ahead of us, and we enter further down here at - well, say a bit after dawn - they could be there to meet us.'

Buchanan suggested, 'Something to be said for going in in daylight, perhaps.'

'I'm going down.' Ashton threw down a pencil. 'What's the name of the tanker they're sending us?'

'Tideway, sir.'

'Oh yes.' One of the bigger fleet replenishment tankers, she'd be. The Tide class had a full-load displacement of about 25,000 tons.

'Pilot, keep an eye on the bridge, will you.'

'Aye aye, sir.' Ashton went out, down to his defaulters session, and Comerford and Buchanan went up into the bridge. Into a panorama of sunshine, scudding white clouds, a jumpy sea bright green in the sun with its waves white-topped, white-streaked, and spray bursting up intermittently over Devon's foc'sl.

Pretty, picture-postcard material. And from any overflying aircraft the squadron would undoubtedly look impressive, bashing across the sea in this formation. Two miles ahead Jylland and Pereira were one mile apart, and here Devon was in the centre of the line-abreast formation. She was also Guide, which meant that Dick Stratton, who was officer of the watch this forenoon, was having an easy time. It was up to the other ships to watch the British destroyer and keep station on her; she had only to maintain course and speed and let the others worry about the straightness of the line. To port was Marnix, and beyond her Fermenger; Baden was looking beautiful on Devon's starboard beam and Winnipeg was outside the German on that wing.

The ambassadors of Britain, Denmark, Holland ... It didn't sound too hopeful. He said as much to Buchanan.

'Damn right.' The Operations Officer spoke quietly. 'I didn't like to bring this up in George Henry's presence, but if half the delegates or whatever they're called aren't there I'm pretty sure they can't have a meeting. So it looks like another day at least before we know what's happening.'

Out ahead there, Alvarez Pereira's 3.95 were blazing off her second batch of shells as the drogue target swept over. It was just as well that Pereira and Jylland were the last to be taking part in this shoot; there were quite a few other ships in the offing, and as they closed in towards the Firth it was bound to get more crowded. At this stage too they were crossing the direct route between Aberdeen and Lerwick, and with North Sea oil operations in full swing it was a busier track than it had ever been before. Talking of which -sweeping the horizon with Ashton's glasses and checking each visual interruption to that slightly corrugated curve - he'd picked up a hull-down shape that seemed to him unpleasantly familiar.

Buchanan was looking at it too. The hull-down ship had two prominent lumps of superstructure and a funnel, narrowing at its top, just higher than the taller of those two sections.

'Dick - have we any AGIs on the plot now?'

'Sure thing.' Stratton told him, 'That lad you're looking at. They've had him on it for some while.'

No little Mayak, that. With his glasses still on her he asked Stratton, 'Does the Captain know about this one?'

'He knew there was an AGI on that bearing on the plot. We've had her radar on us for some while.'

'And?'

'Well.' Stratton looked surprised at the degree of interest. 'We've had 'em all the way across, just about.'

Buchanan lowered his glasses. 'Not a Primorye, we haven't, me old cock.'

'Exactly my own sentiments. Thanks.' Comerford went over to the telephone on the OOW's console. Defaulters or no defaulters, George Henry would want to know, and had to be told, and he'd then be quick to tell the Commodore. The Primoryes were big -5,000 tons - and fast, and not only carried intelligence-collecting and processing equipment but had also an intelligence-analysis capability as well. They were the most advanced spy-ships in the world.

'May I speak to the Captain, please.'

He listened to the refusal. Then: 'It's Comerford here, sir.' He was talking to Alec Holliday, down in the cabin where the defaulters session was in progress. The urgency lay in the need to shut down every electronic circuit in the ship - in the squadron - that didn't actually have to be in use. 'Would you tell the Captain, please, that the AGI now bearing three-four-oh is one of the Primorye class?'

Galaxy, this is Spaniel. Execute to follow: formation one ... 'Galaxy' was the collective R/T call-sign for the squadron as a whole, and that American voice had been conveying Harry T. Gahan's wish to reform his ships from line-abreast to line-ahead. They'd form up in sequence of fleet numbers, which would put the flagship in the lead with Marnix, Jylland, Pereira, Devon, Baden and Winnipeg astern of her in that order.

The Dane and the Portuguese were still out ahead. Marnix was in position to slip in astern of Fermenger, and Ashton would have to drop his ship back far enough to allow those other two room ahead of her. He told John Knight, the young lieutenant who'd relieved Stratton at twelve-thirty, 'I'll take her.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

The AGI, the Primorye, was crossing the squadron's bow from starboard to port. Comerford had his glasses on her. She was well in sight now, with her high freeboard and those big, square-looking deckhouses that would be crammed, no doubt, with complex electronic gear. There were six ships in the Primorye class, and the hull design had been for fish-factory ships. They were to be found, as often as not, hanging around in the vicinity of the Polaris bases - off the Clyde, Guam, Rota or Charleston in South Carolina.

His view of her was obstructed by Pereira now. And the R/T was starting up again: Galaxy, this is Spaniel. Formation one - stand by -stand by - execute! Ashton said into the microphone, 'Revolutions eight-six.'

'Revolutions eight-six, sir!'

'Port ten.' v 'Port ten, sir. Ten of port wheel on, sir.'

'Both engines half ahead, eight-six revolutions on, sir.'

'Very good ... Midships.'

'Midships, sir ... Wheel's amidships, sir!'

Ahead, Alvarez Pereira had put her helm over to tuck herself in astern of Jylland. Presently old spaniel-face would follow his Danish colleague into the line. Devon was slowing and swinging to port, and Marnix was nosing into Fermenger's wake.

'Meet her.'

'Meet her, sir...'

'Steer two-eight-zero.'

Jylland and Pereira looked almost to have stopped, Fermenger was ploughing ahead at fifteen knots and Marnix was already just about in station on her. The gap between Marnix and Devon was opening out, and Ashton was watching it intently, judging the distance and the tuning. Baden, rolling like a wounded crocodile, seemed very dose astern, and Winnipeg looked massive on her quarter. Ashton aid into the microphone, 'Revolutions one-zero-zero.'

'Revolutions one-zero-zero, sir!'

She'd still be falling back, but not quite so fast.

'Starboard ten.'

'Starboard ten, sir.'

It was hard, for the moment, visually to separate the overlapping ships ahead, as Jylland and the Portuguese frigate merged into the forming line.

'Revolutions one-two-six. Midships. Steer two-nine-five.'

He might, Comerford judged, have left the speed-increase just a trifle late. He'd had to be sure of leaving those two ships enough searoom between himself and the Dutchman; but the aim was still to finish up in station, not astern of it so that you'd need to crack on extra revs to catch up. If you did that you'd be obliging the ships astern of you to do the same, and the whole manoeuvre became messy.

In fact, it was going to work out rather well. And Baden was nicely 'placed: Helmut Kreis hadn't made any mistakes either. Winnipeg was hidden behind the German.

'Revolutions one-three-zero.'

'Revolutions one-three-zero, sir!'

'Starboard wheel, steer two-nine-eight.'

To all intents and purposes the squadron was now in line ahead. And fine on the starboard bow, nine or ten thousand yards away, the Primorye had also turned so that now she was stern-on to them.

'Steer three-zero-zero degrees.' Ashton pushed the microphone up and glanced round at Knight. 'You can have her back now.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Comerford nodded towards the Primorye. 'He's going to lead us through.'

'Yes.' Ashton stared grimly at the AGI. 'Bloody nerve.'

Comerford went down to the wardroom for some lunch, and straight through to the dining half of the big room. Nobody did much drinking at sea, but Hooky Winters, chatting to Jack Maunsell and Bruce Fry the helo king, was enjoying his usual pink gin. Maunsell and Fry must have lunched earlier, since they were drinking coffee. Winters raised his glass.

'Here's to you, Frank.'

'At least they can't call you a whisky priest.' He went on through, and took one of several empty places near Alec Holliday and Doug Cooper. He nodded to Steward Price as he pulled the chair out and sat down. 'Soup, please.'

About forty officers used this wardroom, but quite a number must have lunched early, judging by the state of the two long tables. Holliday murmured, 'The Brussels meeting has been cancelled, we hear.'

'Well.' Comerford nodded. 'Postponed.'

The news had come by light from Harry T., flashed down the line from ship to ship. That way it hadn't been passed also to the Primorye. The Russian would have picked it up if he'd been astern of the squadron instead of ahead of it though. And the Commodore would most likely have been sent the information by satellite UHF - which, with a scrambler in the system, was in the short term reasonably secure. Fermenger was the only ship in the squadron with the equipment to receive it.

'So we have another day in which to contemplate our navels and await the edicts of the high and mighty.' Holliday watched Sam Ozzard hoist his long, skinny frame from the other table and mooch over to the coffee machine. When he'd gone on through the curtain carrying his little white cup, he said, 'Odd to think that lad's father is probably right in the middle of all their wheeling and dealing.'

Doug Cooper commented, with his mouth full, 'More likely gulping tranquillisers.'

'Or running up the red flag.' Pete Hayes, the Senior, suggested it. He was munching cheese and biscuits. He added, 'On fifteen separate poles.'

'Thank you, steward. ' Comerford had got his soup, and without the steward's thumb in it the level in the plate went down about a centimetre. Alec Holliday asked him, 'How's the skipper reacting to this postponement of the Brussels knees-up?"

'Glum. You might even say morose.'

Pete Hayes picked up another biscuit, considered it for a moment, then put it back. 'Assuming we do get sent in there eventually -'

'Don't count on it.' , 'Assuming we do, what does the Soviet task-force add up to in effective terms?'

Comerford began, 'Three cruisers, four------'

'I mean in terms of weapons, performance, and so on.'

'Oh. Well, Doug's yer expert.'

Cooper put down his knife and fork, beckoned the steward to come and retrieve his plate. He told the Senior, 'There's one Kara-class cruiser. Her missiles are eight SSN - I0, four SAN-4 and four SAN-3- That's a hell of an armament, in case you don't appreciate it. She's gas-turbine and clocks up thirty-four knots. About 10,000 tons. Then two Kresta Mark II cruisers. Steam-turbine, same sort of speed - on paper anyway - and similar armament except they don't have the SAN-4. Main armament's the SSN - I0, which is a thirty-mile surface-to-surface system. Karas and Krestas both have torpedo tubes too, by the way. Guns as well, naturally.'

'So any one of those could eat us for breakfast.'

'Weight for weight.' Cooper nodded. 'Sure.'

'And we're the best-armed ship in this squadron.'

'That's somewhat irrelevant.' Holliday told the engineer, 'Desirable as it is that we should be allowed to place ourselves in that area, the idea is not that we should start pooping off at each other when we get there.'

'Takes both sides to decide that sort of thing though, doesn't it.' Hayes asked Doug Cooper, 'What about the DLGs?'

'If you mean Krivak-class destroyers, you're talking about a ship of 4,000 tons and thirty-eight knots on gas-turbines.'

'Even if we weren't half crippled with one boiler out, they'd run rings round us.'

'Hardly need to, with quadruple SSN - I0 launchers for'ard, plus two twin SAN-4s. And guns, and torpedoes ...' He looked at Comerford. 'What else, Frank?'

'Two Kashins and six Skorys.' 'Ah. Well, there's your Kashin and also your modified Kashin. Taking it that they may well be mods, they'd have SSN - I1 for surface action - that's radar-guided, like the 10 - and in any case SAN - I for surface-to-air. 'For pedoes - yes, and guns fore and aft; about thirty-five knots, four-and-a-half thousand tons. Then the Skorys - well, they're not missile-ships. Guns - four five-inch and some little 'uns, and something like ten torpedo tubes. Rather old-fashioned, really - but thirty-plus knots on geared turbines. They've got - oh, getting on for fifty of'em.'

Holliday looked across at the engineer. 'Knowledgeable chap, our Douglas.'

Hayes nodded. 'Bloody depressing, too.'

Cooper shrugged. 'It's a lot worse when you realise that this is only a small sample they're sending down. Think of all the rest of it. Without even mentioning their submarines - think of Kiev and the other carrier, and - hell, the Kyndas, Sverdlovs, Chapaevs, as well as all the other Karas and Krestas. That's just cruisers. How many have we got - two? Then DLGs - well, they're sending us two of their nine or ten Krivaks and two out of nineteen Kashins. If they'd wanted to they could also be sending the Kildins, Kanins, Krupny, and Kotlins - twenty-six Kotlins at the last count....' He shook his head. 'They're letting us off very lightly, Pete.'

Hayes was on his feet, brushing crumbs off. He asked Alec Holliday, 'What time's the next boat ashore?'

Sam Ozzard was at the scuttle in his cabin, looking out. The sea in its constantly varying colours and behaviour-patterns never palled. Looking at it was like listening to music: it sparked thoughts, revived memories, raised questions, soothed the spirit: as now, when he was waiting for a messenger from his departmental chief, Douglas Cooper, bringing a load of paperwork which he - Sam - was going to have to deal with. When he heard the double knock on his door he thought this would be it, and he called 'Come in' without turning round.

'Shove it on the desk, will you.'

'Might do, if I 'adit.'

Barney Slight: with the door open, peering in, grinning. And glancing at the desk, adding, 'Wouldn't be much room there, for whatever it was.'

He was right, at that. The desk was inches-deep in paper. The clerical work of the section took up at least 50 per cent of one's time, and it was Sam Ozzard's least favourite occupation. He was glad to see Barney Slight, who represented an enforced delay in getting down to it.

'Come on in.' He cast a final glance at the sea as he left the scuttle. 'We'll look no more on that disordered scene ...'

Slight raised his eyebrows. 'Shakespeare, might that be?'

He grinned at the CEA2. 'Not bad. Could have been, easily, but actually it's Laurence Whistler. The matching line's rather apposite - "The shivering white upon the darkening green". Oddly enough it wasn't the sea he was on about. D'you read poetry?'

'Not as a general rule, sir.'

'Very relaxing. Particularly as a change from wings and fins and all that.' Now he'd remembered suddenly: 'Hey - you fixed the amplifiers and the Gunex was a cracking success, eh?'

Slight nodded. 'Thanks to you, sir. You were right when you said he'd give me a bollocking, too."

'Skipper did?'

'Commander Cooper. No, I'm the skipper's blue-eyed boy. for 'elping out aboard Winnipeg, in Kiel. And Commander W said 'im I'd fixed that bother but not that I caused it in the first place. like. Reckon 'e's a fuckin' good 'and, Commander Cooper.'

'No argument.' Sam Ozzard nodded. 'But he won't do it for you twice, you know. If he'd thought you were even half likely to do anything of the sort again he wouldn't have lifted a finger for you. Nor'd I, to tell you the truth.'

'Well, I understand that, sir, I------'

'Hangovers don't suit our kind of work, I've found. If I were you I'd lay off the sauce, old Slight.'

'Oh, I've laid off, sir.... But - none of 'em knows it was you put me on the track, so------'

'You'd have hit on it soon enough.' There was a messenger in the doorway behind Slight; he was carrying several trays loaded with paperwork. Sam nodded to him wearily. 'Come in and put it down, Morton, if you must.' Slight, backing out, nodded. 'Well -just wanted to - like express me thanks, sir.'

He turned aft and went down two decks, to the canteen flat; he was heading for his own No 5 Mess, to collect some pipe-tobacco. Passing through the canteen flat where the ship's sporting trophies were on display in a large glass-fronted cupboard, he came face to face with his own section chief, Chief Petty Officer Charles Dewsbury. Dewsbury stopped, and pointed at him.

'Hah. Now we'll 'ave it straight from the 'orse's mouth!"

'Chief.' He nodded. He was intending to go on by: he'd plenty to do and the defaulters business had made a hole in his working day. He didn't particularly want to have to go on talking about it anyway. Dewsbury had another CPO with him, a rather stout CMEM by the name of Hollingsworth. CMEM stood for Chief Petty Officer Marine Engineering Mechanic. Dewsbury and Hollingsworth were inhabitants of No 3 Mess, which housed only a dozen senior and Fleet Chiefs and was rather like a very exclusive club.

'This right, you got away with it?'

Barney nodded. 'Dead lucky, I reckon.'

'I'll say!' Dewsbury, who was tall and ginger, looked down at his fellow Chief. He told him quietly, 'Buggers up 'is own gear, puts it right, gets patted on the 'ead for it.'

Hollingsworth's thick eyebrows rose, fell again. He growled, 'One law for the rich ..."

'Well, Commander Cooper put up a bit of an argument for me.' Barney added, 'And I got me balls chewed off.'

'You'll be a much nicer lad for that, I dare say.' Dewsbury murmured as the two chiefs moved on, 'Skipper must 've fallen down and given his skull a knock, I reckon.'

'Else it's this Russian lark.' Hollingsworth suggested, 'Got enough on his plate already, sort o' thing.' He looked at his watch. 'I'd better cut along. Got an appointment with -' he dropped his voice - 'Lieutenant bloody Morrison. As if I don't see enough of him on watches in the MCR, for Christ's sake.'

Lieutenant (E) Andy Morrison was CPO Hollingsworth's divisional officer. Dewsbury asked, 'Seeing him about - you know, going through for Fleet Chief, are you?'

'Yeah.'

'What's the chances look like now?'

Hollingsworth shrugged. Fleet Chief POs were rare birds and it wasn't at all easy to become one. One of the advantages, apart from the obvious ones of increased status and pay and pension, was that you could continue to a retirement age of forty-five instead of forty.

'Mostly up to my young friend Morrison. Barmy, really.'

'Not much use then, that lad?'

'Oh, he will be. Once he's weaned.'

Dewsbury chuckled. Then: 'He the one who got married - before we left Pompey last time?'

Hollingsworth nodded. 'One born every minute, eh? See you later, Charlie.'

At 3 pm Duncansby Head was abeam to port at a distance of about 5,000 yards. John O'Groats coming up beyond it, and the Pentland Skerries falling away foam-washed on the starboard quarter, the island of Stroma coming up fine on the squadron's port bow and, out here ahead to starboard, the small crescent of wildly breaking sea that was Swona. If they'd turned right, beam-on to the tide-rip and up past Swona, between South Ronaldsay and Hoy, there'd have been the narrow Sound of Hoxa to negotiate and then they'd have arrived in Scapa Flow.

The Primorye had altered round to port, rounding Stroma, and for a while she was blanked off from sight by the ships ahead. It was a relief not to see her for a while: there was something rather irritating in having to follow a Soviet spy-ship through this British waterway.

A coaster was passing on the reciprocal course, eastbound. The sea's surface was all white, seething round the ships. Ashton was on his high seat, using his binoculars a lot but leaving the conning of the ship to his navigator. He'd hardly spoken since that signal had been flashed to them about the postponing of the Brussels meeting. But he'd lowered his glasses now, and swung round.

'What'll the course be after we round Stroma?'

'About two-seven-zero, sir.'

It would be Gahan's choice. All they'd have to do was follow the flagship.

'And the, run to Cape Wrath?'

'Sixty miles, sir.'

They'd have Stroma abeam at 1515, say. So Cape Wrath, at fifteen knots, 1915. At about that time they'd be turning down on to a course that would bring them to tomorrow afternoon's R/V position off Rockall.




Chapter Nine


The noise of the telephone shattered the bedroom's peace, woke him with its first ring and with the second had him reaching for it, over Sophie who'd been curled against him and still was, soft weight on him as he lay back with the receiver at his ear while the miracle of her presence and the stark facts of the Atlantic crisis re-formed, clarifying in his brain.

'Chris, it's Colin Murray here.'

'Colin.' That business. Oh, Christ... 'Yes. What time------'

'It's four-twenty. Are you compos?' Compost, his brain felt like. But Sophie stirring, whispering who was it, what did they want?

'I'm awake now.' Thinking / don't need whatever you've got. I know it. Then remembering, Know it, but no proof, only hearsay, gossip. He hadn't told her yet that he wasn't even going to try: he'd decided it alone, in the dark. He asked Murray, 'Found it, have you?'

(The stuff she'd brought him he could have typed out himself, made it all up Or she could have. You couldn't go out on a limb with what amounted to no more than a smear.) "I reckon I have, at that. And I've cadged a lift at sparrow-fart, military flight to Melsbroek, ETA 0745. I must go back on the same plane, before someone here wants to know where I've been, and that means no more than an hour on the ground. So can you stagger out there and meet me?'

He'd have to, he realised. He'd started this, he couldn't just drop it. And if Murray really had turned something up ...

'I can, of course. Seven forty-five. Is this real?' 'Looks bloody real to me. Mind you, I haven't slept since we last talked, so------'

'On paper, authentic?'

'Certainly. I could just send it by hand of aircrew, but frankly I'd rather not.'

'What else is on this flight?'

'It's a US plane and it's bringing some brass who're part of your set-up. Two of 'em. Did you know the US Secretary of State was here today?'

'Must have - kept it very quiet ... Colin, have you told these Americans you're coming to see me?' 'It's a bird I'm visiting. Home-front trouble. That's why it has to be kept quiet: trying to keep her quiet, save my marriage from fate worse than------'

'They might believe you. But I won't contact you until you're on your own. All right?'

'I've a story to tell you about the Secretary's chat here with Wonder Boy. It'll rivet you. Bye, Chris.'

Hanging up, he had to roll over across Sophie again to get to the bedside table. By the time he had the receiver back on its stand she'd wriggled under with her arms round his neck.

'You can tell me later what that was about.' Moving. He told her, 'It wouldn't interest you.' Let not thy left hand .., Like fire, slow-growing now but just as strong, bone-melting, mind-softening, the night's dimensions radiating to infinity, and out there voices telling him what he had to do, that the blackmail stunt wasn't any dream or far-fetched speculation, it was ahead of him and perhaps he was going to have to do it. Incredible. Sophie was hissing into his ear that she loved him, and he couldn't say it back: he hadn't said it to anyone since Julie died. He'd say it if he began to feel it strongly enough to want to say it.

She'd rung at about ten o'clock last night. He'd picked the phone up hoping it might be her and knowing it wouldn't be, then heard call-box sounds, money rattling in, and she came through and the receiver in his hand suddenly felt like a magician's wand that had summoned her out of limbo.

'Where are you, Sophie?'

'At Zaventem. May I come to you straight from here?'

Zaventem was Brussels Airport. He asked her, 'Did you just ask me what I thought you------'

'I'm in a call-box, Chris, I'll run out of time and coins. Shall I come there?'

'Oh, please!'

'All right.'

Click. She was in his mind, filling it. He thought, hanging up. At your age ... Then of Sam and his friends and the Atlantic thing: an attempt at - what, to mortify the flesh? It didn't work. Sophie, coming here, now...

He'd been downstairs to meet her. Forty-five minutes he'd reckoned it might take her at this time of night, but she was there in less time than that, parking her Fiat a short way down where the tree was and slipping out, locking the car's door, coming to him with that easy long-legged walk across the cobbled street. He shut the oak door and pushed a bolt across and she was in his arms.

'Talk about dreams coming true!'

'We've better to talk about than that, Chris.'

Heart sinking: he'd known this was too good to be true; Suspecting he knew how frustrated rapists felt. He asked her, his mouth off hers again, needing to sound civilised, capable of speech, 'Is that what you're here for, to talk?'

'I thought I could spend the night with you.' Her expression was serious but - incredibly -interrogative. 'When I go home I can be arriving from the airport, for all anyone can know. So------'

'Would you consider taking the same flight every day from now on?'

'Oh, well... Can I see first if it's worth my while?'

In the big room upstairs, she held him off. 'You haven't asked me what I've been doing. I went to see if I could get the material about Philip Ellermet's divorce. You were interested - you made out as if it was joking, but------'

'Interested to the extent that------'

'I have it, anyway. Here. Now, aren't you pleased?'

Out of her bag - a large, soft-leather thing - she took a brown envelope.

'It's a transcript of the first Mrs Ellermet's deposition in her application for divorce. It never got to be used because when he was faced with it he gave way, agreed to - what's the word - facilitate the divorce.... Don't you think it's interesting, that he gave way? Might again, for the same feelings he must still have about it?'

'I'll give you an opinion when I've read it. But he's older now, and it's old history. I suppose you could be right though.'

I was thinking about it a lot after we talked, just the few words we had, but you'd seemed so interested, and I came to the conclusion - well, after that meeting of the Council, I thought if he could not be beaten any other way, and there was some chance of this - well... You see?'

They'd been thinking alike, then. He'd never guessed her mind would have been on it to that extent. He didn't know that he was capable of doing anything about it, either, but that was another side 10 it. Well, he had guessed that perhaps she'd wanted to start him thinking about blackmail, but he hadn't believed in it. Now, he was confused about her motives.

He knew what he wanted. He wanted her, and he wanted Ellermet beaten, and he did not want to be the blackmailer.

Two foolscap pages, pale-blue paper, typewritten and in Dutch.

'I can't read this.'

'Give me a drink, and I'll translate.' She threw her bag into a chair. 'Scotch, please, splash of soda and no ice.'

'Like something to eat? There's some cold------'

'Oh, no. They gave us food on the airplane.'

'How did you get hold of this?' The transcript, he meant. He had his back to her, pouring two whiskies. 'From that girl who you said was in the lawyer's office?'

'Yes. I thought there was quite a chance she might have kept it. His sexual requirements were so strange that at the age we were, fresh out of school you know, there was a - well, a fascination. I remember thinking, "What if/married such a man?" One might not know, until it was too late.... It was a party-piece to read it out among our crowd of friends, make little charades of it?' She shrugged. 'Now, of course -' she took the glass from him - 'thank you - now we've all heard of such doings so often that it is simply -well, still bizarre, but -'

'Less likely to be effective than it was then?'

'For him I think it would still be humiliating to have it known.'

Ellermet's American wife had described how her husband had insisted on certain preliminaries to sexual intercourse. He'd make her tie him up: he had to be half dressed, not naked, and there was a ritual in which he was supposed to be an unwilling partner and she was forcing him to oblige her. There were various actions to which he forced her and which she found repulsive and intolerable and which made it impossible for her to continue as his wife.

Sophie read it all, translating into English as she went along. Then she looked up at Chris. He thought it was all rather trivial stuff.

'Would he like to have this circulated to the ambassadors here? To all the other people, so that every time he walks through the Salle des Pas Perdus they are looking at him and sniggering? To world capitals, newspapers?'

'I don't know. He'd have to balance this against what he may stand to gain the other way.'

'He agreed not to contest the divorce, so that it would not come out.'

'As I said, he's older now. And as you said, the general climate of - the world's more tolerant -'

'He has more face to lose now than he had then.'

'Well. Perhaps.'

'You don't want to do it, do you? That's what you're saying really.'

'Does your boss - Hugo van Pallendt - know you're giving me this information, or went to get it?'

'Certainly not. I could not possibly discuss such things with Hugo. As you must see, he is the greatest loser, personally, from Philip Ellermet coming here, but he would not dream of-' she touched the sheets of blue paper - 'anything like this.'

'And I would.'

'I hope so.'

'What makes you think I would?'

'You were interested, although you pretended not to be. And I think you are - directional. Single-minded.'

'Unscrupulous?'

'Don't you agree we must be, if we're to survive?'

'Then what difference between us and the other side?'

'It's their threat we're fighting to hold off, isn't it? We're no threat to them. Don't we have a right to try to go on living?'

'I think we do.' He'd been at a window: he came back to her. 'You said you'd come to spend the night.'

'Yes. Don't you want me to?'

'Of course I do. And nothing to do with politics or Ellermet or our jobs. What I can't help wondering, though - your coming here to me - how much connection is there between this and------'

'That's what you think?'

'Not think. But------'

'You believe I must have an - ulterior motive? What is it, Chris -this age worry you have?'

'Perhaps. Everything is slightly mixed up, isn't it? I've told you .1 want you, nothing to do with anything else - at first sight of you I----'

'I know.' She smiled. 'I saw it.'

'I don't mean at the Deans. The time before -'

'That's what I meant too.'

'Well, damn it, you told me------'

'Never mind. It's simple for me too, Chris. I want you too. I don't want this other business to come between us, mess us up - it just happens to be there. I believe it was necessary for me to meet you halfway - all right, two-thirds way - because you are age-conscious and so damn British -'

He wondered, watching her as she dressed, to what extent she was deliberately making use of him, or aiming to: how much was sexual attraction, how much political ambitions.

He saw that she was watching him in the tall mirror: standing there half dressed, adjusting strands of that gold-brown hair, 'What's in your mind, Chris?'

'Lust.'

'What else?'

'How beautiful you are. How lucky I am. And wondering how long we'll last.'

'Who is it you are going to meet so early and so secretly, some flight arriving?'

'It's just a private thing. Helping a friend out.'

'Oh, is it?' Doing up her buttons and just about ready now. 'You still think I'm Mata Hari, don't you?'

Van Pallendt's political ambitions, of course, not hers. There was a family connection she'd mentioned: quite possibly she'd do this for him? For Hugo the issue was personal as well as political: as she'd pointed out, he was about to lose his job to Ellermet. Had lost it. He'd have a lot .to gain from Ellermet's destruction, if it could be arranged. There were also obvious reasons why he himself couldn't risk involvement in such an operation. But who could? An Assistant Under-Secretary on his way up, for God's sake?

That sex stuff wasn't so unusual. You'd only to read the Sunday papers. Sophie - or the other girl - could have made it up. Perhaps Murray would have something more solid: he couldn't act on this. 'I'll take you down. Will you come again tonight?'

'I don't know. If I were suddenly to disappear from all other social life------'

'People might guess.' He was watching her. 'The van Pallendts. They'd disapprove, I imagine?'

She'd nodded. 'They are very - correct, is the word?'

'They don't have to know, if we're careful.'

'If I come too often you'll get tired of me.'

'I'm sick of you already.'

'I can't stand you either. You're so ugly.' In each others' arms again. She murmured, 'Sexy, too. I hate that.'

'We could spare half an hour before we------'

'Oh no, when I've only just got------'

'Sophie.' Unbuttoning. 'Miss Horonje, darling. Let's not waste time, opportunity. Look - at this absolutely beautiful------'

'You're horrible.' Laughing softly, not impeding him at all. 'Look, it's getting quite light outside.'

'Best light of all. I'll put the lamp out and open the curtains.'

Birdsong in the dawn: her body like warm satin. He wondered, Would it matter if she was Mata Hari?

'Very good of you to have gone to all this trouble, Colin." Climbing into the car. Murray had followed him out to it. Chris had sat waiting in the car-park until the jet with its USAF markings had screeched in and landed, and he'd gone on waiting until its other passengers had come out of the airport and driven away. Then he'd gone in and found Colin Murray, who quite clearly was suffering from a hangover.

'I admit it's been quite a steeplechase. Despite the fact I was dead lucky, thanks to you mentioning the American ex-wife. Not that she had anything to do with it.'

Chris stared at him. The sense of that statement wasn't apparent.

'Come again?'

'My stuff came from American sources, because you pointed me that way, but it's got bugger-all to do with the little runt's marriage, divorce, whatever. I gather he was through with that one years before he took this great fat bribe.'

Silence: staring, wooden-faced, at the airport entrance. He looked round at Murray, and nodded. 'I see. Perhaps I'd better take a look at what you've got.'

'Sure. It's all here. Bit scrappy, but there's enough to make it stick. Thing is, he took this money and he was a public servant at the time. You know the deal - the same aircraft corporation a lot of people got their knackers caught up in. Now, he stashed the money in a company in Luxembourg. I don't know if you know how they work there? Briefly, there have to be a certain minimal number of directors and shareholders - three of one, seven of the other, I think. There are accountants down there who specialise in the formation of such companies, and they tend to use office staff as shareholders and themselves and their partners as directors. The nominees are given a share or two each, but the person who's really behind it never puts his name to anything. He simply keeps 99 per cent of the stock - in bearer certificates - and the company remains in his absolute control. Unless he loses the bits of paper, of course. But what that comes down to is there's virtually no documentation, and nothing with his name on it. In this case we've got him, though, in spite of that, through two items in this package - one, a photostat of the aircraft corporation's cheque, and two, a sworn statement by one of the office-staff shareholders.'

'He's trapped, then.'

'Except the one who made the statement won't ever go in a witness-box or stand up and swear to it. Of course, he doesn't have to know this.... Well, here it is. Various bits, enough to make a convincing case.' A fatter envelope than Sophie's contribution: Chris pushed it into his inside breast pocket. Murray was saying, 'One quite interesting item is a list of the Luxembourg company's investments. They include a villa and a yacht, several businesses, gold shares, a restaurant - really quite a package.... Okay, Chris?'

'Fantastic.'

'I wish you luck with it.'

'I'm very grateful to you. I hope I'll be in a position to do something tor you one of these days.'

'Something might arise, I dare say.'

'One very important aspect, Colin, is security. It's vital nobody ever gets a whisper of it.'

'I know. Take that as certain. I've been on a bust, my brain's blown, booze-racked.... Listen - I told you about Uncle Sam's man dropping in at the FCO for a talk. Want to hear the gist of it?'

Chris nodded.'Please.'

'In a nutshell - we all stand together, shoulder to shoulder, resolute against the red hordes, and we shall not be moved. We'll send in the ships and fight to the last sailor, the Soviet move is illegal and unacceptable and Moscow is to be warned that what they're attempting is a serious threat to detente. And behind all that is tacit agreement between our two heroes that they're dead safe in taking such a stand because the new Dutch ambassador at NATO headquarters won't let the squadron go in, so we can rattle our sabres without the faintest risk of having to unsheathe them.'

A second or two while he absorbed it ... Then: 'What cynical bastard thought that yarn up, Colin?'

'No yarn. It's what was said.'

'How the hell do you know what was said?'

'Be fair, Chris. You asked me for much more tricky information from no particular place at all, and you've got it there in your pocket. I'll give you a bit more, for good measure: that same message is being whispered in the ear of the Soviet ambassador in London.'

Telling Moscow, We'll huff and we'll puff, but don't worry ... He sat still, thinking about it, whether it could be true. In a way, it was too unpleasant not to be. On the other hand, when one knew the Whitehall circus, the high incidence of two plus two coming out as five....

'I think, Colin, that before you make me physically sick you'd better shoot off and I'd better get to work.'

'Right.' Murray put his hand on the door. 'You see where this puts you though? I mean, if you make the sod give way, you'll be sending the ships in. You personally, over the heads of London and Washington.'

He was right. After they'd huffed and puffed they wouldn't be able to back out of it, once the brake came off.

If it came off.

'So long, Colin. Thank you again.'

'Good luck.'

Part of the sick feeling came from the realisation that he had no option now, that he had to go ahead with this thing....

He took out Murray's envelope, slit the flap and looked through its contents. The signature on the shareholder's statement was illegible: probably a good thing it was. The list of investments was interesting: the restaurant in Luxembourg was one he knew well. This was enough, he thought, as samples:, nobody, shown this package, could doubt the truth behind it. Whereas Sophie's transcript, he'd realised when he'd thought about it last night, wasn't evidence at all: anyone could have concocted it and bashed it out.

'All right, Chris?'

Murray, at the car's window, grinning in at him.

'Thought you'd gone, Colin.'

'I'm glad you hadn't. One thing you didn't ask me. With this evidence available, why wasn't our friend arrested, prosecuted?'

'All right. Why?'

'Political deal, in Holland. The Americans knew about it, through their investigation of the corporation's affairs, all the other corruption cases, but the Dutch suddenly decided not to proceed. They don't know what sort of deal it was, only that there was one. The Yanks were asked not to rock the boat.'

'Right. Thank you.'

'Entirely welcome.'

He'd gone again. Chris replaced the various documents in the envelope. On his own, he thought, Ellermet wasn't a strong or resilient character. But if the Soviets' Atlantic move and this simultaneous blocking tactic were two parts of one operation aimed at the break-up of NATO and then new Soviet takeovers, it was on the cards that a personal threat might not worry him. He'd reckon to be on the bandwagon with so much to gain that he could brush this off.

Chris started the Rover and headed for Evere. Another hurdle might be the Danish ambassador. He could be on his way back to Brussels with a veto out of Copenhagen: in which case the attempt to nobble the Dutchman might as well not be made.

It would be marvellous not to have to do it....

Heading for the office, he switched his thoughts to the squadron and to Sam. Last evening when he'd left the building they'd been off Cape Wrath and they'd had a Soviet intelligence ship with them. He wondered how they'd be reacting to the silence out of Brussels, the continuing absence of a decision. He could imagine them trying to guess at the implications of that silence: and having to listen to confusing bulletins about ambassadors being pulled out for consultations. He also wondered whether Sam would have had the letter he'd written to tell him about the short-notice transfer to this NATO job, so that he'd guess the crisis was as much a preoccupation to him here as it must be to them at sea. Some people might have thought it was a peculiar sort of father who'd be exerting every effort to get his son into a situation of considerable danger: if the Standing Naval Force went in, it would be in danger. But this was what it was for, what the Navy existed for, and he could imagine how they'd feel if they were not sent in.

In the Situation Centre, Pat Cleary left an American airforce colonel and came across to meet him. Pat looked as if he'd lost weight in the last two days, and there were dark pouches under his eyes; but his opening was characteristically forthright.

'Know what a Victor-class submarine is?'

'I know it goes under water and it's a Soviet.'

'It's a nuclear. A fleet submarine, not a missile boat, just torpedoes and nuclear-propelled. Very fast - say forty knots dived. Big, like all the nuclears, with around 5,000 tons dived displacement.'

'And?'

'They have sixteen in their Northern Fleet, at the submarine base at Polyarny on the Kola inlet. Two of 'em sailed westbound and we tracked them through the Iceland Gap about ten days ago. The news is that six more sailed last night. That means half the brigade of Victors is now out in the Atlantic, and that's additional to the routine Soviet patrols off the US eastern seaboard."

'With that underwater speed they could be in our ABCD area in about a couple of days?'

'We think they're going right across. One of the first pair was detected yesterday off the Virginia coast - off Norfolk, in fact. Putting that into the context of what's happening elsewhere we think it's likely the whole lot'll end up along that coast, reinforcing the regular patrols.'

He watched Chris hoisting that in. A strong force of fast-attack submarines off the major US bases suggested that the Soviets might be preparing to intercept an eastward movement of surface ships. Or -just as likely - that they were warning the Americans against making such a deployment.

'Think they're expecting the Carrier Strike Force to be committed?'

Cleary nodded. 'They might be.'

'But there's no such likelihood. Don't they know it? Unless the US declare a General Alert - which they haven't done and probably won't -'

'You're absolutely right.' Cleary moved towards the chart display, where current movements were kept marked and up to the minute by the Centre's staff. Chris went with him. The Admiral said, 'As you know, Eric Lassiter's been blowing his top once every half-hour for two days now.' Lassiter was his boss - Supreme Allied Commander Atlantic. 'He's also been sounding off at the President  to whom he does, of course, have direct access. And possibly we're getting some results from it - in terms of diplomatic pressures, and so on. What Eric wants is: one, for the Standing Naval Force to get into that area and stay there; and two, for some kind of preparation or pre-Alert situation to develop over there so that Moscow can suspect they aren't about to be given an easy ride. And on that one he's so far had a brush-off: which didn't surprise him, but doesn't stop Jin either, because he knows damn well that without a promise of strong back-up our little squadron would be very obviously at risk. If they go in, and the Soviets reckon they can ride them off the sea and get away with it, they will----So now Eric's going round the back way, twisting arms at OPNAV - the Pentagon - in the hope of filtering his own sense of urgency through to the Senatorial lobbies. He's not a man to give up easily, you know.'

'Praise God for it.'

'Well, sure. But you see, the deployment of the Victors could be the result of leaks on that side, talk about the possibility of using the Carrier Fleet. And they'd recognise that if we don't get our squadron in, the Americans might suddenly find they have to do something about it. That's a highly important piece of sea strategically, after all. / think they're putting 'em along that coast as a warning to the President - warning him off.'

They'd stopped in front of the chart display. Everything that mattered, now the squadron had left Scottish waters, was on Chart 1904, Newfoundland to the Faroes. 'Gahan's here now.' deary's finger stabbed at a blue flag two-thirds of the way from the Butt of Lewis to Rockall. 'He'll rendezvous with the tanker here - at fourteen-thirty. The AGI left them at three this morning, by the way, and she's now here, off St Kilda, probably heading for the Clyde. There's usually a Primorye off there somewhere and there's only a Moma at the moment, one of the little buggers. But the Primorye's only about seventy-five miles from our chaps, so its ears'll still be flapping.... Now the French squadron's here. 350 miles south. The Soviets - up here, 200 north-west. Those two separate bunches of 'em have joined up, as we'd thought they might. They'll be at point Alfa this evening.'

Up in his own department, Chris asked Huguette to ring the Netherlands delegation and try to arrange for Ambassador Ellermet to have lunch with him. Huguette was told this was plainly impossible: the ambassador was due back around midday and Mr Ozzard's invitation would be placed before him, naturally, but the chances of his being able to spare the time were really negligible.

It was the expected answer. Chris thanked Huguette, and went along to the Netherlands suite to call on Hugo van Pallendt. He explained to him that he was extremely anxious to have a private talk with the ambassador before the next meeting of the Council, and it would be in Mr Ellermet's own best interests; there were certain factors which he believed had not been brought to the ambassador's attention, and he'd want to know about them. With time so limited, a working lunch seemed the best way to arrange it. Van Pallendt said he'd explain this to the ambassador when he arrived: but he very much doubted whether any such interview could be arranged.

It would be, though. And since when it took place everyone was going to know about it, it was best to arrange it openly. Nothing to hide: would anyone setting up a blackmailing make the rendezvous so public? Afterwards, van Pallendt could suspect anything he liked.

Even if he hadn't set this whole thing moving in the first place....

At twelve twenty-five Huguette took a call from the Netherlands people. A secretary informed her that the ambassador had arrived a few minutes ago, and that while he appreciated Monsieur Ozzard's kindness in inviting him to lunch he did not have as much as one minute to spare. If M. Ozzard wished, however, a brief meeting could perhaps be arranged for this evening, perhaps around six.

Huguette came in, and read the message off her pad. Chris thought, At least he's got here . . . Relief: and dread too. He asked her to see if she could get Hugo van Pallendt on the line. When she'd gone back to her own room, Michelsen - who happened to have been with Chris - asked him why on earth he should want to entertain Philip Ellermet to lunch.

'Take rather a long time to explain.' Chris checked his watch.

Anyway, it's just a longshot try----Have we finished with dial stuff?'

'I think - yes ..." The Group Captain took the hint and got up, closing the file of papers they'd been dealing with. Then Chris's telephone rang and he paused, opening it up again as if he'd mislaid or remembered something: Chris had the phone at his ear and Huguette murmured, 'I have Monsieur van Pallendt for you.'

'Put him through.' He nodded to Michelsen. 'All right, Mich. See you before the meeting ... Mr van Pallendt? It's Christopher Ozzard here. I had a word with you earlier - about my need to talk to your ambassador?'

'Ah yes, of course - I am so sorry -'

'It's for me to apologise, for presuming on our very short acquaintance to ask a great favour of you.'

'Naturally, if I could help you, but------'

'It's vital that I should have a talk with him, and it has to be before this next meeting. Now I'm told he's back, but the message I received a few minutes ago seems------'

'Excuse me. I was informed of this. Unfortunately'

'Would you do just one thing for me - give him a message? It has ID be now, right away. It would only mean interrupting him for a few seconds: and I wouldn't ask this if it wasn't absolutely------'

'What is the message?'

'First, I'd like you to impress upon him how urgent it is, and that it's in his own interests - his own personal interests, say. Then express my regrets that as time is so short I'm asking him to lunch with me in the restaurant downstairs, say at one-fifteen; but that if there had been more time at our disposal I should have liked to have taken him for a meal at - this is where you should perhaps make a note, if you'd be so kind - at L'Auberge du Pays Vert in Luxembourg.'

There was a short silence on the line. Chris had expected it, rather.

'Are you - serious?'

'Completely. Do you have the name of the restaurant?' Van Pallendt repeated it. 'But - all the way to Luxembourg -when in any case there's no question------'

'Please - in fact I beg you - would you give him that message, in full?'

'Although you know he could not possibly------'

'Exactly so. It does sound ridiculous, I know. But I should be eternally grateful.'

'Well. If you insist------'

'Thank you very much.'

When he'd hung up he asked Huguette to reserve a table for two, the best table they could provide, for luncheon at one-fifteen.

The restaurant was outside the security area, at the eastern end of the building with the Press Theatre and Information and Press Services section linked to it. You could enter it from outside the building or, as Chris had done a quarter-hour ago, form the corridor linking it to the main building. There was a cafeteria and bar as a restaurant, and the whole complex was crowded, noisy with the lunch-hour crowd.

Sir Jocelyn wasn't back yet. He was expected at any moment, one of the bright young men in UK delegation's offices had told Chris,, but nobody knew for sure. Sir Jocelyn tended not to advertise his intentions: he had a theory that a staff worked better if it was kept on the hop.

There was no question-mark now against whatever directive Jocelyn Dean might be bringing back from Whitehall, not if Colin Murray's story had any truth in it. Just a short while ago, leaving the Secretary-General's office after a discussion about this after noon's agenda, Chris had run into the US ambassador. They'd walked down the passage together, and Chris had raised the subject, mainly to check that yarn. Adam Carlsson had told him, 'My guess is you can rest easy as regards your own people, Chris. Unless there've been developments since last night of which we've not been apprised. Tell you the truth, we're a little more sensitive right now about what may be coming out of Copenhagen than we are about London.'

Neither Carlsson nor Dean need know what had been agreed at that session in the FCO, of course. If indeed there'd been one.

Twenty-five past one. Damp inside his shirt. Keeping his hands open, air in their palms: knowing he was an amateur, a scared amateur, attempting something a professional would most likely baulk at. And attempting it - he thought, looking at the lunchers all around him - in a well-lit goldfish bowl.... He watched the door, and sipped a Campari and soda. Philip Ellermet was late, but he'd come all right. And he'd have needed a bit of time - to check on who this Englishman was, what his functions and responsibilities were, even on as much of his background as might be ascertainable. They'd only met for long enough to shake hands formally before the last meeting. After that meeting he wouldn't have touched the man's hand with a ten-foot pole.

'Monsieur's guest is perhaps not hungry?'

Marie, his favourite waitress, had paused at his table. 'You still would not like to order?"

'Not yet, thank you, Marie,'

She leant down, and a heavy breast touched his shoulder. She murmured, 'If/were Monsieur's guest I should not be late.'

She'd gone off, laughing, passing a table where Major-General Hans Walther, German Army, was lunching with Carlo Longhi, an Italian of the same rank who was Assistant Director of Command Control and Information Systems. They were both on the International Military Staff, and Walther's area was Management and Logistics. Another of the staff, a UK general named John Holt, was lunching only a few tables away with Andy Hesseltine, an American who was Financial Controller in the International Secretariat. And there were quite a few other familiar faces here and there. He was looking around at some of them when he noticed heads turning towards the door: Hans Walther, for instance, had stopped in the middle of what might have been a funny story, and the grin had faded as he tapped his companion on the arm.

Ellermet, just inside the glass entrance, was looking to and fro with his eyebrows raised and one hand brushing back a long, floppy forelock. Chris got up and went to meet him.

'So glad you could make it, Ambassador.'

'Ozzard?' They shook hands; there was a thought in the back of Chris's mind about ten-foot poles. Ellermet's eyes flickered around the room: he was aware of being recognised and not exactly cheered. Chris said, 'They've put us over here. And I've been promised quick service.' He saw Marie and nodded to her, saw her lips move: 'Tout de suite, Monsieur ...' She'd flashed him a smile as she whisked by. Chris knew, as he led the Dutchman to their table, that their progress was being followed by several dozen pairs of eyes and that within half an hour everyone in the building who had any interest in the crisis situation would know that Ellermet had lunched with him. But there wasn't any other way he could have arranged it.

Ellermet said he'd like a steak if it wouldn't be too long coming. Chris suggested, 'An avocado while we're waiting for it?'

'Very well.'

'An aperitif?'

'If we are to drink wine-'

'Right.' Marie had her order-pad at the ready. 'Fillet steak?' Ellermet nodded peevishly. 'How d'you want it done?'

'Well done, if you please.'

He ordered his own to be bleu. And a bottle of red Bordeaux which he'd had before on Marie's recommendation. 'You'll remember we're short of time, Marie?'

'Entendu, Monsieur.'

Ellermet said, 'I accepted your invitation because it was so peculiarly phrased. It sounded like some appeal from a man who was - excuse me - beside himself with anxiety.' That wasn't a chance remark: he was studying Chris, seeing the anxiety.

'And some reference to a restaurant in Luxembourg?'

That bait had done its job all right.

'I felt ashamed to be asking you to lunch down here. Not that there's anything wrong with this place, but I was pressing you to accept my invitation and I felt I should be proposing something a little more out of the ordinary. I should have liked to have been asking you to some more amusing place - such as L'Auberge du Pays Vert. Do you - happen to know it?'

Ellermet shook his head. Marie had brought the avocados and the wine. Chris told her, 'We'll start on that right away, please.' Ellermet was looking at her breasts, he saw. Well, most men would, and it was interesting to note that he suffered from some normal instincts. He told him, 'The Pays Vert is a very well-run restaurant. Excellent cuisine, ambience quite simple, prices astronomic. Entirely justified, I may say; but whoever owns it really has a little gold mine.'

'Indeed.' The Dutchman frowned, pushed hair back, glanced at his watch. Still pinning his faith on the mention of that auberge being only coincidental? Chris thought he'd have to be a damn fool to imagine that as a possibility. He watched Marie pour a little wine; he tasted it and nodded, and she filled Ellermet's glass. Chris told her, 'This avocado is just right, Marie.'

'Selected especially for you, Monsieur.'

Ellermet said when she'd moved away, 'The urgency for this encounter has not yet become obvious to me. May I know what it is you want to tell me or ask me?

His American accent came through strongly at some points. Chris nodded. 'Certainly. But may I ask you one question first?'

Ellermet put his glass down and shrugged. 'Well?'

'On the subject, of course, of this afternoon's meeting. May I ask whether your views on the matter of deploying the Standing Naval Force in the Atlantic are the same as they were two days ago?'

Ellermet was scraping the inside of his avocado shell. Now he put the spoon down.

'I have no reason to discuss it before the meeting, I think.'

'I only hoped you might tell me.'

'Do you have some reason to suppose that my convictions on this subject might have altered?'

'Well, you've been back at the Hague and presumably discussing it with colleagues, and one hears that there may be some disparity of views there on some matters. ... However - I take it that your objection to the squadron's use still stands?'

'I explained my views quite clearly, I believe, at the previous meeting. If I had found it necessary to do some sort of volte face I do not think I should have been here today.' He shook his head: hair fell forward, had to be jerked back again. 'One cannot change one's deepest principles, Monsieur.'

'I see. No change.'

'Was it simply to ask me this question that you persuaded me to have lunch with you?'

Marie had whipped away the avocado shells and the sauce; she had the steaks there on her trolley.

'Messieurs..."

'Well done, Marie.' She'd even brought some English mustard. He told his guest, 'Not really. And of course, it's not only you who may have adopted a different posture, as people tend to call it nowadays, but two other Permanent Representatives have also been home to see their governments. And liaison with the national delegations does happen to be part of my job.' Marie finished serving the steaks, saute potatoes and leaf spinach. He told her, 'I'll see to the wine now, Marie.'

'Merci, Monsieur.'

'Isn't she terrific?' He poured wine into Ellermet's glass. 'I'm mad about her. Mind you, the service at L'Auberge du Pays Vert is also beyond reproach.'

'You like to talk about your auberge, it seems.'

'Oh, not mine. Tours, surely.'

A piece of overcooked beef, speared on the Dutchman's fork, was held motionless in mid-air.

'What did you say?'

'A company of which you were the founder and are the major shareholder. Bearer shares so that although your name appears nowhere in any documentation you still control the operation absolutely."

'Is this some fairy story, now?'

'You asked me to tell you what I want. So I will. I want you to drop your opposition to the deployment of our Standing Naval Force in the area which your Soviet friends are claiming for their own exclusive use.'

'Forgive me.' A shake of the head: and the hair routine again. 'You have to be a raving lunatic.'

'You'd like to know more about the Luxembourg company which owns 68 per cent of L'Auberge du Pays Vert?' 'What possible connection can there be------'

'Are you unwell, Ambassador?'

'No------'

'You're shaking. Perhaps some iced water------'

'What the hell are you saying to me, Ozzard?'

'Ambassador - I'd suggest you keep your voice down. You're attracting attention. I'm sorry to have had to arrange this in such a public place, but with so little time and------'

'I shall be speaking to the Secretary-General about your quite extraordinary behaviour. I shall also request an interview with the British ambassador.' Ellermet put his knife and fork down. 'I shall not go through the ritual of thanking you for this meal.'

'I shouldn't leave yet, either. Not unless you want certain papers - photocopies, naturally - delivered to various people at the Hague and to several newspapers. The packages are ready for immediate delivery, I should tell you.'

'What papers?'

'This list may give you an idea.' He reached into his breast pocket. 'But - if I may make a suggestion - don't wave it about too much. We're being looked at rather a lot, and - well, I'm offering you a bargain, it doesn't have to become public knowledge, you see.' He handed a folded sheet of paper across the table, and explained quietly, 'Those are your Luxembourg company's investments. They include - the last two items, d'you see - the Sardinian villa and the yacht which you're keeping at the moment, I understand, in Italy. They belong to you through the company, of course. The others, like the restaurant, are enterprises in which you have varying degrees of interest and in some cases actual control. Quite a profitable portfolio, judging by the past year's accounts - which as it happens I don't have with me, but------'

'This list proves nothing.' Ellermet glanced at him and forced out a laugh. 'To do with me - nothing!' 'Try this, then.'

He handed him a photostat of a cheque, 'The Luxembourg system of company formation requires virtually no documentation, I'm told. But whatever does exist, we have copies of. And that - well, as you see, it's a stat of a cheque issued by an American aircraft corporation to the company which you'd formed for the purpose only days earlier.'

'You - Ozzard, you ...' White-faced, struggling to control either anger or fear or both: and Marie was approaching their table. Chris waved her away. Ellermet hissed, 'I tell you first this is - lies.... Second, no quantity of such documents, cheques, anything you could have - can involve me. So------'

'You're wrong there.' He offered his guest more wine: Ellermet declined angrily, so he topped up his own glass. 'These papers didn't float out of your Luxembourg accountant's office of their own accord. Human agency is involved. Such agency is also capable of speech - of giving evidence. Another point is that the aircraft cor poration is not now in a position to withhold information if it's demanded; there've been a number of such cases, as you know, and they've all been broken wide open. When we even have a photograph of their cheque - well, how could they refuse to come clean?'

Ellermet picked up his glass, peered into it. Chris watched him. The cards were on the table: the coercion worked now, or it would be rejected. The fact of a blackmail threat having been made was a weapon in Ellermet's own hand. Delay, too, would be failure. And that would be his most likely tactic: delaying action in the form of denial and accusation: and a Council decision meanwhile still blocked. ... Chris felt his own hands sweating: he held them palm to palm with the napkin pressed between them.

Marie stopped at the table.

'Will there be something else, Monsieur?'

She'd glanced with disfavour at Ellermet's only half-consumed steak. Chris asked him, 'Would you like some sort of pudding? Or the cheese? It's usually a reasonable selection.'

Ellermet stared at him blankly. Then he shook his head.

'Coffee?'

'I - think not, thank you.'

Subdued, even polite. Chris told Marie, 'Give us a few minutes. I'll try to persuade him to change his mind.'

'Of course, M'sieur.'

'By blackmail again?'

She'd gone, to someone who was fretting for his bill. Carlo Longhi, Chris saw, the Italian who was lunching with Hans Walther. Chris had forgotten his surrounding audience in the last few minutes. He answered Ellermet, 'The people whose interests you seem to be representing have a saying about the ends justifying the means. I've borrowed the idea.'

'Your ends being?'

'The survival of the Alliance.'

'For what purpose?'

'My own survival. And all my friends'. Even yours, if it comes to that.'

'You needn't concern yourself with mine, Ozzard.'

'Don't be so sure. The Soviets aren't about to win any major victory, you know. The worst they can achieve, with your help, is to show up some cracks in the NATO structure. We'll repair those. Meanwhile if the NATO squadron doesn't challenge their claim to international waters, the American fleet will. Then where'll you be?

You'll have served a minor purpose: but there won't be any Communist grand-slam for you to profit from. You've shown what you stand for: and on top of that you'll face a corruption charge.' He shook his head. 'I wouldn't say your future's all that rosy.'

'Have you done this sort of thing before?'

He shook his head. 'It's a new experience.'

'Perhaps I should make sure it doesn't succeed in its purpose. So you won't be tempted to make a habit of it.'

'Well, that's -' he sat back, wanting to let it ride now, feeling by instinct that too much pressure might wreck it - 'that's something you'll have to weigh up for yourself.'

'I shall have to think about it.'

'Yes. Of course ... But - Ambassador, there's one rather vital point. Time. We need to have a positive decision at the meeting this afternoon. So although your natural reaction is likely to be to fight me, play for time and try to out-manoeuvre me somehow, I'm afraid I couldn't accept that. I'm asking you for immediate co-operation. And I'm offering you a deal. Vote with the majority this afternoon -that's to say, don't obstruct the decision they all want - or back out, go home___If you withdraw your opposition you have my word for it that the information I possess will never be published; but if you oppose the deployment of the squadron I swear to you it'll be common knowledge before nightfall.'

'And your own position? Do you think you can keep this dark? You, an Assistant Under-Secretary of State, am I right? And moving higher soon, you think?'

'I suggest we could keep it dark, Ambassador. Between us, it could remain our private secret?'

'Now I know you're raving mad.' Ellermet threw his bunched napkin on the table. Chris put a hand on his arm. 'One moment. Let me tell you why you'll want------'

'I have heard enough. Excuse me------'

'I have some personal insurance, Ambassador. I've given you my word on the first part: drop your opposition to the squadron's use and you're safe, that part's finished. But if I found after this that the knives were out for me - anyone's, your people's or mine, since naturally you'll have friends in Whitehall too - if I found I was being set up in any way, or even held back in the expectation you've just mentioned - well, then this document would go into circulation.'

He slid the envelope containing Sophie's transcript across the table.

'I don't want it back. As you'll see, it's just a copy. The original is in safe keeping, and it's signed, witnessed and so on.'

'Original of what?'

'To do with a divorce application by your first wife. You were concerned to avoid publicity. And - believe me, I'd infinitely prefer it if we didn't need to have any. What it amounts to is that you'd be wise to have a change of heart on the matter of the squadron's use. I've convinced you that Soviet takeovers aren't in the interests of Socialists. Taking Orlov as an example - one of many I'd have given you. Orlov doing seven years' hard labour after a mock trial - this kind of argument. So you now have a spontaneous reversal of your earlier views - you'd explain this even when you're talking to your own people. Why should you care now - you don't need politics when you have that company, all those investments to look after?'

Silence, except for jerky, uneven breathing. Then: 'I should like - to kill you, Ozzard.'

Ellermet's face was pallid, damp. Frog-like. He was getting to his feet: clumsily, off-balance. Chris pushed his own chair back and stood up with him. From across the room Pat Cleary was staring at him: he saw Pat recognise Ellermet, and die expression of amazement.... Ellermet said, 'You accept great risk, Ozzard.' He'd gone. Heads were turning, following him towards the door. Chris sat down, poured himself some wine and looked round for Marie, to order coffee.

He thought he'd failed. Ellermet had had the wind knocked out of him but he must be a tougher nut than that. And it might have been bad judgement to have used the second barrel: he'd made his victim really hate him: and hate could be a tonic to a weak man.

'Monsieur is all alone again?'

Glancing up at her, he took a grip on his own sudden flood of weakening.

'So long as you're close to me, Marie ... But I could spare you long enough to bring some black coffee?'

'Flirting with the help.' Cleary winked at Marie as he jerked out what had been Ellermet's chair and thumped down on it. 'Not to mention the enemy.' His stare was challenging. 'What's going on?'

'Wish I knew.'

He liked Cleary. But at this moment, uncertain of what he'd '

achieved or failed to achieve, the slightly belligerent manner was annoying.

'Just a social occasion, was it?'

Marie had his coffee ready. He thanked her, and said he'd like the bill too. Cleary asked him, 'Did you find out what his line's going to be this afternoon?'

'Christ, that's hot.' He put the cup down. Glancing at the Admiral, he shook his head. 'No. I'd hoped to, and with luck to influence him in it. But -' He made another attempt at the coffee.

'He looked like a ghost when he walked out.'

'Not a very robust individual, I'd guess.'

'I think you put the wind up him, or------'

'Wish I had. But - how?' He was looking round for Marie and his bill. He added, 'In any case, he's only one of three unknown quantities now. There's Jocelyn Dean and------'

'We don't need to worry about Dean.'

'Have you seen him?'

'Don't think he's in yet. Wasn't twenty minutes ago, anyway. But - well, confidentially and via MOD, he's going to be a bit sticky on some of the Rules of Engagement but otherwise right with us. Downing Street is very keen on NATO taking action, particularly because the alternative - having to act on a national basis - would give 'em a much worse headache. Opposition's already lined up behind its bloody banners, is the word. Ditto with the Yanks - Jack Tennant's been talking to North Audley Street as well as to Eric Lassiter.'

North Audley Street was the headquarters of the Commander-in-Chief of US Naval Forces Europe. He had nothing directly to do with NATO but he'd be on cousinly terms with Admiral Tennant through Tennant's own national hat as the British C-in-C Fleet.

Chris said, 'We'll be damn lucky if we get as far as arguing about Rules of Engagement. There's Ellermet, and there's also the Dane.'

'He isn't going to stick his neck out.'

'Sure? This from MOD again?'

Cleary nodded. 'He might have come back with instructions to rat on us, apparently, but London and Washington were quick off the mark and there've been a few Copenhagen spines stiffened.'

Marie was coming back, wiggling Cleary murmured, 'Looks good except for your pal from the Hague. Didn't he give you any idea?'

'Only an hour to wait, Pat. When I know you'll know.'

One hour ... He glanced up: 'Thank you, Marie.' She'd jinked off again. Cleary leant closer, sideways. 'One other thing from London. The consensus is that the Soviets will see this thing right through. No backing off. So if the squadron does go in they'll be in for-' he shrugged - 'well, a rough time, if MOD's right.'

Sam ... Chris asked, 'Assessment based on what, d'you know?'

'African successes - Soviet uber alles sort of thing, and being allowed to get away with it - so then Admiral of the Fleet of the Soviet Union Sergei Gorshkov shoves an oar in, asks his Kremlin mates "Oy, what about my navy getting a crack now?" He gets the go-ahead. Follow me? Why shouldn't he? They're not only winning points territorially, they're out to demonstrate supremacy - show the uncommitted gentry what's what and simultaneously shake our nerve. Break it. It's worked militarily in Africa and politically over the bomb, so how can the Lord High Admiral allow his chaps to flunk out?'

All logical, all the pieces matching - matching the general picture he'd had building in his own mind too, except he'd been tied up in the Ellermet business in the last day or so.... The NATO squadron, if it was sent in, wouldn't be any symbolic presence, a mere pawn on the strategists' chessboard. It would be a tiny force opposing an overwhelmingly superior and totally ruthless one. Once the stage of threats and bluff was passed, there'd be no limits.

Cleary had muttered something as he pushed back his chair. Chris turned back to him. 'What? Sorry, I was------'

'Devon's on one boiler. Lame. She's in no condition to play rough games. But how can we possibly take her out of it at this stage?'




Chapter Ten


Whoosh ,.. Comerford grabbed at the parallel ruler as it gathered way across Admiralty Chart 1904, caught it and shoved it into the rack where it would be immobilised. Everything had to be secured, in these conditions. It was blowing force 7 and all the ships were making heavy weather of it; even the fleet tanker, Tideway, nearly 600 feet long and with a load displacement of 25,000 tons, had quite a lively motion. She - the tanker - was one sea-mile, 2,000 yards, on Devon's port beam, and she had Femenger and Marnix alongside with their Bravos close up, indicating fuelling in progress. Astern of Tideway and the two warships connected to her, Jylland and Alvarez Pereira were battling along in line-ahead, while level with them and astern of Devon steamed the plunging Baden with Winnipeg lurching in her wake. The Dane and the Portuguese would be the next pair to RAS. Not that the change-overs would be done two-by-two: each ship had a different tonnage of oil to embark and a different rate of absorbing it, and all that mattered was that the squadron as a whole should complete the evolution in as short a time as possible.

In order, Comerford wondered, bracing himself against the chart table, to turn round and go home again?

The lords of the Alliance would be mustering round their conference table at 3 pm. Whether they'd come to a decision this time -and if they did, what kind of decision it might be - was anyone's bet. But if they stuck to their timetable there might be news of some sort within a few hours. The chronometer watch in its sunken pocket in the surface of the table showed that the time was now two forty-six.

He had a foot" up against the bulkhead behind him, to hold himself in place. You had to make sure of foot-holds, hand- or elbow-holds as you moved about. And the sea was a noisy brute when it got its pecker up: or perhaps it was just that you noticed it more after a long period of summer calm. It had been blowing like this since the small hours of the morning, when Doug Cooper had been reminded that even stabilisers had their limitations; the reminder had come when he'd been thrown out of his bunk and clear across the cabin. Fetching up on the far side of it he'd cracked his head against a corner of the steel desk, so that now with a patch of sticking-plaster on his forehead he looked more bruiser-like than ever. Alec Holliday had suggested, staring critically at him across the breakfast table, 'In future perhaps you'll remember to put the lee-board in.'

Hunt, Comerford's yeoman, was rummaging around, collecting pencils. He asked suddenly, 'Sir - why's the flagship named Fermenger? Some old admiral, was he?'

'Not on your life. He was a leading hand - a rating - who won a Congressional Medal of Honour in Vietnam.' He looked round. 'Where are you taking those pencils?'

'Down to the GOP, sir.'

'Are you leaving us any here?'

'Two full boxes in the drawer. Plus that lot there.' He nodded towards some ready-sharpened ones in the rack. 'There's only a couple of little stubs below, sir.'

'All right.'

GOP stood for General Operations Plot, a chart position in the Ops Room. The big radar/sonar plots showed what was happening dynamically around the ship, and on the GOP you could see that in its broader strategic and geographic context. When the ship was at Defence watches, Hunt and another radarman named Selby took alternate watches on it.

Comerford took the parallel ruler from its stowage, ran it across to line up the squadron's present position - fixed by radar range and bearing of Rockall - and the Soviet task-force's. Reports from Nimrod aircraft patrols were providing that information, and at this moment the Soviets bore - he ran the rule a few inches to the compass rose - 321 degrees, and distance - 190 miles, from here. Which left - checking again - seventy miles between themselves and Alfa, the top-right corner of the area. So at their present speed of fifteen knots they'd be entering it in less than five hours.

Despite bad weather, the squadron was half an hour ahead of schedule, and the tanker had also made good progress. They'd found her on radar during the forenoon, and Gahan had signalled an adjustment to the rendezvous so as to take advantage of the extra time in hand. The weather might worsen, and later slow them down. Now they were steering 270, due west, with 180 miles to go. At twelve knots - the squadron's present speed - that would take fifteen hours.

Comerford began to study his own workings on the chart, getting figures in his mind so he'd be able to trot them out readily when Ashton began firing questions. Quick answers not only impressed but also sometimes stymied George Henry; after you'd snapped one back at him you'd see him perched up there on his seat with his eyes half closed, doing mental arithmetic....

Two minutes to three. He heard a raised voice suddenly from the bridge: something about Bear radar.

A Bear meant a Tu-95, a Soviet long-range reconnaissance aircraft. Like most other types it had .a distinctive radar which wasn't difficult to identify when you were illuminated by it. He was hauling himself up the starboard-side steps into the bridge just as Ash ton went down the port-side ones: as he reached the top he saw through the glass windows Devon's foc'sl tilting down, dipping and ploughing in, white sea creaming round her stem and welling, bursting up, flooding back aft to break in a kind of explosion around the gun-turret. Spray flew in sheets like hail, greeny-white across the top of the Exocet and lashing the glass windscreen: and her bow was soaring again now, wet paintwork agleam like polish. He grabbed the back of the Captain's high swivel chair and asked Harry Piper, who was OOW, 'Bear radar, was that?'

'Sure was.' The lift-gate crashed: George Henry on his way down to the Ops Room, no doubt. Yeoman of Signals Dyson, checking over a signal that Ashton must have yelled at him before he left the bridge, was checking his own scrawl with Piper: 'R/T to COMSTANAVFORLANT: Have Bear radar illumination bearing north.' 'Okay.' Piper nodded, and Dyson went down the starboard steps to his R/T set in that lower level of the bridge. Looking out of the streaming front windows again Comerford saw that Marnix had hauled down her Bravo; she'd be about to vacate the tanker's starboard side so that Jylland could move up and get her rations. There were about five types of Bear, he was remembering; the maritime reconnaissance versions were types D and F. D was fitted for missile guidance and F had an anti-submarine capability. Their operational range was up to 9,000 miles; the round-trip distance between the disputed area and the naval airfields in north-west Russia was about 3,000, so they'd have plenty of staying-power.

A gap was widening between Marnix and the tanker; Jylland was beginning to move up to take her turn. The intervals of dead time were what wasted it. Pereira would be thrashing up into the Dane's station now so as to be ready to replace Fermenger. Dyson's voice from die lower bridge: 'Spaniel, this is Crow. Over...'

It was fair enough that they should have this Bear shadowing them. The Soviets were, after all, under similar surveillance from the Nimrods. And there was nothing new in the experience: there were lots of Bears around in the watery woods, and this squadron had frequently had the pleasure of their company. They shadowed usually at ranges of a hundred miles or more.

Pereira was intermittently submerged, lost to sight, as she battled forward into the space where Jylland had been. Jylland was just merging into the profile of the tanker. Comerford had his glasses on that bunch of ships when Fermenger's flag B began to slide downwards and then disappeared behind Tideway's superstructure. Two done, five to go. Steadying himself between the side of the bridge and Ashton's seat, with an elbow hooked over the back of it, he checked on the time and saw that it was 3 pm. Zero hour in Brussels?

Adam Carlsson peered down interestedly at the low-altitude aerial photograph of a Kara-class cruiser. According to the tag on it, it had been snapped from a Nimrod at 0945 this morning in position 61 degrees 40 North, 16 degrees 30 West.

There were quite a few pictures. And one showed the entire force - three cruisers and ten destroyers, with the tanker fuelling two Skorys. 'Looks kind of rough ... That funnel square, is it?'

'Seems to be.' Chris nodded. 'Minus corners.'

'Hell of a collection of electronics.' The US ambassador pointed at the Kara's masthead gear. 'How'd they maintain all that stuff, for God's sake?'

'Mostly it's their officers who are the technicians.' Cleary had come up behind them. Chris knew it was just about three o'clock: perhaps a minute short of that. And no sign yet of Philip Ellermet. It was time to be moving into the conference room. Anxiety was making him feel ill and he didn't want to have to look at the rough sea in these Nimrod pictures. Cleary was telling Carlsson, 'All their officers have engineering diplomas - all except the political ones, that is, the commissars. And the officers are volunteers - unlike the sailors, who're virtually all conscripts. And not the sort of material we'd want, I can tell you.'

'Is that so?' Carlsson's glance at Chris was half amused: he hadn't expected a lecture in answer to that comment. But he'd set Pat off on his hobby-horse.

'The junior ratings get three quid a month. You have to compare that with average workers' earnings in the USSR of fifty a month. And another - well, no, I'd say a consequence------'

'Admiral, excuse me. I do beg your pardon, but -'

He was showing Pat his watch, tapping its dial with a fingertip. And Chris had his mind on the conference room, imagining Ellermet already in his place at the table, thin-lipped, vicious-eyed behind the drooping forelock. Carlsson was saying, '-' like very much to hear more about this, Admiral, I'd be very interested. But right now I have a feeling we're a little - adrift, is that the word?'

There was a general movement towards the exit. In fact most of the Permanent Representatives, Chris realised, must already have gone through, deary said, 'Good luck.'

'I guess we need some, all right.' Chris followed him out of the Centre and through the double doors into the conference room. Ellermet would shrug off both those threats, he thought. When he'd got his wind back. He'd see that a Soviet victory would put him way beyond the reach of petty blackmail. He'd got money, now he wanted power: and he'd gone too far too publicly to back down now....

'Gentlemen, excuse me for one instant, please?'

Els van Sommeren: a big woman and equivalently high-powered, one of the Secretary-General's right hands in the background organisation of this headquarters. In her early forties, a heavyweight with a face like a Botticelli angel's.

'Messieurs - the Secretary-General asks me to present his apologies, and to announce that circumstances altogether beyond his control make it unavoidable to postpone this---------'

'Oh, no...'

Carlsson had groaned it.... Further back in the room were similar sounds, a groundswell of despair.

Els was smiling at the ambassador of the USA.

'I am indeed so sorry. It is most distressing------'

'It's I who should apologise, Madame. I'd no intention of------'

'Ambassador, you are kind to accept the delay in such good part.' She raised her voice again: 'It is hoped that we shall not be required to wait for so very long. Perhaps at the most one hour ...'

The Dutch ambassador was not, Chris thought, in the room. And it was obviously some quite extraordinary development that was holding things up: to have the accredited ambassadors of fourteen nations called together and then asked - virtually - to hang around....

He caught Els on her own.

'Can you tell me what's up?'

'But I don't know, you see!'

'Oh.' He thought she must know. And he wanted to meet this head-on. He turned towards the doors. 'I'll go up and------'

'No, please ...' She rested the fingers of one hand on his forearm. 'He is very anxious not to be disturbed. There is much telephoning going on. To interrupt would not - what's the word - expe 'All right.'

'Thank you so much.'

If his head was on the block, could she smile at him like that? He thought yes, she could: and would----Two or three of the Permanent Representatives were homing in on her now; he turned away, wondering if he could find van Pallendt, and he was buttonholed by Jocelyn Dean.

'What's the hold-up, d'you know?'

'He does not.' Adam Carlsson loomed up and answered for him. 'You look strained, Jocelyn. Tough going over there, was it?'

'Don't tell me you don't know precisely how tough it was, dear boy.'

'Oh, I'd have hoped to have been kept fairly well informed----I guess you know Bjorn Quistgaard's back in good order?'

Quistgaard was the Danish ambassador. Dean nodded. 'Heard that was all cut and dried, before I left London. The two things I want to know are one, what about our Dutchman, and two, what's this delay for?' He looked at Chris. 'Enjoy your lunch with Ellermet, did you?'

Carlsson looked startled. 'Your lunch with -' He pointed at Chris: 'You had lunch with------'

'Please, gentlemen?'

Els van Sommeren. Immediately, she had everyone's attention. 'The Secretary-General once again presents his compliments and his apologies.... Would you be so kind now as to take your places? He is on the way down and there need be no more delay.'

'Well, that wasn't so bad.' Carlsson held his arm. 'But is this a fact, you lunched with Philip Ellermet?' Chris nodded: Dean said, staring round over most people's heads, 'I don't see the feller here yet, incidentally.' Chris told Adam Carlsson, 'Only to try and talk him round. But I don't think I achieved anything, and he certainly didn't tell me anything.' Now the German ambassador had taken the American's attention. If the Secretary-General was on his way down now he'd be coming down in his lift, at the far end of the Salle des Pas Perdus. It might be possible to meet him outside there. Chris moved between the Italian and the Portuguese ambassadors, towards the door; Els was still there, chatting to Quistgaard. Chris was thinking that it must be all right - that despite the way his shirt was plastered to his body and the funk in his mind, it was surely reasonable to imagine that if Ellermet had faced up to the blackmail and spilled the beans he, Ozzard, would have been up there in the thick of it. But now he stopped: the Secretary-General was in the doorway, towering over the burly Els van Sommeren, exchanging a word with Ambassador Quistgaard and looking past him, over him at the crowd of national representatives and officials as they moved towards their places at the table. Places marked with small black signs with the countries' names on them in white lettering. Ellermet was definitely not in the room. But if he'd come down with the Secretary-General, he could be in that group around him, that covey of dark suits advancing slowly into the room as the Secretary-General himself came in, heading for his place at the top of the table. Still surrounded: but now he'd stopped and the group was turning inward on itself: and congestion clearing as some of it melted away and delegates reached their places and sat down, adjusting angles of microphones in front of them, looking round at their neighbours. Conversation was still general and quite loud.

It was Hugo van Pallendt that the Secretary-General was talking to. The Dutchman was smiling in that contained, reserved Way of his. Ellermet was not here. Chris was looking at van Pallendt as he passed behind him and behind the tall, affable, world-famous individual who was stooping slightly to make the conversation easier. But glancing round now: smiling suddenly, and beckoning.

'Mr Ozzard - one moment? Of course; you and Mr van Pallendt are already acquainted. Permit me, however, to introduce you to Ambassador van Pallendt?'

He was shaking Hugo's hand. Like a piece of cold, bloodless steak. The Dutchman told him, 'Mr Ellermet is returning to the Hague, at his own request. For some urgent and personal reason which we do not know. But my government have asked me at least temporarily - although naturally one hopes the appointment will be confirmed - to represent our country here at NATO.'

'Heartiest congratulations, Ambassador.'

'You are very kind.'

'I'm delighted.' 'Thank you so much.'

His thanks and pleasure seemed sincere, and his manner friendlier than it had been before. But if he suspected - or knew - that Chris had had anything to do with Ellermet's extraordinarily sudden resignation, he wasn't showing it.... But the example was a good one: it showed Chris how to handle his own end of the situation. He had not, at lunch or any other time, played any part in this: he was as surprised as anyone else was, and he could only conclude that this was the result of strenuous collective efforts, including those of the Secretary-General himself, efforts directed through every capital and through hundreds of individuals. Pressure had been applied, and somewhere some part of it had paid off.

'It's truly splendid. A red-letter day for all of us.'

Going on round the top end of the table now, to get to his own place on the Secretary-General's left: he was stopped by Sir Jocelyn Dean.

'How the devil------'

'Isn't it marvellous? Beyond the Secretary-General, in the chair set behind Chris's own as-yet unoccupied one, Michelsen was goofing at him as if he'd never seen him before, as if scales had fallen from the ex-airman's eyes. The Secretary-General was calling the meeting to order as Chris slid into his seat, ignoring Michelsen who was trying to whisper something. Behind an expression which he hoped might be as unrevealing as van Pallendt's he was remembering the Secretary-General's analysis - this morning, or yesterday - of the delicate balance of leftists and others at the Hague: his view that Ellermet's appointment had been part of a bargain struck to keep that coalition in power. So might the longer-term effects now be to bring down that government? One wondered how many fish that stolid man sitting there at seven o'clock might be frying in one pan -apart from the obvious one, his own future as Permanent Representative here.... And Sophie Horonje as co-chef? She - or they - had certainly made use of Christopher Ozzard: and the man's apparent oblivion to the part he, Chris, had played added to the suspicion that he knew the whole damn thing.

It didn't matter. That bit didn't. Sophie - Sophie was something else again.

The Secretary-General had apologised for the late start to the meeting; but when he'd explained the reason for it and announced the appointment of Hugo van Pallendt as Ambassador of the Netherlands there'd been a hum of approval and congratulation. He'd tolerated it for a few moments, then stifled it by moving directly to the subject of the proposed deployment of the Standing Naval Force in order to establish a peaceful NATO presence in that section of the North Atlantic which the government of the USSR was claiming as an exclusive exercise area for its fleets. NATO's own naval commanders, he said, in particular the Supreme Allied Commander Atlantic, were urging very strongly that the Standing Naval Force should be so deployed, and he believed that all member nations of the Alliance would now be in favour of such action.

Hugo van Pallendt had tapped his microphone with a silver pencil. The Secretary-General looked across at him, and smiled.

'The distinguished Ambassador of the Netherlands.'

Van Pallendt made his first speech to his fellow ambassadors short and to the point.

'Mr Chairman. Since at the last discussion of this matter my government was represented as objecting to the use of the Standing Naval Force, it is my duty and personal satisfaction to inform you that this objection is no longer valid.'

In the open wing of the bridge the wind was solid and buffeting, carrying bursts of spray. Comerford held the mike close to his mouth, and crouched so that he had some shelter from the windbreak while still keeping his view of the tanker's side and the welter of foam along it. He'd let Devon's get well up past Tideway's stern.

'Stop both engines.'

'Stop both engines, sir!'

'Revolutions one-one-zero. Steer two-six-eight.'

Alec Holliday was craning over on Comerford's left, yelling something down to Jack Maunsell. Maunsell couldn't hear it: and he and his men were getting dampish down there.

'Revolutions one-one-zero passed and repeated, sir, course two-six-eight.'

'Watch your steering like a hawk now, Quartermaster.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

This close to the big tanker, with wind and sea from right ahead and the turbulence created by both ships, a moment's inattention on the helmsman's part could bring disaster quickly. Comerford watched as Devon slid up, overhauling the tanker but less rapidly now as the stopping of engines had its natural effect. He'd left that 'stop both' order later than usual in order to allow for the arresting effect of the head sea. And it was time - now ... 'Half ahead both engines!"

The time was four forty-six, and Devon was the last ship to RAS. On Tideway's port side Winnipeg had been fuelling for the last twenty minutes. Baden, whose place Devon had now taken, was on her way out to port to take station on the tanker's beam, and the flagship, Fermenger, was abeam to starboard at the head of the first division.

'Steer two-six-nine.'

As the helmsman was repeating it, Holliday yelled, 'Duck!' The wind carried away the routine warning, and up here the bang of the Coston gun was no louder than the popping of a cork. The first line streaked across the gap of sea, and the second gun had fired. The first was being rushed aft to the fuelling point; the other, for the distance line, would be handled by some sailor who on that spray-swept foc'sl would be glad, before the replenishment was over, of his oilskin suit.

'Revolutions one-oh-eight.'

'Revolutions one-oh-eight, sir ...'

It was all routine, so familiar that it was easy. But you couldn't let yourself think of it as routine: you had to concentrate and have every detail, exactly right. If you began to think of it as easy you'd get careless: inside of seconds ships could be damaged, lives lost. Comerford looked down over the side: Jack Maunsell's party had got the jackstay made fast, and the hose was on its way across. PO Dyson was on the ladder leading to the bridge roof, from where he could look aft towards the signal deck and, with the wind's help, make his voice heard there without using the voicepipe from inside. There was a squawk from below now, and a turn of the Commander's head was enough for Dyson: he'd shouted, 'Close up!' and the red flag B went shooting to the yardarm, whip-cracking in the wind and streaming out on the bight of the halyard before they'd hauled it in taut again.

'Steer two-seven-zero.'

The yeoman had opened the screen door to go inside: he stood back first, to let Ashton out. Holliday reported, 'We're joined up, sir. Senior reckons he'll need about an hour.'

Ashton nodded. His mind was on the lack of news, the fact that the men in Brussels should have been sitting down round that table nearly two hours ago and the feeling that if the right answer had been coming out of it they'd surely have heard by now. The only news there'd been had come in a BBC bulletin at four o'clock. The mob was out in the streets of Paris again, and this time shop windows were being smashed and cars overturned. There'd been a police baton charge and several arrests, and the President was going to address the nation on television.

'Think the weather's easing somewhat, sir?'

Ashton shook his head. 'It'll get worse before it does that.' He jerked his head. 'Let's hope the Soviets are spewing up their caviare.'

Holliday said vulgarly, 'Wouldn't mind having a pot of Beluga to spew up.' He was wearing his beret this afternoon, because in a wind like this it was more practical than a cap. Ashton, being something of a traditionalist, disliked berets; he'd given it one glance of disfavour and now he was trying not to look at it. Holliday said, looking at his watch, 'I've this NBCD exercise at five-thirty. If the RAS takes an hour, that's------'

'Hey, what's that?'

Short, sharp blasts of sound, broken up on the wind. Ship's siren?

'Sounds like Fermenger's hooter, sir.'

Ashton grabbed the rungs leading up to the bridge roof, and swarmed up them like a suddenly-alerted ape.

Getting a bit close to the tanker, Comerford saw. He said into the microphone, 'Steer two-seven-two.'

That hooter was still blasting, and one or two others had joined in. There were different notes now, anyway. CPO Rule, Chief Yeoman, came bursting out of the screen door, stopped as if he was surprised not to find Ashton there, 'Captain gone below, sir?'

Comerford pointed upwards, and Rule went up the ladder. In this sort of weather you could be blown clean off that unsheltered rooftop. Comerford could hear another siren now - between the deeper and medium-tone blasts, a high-pitched peep-peep sound.

'Steer two-seven-oh.'

'Steer two-seven-oh, sir!'

Breezy, that quartermaster's tone. Far brighter than it had been up to now. Could the news have travelled down through three decks already?

'Captain, sir!'

CPO Rule had run Ashton to earth in the bridge's other wing. George Henry glanced round, putting his hand out for the clipboard of signals, and saw his Chief Yeoman scarlet in the face and panting from the climb up one side and down the other. He advised him, 'You should get yourself into better shape, Chief. Why not ask the padre if you can join him on his dog-watch runs?'

Hooky Winters had the peculiar habit of getting into a tracksuit and trotting round the upper deck for as much as an hour at a time. Rule said, 'Might give that a bit of thought, sir.' Ashton hadn't looked at the signal yet. Holliday, who wanted a sight of it, wished so God he'd hurry up, and he had a suspicion that Ashton was doing this deliberately just to annoy him.

'Wouldn't do you any harm to lose a few pounds, Chief Yeoman. Don't want you dropping dead on us, you know.'

He'd glanced down, finally, at the signal: all Holliday could see was that it was from CINCEASTLANT - Northwood. Now, hearing the clash of the shutter on the ten-inch signal lamp, Ashton had looked up again. The lamp was answering some flashing from Fermenger. All three of them watched the flagship's light, read the message as it came.

We seem to be in business at last. How long before your HAS is complete? 'See if you can get an answer to that question from the Senior Engineer, Chief.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Rule went inside. Ashton, with one hand on the windbreak to steady himself against the ship's pitching, began to read again. Then, glancing up, he passed the board to Holliday.

'Commodore's right. We are in business.'




Chapter Eleven


The wind was down, and the ships of the Standing Naval Force were pitching in their individual degrees and styles to a long Atlantic swell as dawn greyed the sea, greyness seeping from a crack where the cloud-blanket hung only loosely to the horizon. Ashton had been right when he'd said it would get worse before it eased: at midnight, when Comerford had turned in, the squadron had been fighting its way into a force 9 gale, but when he'd woken around 3 am he'd felt a different, more regular motion on the ship and known that the gale had moved on eastward leaving this swell as its aftermath. Dawn now; and cold out in the bridge wing. Solid cloud overhead. But it wasn't only for morning stars that he'd had himself shaken at five-thirty: at 0600 BST, in just a couple of minutes now, the squadron would .be passing through longitude twenty west and thus presenting NATO's challenge to the Soviets.

It might not be accepted. 90,000 square miles was a very large area of sea, and there was a body of opinion that the Soviets would stay clear. The basis of this belief was that if they were faced up to, they'd back off, that Moscow wouldn't want escalation to a shooting war any more than the West did. Tommy Buchanan had expressed the view last night that the Soviet move hadn't been so much brinkmanship as try-onmanship; and Alec Holliday had agreed with him. He'd said, 'It'll last a few days. We'll stick around and so will they, to save face and demonstrate mutual imbuggerance.' He'd shrugged. 'Long as the Frogs don't do something silly.'

Hunt asked Comerford, in the chartroom, 'Just about in the area now, sir?'

'Just about.'

You could check the dead-reckoning position by SINS, Ship's Inertial Navigation System. Decca didn't operate this far out. SINS was fairly reliable, but he'd have liked to have updated it with sextant observations. There was always the Loran navigation system to fall back on, of course, but it wasn't all that accurate. It was on the bulkhead on the right of the chartroom door: an eighteen-inch cubic box with a cathode-ray tube inside it. It was Loran A, and it was obsolescent, due to be replaced by OMEGA - which would be a great improvement, when they got it. Or if they got it, with all these cuts----Comerford began leafing through the night's signals. He told Hunt, 'Check Loran against SINS, would you.' There'd been a signal from Northwood an hour ago - it was the top one on this file - confirming that the French cruiser with two destroyers in company had entered the area at point Bravo at 0400: they were steering 313 degrees at 18 knots. He checked that on the chart, and saw that it would take the French diagonally across the area to point Delta - the top-left corner - by about 4 am tomorrow, 23 September. Presumably that was their intention - to pass right through the middle.

Two of the Polyarny brigade of Victor-class nuclears had been tracked past the Faroes heading south-west at high speed submerged. There'd been a fresh US sighting of another, but without positive identification, off Charleston.

Bits and pieces ... The possibility of a Norwegian frigate being sent to join the squadron. Nimrod patrol frequency in the northeast Atlantic being stepped up: at the cost, one might guess, of reduced fishery-protection patrols elsewhere. During the day there were to be visits to the squadron by Phantoms and Buccaneers from Maritime Air Command, ostensibly to provide radar and air-defence exercises. But also to show the Soviets that there'd be air support for the squadron if it needed it? A Nimrod would be taking film between 1100 and 1130 BST and CINCEASTLANT wanted suitable exercises to be in progress at that time. Meaning Northwood's PR department wanted it. There would be no submarine targets made available for ASW exercises: there would be no NATO, British or US submarines in the area unless further notification was given in advance. Communications: Northwood had ordered 'Modified Communications' and specified certain routines and frequencies.

Hunt reported, 'Loran tallies very close, sir.'

'Okay.' Comerford took out the signal. 'Here. Put this lot on the chart with a DR every hour from Bravo to Delta.'

The all-important signal ordering Gahan to take his ships into the area and how to handle them vis-d-vis the Soviets had been duplicated since Ashton had seen it first in its 'hot' state, and there was a copy of it on this log, behind more recent stuff.

To COMSTANAVFORLANT information STANAVFORLANT from CINCEASTLANT: You are to proceed to continue work-up exercises in area bounded by latitudes 55 and 60 north, longitudes 20 and 30 west.... Then followed the Rules of Engagement. They would have been sent as just a list of numbers, each one referring to the appropriate rule in the NATO standing orders. Translated here, the main ones were:

You are to continue with normal exercise patterns You may not approach a Warsaw Pact surface unit closer than 2,000 yards Helicopters may be airborne Helicopters may not approach closer than 500 yards slant range and may not overfly Weapon systems may not be trained Jamming may not be employed Provocation is to be avoided Sonar contacts are to be maintained but not attacked Fire-control radar is not to be operated Marking/counter-marking is not permitted Then a lot of minor rules. Communication with the Soviet task force was, for instance, permitted.... And as long as the Soviets had a few similar rules, Comerford thought, it was all perfectly reasonable.

He went out of the chartroom and up the steps into the half-dark bridge. Ashton was on his high seat: he looked as if he'd taken root, been there all night and was liable to stay there all day. Comerford moved up behind him, beside the binnacle.

'Morning, sir.'

'Pilot?' He had his binoculars at his eyes and he kept them there. 'Are we inside the area now?'

'We are indeed, sir.' He asked John Knight, who was officer of the watch, 'No excitements?'

'Only Bear radar again. We've had it on and off all night.'

'Shining now?'

'It was a few minutes ago. Came up on about 320, moving left to right.'

'Going home to Mother Russia.' He eased the leather caps off his own binoculars and began to wipe their lenses. Ashton asked him, 'How far are the French from us?'

'180 miles, sir, south-south-west.'

Snap question: snap answer. George Henry would have worked out in his head by now that the answer must have been near enough right. The light outside was increasing steadily and the sea was a polished grey, no white on it except where ships were carving furrows, smashing through the swells. To starboard, Fermenger was a blackish silhouette with its lower part white-edged: her tall funnel, more or less amidships and with that expanded top, had a lighthouse look about it. Gahan had disposed his ships in three columns for the night's transit, with himself in the centre leading Tideway, Devon leading Baden and Winnipeg in the port column, and Marnix, Pereira and the Dane to starboard.

A low voice at Comerford's elbow asked, 'Like tea, sir? One sugar is it?'

'Two, please.' Bridge tea didn't taste of anything unless it was well sweetened. The messenger  Parker, a friend of Hunt's - was collecting mugs from odd corners, leftovers from previous issues during the dark hours. And now a new arrival in the bridge was Alec Holliday.

'Slight improvement, Frank.' He meant the weather. He moved up beside Ashton. 'Morning, sir.'

'Morning, Alec.' Ashton lowered his glasses. He added, 'So far, a peaceful one.' He began to talk about System User Checks, the reports on weapon and control systems which had to be signalled to the Commodore by nine o'clock each morning. The Americans called them Transmission Checks, but it came to the same thing, and Ashton wanted them cleared by eight instead of nine. Now Holliday was discussing the helo. Bruce Fry, the flight commander, had asked if he could take his Wessex into the air some time soon to check on some fault which he thought his team had eradicated but couldn't be sure about without flying. It was difficult to fit it in, with no ASW practices scheduled and with so many visits by various types of aircraft, at which periods one wouldn't want a helo airborne. But this and other subjects were all routine, ordinary problems to be discussed and answers found for them. Without even a single star in sight and no Soviets anywhere near the squadron Comerford was wishing he hadn't turned out so early. Time for a bath, perhaps, before breakfast - if water could be persuaded to stay in the tub, with this much motion on the ship.

It was Wally Beale, the slow-moving sub-lieutenant who kept watch with Gilbert Oram and was actually quite sharp, who spotted the first of the flight of three Phantoms. Everyone on the bridge had been looking out for them: it was now 0815, and they'd been on the radar plot for several minutes. The Ops Room was fully manned and the Red, White and Green weapon systems were closed up, Seaslug radar and TS as well. In the bridge they knew the Phantoms would be on top of them at any moment, but nobody saw anything until Beale pointed and observed in his slow, rather diffident way, 'There. Coming straight at us.'

It was like a thumb-print on a window: a dirty smudge against the light. Then the jet was a black centre to the smudge, which was the head-on circle of its own exhaust as it aimed to pass immediately above the ship at masthead height: and suddenly for about a second it was recognisably an aircraft, missile-shaped and coming so fast you couldn't'

A screaming roar with a climax like a clap of thunder as it streaked over - had streaked over, had become a distant, fading rush of wind, a whisper - gone now, only the curving vapour-trail to see. Then in quick succession the other two, Devon's radars and close-range weapons shifting target as one came from the quarter, a projectile hurling diagonally across the squadron's rectangular formation, over the Canadian astern of them and then Tideway in the middle and Marnix at the head of the starboard column: and number three from ahead, crashing across the flagship and Pereira and rocketing upwards into the clouds as the first- two had after they'd made their passes.

Now they'd probably be paying a courtesy visit to the Soviets, who were in three groups well separated and each apparently doing its own thing, the nearest of them 120 miles north-west. A Nimrod report had provided the first information just after seven, and there'd been another amplifying report since that one. On the chart, Comerford had labelled them Groups A, B and C. Group A was the tanker accompanied by the two Kashin-class guided-missile destroyers; this was the more distant lot, up near the far corner, Delta, and steering south. B consisted of the Kara-class cruiser and the two Krivaks; they were twenty-five miles inside the northern boundary, roughly halfway between Alfa and Delta, and their course and speed at seven-thirty had been just south of east, sixteen knots. Group C, the nearest and comprising two Kresta-class cruisers and the six Skorys, were fifty miles south of B and heading north-west.

Ashton came up from the Ops Room. He told Holliday, 'I'm taking a stroll round the ship now, Alec.'

Holliday nodded, not enthusiastically. George Henry's impromptu inspections tended to reveal areas of dirt, items such as hatchways open which should have been shut, gear not in its rightful stowage - all his own, Alec Holliday's, responsibility. In a ship the size of a large village or small town you couldn't possible have everything just as it should be all the time.

'What about the helo, sir?'

The Commodore had approved the flight that Fry wanted. It was to be fitted in before the Buccaneers came.

'After the Phantoms have gone home you can go to flying stations and let Fry do what he wants.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'If you need me, call me on the broadcast.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'll be about an hour.'

He went up over the top first, up above the bridge arid aft, making sure of having one hand always on something solid as his ship see-sawed across the green Atlantic swell. From up here there was a good view of the squadron: of Baden astern rhythmically dipping her long, graceful prow into the head-on rollers, slicing into them and tossing their froth back in white sheets across her turrets; and Fermenger on the beam much steadier, the Stars and Stripes flat as a board and Gahan's own pendant marking her as the flagship, and the NATO flag that linked them all together. Marnix there, her Leander hull-shape riding the swell with characteristic ease while the Portuguese astern of her was bumping around like something in a funfair. The tanker had a look of matronly dignity about her: a mother duck, surrounded by her brood.

He went aft past the three-inch rocket-launchers, the chaff throwers, and on to the flagdeck between the foremast and the for'ard funnel. The leading signalman of the watch there saw him, and saluted. He was a man named Ashton got it, just in time. 'Morning, Ferraby.'

Ferraby wasn't actually a leading signalman, though one still used the term unofficially. Nowadays the rate was LRO (T), standing for Leading Radio Operator (Tactical). Ashton said, glancing round at the seascape and the square of ships, 'Cushy number you've got up here, all fresh air and sunshine?'

'Sunshine, sir?'

'Well.' Ashton shrugged. 'Let's not split hairs.'

The signalman grinned. Ashton's glance was checking over the flag locker and the tautness of the halyards and how they were secured and flaked down, and the state of the covers on the signal, lamps. Ferraby said, 'Not too bad today. Wouldn't 've given much for it yesterday.... Sir, we goin' to meet the Soviets?'

'We aren't looking for them.'

'Might they come lookin' for us?'

'They might. But at the moment they're more than a hundred miles away.' He waved one hand northwards. 'That way.'

'Make a bit of a change like, wouldn't it, sir?'

A younger lad had said that: a signalman with red hair and a blunt, pugnacious jaw. Ashton didn't know his name. 'Dare say it would - er ...'

'Smith, sir.'

He'd know him next time. He said, 'It isn't what we're after, though. All we're here for is to show we have as much right here as they have. We don't want a punch-up.'

'No, sir. Still...'

They all knew what it was about: he'd given a talk on the broadcast system last evening, and Hooky Winters had used the front page of his newspaper, the Devon Times, to explain the job they were here to do. But Smith's manner suggested that he would have liked a punch-up. And nothing wrong with that, Ashton thought as he made his way aft, glancing up at the huge 'double bedstead' aerial of the long-range air-warning radar on the mainmast-head. There were radar offices inside both masts: they were more towers than masts in the old-fashioned sense. All radar aerials were revolving: including that big one, the 965. It was such a weight of metal stuck up there that if the ship had action damage and flooding so that her stability was impaired you could blow it off with plastic explosive. Being so high up it would make an enormous difference.

He happened to be down on the upper deck near the starboard Seacat cruise shelter when the Phantoms came booming back across the squadron, and the third passed so low overhead that it almost took the bedstead with it. They'd have made the Soviets sit up, if that was where they'd been. The Seacat director had followed their approach, and Ashton climbed up now to have a word with the man inside it: it was a sort of pillbox with room only for its one operator, and the launcher which it controlled was below it and a few yards further aft. This was the Green system; Red duplicated it on the other side, and both were controlled from one transmitting station inside the ship.

The operator was heaving himself out. Ashton asked him, 'Get cramped in there?'

'Eh?' Then, seeing him: 'Oh, yessir. If you're in it much length of time, like.'

He knew the man's face. 'Simmers, is it?'

'Simmerton, sir.'

'Oh, sorry ... How did that run go?'

'Can't say, really, with a dummy run. Only go through the motions, sort of thing.'

The TS locked the directors to their targets. All the operators had to do was hold the missiles, after they'd been launched, in the centre of their binocular sights. To do this each man had a tiny joystick which he worked with his right thumb. It was easier in the dark than in daylight, because at night the missile's tail-flame made it easy to keep track of.

. 'All you need is a pair of eyes and a thumb. That right?' Simmerton grinned as he climbed on to the ladder and down it, Ashton making way for him below.

'There's worse jobs, sir. And you're on your own, like.' 'That wouldn't worry you, in action? Being stuck out here?' 'Don't see why it should,' Then he asked, 'Think we will be, sir? In action?'

'I very much hope not." He heard the broadcast from the bridge: 'Flying stations. Flying stations. No smoking on the upper deck.' He told Simmerton, 'All we have to do is be here, show 'em we aren't going to be ordered about. With any luck that's as far as it need go -'

'Yeah, well, but -' the AB hesitated - 'well, if they did try any aggro, we'd have to show 'em, wouldn't we?'

Ashton felt elated as he moved away. If it wasn't actually elation, there was certainly a sensation of relief. One had seen so many changes, and worried whether in making them one had changed the spirit as well: whether the heart was still where it had been for - oh, centuries....

Perhaps it was all right? No need to worry, after all?

Two youngsters liking the idea of a scrap, and change in the monotony, didn't prove much.... He was walking aft, with the helo pad ahead of him at the stern end of this raised 01 deck. He argued, countering that last thought, that if the two sailors he'd spoken to had expressed not enthusiasm but disinterest or anxiety, he'd have been thoroughly depressed. So why not accept the hopeful signs?

Fry's flight-deck team had already got the Wessex out on to its pad; its rotors were in the course of being spread and a leading MEM was attending to its refuelling. Ashton went round the corner and into the shelter where Lieutenant Harringay, who amongst other duties was flight-deck officer, was just signalling to the bridge for permission to start up. Harringay had a round, pale face, and this morning he also had a wad of blood-darkened cotton-wool stuck to a shaving cut. Ashton was reminded of seeing, in his own days as a midshipman in a small 'conventional' post-war destroyer, a three-badge Able Seaman standing without any support except a natural sailor-like balance while he shaved with a cut-throat razor in a force 8 blow. The small things of life did change - if you remembered such things, and made comparisons: but they were trifles, surface things, not the fundamentals that he'd been thinking about so much lately.

'Morning, sir!'

'Must have taken a bit of handling, getting the helo out?'

With so much movement on the ship, he meant. Right aft or right for'ard there was so much more: the rise and fall, back here, was savage. And the hangar doors were round on the port side; the machine had to be manhandled out in a fore-and-aft position and dragged back aft to the pad, close to the side all the way until they got it round the corner to where the flight-deck extended right across the ship. Even in decent weather it was a clumsy procedure. Harringay nodded vaguely, not too concerned about it: 'Bit hairy, sir, isn't it.' The mechanic was dragging his fuelling equipment out of the way, the rotor cuffs were off and Keogh, Fry's pilot, was starting up. Fry and his PO occupied the rear compartment and worked the dipping-sonar, as well as seeing to navigation and R/T and other bits and pieces.

Harringay had signalled for 'Permission to fly' and he'd been given an affirmative; the ship had altered course about twenty-five degrees to let a wind in across the flight-deck, and the other members of the team were standing by to cast off the chains which were holding the Wessex down. Racket becoming thunderous as Keogh built up the revs; Ashton left die shelter and set off up the port side which, as a result of the change of course, was partly in shelter.

He thought he'd take a snoop round 3 Deck. It was some time since he'd looked into the Seaslug transmitting station. And the computer room, perhaps: then up to the Seaslug missile magazine on 2 Deck. From there he could cut his tour short, if he felt so inclined, by going for'ard to the Ops Room and taking the lift up to the bridge. As he went inside, in through a door just abaft the for'ard funnel, he heard from aft the clatter of the helo dragging itself up into the sky.

'Starboard ten.'

'Starboard ten, sir ... Ten o' starboard wheel on, sir.' Taking her back into her station at the head of the port column and on the flagship's beam, now that the helo was airborne. It had wheeled away to starboard, passed astern of Tideway and was now moving up between that central column and the ships to starboard.

'Midships.'

'Midships, sir!'

'Steer two-nine-five.' Oram pushed the microphone on its hinged bracket up close to the deckhead, out of his way. Steering across the direction of the swell as she was now, Devon was rolling as well as pitching. But she'd have been twice as lively without her hardworking stabilisers. And the swell seemed a bit lower, Comerford thought, lower and longer than it had been an hour ago.

Alec Holliday was looking peevish. One might guess that he'd be thinking about Ashton prowling around between decks, poking into this and that corner, delightedly unearthing things that would presently be the subject-matter of abrasive comments. He had a notebook in which he listed such finds, and Holliday always dreaded its appearance.

Comerford said, just as the helmsman was reporting that the ship had been steadied on her inward course, 'Not much of a work-up programme today, is it?'

Holliday had his glasses on the helo as it bumbled across the skyscape; he didn't answer for a few moments. Then he muttered, 'Seeing how matters develop, one imagines. If we're left in peace I should think he'll have us hard at it tomorrow.'

'We never had those towing serials, did we?'

'That'll be one thing, certainly. Lacking submarines, I suppose there'll be no ASW games. But night interceptions, SAGEX, and------'

SAG stood for search-and-attack group. But PO Dyson, the yeoman of signals, interrupted him. 'Captain below, sir, is he?'

Holliday nodded rather sourly. 'Tour of inspection.' He put his hand out for Dyson's clipboard. 'Anything of interest?'

'Enemy report, sir.'

'Enemy?'

'Well------'

'You must be another of those intoxicated hares, Yeoman.' Holliday read the top signal, then flipped over to the next. But that was one that had been on the log for some while. He handed the board to Comerford. 'You'll want to put this on the chart, Frank, I suppose.' Glancing round at Gilbert Oram: 'Isn't it time to come round?'

'Just about to, sir.' Oram pulled the mike down. 'Port ten.'

'Port ten, sir!'

Comerford took the signal log into his chartroom. It was a new Nimrod report, timed 0850, which made it about one hour later than the previous one. Dyson tailed along, wanting his clipboard back.

Hunt was applying chart corrections to the Caribbean folio. He .moved over to give Comerford room.

'Thanks.' He looked at the chart his yeoman was working on. 'Heading for warmer climes, are we?'

'Will be, won't we, sir?'

'Oh - all things being - equal ...'

He began to check the positions and courses of the 'enemy'. Group A - the tanker and two Kashins - was still on its course of one-eight-zero at fifteen knots. This group was precisely where a DR calculation would have put it, based on the earlier report. Now Group B, the Kara cruiser with her two Krivak DLGs.... They'd altered course from south-east to south-west, and they were about fifteen miles more or less due south of where they'd been before. Group C, the pair of Kresta II cruisers and the six Skory destroyers, had altered about forty-five degrees to port. So they were steering west now. If B and C held to their present courses it was possible they'd be joining up again, at about - he checked distances to the point where their tracks would converge - about ten o'clock or so.

He handed the log back to Dyson. 'Right.'

If those two groups did link up and went on heading south-west as B was doing now, they could be en route to join the tanker group. But this was just guessing. They were well inside radar range of each other and they might have been doing some kind of radar exercise; or if they had one of those Victor nuclear submarines with them they might be either hunting it or acting as a target for it. Or both. He went back to the bridge, and told Holliday, 'Nothing special. They're a hell of a long way off still. The nearest lot's altered course away from us.'

Ashton had spent five minutes in the 901 TS and now he was walking for'ard along 3 Deck; he'd passed the gas-turbine room and the gear room, and his thought as he came level with the steam-turbine room was that he'd go right for'ard and surprise the geniuses in the computer room. Then it occurred to him that while he was down here he might call in and see the MCR, the machinery control room. It was where the ship's propulsive machinery was driven from. When the officer of the watch ordered a change in revolutions or the wheelhouse watchkeeper pushed the telegraphs from 'half ahead' to 'stop', this was where the order was received and acted on. It was a box-like structure perched up in the top of the much larger, deep enclosure of the steam-turbine room. Just about everyone in it was smoking; despite a hardworking ventilation system the atmosphere was blue-grey, acrid.

'You're dead certs for lung cancer, d'you know that?'

There was a moment's surprise: then the engineer of the watch -a young lieutenant by the name of Morrison, and Ashton remembered that he'd got married not long before they'd left Portsmouth - came forward. He'd been quick to stub out his cigarette.

'Sir.' Brushing ash off his white overalls. 'Smells worse than it is.' Two men had slid out of the door as Ashton moved further in.

'Who were they? Stowaways?'

The Chief MEM, a man named Hollingsworth who was a candidate for Fleet Chief, hadn't been so wasteful as to stub out his smoke. He'd just put it down, in an ashtray advertising Dutch gin. He answered for Morrison: 'One of 'em's the evap watchkeeper, sir. Come in to write up his log, tends to 'ang around the teapot. The other lad's the outside runner, and I'd just sent 'im runnin'.'

'I see.' Ashton asked Morrison, 'How's married life?"

'Not much chance to find out yet, sir.'

'I suppose you haven't. Won't have, either, not much before next Christmas.'

'Next Christmas?'

'Well.' Ashton looked at Hollingsworth. 'You'll remember what they used to say about the Navy and married life, Chief, I dare say?' The Chief PO looked as if remembered several such things and wondered which to pick on. Behind him the watchkeeper on the electrical switchboard was grinning, waiting for it, and the PO sitting in front of the boiler panels - a console of switches, dials and indicator lights - had an ear cocked too. The only man who seemed detached from the conversation was the artificer at the throttles, at the top end. Ashton told Morrison. 'They used to say, "If you can't take a joke, you shouldn't have joined." '

'A joke - like never seeing your wife?'

Chief Hollingsworth nodded, grinning. Ashton offered comfort: 'Oh, I expect you'll see her sometimes.' 'We going to be seeing Russians, sir?'

The artificer had asked it, suddenly joining in. Hollingsworth muttered, 'MEA Greenways, sir. Under training.'

'We may do, Greenways, and we may not. Depends on them. If we can stay clear of them, we shall do. But if they insist on playing games - well, we're here,'

'Have to clobber 'em, won't we, sir?' The PO spoke over his shoulder. 'I mean, if they ask for it.'

'Petty Officer Graham's our resident bower boy, sir."

'We may need his talents." Ashton shrugged. 'One hopes not, but - may not be our choice.''

'Not too good with only one boiler goin', sir.' Hollingsworth had said it. And he was right. Ashton glanced at Morrison, inviting him to take part in the conversation instead of leaving most of it to his Chief MEM. 'The port boiler could be flashed up, with the emergency packing on the feed pump?'

'Well, it could, sir.' The Chief looked dubious, 'But not so as you could rely on it.'

Morrison spoke, at last.

'There's always the gas boost, if we needed it.'

Gas turbines could be clutched in, via the gear room, to add their power to the steam turbines' normal 30,000 horsepower. It sent fuel consumption soaring and you lost manoeuvrability because the gas engines couldn't be put astern, but it would add the best part of ten knots to her speed on the one boiler. Ashton nodded, supporting Morrison. The pity was that he seemed to need it. But it was time to move on now; he told them, 'I happened to be in the vicinity; thought it was time I paid you a visit.' He looked again at the lieutenant. 'I dare say you will get a week or so at home this Christmas.'

'That would be - very welcome, sir.'

The thought of not seeing his new wife for a year or more, Ashton thought as he left the machinery compartments, was possibly what had silenced him. If you can't take a joke ... Or if you didn't have the right sort of wife to put up with all that and run her own and your children's lives when you weren't there. But - shouldn't have joined? He'd no idea what else he'd have done, what else he'd have had the slightest interest in doing. He was up on 2 Deck now, a very large proportion of which was occupied by the Seaslug magazine. And the door of the MTER - Missile Test Equipment Room - was just a short distance aft from the ladderway he'd come up. He walked down that way, pulled it open and stepped inside: into bright light gleaming on white enamel paintwork and a long plate-glass window that looked down into the Missile Check Room, a working space about half way in the length of the magazine. Sam Ozzard was saying into the microphone of the MQB, the missile quarters broadcast, 'All right, then. Let us know when you're coming out of it again.'

'Aye aye, sir.' That answer floated from the loudspeaker. Ozzard saw Ashton now.

'Why, hello, sir.'

'Morning, Ozzard.' He nodded to another man, a gaunt Fleet Chief named Chubb. It was an easy name to remember, because it suggested fat, where Chubb seemed to be made of nothing but skin and bone. 'Morning, Chief.' He crossed over to the window, passing switches and panels and metal cases of intricate electronic gear, and found himself looking downwards at several missiles on their trolleys. The weapons themselves were painted white but their wings and fins were a very pale, feminine pink.

'Full outfit now, have we?'

'Chock full, sir. We could fight a long, long engagement.' Ozzard's expression turned quizzical: 'Not that one imagines -'

'Quite.'

From the banks of controls and indicator lights in here, the missiles sitting so docilely on their carriages could be sent charging about like high-speed, self-propelled railway trucks, hurtling to wherever they were directed, thumping to abrupt stops as the hydraulic motive-power cut off. There'd be nobody at all inside the magazine, just a man in here moving switches, watching lights flash on or off to show which missile had got to which point, which space was now empty.

Ashton asked, 'Were you talking to someone inside there?'

'Chief Dexter, sir. He's showing some trainees round the crated stowage.'

Missiles still crated were in the for'ard section of the magazine. The crates could be moved on overhead travellers into the check room, this space beyond the window, where the missiles would be uncrated and fitted with wings and fins, then shunted through to join the other ready-use ones, ranked on tramlines right back through the ship. Right at the after end of the magazine were the loaders, and from that point the quick way out was on to the launchers, the cage-like contraptions from which they'd be fired.

The missile magazine was rather like the car-deck of a cross-Channel ferry - except that it was brighter, cleaner, full of rails and the hydraulic equipment, lower-roofed, and packed with those blush-tinted engines of destruction.

Fleet Chief Chubb asked Ashton, 'We likely to have a dust-up with the Soviets, sir?'

Question of the day ... 'Not if we can help it, Chief. Ultimately it's up to them.'

'Ah.' Tall, almost skeletally thin, with deepset eyes, and the haggard look made him seem older than he could be. Cocking an ear now as the broadcast hummed, relaxing again at the routine order Flying stations - flying stations ... So Fry had had his little excursion and was ready to land-on. Chubb said, 'Just have to wait and see what the bastards do, then.'

'Yes.' Ashton looked at Sam Ozzard. 'I'm told your father is now at NATO in Brussels. Perhaps he's------'

The broadcast system squawked, 'Captain call the bridge, please. Captain please call the------'

'Where's------'

'Here, sir.' Ozzard had snatched up a telephone, dialled two numbers, handed it to Ashton.

'Captain here.'

Alec Holliday told him, 'We have Badger radar on us, sir, and two aircraft closing on bearing zero-two-zero, range forty miles.'

'Badger - are they certain?'

'Badger Charlie, sir, they------'

'Inform the Commodore. I'm going to the Ops Room.'

Out, and for'ard, up the slight slope of 2 Deck, a distance of about fifty yards, then he'd flung back a sliding door and he was in the Ops Room, and Lionel Kemp the PWO - Principal Warfare Officer - was telling him, 'Commodore's acknowledged, sir."

'Where are they now?' He asked Buchanan, the AAWO, as he passed behind him. Buchanan - Ashton slowed, peered over his shoulder for a moment - had hooked the contact on the tote half of his radar monitor and given it a number - 1341, for the benefit of the computer. Now he'd switched from the 992, the gunnery radar, to the 278. He told the Captain, 'Still zero-two-zero. Thirty-one miles. Height -'

The 278 was the height-finding set. Ashton had reached his own place between the two big plots and reached to the deckhead for his headset. Buchanan finished, 'Height 6,000 feet, sir.'

Ashton said, 'Check that it's Badger Charlie radar.'

Two lone Badgers weren't usual at all. The Soviet missile-planes attacked - when they did attack - in what they called 'regimental' strength. Buchanan had passed that order to the EW director. The other point was that these were low-flying, which suggested reconnaissance. The EW director - a leading hand, at the EW position about amidships and near the after bulkhead - reported loudly, 'EW correction - Badger Delta, sir!'

Buchanan had swung round on his seat, throwing a hand up in amazement, a 'Now he tells us!' gesture.... Ashton said, 'Tell the Commodore. With my apologies.' The message would go out on the Tactical Circuit and he'd hear it in his right earphone. A Badger type D was still a Tu - I6 but it was a maritime reconnaissance adaptation. It had a nose radome and electronic blisters under its fuselage but no missiles or bombs.

'Roger, Crow. That's how we'd read it here but we weren't about to argue.'

Tell the Commander (W) I'd like a word.'

'Aye aye, sir ... Helo's down, sir.'

"Very good.'

Trouble, for Doug Cooper ...

But what would those two Badger Deltas be expecting to achieve now?

A pair of low-flying Tu - I6s wouldn't be at all an unlikely spearhead for a full-scale attack. They'd be sent to overfly at lowish altitude to check on the target - fleet, squadron, whatever it was - and identify its components, tip off the attacking 'regiment' as to which ships should be the primary targets. The attackers would after all be firing from a range of roughly a hundred miles, and they wouldn't have anything but radar images to look at. But this wasn't what was happening now, because a large force behind this pair would have been picked up much, much earlier. These two weren't making any errors, either, they weren't looking for their own task-force. They'd had NATO radar on them for quite a while: they knew who it was that they were about to overfly.

'Want to see me, sir?'

Doug had taken the plaster off his forehead. The gash was a blackish dent in the centre of multi-coloured bruising, and it wasn't adding to his beauty.

A hint, then? Moscow to Brussels - Look what we could do? Something like that, perhaps: regimental envoys sent to rattle the red sabre. He told Cooper, 'Be with you in a minute.'

'Range six miles ...'




Chapter Twelve


Comerford said quietly, 'You're about right now."

Dick Stratton nodded: he'd taken over as OOW a few minutes ago. He said into the microphone, 'Revolutions one-three-zero.'

Fifteen knots. They'd been adjusting station, Gahan .having changed his squadron's course by nineteen degrees to port, to 251 degrees; and fifteen had been the ordered speed since just after 3 pm when Fermenger had completed her RAS. She'd been the last of the squadron to do it. The object of the turn to port now was so as to make a rendezvous with the French at about 8 pm.

The two Badgers this morning had overflown at 6,000 feet, their slim fuselages and square-tipped, back-swept wings cutting in and out of the varying levels of grey cloud so that they'd been in sight for no more than a few seconds at a time. It had probably been the ruler-straightness of their course and the fact they'd stayed at that height when they could have come down a thousand feet and had a much clearer view that had made them seem preoccupied, like aircraft simply passing overhead because this happened to be their route---- Then he'd realised afterwards that the course they'd been on would have taken them over the French squadron as well, twenty minutes after Devon had her last glimpse of them.

Gahan's signal to Northwood about them had been repeated to the French, who were tuned - had been invited to tune - to scene-of-action frequency; and just after noon the French admiral had informed CINCEASTLANT, information COMSTANAVFORLANT, that he was reducing speed from eighteen to fourteen knots. And now they were turning down to meet them.

The Buccaneers had come hurtling out from Scotland at about 10.30 and right down at wave-level, right under the radar, only zooming up at the last minute to appear on radar screens and in binocular sight at about the same moment. They'd screamed around the squadron for a while, and it was when they'd finally pelted away landwards again, leaving behind them the almost stunning silence of an empty sky, that Gahan had ordered the squadron to prepare to RAS. It had come as a surprise, as they'd done it less than twenty-four hours ago; but apparently it was going to be a daily evolution, out here. And not a bad idea to top-up tanks when nothing else - as yet - was happening.

It had given the Nimrod something to film, too. When it had arrived Devon had been already connected and Marnix had been getting the hose across, and Gahan had them as a sort of arrowhead with the others tailing back on either side, a formation that must have looked pretty from the air. Comerford had thought of it appearing on TV screens this evening, Susie seeing it and identifying Devon lurching across the whitened sea thirty yards from Tideway's side.... World media all humming to the crisis now: there'd been a new, shrill protest from Moscow, following the Brussels decision to send the squadron in: The NATO attempt to disrupt or prevent these legitimate naval exercises from being carried out will not be permitted to succeed. The criminal responsibility for the highly dangerous situation now created lies with the NATO hawks and Thatcher-Cameron-type pressure-groups who tragically have been allowed to triumph over more moderate elements in the Brussels hierarchy. 'Where are the French now, pilot?'

'Sixty miles south-east, sir.'

He'd only just come back from the chartroom, where he'd been marking-on the change of course, converging with the French.

'And the Soviets?'

'Well, the two groups up north are------'

'All right.' Ashton slid off his seat. 'I'll have a look. Then I'll be in my cabin for a spell.'

Either he or Alec Holliday, or both of them together, had been on the bridge all afternoon. George Henry had been down in the Ops Room quite a bit, earlier on, while radar had been tracking and identifying numerous aircraft contacts and Devon had been picking up quite a lot of Soviet radar. Also, Fermenger's Lamps helicopter and Winnipeg's Sea King had been airborne and out ahead doing an ASW search - for exercise purposes, but the practice had gained interest for a short time when the Lamps had thought it had a submarine contact. The American had been using his MAD equipment, a thing like a slung torpedo that picked up sub-surface magnetic variations. But the Canadian's dipping sonar had been unable to confirm it or in fact to find anything at all.

The Soviets were still in three groups. The tanker and the two Krivaks hadn't varied their southerly course; they were forty miles from the area's western border and at this moment about 200 miles away. Groups B and C were about seventy-five miles north-west and thirty miles apart, C following B on a course more or less parallel to the NATO squadron's. If either side had wanted to interfere with the other they could have closed that gap quite rapidly: but it didn't seem that anyone was going to. If everyone - Soviets, NATO and French - held on as they were going now, before nightfall the Soviets would have crossed ahead with a safety margin of a hundred miles between them.

When he came up to the bridge just after 5 pm, having had tea in the wardroom and stayed there chatting to Tommy Buchanan, who'd left his seat in the Ops Room being kept warm by Jack Maunsell -Maunsell also being an AAWO - Comerford found that a fresh Nimrod enemy report had come in.

He went to update the picture on the chart. The two groups in the top part of the area were, he saw, maintaining the same course and speed, two-five-zero at twenty knots, and thirty miles between them. But the oiler and its escort of two DLGs had reversed course now to steer north, back up the track they'd come down on. It certainly looked as if the Soviets were keeping to the northern and western part of the area.

'Dan.' Pete Bruckner beckoned. 'Here a minute.'

Gregory walked over to the starboard side of Fermenger's bridge, the Commodore's part of it. There was no one close enough to overhear a private conversation.

'Sir?'

Bruckner shook his head. 'As a friend. Before you do something you'd regret the rest of your life. As a friend and off the record, Dan.' Gregory stared at him, nodded slightly, not giving anything away. Bruckner went on, 'You heard what was being said this afternoon, about Marnix maybe leaving us. If she goes there'll be a mail going with her. I'm just hoping there won't be any letter in it from you to Mary, while you're in your present frame of mind.'

'If it was truly off the record, sir, this conversation, I might say it was my own damn business.'

'I'm talking about friendship, Dan. That a fair return for it?'

'Maybe not. I'm sorry. Only thing is------'

'You're still of the same mind. Are you writing to tell Mary?'

Gregory shook his head. 'I've written to Kiel, is all.'

'You have, have you?'

'I do believe it's my own private business, sir.'

'It's simply that I'm deeply concerned, Dan. For you as well as for Mary. And you made it a little bit my business when you told me about it.' He shrugged. 'At least, you haven't put it on paper yet.'

'I would have done, if it weren't so difficult. I think maybe I'll wait, tell her face to face.'

'Might be best to wait, at that. Be quite a while before you see your Swede again, you know.'

'I don't know. Might take some leave'

'No, Dan. You won't. I promise you.'

Gregory's jaw bulged. 'I see, sir. I see. Well------'

'And we're headed for home, remember, in eight, ten weeks? You won't be this side again in - what, three years? If that?' He shook his head. 'Why, Dan, leave a woman like that one three weeks she won't know who the hell you are!'

'You - er - know something about women like that one, sir?'

Bruckner nodded. 'Matter of fact, I do.' He nodded. 'Okay, then. I just wanted to be sure you weren't writing to Mary.' He turned away: he told the Exec over his shoulder, 'I'll be with the Commodore.'

Gahan was saying, as Fermenger's captain walked into the big day-cabin, 'Seems to me likely they'll spend just about all of tomorrow refuelling---- Come in, Pete, sit down---- Well, three cruisers, ten destroyers, most of 'em been burning it up all day at twenty knots - that's a lot of oil. I'd be in the shit, at that rate, eh?' He asked his Chief Staff Officer, the Norwegian, 'Wouldn't I, Rolf?'

'I think you would, sir.'

'You want coffee, Pete? Help yourself. And listen now: we've been setting up some standard formations. Two cartwheels - one with a five-mile radius and one ten-mile - and one sector screen. Tim there has it all noted down.' Tim Barnes, he meant, his Staff Communications Officer. He turned to him, as Bruckner sat down with a cup of coffee. 'Tim, I want that stuff made known to all captains so instead of having to tell each ship what position to take up I can order something like "small standard cartwheel, execute", and have 'em all fly out like pigeons. Follow me?'

It wasn't difficult. The cartwheel formation was a special NATO squadron procedure, devised by some previous commodore and not to be found in any signal book, and sector screening was a system in more general use.

Barnes had the diagrams all sketched out, with the different ships all allocated to set stations.

'Want these orders signalled to all ships now, sir?'

'Tim, boy, that is exactly what I want.'

'Aye aye, sir. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and have it done.'

'Sure. Now, Hans -'

Hans Schmuckle, the German SOO, leant forward with his eyes on the Commodore, waiting for it. Barnes was halfway to the door: the sharp buzz of the telephone got everyone's attention. Being closest to it, he went over and answered it.

'Commodore's day-cabin: Barnes, SCO.' He was listening: and something he'd heard brought him up sharp, alert. He nodded. 'Yes. I'll tell him.' He put the phone down.

'Nimrod flash, sir: both the Soviet groups north of us have altered course to one-eight-zero.'

'The hell they have!'

Harry T. and Rolf Aars were staring at each other: but they were seeing the chart, the picture of a simultaneous turn south that would bring both Soviet groups down on top of this squadron.

Gahan put his hands flat on the table, pushed himself up.

'Yeah. Well...'

1900: 7 pm ... Soviet group B bore 294 degrees at forty-two miles and group C was on 326 degrees at thirty miles. Group B, the further one, was steering not 180 but 160, and since their turn southward both groups had been doing twenty-five knots. What it came down to when you resolved the situation on the chart and on the plot down in the Ops Room was that this NATO squadron and the Soviets and the French - who at this moment bore 210 degrees and were twenty miles away - would in about one hour's time be contesting the same couple of square miles of sea.

The picture if you'd traced it off the middle of the chart would have looked like this. 


Diagram of Force Positions (threatwarningred-2.jpg)


But in fact there wouldn't be any competition for that particular piece of ocean, because the Soviets were approaching from the starboard bow, which gave them the right-of-way. This was no accident, of course; if there was going to be a Cod War-type pushing-around contest the Soviets would try constantly to be in the right-of-way position, thus obliging the NATO squadron to give way to them. Gahan would have the same ambition, but unfortunately the Soviet ships were faster and more numerous, which would give them a great deal of advantage.

The additional presence of the French should be a help. Comer-ford thought that if he'd been in Gahan's shoes he'd have altered course in order to join up with the French more quickly. Back on the bridge now, he mentioned this thought to Alec Holliday.

'Look like running away, wouldn't it. Not what we're here for, Frank.'

'If it strengthens our own position -"

'We still don't know there's any need to, Frank. No reason they shouldn't want to have a look at us.'

After that last Nimrod report there'd been a sudden flurry of signalling from Fermenger. But it had turned out to be unconnected with the Nimrod's information, only a set of new orders for 'standard' cartwheels and sector screens. There'd been no change of course or speed for the NATO squadron, no comment on the fact that the Soviets were now approaching on an interception course. And Holliday was right: this was what they were here for - not to be sent scurrying about.

Ashton was in the Ops Room, which was fully manned now on a permanent, two-watch basis, as were all the radar and EW positions. The ship was not in Defence watches, though, because none of the armament was closed up.

R/T crackling: it was the Commodore calling Tideway again. Fermenger's helo had transferred two of the flagship's signal staff to the tanker that presumably had been a reaction to the Soviet's turn-towards, a preparation for close-quarters manoeuvring, in case that should be the outcome. Alec Holliday muttered, 'Be a rotten shame for the Marnix crowd if their bloody politicians haul them out of it.'

There'd been a mention of this possibility in a news broadcast this afternoon. It was one of the demands being made by left-wing cabinet ministers and politicians at the Hague, where they were having French-type trouble now. The Rotterdam dockyard was being picketed too, in protest against what was being called 'provocation' by NATO of the Soviet Union. There were SOD demos all over France, despite the President's appearance on TV last night. He'd talked about France's past greatness and destiny of leadership amongst the nations of the world, of her intense desire for peaceful coexistence with the countries of the Warsaw Pact, and referred to France's historic readiness to defend human freedoms anywhere and at any time, including the freedom of navigation on the high seas, which to a Frenchman proudly aware - as he was - of France's glorious maritime heritage was as sacred as the very blood that ran in French veins. The ships of the Navy of France, he'd said, were in the Atlantic legally and peacefully, not seeking confrontation or even a quarrel with any other nation--- Hooky Winters had commented, 'Got the right idea. If you take away the flim-flam?'

Pete Hayes had agreed. He'd often heard worse stuff, he'd said, from pulpits.

But there was left-wing agitation in London, too. Part of it was to be a rally this afternoon in Trafalgar Square.

Holliday had growled, 'Lucky for Nelson he's blind in both eyes now.'

But all that was remote, irrelevant. What was happening that mattered was here in the Atlantic - now, as the fleets converged.

The swell was much lower. Wind south-west by west force 3, and cloud-cover still unbroken.

7.20 pm ... The French had altered course to north and increased speed to eighteen knots. It meant that instead of the planned eight o'clock rendezvous, visual contact between the NATO and French squadrons should be established at any moment. When they came into sight they'd be about thirty degrees on the port bow; they were already on 978, the short-range radar.

There was an R/T signal coming through as Comerford went on with his binocular lookout for a first glimpse of Courbet, the French cruiser. From the bridge's lower starboard section he could hear an American voice intoning, Galaxy, this is Spaniel. Execute to follow: formation one ... Over. That was the warning: you didn't act on the order until you got the 'executive' that was to follow. In cases where the order was to be obeyed immediately the wording would be 'immediate execute'. All in Cy 'Porkchop' Hughes's familiar tones. What Gahan was ordering was a shift to line-ahead formation in sequence of fleet numbers. Tideway, by previous arrangement, was to be number two in the line, astern of the flagship; so that meant the sequence would be Fermenger, Tideway, Marnix, Pereira, Jylland, Devon, Baden, Winnipeg. Ashton came into the bridge.

'French in sight yet?'

'Not yet, sir.'

'Alec - close up some lookouts on the GDP.'

'Aye aye, sir.' Holliday passed the order down to Jack Maunsell. The GDP - gunnery direction platform - was a high deck built around the foremast with binocular-sights on it for spotting. Ashton muttered, 'We have a Bear breathing down our necks again." Bear radar: they'd had it at intervals all afternoon. He'd trained his glasses out to port: 'Well, there they are!'

Comerford had picked up Courbet's masthead and radome at precisely the same moment. What was visible of the radome was like the top edge of a great silvery onion pushing up over the horizon. The black, splayed-out funnel-top was behind it and slightly to the left, but as he kept watching it he saw a gap opening between dome and funnel.

'She's coming round to starboard, sir.'

Ashton put his glasses up again.

'So she is.' And a few moments later: 'Right round.'

Courbet was almost turning about: altering to what looked like ending up as an opposite course. Turning so as to pass to the south of the NATO squadron and on to a course of- she seemed to have steadied now - something like north-east.

Training his glasses slightly to the right now, he picked up another masthead, a clutter of aerials: and then another....

'Both the French DLGs are in sight, sir.'

'Yes.'

'Bridge-plot!'

Alec Holliday was standing beside the binnacle; he took the plot microphone off its hook and answered, 'Bridge.'

The plot's report came out of the overhead loudspeaker: 'Soviet group B has altered course to one-three-zero, sir.'

Converging with group C. Because they were already - instantaneously - aware of the French change of course? Having no need now to head that far westward and cut them off?

He didn't think they could possibly have known this quickly: unless that was a really smart-arse Bear up there. But it was what it looked like. And since it was seven-thirty now, you could reckon that by eight they'd be at close quarters.

A light was flashing from Fermenger's bridge: it was being directed at the French cruiser on the horizon and a spark of light from that distant silhouette was an acknowledgement, an invitation for the message to be sent.

On Devon's bridge it was particularly easy to read. The American was being kind to the French, winking the letters out slowly, like some test message in a training class.

Delighted to see you. May we have the pleasure of your company? Sub-Lieutenant McLaren reported, 'Group C is on the 978 now, sir. Bearing three-two-four, range twenty-two miles.'

'Very good.'

Flashing from Courbet: and an answering stab of light from Fermenger. Harry T. hadn't 'executed' his line-ahead signal yet; Comerford thought he'd probably delay it now until he'd finished talking to the Frenchman, in case during the rearrangement of the squadron someone got in the way.

The French admiral, surprisingly enough, was making his reply in English.

Very deeply regret that having reached the centre of the area I have been instructed to proceed to point Alfa. All in this squadron would have preferred to remain with you. It took a second or two for the import to sink in. Ashton got it first: he'd glanced round at Alec Holliday, then back, incredulously, at the French ships.

'They seem to be -' the Commander jerked his head towards the French - 'leaving us to it?'

They weren't only scooting away north-eastward: they were doing it with the NATO squadron between themselves and the oncoming Soviets. But if those had been their orders ... Fermenger, Comerford saw, was signalling again.

Do you require oil fuel? They wouldn't, not if from point Alfa their intention was to return to Brest. From the tone of the Frenchman's signal that seemed rather likely. Here and now one was hardly thinking in terms of which spot on the ocean represented the centre of the area; such a consideration might make for a politician's let-out back in Paris but here in the Atlantic all that was plain to see was one cruiser and two DLGs getting the hell out. And you could guess how they'd be feeling.

R/T suddenly came up full-blast: Galaxy, this is Spaniel. Formation one - stand by - execute/ Ashton went down the steps and out into the starboard wing of the bridge. Courbet, almost abeam now and passing on the opposite course, had replied No thank you to Gahan's offer of oil. From Alfa, then, they'd have to go straight home. Ashton came back from the outside wing; he'd seen Baden begin to drop back, slowing. 'I'll take over now, Knight.' He said into the microphone, 'Revolutions one-zero-two.'

'Revolutions one-zero-two, sir!'

That would cut three knots off her speed. He used the microphone again: 'Starboard ten.'

'Starboard ten, sir.'

Now PWO Lionel Kemp's voice, from the Ops Room loudspeaker: 'Bridge - plot.'

Holliday answered him: 'Bridge.' Kemp informed them, 'Soviet group Charlie has split. The six destroyers have increased to thirty knots on interception course and the Krestas have come round to one-two-zero at twenty knots.

So at any moment the Skorys would be coming into sight. They'd be spotted from up on the GDP first, but at a combined closing rate of about forty-five knots there wouldn't be much in it. Skory, Tommy Buchanan had said, was Russian for 'quick'. Ashton had ordered the wheel to be put amidships; he'd only edged about halfway over and now he was watching the ships on Devon's starboard side, judging his moment to clap on speed again.

CPO Rule came thumping up the port-side steps. 'Nimrod signal, sir.'

Ashton, busy, told him to give it to the Commander. It was time to put on revs for fifteen knots again. 'Revolutions one-three-zero. Steer two-six-five. What's it about, Alec?'

'The two Kashin destroyers, sir - they've left the tanker and they're coming this way, flat out.'

'Oh, good.''

He saw Holliday's surprise, and shrugged.

'Well, who wants to be fobbed off with bloody Skorys.' He said into the microphone, 'Revolutions one-three-five.' Needing to catch up a bit. Turning round now: 'Better put some of that on the chart, pilot.'

'Aye aye, sir.' And suddenly everything seemed to be happening at once. The GDP had the group C destroyers in sight, the plot had the Krivak destroyers from group B leaving their cruiser and cracking on speed on a course of about 260 degrees ... Away? Harry T. was announcing on R/T that any close-quarters manoeuvres would be conducted by flag signals so long as the light held. (Less easy for the opposition to read, presumably; and impossible to jam. Basically perhaps, because Harry T. loved manoeuvring by flag-hoists. But the light wasn't going to hold for long.) Ashton sat like a graven image above it all, up on his high seat with glasses trained broad on the bow where at any minute the Skorys might come into sight.




Chapter Thirteen


CPO Rule had his glasses focused on the hoist of three flags at Fermenger's yardarm. The red pendant with two white balls on it was the Corpen, course pendant, and below that another pendant with green-white-red verticals meant 'starboard', and finally a blue and white flag was flag nine, meaning in this context ninety degrees, a right-angle turn.

Right wheel, in fact. Devon's and all the other ships' answering pendants were fluttering close up, telling the Commodore signal seen and understood. If Gahan left that hoist hanging up there much longer he'd be wheeling his squadron just about into the onrushing pack of Soviet destroyers, instead of turning up inside the line of their advance.

Small ships, with comparatively little top-hamper in the way of radar: they had the three Soviet types of radar known to NATO as Hawk Screech, Slim Net and Don, but the aerials were unobtrusive, nothing like the contraptions on bigger ships. Hurtling down beam-on to the long swell, flinging themselves along at about thirty knots, they had a look of savage determination about them: as if the intention was to crash right into this squadron.... Imagination blossomed, envisaged the engineering of a major disaster achieved at the cost to the Soviets of a few - even six - oldish-type destroyers: enormous loss of life and ships would be attributed to NATO's intransigence and aggression and provide the excuse for a shooting war, or force a NATO climb-down, a vacuum at sea into which the Soviet sea-borne hordes would flood. Could you man six destroyers, officer them, with men who'd carry out such orders?

'Executive, sir!' Rule wasn't the only one who'd seen the flag-hoist drop from Fermenger's yardarm. 'Very good.' Ashton was hunched on his seat with binoculars at his eyes. Comerford was near him and Alec Holliday further back, near the 978 radar monitor. Oram had taken over the watch from Knight.

Fermenger was swinging out, lengthening out of the overlapping end-on shapes of the line ahead of Devon. Now she was right out and there was a glimpse of whitened sea under her counter and the tanker's bulk was lumbering round in her wake, cumbersome and slow turning. And with a maximum speed of seventeen knots - seventeen on paper, and she was no chicken, so you might guess that fifteen would be about her best - well, so long as Gahan kept her in company this was about as fast as they'd be moving. And since the Soviets even with those Skorys, which were far from being their newest or fastest ships, could do thirty-plus, as much as thirty-four if they weren't too bothered about fuel consumption, it wasn't going to be easy to avoid their rushes.... Marnix was altering round now: Fermenger and Tideway were out at right-angles and in profile, and when the Dutchman added his to theirs Devon's view of the oncoming enemy was going to be blanked off.

Ashton muttered sharply, 'What the devil...'

Half that Soviet flotilla was turning out of their line. The last three of them: practically on their beam-ends as they flung round to port.

Holliday said, guessing quickly, 'They'll cross ahead, and when we're round on our new course they'll be on our starboard hand again.'

He was right, Comerford saw. They'd be poised to make another pass, keep this squadron turning. The leading three were out of sight now, from this bridge; and Jylland was altering round in Alvarez Pereira's gleaming wake. Ashton pawed blindly for the wheel-house microphone and pulled it down closer, keeping his eyes on the churned sea at the Dane's stern, ready to swing his own ship's stem into it.

Hooky Winters and Martin Pentecost, the paymaster, had been watching from the outside starboard wing of the bridge, but now as Devon began her turn their view was about to be shut off. Pentecost had a camera with him: he went in through the screen door, and Hooky plunged after him. As they passed behind the bridge Alec Holliday came down the steps, heading the same way--- There were several men out in the port wing already: Hunt, Comer-ford's yeoman, saw the place was getting crowded and edged towards the doorway.

'Plenty of room, Hunt.' Holliday stopped him. 'The padre'll breathe in, and I'm going up top.' He climbed up to the bridge roof: Hooky shouted as Devon's bow swung away to starboard and the Soviet destroyers came in sight, 'There the buggers are!' The three Skorys looked as if they might have been doing fifty rather than thirty knots: flinging themselves across the swell like javelins, low, sleek, speeding ships lathering the sea.

Their leader was altering course: inclining inwards. Steering to hit Baden? Or to pass between her and Winnipeg: or force the Canadian to take independent avoiding action, and thus split the squadron up?

Comerford, peering over Hooky's shoulder, appreciated the dilemma the Canadian captain would be in. The Soviet probably didn't care too much about risk of damage, deaths: their orders would, as likely as not, allow for such risks. But Daryl Hynes had his ship and his ship's company to consider, as well as the formation to be held intact. Hooky Winters had shifted aside and Comerford was craning over the wet, varnished-timber topping of the windbreak: shouts from below him, and a crowd of men down there moving aft to get a closer view: the tall, excited-looking man with a camera was PO Slight, the character who'd put some 'wobbly' right in the White control system and earned applause from George Henry: that felt like a week ago.... The Soviet destroyers were two cables' lengths away: spray flying in sheets and their afterparts washing down, bow-waves foc'sl-high and sea heaping behind higher than their sterns, the only visible human figures small groups on the open fore-bridges. Holliday bawled down, 'They're going to cut close under Winnipeg's stern!'

From here it still looked as if they'd hit her: then the leader had smashed through her wake. He must have: he was disappearing and there'd been no crash. One small error by a helmsman and there would have been. Back in the bridge Comerford said to Ash ton, 'They certainly are not playing safe, sir.' Ashton pointed. The other three were still tearing out north-eastward, well on the squadron's bow. He growled, 'Twice our speed. What's known as running rings. ... When did they last RAS, do we know?'

'Afternoon or evening twenty-first, sir. Possibly at night. They can't have done it since then.'

Ashton said into the microphone, 'Up four revolutions.' Alec Holliday came up the steps into the bridge and reported, 'Those three are whizzing up on the quarter now, sir.'

'Enjoying themselves, no doubt.' He cocked an ear towards the signal area, where R/T had begun to babble. 'What's this now?'

It was Spaniel informing Galaxy through the medium of Pork-chop Hughes that any further manoeuvring signals would be passed by R/T. And a report from the plot now: the two Kresta II cruisers were on almost the same bearing as that farther group of Skorys: they - the Skorys - would almost have their cruisers in sight from up there: even from here, given a few more minutes of semi-daylight, they couldn't be far out of V/S range. Comerford was trying but he couldn't pick them up yet: lowering the glasses he swung round to watch the other three Skorys, the ones who'd swept round the squadron's stern, rushing up on a course of about due north. Ashton said, 'They're slowing. See it?' What he'd noticed had been the bow-waves suddenly slumping. 'Turning parallel.' Going to stay with us, by the look of it.'

Having reached this position on about the squadron's beam the Soviets weren't classifiable as 'overtaking vessels' any more. If they wanted to, presently, they could steer in across the squadron's bows and make Gahan give way again, bend him westward. Under the Regulations for Preventing Collisions at Sea, Rules of the Road, a ship had to give way to another that was on her starboard side, in the sector from right ahead to two points - twenty-two and a half degrees - abaft the beam. Farther back than that the other ship rated as an overtaking vessel and it would be her duty to keep clear. The Soviets' aim would be constantly to have themselves in positions from which they could harass the NATO ships while remaining technically in the right.

Those three on the beam might have been waiting for some movement or signal from the other, more distant group. Comerford put his glasses back on those farther ships: and he saw that the next move was already being made. They were turning: you could guess they'd come tearing down on the squadron's bow and that the nearer bunch would join in with some simultaneous move.

They could really play it any way they liked. They had all the advantages, and all they had to do was maintain the pressure, increase it probably as time went on. They didn't only have speed on their side, they also had numbers: one lot of ships could be doing the harassing while others refuelled.

The GDP lookouts had had the Krestas in sight, and now they were visible from the bridge as well: Gilbert Oram, officer of the watch, had been trying to pick them up ever since the GDP had reported them. Ashton heard his report and swung round. 'Where?'

'Just to the left of the Skorys, sir. Only upperworks. About fifteen on the starboard bow.'

'I've got them. Well done.'

Comerford was on them too: although a few seconds ago he'd been staring right at them and not seeing them. But in fact they were only just visible: and in another couple of minutes they'd be hidden to everything except radar until dawn. But there, he thought, staring at those massive shadowy centre-castles, foremasts carrying Topsail radar and extended funnel-top construction with a Headnet's weird shape on it, there was enormous power. Those two distant ships could wipe this squadron out in seconds if they'd had a mind to: and they would have such a mind, only the leash oh which Moscow held them would be preventing it, and if or when it suited Moscow to drop that leash: well...

Looking back at the three nearer Skorys who were idling along like escorts now, like guards taking them into custody, he felt a sudden fury at their high-handedness: he thought if he was not Lieutenant-Commander Comerford but Commodore Gahan, he'd teach those three a lesson: turn the squadron into line-abreast and bear down on them, offer the bastards their own medicine....

Harry T. Gahan flipped the lighter, scowled when it didn't flame the first time, flipped it again and lit his cigarette without taking his eyes off the three Soviets on his squadron's beam. Now he'd turned his head, glanced over towards the other group. With the naked eye they were invisible now. Harry T. raised his glasses, studied the far-off ships for about two seconds, then dropped the glasses on their strap and took the cigarette out of his lips. Another quick look at the closer group: he nodded, with smoke pluming from his nostrils.

'Okay. Send it.'

'Galaxy, this is Spaniel.' Porkchop spoke slowly, calmly into his R/T handset, but there was a gleam of excitement in his eyes. 'Immediate execute, turn starboard nine. I say again: Immediate execute, turn starboard nine. Stand by ... Stand by ... Execute!' Pete Bruckner, on his seat over the far, port side of the wide bridge, snapped, 'Right standard rudder!'

'Right standard rudder, aye!'

The helmsman's acknowledgement was like a cry of triumph. Porkchop had checked the exact time and entered it against that signal in his log. The helmsman crowed, 'Sir, my rudder is right fifteen degrees!'

'Very well.' Bruckner's tone was so flat it was like an admonition to everyone else to cool off. The flagship heeled as the rudder took hold and she began to swing. Fast-fading light now, most of it seeming to come off the sea, from the twilight shine on its long, low undulations. Harry T. was watching the line of his squadron as all eight ships slewed into the simultaneous turn.

'Rudder amidships.'

'Rudder amidships, aye! Sir, my rudder is amidships!"

The eight ships were all pivoting, swinging into line-abreast, a line of eight powerful stems knifing through the sea towards the beam-on silhouettes of the three Soviets.

Harry T. was thumbing his nose at the Rule of the Road. And those Skorys were going to have to put the revs back on, quick ... Tideway had managed the turn very well. She'd taken a little longer than the others to get round, and Bruckner had made room for her by taking the wheel off Fermenger somewhat earlier than he would normally have done; the tanker was closer to the flagship and farther from the Dutchman than she should have been, and she'd dropped back a bit; but she'd adjust that now, and the others were nicely in line, steadying together on the course which Bruckner had just given his helmsman - 070 degrees.

Rolf Aars, at Gahan's elbow, said disappointedly, 'I'm afraid they are going to make it, sir.'

'Yeah. Might shake 'em up a little, though.'

For the third of the three Skorys it would be a nearish miss, as their own pass had been for Winnipeg. They'd certainly put on speed:

rising bow-waves matched twenty, twenty-five, thirty knots--- That number three was ahead of Marnix now: crossing the tanker's bow: and now, not a full cable's length ahead, her stem was in line with Fermenger's - at right-angles, crossing, and the gap narrowing ... Well, just making it ... The American ship's stem cut the froth of the Soviets' wake twenty yards behind the rearmost Skory's stern.

Gahan nodded, satisfied.

'Near enough to rile 'em.' Inhaling smoke, grinning at Tim Barnes. 'Shouldn't 've done it, should I?'

'Not-really, sir.'

'Right. Expect I'll be doing it a few more times yet, though. I want to head south-east. Reverse order'll be all right.'

'Turn to starboard into line and then follow round, sir?'

'Yeah.' Nodding, dragging on his cigarette. Tine.'

'To what course, sir - one-three-five?'

'That'll do just fine, Tim.'

Barnes went over to Porkchop.

'Soviet cruiser's flashin' at us, sir!'

From a ship that was now invisible: a light calling in rapid morse 'A's. Now the clash of Fermenger's bridge-wing lamp answering.

Gahan told Barnes, 'Go ahead with that and let's do it fast. Immediate execute.'

'Aye aye, sir ...' Barnes nodded to Porkchop, who raised the handset and began to read out the signal which the Englishman had scrawled out for him: 'Galaxy, this is Spaniel: immediate execute, turn starboard nine. I say again - immediate execute, turn starboard nine. Stand by - stand by - execute!'

'Right standard rudder.'

'Right standard rudder, aye!'

Another simultaneous turn, and this one would bring them back into line-ahead but with Winnipeg leading and Fermenger bringing up the rear. The squadron would be on a course of 160 degrees, and after this turn was complete another order would wheel them in succession to the south-east course that Gahan wanted, and all the Soviets would be astern of them.

Dan Gregory brought the Soviet cruiser's signal to the Commodore.

'Message reads, sir -' Gregory cleared his throat - 'You are requested to displace jour ships from this area.' 'I am, am I?'

'Rudder amidships.'

'Rudder amidships, aye!'

Gahan said thoughtfully, 'Tell him - make to him, Go pee up a rope.' Dan Gregory chuckled. So did other people around the bridge. The bosun's mate, a tall lad with a tattoo inside the open neck of his blue shirt, was practically collapsing with mirth. He was beating with both fists on the bulkhead beside his shack, muttering 'Go pee up a rope! Oh, boy, go pee------'

'For Christ's sake -' Gregory yelled - 'wrap that up!'

'Now wait.' Harry T. was having second thoughts, after a word with Rolf Aars. 'Might call that provocative, I guess ... So make to him, We have every right to be here. If you continue to allow your ships to cross my bows you will be placing the lives of your mm in danger.' He looked at his Norwegian CSO. 'Polite enough?'

Aars nodded. 'Most courteous, sir.'

'Squadron's in line-ahead on one-six-zero, sir.', 'Make the course one-three-five.'

'One-three-five, aye aye, sir!'

Gahan turned back to the Norwegian. 'We have a little breathing space now while they catch up with us again. Way I see this, there's just two principles we can keep in mind. One - make 'em operate as far from their tanker as possible. Two, make sure we scare them sometimes. You have any ideas beyond that?'

Aars suggested, 'Would you think of making some sort of protest, via CINCEASTLANT, sir?'

'No.' Gahan appeared to have thought of this already. He explained, 'Sure, I have to let 'em know what's going on. But if I shout "Help!" I'm only giving ammunition to - well, you know, certain people?'

'They might want to pull us out."

'Right.' He was lighting another cigarette. 'You?'

'No thank you, Commodore. I just put one out.'

'So did I.' He let smoke out sideways. 'I'd say we can stand weeks of this. I'd say we could stand it longer -' he jerked a thumb -'than they can. Right?'

At 11 pm Moscow Radio interrupted its programmes for the reading of an official announcement the text of which, the announcer said, had already been communicated to all the governments concerned----The statement read:

Soviet warships attempting to cany out exercises in the north-east Atlantic are being subjected to extremely provocative and dangerous harassment by a group of warships which the belligerent NATO powers have sent purposely to obstruct these manoeuvres of which, in accordance with international agreement, due notice was promulgated several days ago. At one stage shortly before dusk this evening the NATO squadron turned suddenly and charged at high speed at a small detachment of Soviet destroyers who were steaming in an entirely peaceful and legitimate manner in their vicinity. Only by their alertness and excellent seamanship did the Soviet captains succeed in averting what would otherwise have been a disaster with consequences of the most terrible nature. NATO governments and commanders should now take warning that no further acts of this nature will be tolerated: further, that aircraft from Soviet naval air stations will be joining in the practices shortly and that live missiles will be fired from time to time. Should the NATO ships continue to interfere, despite this and earlier warnings which have been given, the NATO alliance and the governments of its member states as well as its commanders in the field will bear the entire responsibility for such loss of life and ships as may result from their own criminally dangerous activities. The English translation came in the BBC's midnight news bulletin. Comerford was on the bridge as back-up to Harry Piper who, with Spread as his number two, had just taken over the watch.

The Skorys had made four passes between eight-thirty and ten o'clock, and had then departed westward, overhauling the Krestas who'd left an hour earlier. It seemed probable they'd be heading for a rendezvous with their tanker. At each of the Skorys' highspeed approaches Gahan had made an appropriate course alteration, giving way to them before working back constantly towards his south-easterly course. And just before the Skorys' had gone, the two Kashin-class DLGs from what had been group A had arrived. They'd taken station five miles on the squadron's quarters, one to port and one to starboard at that range: they were still there, keeping station.

Hooky Winters had come up to the bridge with the transcript of that Soviet broadcast.

'Captain want to see it, d'you think?'

'Hell, it's not worth waking him up for, Hooky.'

Ashton was getting a few hours' sleep while peace reigned. It was an unexpected respite: perhaps Kashins weren't to be risked like Skorys. He'd left orders for a shake at 4 am if it stayed quiet that long, and Alec Holliday would be taking over from Comerford at two. The Soviets were too close by for officers of the watch to be left up here alone.

Ashton was in his sea-cabin, his little glory-hole off the ops Room. Wise, Comerford thought, to be snatching some rest. Perhaps Gahan's infringement of the rules had given the Soviets food for thought, established him as unpredictable, a man who couldn't be counted on to play safe. Comerford had been astonished  then delighted - when Harry T. had done precisely what he, Frank Comerford, had been thinking about only a minute or two earlier. And then the sight of those Skorys legging it like scared cats--- 'About time we had some tea?' He spoke quietly into the dark. 'I'm sure the padre'd love some.' Hooky was still hanging around. Piper called, 'Bosun's Mate?' Comerford added, 'Sorry we don't serve gin up here, Hooky. Have to wait for your breakfast, for that.'

The Kashins were plain to see on the 978. Each time the revolving beam swept round the dial it lit them in turn, two clear bright blobs of light which began to fade as the beam moved on past each one and had vanished in the few seconds it took the ray of light to get round to them again. The Kashins' main radar, Headnet C, was fingering the squadron all the time.

In Fermenger, Felix Harrison had the deck and Dan Gregory was in the captain's seat staring down across the ASROC launcher and the five-inch gun at the ship's narrow, sharp-pointed bow as it rose and fell rhythmically over frothing sea - a broad white lane of it, sea churned by the seven ships ahead and not least by Tideway's lumbering bulk. Gregory, deep in thought, was startled when he heard his captain's quiet voice right beside him.

'All nice and quiet, Dan?'

He'd jumped: then grinned, admitting the surprise. 'Yes, sir...' He slid off the seat: it was like a seat in an aircraft, only much taller off the deck. Comfortable: easy to sit and think in ... 'I guess it's quiet all right...' He raised his voice: 'We in station, Mr Harrison?'

'If we dropped back eleven and one-half inches I guess we would be, sir.' Harrison was short and swarthy: across the darkened bridge you saw the gleam of his teeth as he grinned. Gregory told him, 'So drop back eleven inches.' He asked Pete Bruckner, 'Did you have a good sleep, sir?'

'Thank you, Dan, I did. But I was with the Commodore the last half-hour.'

Gregory checked the time. Just on two-thirty.

'Had an idea he was in die sack.'

'Harry Gahan, my friend, sleeps once a week.' Bruckner said it as if it was something he'd have thought Gregory should have known already. He added, 'Right now he's drinkin' his third pail of coffee and maintainin' a dialogue on diverse topics with CINCEASTLANT and SACLANT on satellite UHF. Admirals don't sleep either, times like this.' He jerked a thumb: 'Our playmates still with us, I'm informed.'

'The Kashins, yeah ... They show you that Moscow garbage, sir?'

'Sure. Air attacks. What a lot of the chat down there's about.'

'How do they see it?'

'Most opinion says it's bluff.'

Gregory snorted. 'Most opinion won't be here to get proven wrong.... Any more about us losing Marnix?' 'So far we're okay on that. But we have the UN joining in now. Head man's on his way to Brussels to have talks and then fly on to Moscow. SACLANT's worried he could make Brussels climb down.'

'Not Moscow?'

'Christ, who knows. The UN talks on jungle-drums these days--- Dan, I took you by surprise just now. You were - preoccupied, could it be said?' Gregory admitted it with a grunt. Bruckner asked him, 'That Swede still on your mind?'

Gregory glanced at him, then away again. He muttered, 'She stayed in a man's mind too long, he'd blow it. I tell you, I never -never even in some dream - He shook his head. 'Words won't do it.'

' That good?'

No answer. Bruckner said, 'I can't change how you feel. And okay, these things do happen. But couldn't you just wait, stay married, keep your mouth shut, see how it works out?'

'Wouldn't that be dishonest? Apart from------'

'Think about it, Dan. Just think about it.'

In the house at Leefdaal, Chris Ozzard woke with Sophie in his arms. Her movements had woken him: light was growing outside and he could hear someone trying to start a car down in the street. He remembered the Moscow broadcast: Live missiles will be fired from time to time.... They were perfectly capable of carrying out that threat. They always had been: when you knew the total ruthlessness that drove them. And lately they'd become conscious of their own strength: they were likely to use it now.

There'd been some rough play yesterday afternoon and early evening. It would get worse today, almost certainly.

'Are you awake, Chris?'

'I must be. I thought this was too wonderful - you here - to be anything but a dream, but -'

'I have to go home before it's light. Particularly now you are so notorious. Do you think Commodore Gahan will stick it out?'

'He must. That's what he's there for. Sophie, let me drive you into town. You can leave your car here in my garage. Then I'm sure of having you here again tonight.'

'No, I'll need my car. I'll need to go to my apartment, and other things like some shopping - besides -'

'If you used taxis -'

'I will come tonight.'

She'd been so late getting here last night that he'd given up hope of it. Waiting, he'd taken about forty calls and each time wanted it to be her voice on the wire, but every single caller had been someone or other asking how he'd managed to fix ex-Ambassador Eller met. By the end of the evening he'd sounded (he thought) quite convincing with his disclaimers: that he'd done nothing, only tried to persuade him of various things including the fact that sending the Standing Naval Force Atlantic in would be neither aggressive nor provocative: but that he'd had an impression that the Dutchman had already been unsure of himself and wondering how to shift his ground....

'Did they believe you?'

'Some did. I got better at it as time went on.'

He knew he'd have to face a tougher inquisition later, when London had time for a post mortem.

'Does your Hugo suspect what I did, d'you think?'

One way of asking it. Another would have been Was it van Pallendt's idea to start with,, Miss Horonje? 'He must know you fixed it some way. He was talking to Ellermet before he went to lunch with you and he saw how he was afterwards. How you did it - I don't think he could guess.... Although - well, he has not mentioned it to me, and perhaps he does suspect I had some part in it, because otherwise it would have been natural for him to say something. Whereas if he didn't want to know ... You see?'

Not bad ... He asked her, 'He knows we've been seeing each other, does he?'

'Oh, surely -'

'Is his attitude to you the same as it was before?"

'Well. He's ambassador now. You know?'

London wouldn't believe his story, however well he told it. The man at the FCO wouldn't. He'd be spitting mad. The wild men of the left would undoubtedly have been claiming they'd been double-crossed. Some elements in London, Chris knew, would want his blood. Even if Ellermet did keep his mouth shut, which would be a lot to hope for.

Gahan had to hold on ...

'Really, I must get up.'

'Want a bath?'

'Yes. Quick one ... Chris, what was the call you had so late in the night, the one that woke us?'

'Why should it interest you so much?'

'I thought it might have to do with Philip Ellermet. And if it was that, why you didn't tell me.'

'No connection at all. Or naturally I'd have told you.'

He hadn't mentioned that he'd only used her divorce document in the way he had. There was no need for her to know: and Colin Murray had to be kept out of it at all costs. His involvement had to be washed out and forgotten: so why put the knowledge in another brain?

Sophie had asked - her first question when she'd arrived last night - 'What happened - did he just collapse?' Chris had told her, 'I wouldn't go through it again for anything on earth. But it's over now, so let's forget it?'

'But I'm - staggered, really. I mean I don't know how you did it.'

'With that dirty story of yours, of course.' 'Without signature, not attested, no kind of proof at all?' 'You thought it was fine when you brought it to me.' 'Not really. It was all I had to bring you. Like clutching at a straw, it seems now. And afterwards - when I heard you were having lunch with him - my God, I------'

'Got scared?'

'I was petrified. Truly. Shaking ...' 'So was he and so was I. Trying not to let it show.' 'I still can't understand how it could have worked so well.' 'Well, I told him the original was available to me, signed and witnessed, et cetera. I suppose for him it was panic-stations. As you'd said he would, he gave in for the second time to the same threat. I took a chance you might be right, that's all.' 'Are you going to be in trouble now?' 'I hope not. I shouldn't think so.'

They could fix him, though, if they wanted to, behind the scenes. The first sign of it would be if he heard soon that the chair they were keeping warm for him was going to someone else.

He threw back the bedclothes. Sophie bronzed and bikini-striped with her summer tan. He said, 'I'll turn your bath on.'

In the bridge, George Henry Ashton towered broodingly on his high seat. Everything quiet, peaceful: soft glow of lights in dials, small sounds, routine ticking on as dawn approached and even the sea seemed hushed, a bit tense, waiting for the light and a new day in which anything could happen.

Dick Stratton was OOW, so the stocky figure stooped at the 978 radar had to be young Bradshaw. Comerford crossed to the starboard for'ard corner.

'Morning, sir.'

'Pilot?' Ashton glanced round. 'Might get some stars, if you're lucky.'

'Should do, sir. Clear patches here and there.' He'd been out in the bridge wing to check on it. Doug Cooper had been out there, doing deep-breathing exercises by the look of it - speechless, sore-headed as he always was until he'd had his breakfast.

'All quiet still, sir?'

'So far. But the entire circus is coming up astern.'

Hunt was in the chartroom. He told him to get everything ready for star-sights in twelve minutes' time, and shot down in the lift to the Ops Room to update himself on the tactical situation. He found Jack Maunsell in charge of the watch down there, and Hunt's pal Selby on the GOP; he checked that first, as it was his own departmental responsibility, then asked Maunsell to tell him what was cooking.

Two Kashins astern, one on each quarter, range five miles. Well, they'd been there all night. But three cruisers and two Krivak DLGs bore 315 degrees - dead astern - range thirty-five miles, speed thirty knots, course 135. Since 135 was also this squadron's course it meant the Soviet force was in pursuit. A couple of hours ago Gahan had ordered a reduction of speed to twelve knots?: if present courses and speeds were maintained the Soviet cruisers and the Krivaks would come up with them at 0800. The tanker and the Skorys were sixty miles astern, and steering due east. The Skorys might be refuelling now - that group's speed was down to eleven knots, according to the plot - or they might be waiting to do it in daylight.

'So it's the first league we'll be playing in this morning.'

'Looks like it.' Maunsell told him, 'We've had the Kara's radar . illuminating us since I came on at four.' He showed him Devon's own radar picture of the Soviet force: three large contacts in line ahead and a smaller one on each side of the leader.

'Won't be a dull day.'

In the chartroom Hunt had the sextant and the deckwatch ready, and the star-globe set. They went up on to the bridge roof and Comerford, limited in his choice of stars by the positions of the cloud-gaps and by the fact that in this line-ahead formation he had no horizon either right ahead or right astern, got elevations of Polaris, Castor and the planet Jupiter. Castor was twenty on the port bow and Jupiter ten to starboard.

By the time he'd finished and Hunt had gone on down the ladder it was just possible to make out the bow-waves and dark shapes of the Kashins five miles out on each quarter. It occurred to him that there'd be Soviet officers in those bridges at this moment staring this way: with binoculars at their eyes, studying this squadron as the light spread out across the sea and flushed upwards to the clouds, revealing details of the end-on line of ships: he wondered how they felt about the situation, whether they could possibly feel that there was any vestige of legality on their side - or whether that didn't matter to them.

The Kashins would hang on where they were, probably, until the three cruisers and the Krivaks came up into sight over the horizon astern.

Then what?

He went down, to work out his stars. Ashton and Alec Holliday were in the chartroom. Comerford nodded to Holliday: 'Morning, sir.' George Henry tapped a signal that was lying on the chart.

'Read that.'

CINCEASTLANT to COMSTANAVFORLANT info STANAVFORLANT:

FLASH - TWENTY PLUS AIRCRAFT BELIEVED TO BE BADGERS IN POSITION 71 DECS 30 N 26 degs E COURSE 220 SPEED KNOTS AT 0531/

Twenty-plus constituted 'regimental' strength. Early-warning radar on the northern tip of Norway would have picked up this strike: and 2,000 miles at 500 knots meant it could be expected here -if this was where it was coming - in four hours. It was six-twenty now.

Holliday nodded towards the chart. 'I've put it on. Looks like it's for our benefit.'

A typical Badger strike would consist of something like four chaff-spreaders, two radar-jammers and fifteen aircraft carrying missiles. Each of the fifteen would have two missiles and they'd fire from a range of about a hundred miles. Then from the target's point of view there'd be thirty missiles homing in at varying angles.

Ashton stretched and yawned. He muttered as he turned away, 'Probably a dummy run. Hoping to give us the wind up.'




Chapter Fourteen


When he came back up to the bridge after breakfast in the wardroom, Comerford saw that the heavyweights were about to start leaning on them - and to the sound of music.

He asked Alec Holliday, 'What's this game?'

It was from the Kara that the loudspeakers were blaring. The commander shook his head, watching her. He murmured, 'Be able to ask one of 'em, in a minute. If someone doesn't turn away soon we'll have the buggers on board.'

At 0700, at which time die overhauling group of Soviet ships had been on the 978 screen but not in sight, Gahan had wheeled his squadron to a course of due north and then turned them through 180 degrees, so they'd ended up steering south with his flagship in the lead. The Kashins had turned north when the NATO ships had wheeled, and south when they reversed their course; and they had since - at 0730 - steamed off to add themselves to the line of three cruisers and two Krivaks which by then had been in sight, appearing out of the early sea-mist quite suddenly and only about ten miles away.

One Kara, two Kresta Us, two Krivaks, two Kashins. They looked magnificent: and also menacing, and - by the way they were crowding in now on the squadron's starboard side  murderous. Too close already: it looked almost as if the Kara was coming in for a RAS on Tideway. Some Slavonic marching song, that tune: and it was coming not only from the Kara but from the others too. The Kara was leading the line. A post-Cuba design, 10,000 tons and with armament to match, a very powerful ship smothered in missile-launchers, guns, torpedo tubes, radar, all sorts of electronic gear, and with one very large square funnel placed well aft, setting off the long, upward-curving line of her fore-part. A space-age ship, with the range and power to roam the world's oceans. The Kresta-class cruisers astern of her looked much less powerful and less beautiful in comparison; but each was half again as big as Devon. Like the Kara, they had whole junkyards of hardware on masts and funnel-tops, weirdly shaped aerials and antennae. It was the Kara you found yourself looking at, though; and from the point of view of lines, eye-appeal, the Krivaks who were following the Krestas. sleek, lovely, as lethal-looking as cobras. After looking at the Krivaks for a bit the Kashins were rather dull, ordinary-looking: but they were powerful enough. More powerful, for instance, than any of the ships in this NATO squadron.

Ashton glanced round at Holliday.

'What a bloody horrible din.'

It stopped. Holliday said, They heard you, sir.' The silence was wonderful. The Commander said, 'Suppose we might give them Land of Hope and Glory?' A Russian voice enormously magnified bawled across the still narrowing strip of water, 'Commodore! NATO Commodore! Attention please! You must displace your ships eastward to twenty degrees west! I repeat, you must -'

Fermenger's siren blared: a long shriek that drowned out the Russian's words. From here it looked as if an able-bodied man with a heaving-line could easily have lobbed it over the Kara's rail. Pay was out in the wing with his camera and CEA2 Slight was there too with his cine. George Henry had fixed it through Doug Cooper, and the film would be paid for out of official funds. If you went into a Soviet dockyard and tried to take photographs of their ships at this range you'd end up dead or in Siberia.

R/T booming suddenly: Galaxy, this is Spaniel. Immediate execute, speed zero. I say again, Immediate execute, speed zero. Stand by ... Stand by ... Execute! The siren's wail cut off.

'Stop both engines.'

'Stop both, sir!'

Doug Cooper appeared at the rear of the bridge. He asked Comerford, 'Musical chairs?' Holliday heard: he shook his head, and told him, 'It's bloody dangerous, that's what it is.'

It could be. If ships in the rear didn't stop their engines as smartly as those ahead of them. In fact, all seemed well - so far. And now Porkchop Hughes was on the air again: Immediate execute, speed twelve knots and turn starboard nine. I say again - he said it more slowly too, this time - Immediate execute, speed twelve knots and turn starboard nine---- Stand by: stand by: execute! 'Starboard fifteen. Half ahead both engines, revolutions one-two-six.'

'Starboard fifteen, sir!'

'Half ahead both engines, revolutions one-two-six.... One-two-six revs passed and repeated, sir!'

'Very good.'

The Kara, the Krestas, Krivaks and Kashins had ploughed on by;

now the NATO squadron's helms were going over and the ships still had enough way on for the rudders to take effect even before the resumption of power made itself felt. The ships were swinging into a slightly ragged line-abreast on course 270 degrees, turning astern of the Soviets who'd gone on southward. Comerford guessed that Gahan would very soon turn them back into line-ahead: the Soviets would then be on his squadron's port side.

The line-abreast formation was levelling up, as some ships cut revs and others increased slightly, to get the kinks out.

Galaxy, this is Spaniel: Immediate execute, turn port nine: I say again, Immediate execute, turn port nine: Stand by ... Stand by ... Execute! Ashton said quietly to Alec Holliday, after they'd settled into line-ahead again steering south, 'On that turn to starboard I should guess Fermenger's stem must have cleared the second Kashin's stern by about six feet.'

'If that.' The Commander nodded. 'Second time lucky. He could rest on his laurels now.'

Comerford drew his attention to the Soviets. 'Seem to be cracking on speed, sir.'

Ashton swung round, bringing up his binoculars. The five Soviet ships, with the tail-end Kashin now about one mile on the squadron's port bow, were gathering way, bow-waves rising and spreading, foam beginning to pile under their sterns. And they were altering to starboard. The Kara was swinging into half-profile as she came round, leading the others on to a course to cross this squadron's bows and reach out ahead to starboard. Ashton growled, 'Don't give up easily, do they.'

Doug Cooper suggested, 'They'd like the honour of breaking our backs before their Naval Air Force does it.'

R/T piping up: Galaxy, this is Spaniel. Bullfrog will shortly be launching her helo in order to take pictures. 'Bullfrog' was Fermenger. 'Spaniel', the Commodore, was a separate entity from the ship which accommodated him.

'Pilot.'

'Sir?' Comerford turned from the eye-piece of the 978 radar. George Henry asked him, 'Where are the tanker and the Skorys now?'

They'd turned south at 0600. During the night they'd been steering east. He told him, 'About sixty miles from us, bearing three-one-zero. They're on the plot, if you want------'

'No. But they could be with us in a couple of hours. Then we'd have the whole shooting-match around us.'

'We could, sir, but...'

'But what?'

'Well, if there is an air strike coming in, it'd be here not long after ten. Their ships would hardly be hanging around in close company with us if we're supposed to be the target. And as it's already just on eight-thirty and it'd take the Skorys two hours to get over here -'

'Right.' Ash ton watched Fermenger's helicopter climb up beyond the swaying yardarms of the ships ahead. 'Good thinking.'

Doug Cooper made a mock-approving face at Comerford: then he found himself face to face with the chaplain, as Hooky came up the port-side steps.

'Morning, Bishop.' They'd all looked round. Doug added, 'Getting a bit crowded. I'm off.' Hooky murmured, 'Yes, I'm sure you must have some work to do.' He went over to Ashton. 'Morning, sir. BBC eight o'clock news.' He had his notes with him, as usual. 'First item is that the French have left the area.'

'We know that, Padre.'

They'd passed through Alfa at 0600.

Hooky added, 'They're returning to Brest - so Paris says. Having performed their duty and shown that France won't be told where it can or can't send its ships. Et cetera. Well, when you think of it, they might have been the only ones to demonstrate it - if our own masters hadn't just come down on the right side of the fence?'

Ashton frowned. 'What else?'

'The Secretary-General of the United Nations is having what's described as a "working breakfast" in Brussels, and will then be flying to Moscow. While we, the Alliance's Standing Naval Force Atlantic, have been patiently enduring harassment and dangerous close-quarters manoeuvring by Soviet units. But we're taking no notice of it and doggedly continuing with our scheduled programme of exercises.'

'Are we, indeed.'

The rest of it's just the protests and demos going on all over the place. There was another London one planned for today, apparently, but the Home Secretary's banned it, as a result of yesterday's performance. From which, incidentally, four policemen are still in hospital and one of them on the danger list.'

Alec Holliday put in, 'And a dozen or so louts who couldn't know the difference between NATO and the RSPCA may get fined about half a day's dole money.'

'Yes, well -'

Galaxy, this is Spaniel. Immediate execute: corpen port one-fight. I say again, Immediate execute, corpen port one-eight. Stand by ... Stand by ... Execute! A wheel, this was about to be, with ships turning in succession 180 degrees to port. Fermenger was already turning, her length growing out to port as her rudder hauled her round and she led the procession into the reverse of its present course. Very annoying for the Soviets - they were now about four miles on what was still -to Devon, on the southerly course - the starboard bow; now with the squadron altering round to north the Kara and her consorts would have to hurry back. Fermenger had got right round, and Tideway was beam on: to conform to the squadron's standard turning-circle she must have had at least twenty degrees of wheel on, Comer-ford thought. But she'd been doing extremely well, fitting in as she had with manoeuvring procedures which must have been quite novel to her. The flagship was passing Marnix, who'd just put her helm over, and Gahan gave her a double toot on his siren: Marnix, swinging out to fit herself in astern of the tanker, responded with a shrill toot of her own. And the Commodore was doing the same to each ship as Fermenger came back this way on the opposite course: he was abeam of Alvarez Pereira now, and the Portuguese had a particularly melodious whistle.... Ashton said, getting off his stool, Take over, Alec; follow Jylland round.'

'Aye aye, sir. Hoot at him, shall we?'

'Yes.' He pointed upwards, at the bridge roof, with a forefinger the size of a banana. 'I'll be up top.'

To give Harry T. a wave as his flagship passed. Comerford went with him, into a chorus of bleating sirens and the clatter of the Lamps helicopter hovering overhead.

Galaxy, this is Spaniel. Immediate execute: formation one-four-zero. I say again, Immediate execute, formation one-four-zero. Stand by ... Stand by ... Execute! 'Starboard ten. Revolutions one-five-zero.'

'Starboard ten, sir, one-five-zero -'

'Curiouser and curiouser.' As Devon began to swing, Ashton lifted his binoculars to his eyes again to look at the Soviets out on the starboard bow. He murmured, half talking to himself, 'But I believe I know what's in our Commodore's singularly agile mind.'

'Ten to starboard wheel on, sir, one-five-zero revolutions passed and repeated.

'Very good.'

Comerford, from the Battenberg course-indicator, gave him a course to steer to the ship's new station.'The word 'formation' in that signal - in a flag-hoist it would have been the formation flag - meant 'form line of bearing'; all ships were now to bear 140 degrees from the guide, Fermenger. So from being the sixth ship in a line-ahead formation, Devon had now to slant out to starboard and become number six in quarter-line, and as the squadron was meanwhile maintaining a speed of advance of twelve knots this involved putting on extra revs at the same time as steering out to the new position. What the Battenberg did was to solve, simply and quickly, the triangle of relative velocities. Prince Louis of Battenberg had invented it, before World War i.

'Midships.'

'Midships, sir ... Wheel's amidships, sir!'

Ashton asked his second-in-command, 'See it, Alec?'

The Soviet force, a long way out on the bow, had formed itself into line-abreast and was coming back now on an interception course. The Kara was in the centre of the line with a Kresta on each side of her; the two Krivaks were to starboard and the Kashins at this nearer end.

Holliday lowered his binoculars. 'They're charging at us from fifty degrees on the bow. And the line-of-bearing we're forming will be at right-angles to that approach-course. So -' he raised one eyebrow - 'grid iron, would you say, sir?'

'That is exactly what I'd say.' Ashton said tersely into the wheel-house microphone, 'Meet her.'

'Meet her, sir.'

He gave the helmsman Comerford's course. The whole squadron - except Fermenger, who didn't have to shift - was fanning out to starboard. Those nearer the front had the shortest distances to go, and Winnipeg at the end of the line had the farthest. There were seven Soviet ships, and including the tanker eight NATO ones: seven ships in line-abreast left six gaps between ships, so if Harry T. was intending the grid-iron manoeuvre he'd have enough ships to send one through each gap and one at each end as well.

Holliday muttered, 'Tricky, with Tideway.' The grid-iron was tricky enough even for two groups of ships who'd practised it and were well-disposed towards each other. Conditions which did not apply here. The squadron had done it often enough - splitting into two groups and, as it were, passing through each other - but this was a Harry T. Gahan eccentricity, not in the STANAVFORLANT official repertoire.

Comerford was at the binnacle, watching the bearing on Fermenger as Devon approached her new station. The quarter-line was forming: and the Soviets on the bow were closing at something like thirty knots. Hoping, no doubt, to make the squadron turn away, run for it, so as to make up for the face they - the Soviets - had lost through Gahan's neat footwork earlier.

Galaxy, this is Spaniel. Execute to follow: I say again ... Mumble-mumble ... Static? Jamming? Clearing now: Turn starboard five ... Grid-iron it was, then. PO Dyson was coming up the steps into the bridge. 'Bit of interference there, sir. Ships turn together fifty degrees to starboard, execute to follow.'

'Thank you, Yeoman."

Now CPO Rule, Chief Yeoman, coming fast up the same steps, nearly flattened Dyson as the latter turned to go back down them.

'Flash signal, sir!'

Ashton stretched out a long arm for it. Comerford warned from the gyro repeater, 'Two degrees to go, sir.'

'Port ten.' George Henry had side-stepped back to the microphone. 'Revolutions one-zero-two. Alec ...'

Holliday took over the conning, bringing her into her place in the line-of-bearing, while Ashton looked at die flash signal. He shrugged as he glanced up at CPO Rule's blue-jowled countenance. 'Well, we knew they were on their way. Here - pilot.'

Alec Holliday spoke into the microphone: 'Midships.'

'Midships ... Wheel's amidships, sir. Revolutions one-zero-two passed and repeated, sir.'

Commerford read: CINCEASTLANT to COMSTANAVFORLANT info STANAVFORLANT: FLASH - TWO BADGERS AT 0904 POSITION 63 DEGS 15 NORTH 09 DECS 40 WEST COURSE 222 SPEED 480 KNOTS AND MAIN BODY TWENTY-FOUR BADGERS SAME POSITION COURSE SPEED AT 0921.

It was now 0937.

Holliday ordered, 'Meet her and steer north.'

'Meet her: steer north, sir!'

'All right, Alec. Thank you.' Ashton took charge again. Holliday took the signal clip from Rule. He said to Comerford after he'd read it, 'Faroes radar, presumably.'

'Yes. Gives us about an hour.'

He told himself, This is real: a full-scale air strike coming in on us! But it was impossible to accept, envisage: perhaps because the mind could only accept a certain amount of alarm at once, and the Soviet ships were no more than 3,000 yards away in line-abreast at high speed and on collision course. Either the Soviet commander had lost his temper or he was a raving lunatic or he'd been briefed that if didn't matter how many got hurt, smashed, dead ...

Two thousand yards. One sea mile. At thirty knots, two minutes.

Less than that, though, because the rate of closure of the gap had a component of this squadron's speed in it as well. How long might it take Tideway to lurch round through fifty degrees?

Porkchop's normally smooth, mellow tone came hurried, a trifle breathless, as he passed the executive order for the crucial turn directly towards the oncoming Soviets.

Galaxy, this is Spaniel: Turn starboard five - execute! 'Starboard fifteen.'

'Starboard fifteen, sir.'

One thousand yards.

'Fifteen o' starboard wheel on, sir!'

'Very good.' He wanted to get round quickly, so he wouldn't be taking that rudder-angle off too soon. The final course as the ship steadied would ' have to be adjusted anyway, you couldn't expect to end up precisely opposite your own gap and lined-up for it: there'd be several fractions of seconds in which to make the right adjustment. All the ships turning, swinging their bows towards the rush of Soviets, towers of grey steel, high stems cleaving sea in white mounting heaps, banners of foam and tumbling green. Five hundred yards. Four-fifty.

'Midships. Port fifteen.'

'Mid - port fifteen, sir!'

Ashton was stooped over the compass repeater, judging his track into the gap that Devon had to pass through: between a Kresta II and a Krivak. 'Midships!'

'Midships, sir!'

'Steer zero-four-two.'

'Zero-four-two, sir!'

'Who's on the wheel?'

'Leading Seaman Wootton, sir.'

'Watch your steering very carefully now, Wootton.' Ashton's voice was entirely calm. 'Steer zero-four-one.'

'Steer zero-four-one, sir ...'

An error of a degree now could produce a forty-two knot collision. At that speed an aggregate of 12,500 tons of ships would amount less to collision than to explosion. Comerford held his breath as the gap came down to nothing and for a split second the Kresta loomed over them, towering: two seconds, three - the Krivak so close to starboard that the ships were struck by each others' wind, like passing trains: then you felt the solid impact as Devon slammed into a wall of white sea, smashing into it and over it - and out the other side.

Through!

Looking to one side and then the other, he saw an intact line of NATO ships. R/T crackling down on that lower level, Porkchop's voice exuberant: 'Galaxy, this is Spaniel. Immediate execute, turn port nine. I say again: Immediate execute, turn port nine. Stand by ... Execute!' 'Port fifteen.'

'Port fifteen, sir!'

Gahan was turning them ninety degrees to port. They'd end up in line-ahead on a course of 320 degrees.

'Fifteen of port wheel on, sir.'

'Very good ... Wootton, you handled that very well.' Ash ton looked round. 'Alec - take over, please.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'We'd better see where these Badgers are. Or rather -' checking his watch - 'where they were. Come on, pilot.' Heading for the chartroom.

Grid-iron completed: now for the air-strike. No peace, Comer-ford thought, for the wicked. And the two advance Badgers, the pair flying ahead of the main body of the regiment, would be here in something between fifteen and twenty minutes. They'd be low-flying, so radar wouldn't have them on the screens until they were - well, depending on height, say fifty miles away. By that time the others, who'd be up at maybe 30,000 feet, would be on the plot. About to follow the Captain down the steps towards the chartroom he paused, looking round to see what the Soviets were doing now; he saw they'd turned into line-ahead and were steering a course roughly parallel to the NATO squadron's.

Still hanging around, then. With an air-strike coming, it would be a comfort to have them close by.

'Soviet cruiser signalling, sir.'

He looked back quickly. It was the Kara flashing, from the centre of the line. Fermenger would be answering. Ashton came back up the steps. 'What's this?'

Slow, clumsily-made morse ...

/  have  try  to  persuading  you  displace  eastward  for -your - own - safety - stop - regret - I - must - leave -you - now. The flashing had ceased and the Soviet squadron was re-forming. Ashton went over to get his glasses, and watched the ships swing over into line-abreast, turning away to port. Then the two Krestas were dropping back to take station on the Kara's flanks, the Krivaks and the Kashins wheeling outward to form line-astern from each Kresta. Ashton muttered, 'Very pretty.'

Picking up speed: white wakes piling, spreading. Heading west and working up to maybe thirty knots or more. At all events, getting out of it. Ashton put his glasses down and headed for the chartroom again, and Comerford followed him. Oddly, he had quite a friendly feeling now towards those Soviet ships. That charge towards and through each other - it was as if you'd fought a duel and had the shared experience in common, an odd kind of bond ... But it might also have been the knowledge that the threat now - the primary, immediate one - was that regiment of Tu - I6s closing at eight miles a minute.

The Threat Board in the Ops Room showed Air Warning Red. Ashton, on his stool between the two big plots, over towards the port side of the cavernous, dimly-lit and now fully-manned compartment, asked the Anti Air Warfare Officer - Tommy Buchanan -'Range now?"

'One-four-zero miles, sir."

That was die main attack coming in. He'd given it a number, 4322, and hooked it on his tote, the right-hand display of his radar monitor. So the computer was tracking it now and at the push of a button on the tote keyboard it would answer any question he wanted to ask it. Like range, speed, was it showing IFF: well, it wasn't, it was plainly hostile. 4322 had been on the plot since 965 radar had picked it up - picked them up - about twelve minutes ago. The computer would also tell the missile director when to fire: and when the target split into separate elements the computer would allocate the various weapon systems to each threat according to its own assessment of priorities. If you didn't fire when it told you to, it would flash UU, standing for 'Urry Up, on the tote screens.

The two front-runner Badgers had already overflown, at 5,000 feet.

'Still no radar on us?'

'Not yet, sir.' That was the EW - electronic warfare - director, a leading radarman at the EW console near the after bulkhead. His headphone was on the Open Line, one of the two circuits to which Ashton had his own connected.

'Range one-three-two.'

One minute closer. Missile-armed Badgers might fire from a range of a hundred miles or they might decide to press their attack home from a shorter distance. The chaff-dispensing aircraft would be flying about two minutes ahead of the main body, but the jammers would be among the missile-planes. They'd have to shine their own radar before they fired, of course, and they'd make their attack through a blanket of chaff- foil, to shield them from the defenders' radar. It was when they came poking out through their own chaff barrier, and then when you got missile-head radar on you, that you'd know for certain the attack was real.

The EW director reported, 'Multiple aircraft radar bearing zero-four-one to zero-four-four. Looks like Badger Charlie.'

Ashton said, 'Confirm whether it's Charlie.'

They'd boobed over it, last time. And Badgers didn't have to carry missiles to present a threat: if they were Badger Alfas, for instance, they'd be bombers. R/T had begun to crackle in his right ear, the Tactical Circuit: Galaxy, this is Spaniel. Close up fire-control radar, guns and close-range missile defence systems. I say again - George Henry ordered, into his Open Line, 'Close up White system and Red and Green.'

White meant the twin 4.5" turret, and Red and Green were the Seacat close-range missile systems port and starboard. You didn't have to close up Seaslug. The whole of that system was already manned, and its firing point was right here in the Ops Room. Same with Exocet, the surface-to-surface missile system. Exocet only needed one Chief to fire it. When he pressed his firing buttons on the console in front of him the launcher's front-end doors would be blown open, blasted off by their explosive bolts a fraction of a second before each missile scorched out.

In ordering those weapon systems to be manned, Gahan was either turning a blind eye to the Rules of Engagement or he'd obtained sanction for it. That was the most likely explanation: that he'd have sent a flash signal to Northwood and Virginia expressing his own view that the threat was real and requesting approval of measures to ensure his squadron's survival. Admiral Lassiter in Virginia would have given an instant affirmative, and been ready to argue the toss with Brussels afterwards.

Not that anything would ensure survival. If twenty of those Badgers were carrying missiles it meant that when they fired there'd be forty missiles approaching at roughly Mach 1.5 and from all different angles. Some would fly high and dive down on their targets, others would skim in low: and they'd all be homing, following a curve-of-pursuit if the target ships tried to dodge them.

'EW confirms Badger Charlie radar zero-four-zero to zero-four-four.'

'Range one-one-five miles.'

The squadron was in cartwheel formation: it had been reforming at the time the two reconnaissance planes overflew, but all the ships were in their new stations now and Ashton could see them clearly on the radar plot in front of him. Devon was guide, in the centre, the hub of the wheel, which had a radius of five miles and the other ships - except Tideway - spread out around it. The tanker was with Devon, keeping station two cables' lengths astern of her. Course 225 degrees - southwest - and speed twelve knots. The reason Harry T. had departed from his planned 'standard' cartwheel was that in view of the air threat, which was something no one had foreseen (or believed in) earlier on, and with Devon having a surface-to-air capability which made her the natural choice for air defence ship, the centre of the formation was the obvious place for her. Gahan had put his flagship in the lead position: the others, at sixty-degree intervals around the cartwheel's rim, were Pereira and Jylland out to starboard and Winnipeg astern, Baden on the port quarter and Marnix on the port bow between her and Fermenger. Radar plotters with their chinograph pencils clustered round the two plots: Ashton saw downwards over their heads, over short haircuts with headphones over them. Lionel Kemp, PWO i, was watching this plot, seeing its constant updating with the greasy pencils: but an air threat with no surface or sub-surface element was Buchanan's business. The young radarmen, Ashton noticed, looked less bored than he'd often been rather irritated to see them looking during the necessarily repetitive and frequent practices. He was listening to patter, reports, war-cries: now he moved his earpieces so he'd hear what was going on immediately around him. Doug Cooper's voice: he was over on the far side, beside the NBCD state board, a perspex sectional picture of the ship on which areas of damage could be shown, but he had a penetrating voice and he was raising it to yell down a telephone. By the sound of it, telling Deeping the Commander (E) why there was no likelihood of going to NBCD State i. Over the perspex board the slogan of the damage-control department spelt out priorities in large capitals: FLOAT - MOVE - FIGHT. He slid the earphones back on in time to hear Buchanan say, 'Range was down to one-zero-zero but I'm losing it, there's a jamming spoke developing on zero-four-four.' His tone had changed, hardened and quickened: he was calling now on the tactical intership R/T circuit: 'Fox, Eagle, this is Crow. My bogy is in the dark. Track 4322, please?' Asking the two outside ships, Jylland and Baden, in the hope they might be outside the spoke. Now he'd switched back to the EW director: 'Put 901 radar into search pattern on that bearing.'

901 was the Seaslug radar, the saucer-shaped aerial above the helo hangar. Ash ton saw Buchanan stand up and turn round, look across at him over Lebihan's head: 'Captain, sir - 4322's hidden but range is well under a hundred miles, there's jamming and I think they've started to lay chaff too. Permission to load the Sea-slug launchers?'

Ashton hesitated for about one second. Then he shook his head. 'No. But move two missiles to the loading position.'

The delay would be tiny. The loaders were at the extreme after end of the Seaslug magazine, and the operation of transferring two missiles out into the launchers could be accomplished virtually instantaneously, at a touch on a switch. He could see the shock of reality now quite plain in every face he looked at: eyes were sharp, surprised, expectant....

Lionel Kemp said into the voicepiece of his headset, 'Yes, Eagle?' and Helmut Kries, Baden's captain, said, 'We are blinded by chaff on that bearing. There is also some jamming.'

'Roger.' Kemp looked over at Buchanan: the AAWO nodded. Jylland came up to report that they were chaffed off too: and suddenly Harry T. was driving the Dane off the air, ordering an immediate-execute one-eighty turn to port: Execute ... 'Officer of the watch - bring her round to port to zero-four-five.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Oram, that was. Comerford was with him on the bridge. Harry T. was turning his ships downwind, putting the westerly breeze astern of the squadron. Preparing to fire chaff, the squadron's own protection.

Buchanan said, 'Chaff is currently down to eight-zero miles.'

The chaff-spreading Badgers would dispense it in a corridor as they flew in ahead of the attackers, and it might extend right down to as close as fifty miles. While it was still approaching, that chaff barrier, the squadron could reasonably feel they had a few minutes' grace before missiles were launched, because the attackers had to come through it before they could fire, locking missile radar to the targets. When that moment came the hostile 4322 would appear again on the screens in its separate parts: you'd expect a report, 'Hostile 4322 split', and then you'd be watching for missile-head radar.

Chaff was chaff, but the jamming might not be affecting all the different radars. Buchanan was switching his monitor from set to set.... Reversing course now, the cartwheel would be heading straight towards the direction of the attack, with Fermenger at the rear and Winnipeg leading. The downwind course was so that the chaff- ship's chaff, when fired - would drift with them for a while.

Almost on the new course now: there was a ship's head indicator on the bulkhead, high up where everyone could see it.

Spaniel came up on tactical: Baden and Marnix, the two downwind ships, were to stand by to fire Window Charlie on bearing zero-nine-zero. Window Charlie were chaff-shells fired from guns, to explode a long way out and mislead homing missiles. Charlie, 'C', stood for 'Confusion'. And all ships were to stand by to fire Window Delta. Delta was 'D' for Deception, chaff from the ships' three-inch launchers to provide protective screens around themselves and blank off the homing missile-head radar. Ashton told Kemp, 'Stand by four barrels Window Delta, two on the bows and two on the quarters.'

'Aye aye, sir.' Kemp called over to the EW director, 'Stand by Window Delta - select port and starboard for'ard, port and starboard aft.'

The EW director had the Chaff Delta control right beside him. Above him, where he sat; he had to get up from his seat to set it. Now when he got the order he had only to press the 'fire' button: up top, where the launchers were situated just abaft the bridge, warning hooters would blare for two seconds before the rockets fired.

'Contact on 992 bearing zero-three-four!'

Way off: a long way off the jamming spoke and the original direction of the attack. Ashton thought, They've spread ... The bearings would spread as they closed in: but not that much? The report had come from the missile director and Buchanan had switched over to 992, the high-definition target-indication radar. Now he confirmed it: range fifty-eight miles, moving right to left ... The chaff-spreaders turning out to starboard, out of the way of the attack as it came in? He was getting an overlapping babble in his other ear now, Jylland reporting on R/T that hostile 4322 had emerged from the chaff-screen the other way - flying left to right. Well, the buggers were talking a foreign language, it was surprising they didn't make such mistakes far more often--- 'Zero-five-one, moving left to right, range eight-zero miles, open-ing!'

That was the AAWO confirming it: it was on the 965, clear of chaff and with no jamming anywhere: it was the main body of the attack, the Badger regiment, turning away to port, turning short of them and leaving.

No air strike then, this morning? At eight miles a minute, pictures changed fast: and when you'd been expecting that at any second the air would be full of homing missiles, so sudden a removal of the threat was almost as jarring as the threat itself. It took you a few moments to believe that it had gone: it was like waking out of deep sleep, discovering where and what you were.... Buchanan's voice came over the Open Line: 'Relax to Air Warning Yellow, sir?'

'Yes.' Ashton said into his mouthpiece, 'Captain approves.'

They'd turned back on to a south-west course and the Soviet task-force, re-grouped, was returning. Re-grouped, because not only were the Kara, the Krestas, Krivaks and Kashins coming now, but the Skorys too. Thirteen ships in all, steering one-two-zero at thirty knots, which was a course and speed to intercept. It was now just past eleven, and the interception would happen at about noon. Unless Gahan gave himself a breathing space by altering away, and in that case it would still happen but just a little later.

Not a very cheerful prospect. With that number of ships the Soviets could easily split into two or even three groups, and if they did so and kept up a constant pressure the NATO ships wouldn't get a moment's respite.

Comerford was in the bridge when a signal came thumping up through the air tube from the Communications Office, and PO Dyson unloaded it and brought it up. When Ashton had read it, he looked startled. Buchanan was dragging his long frame up the portside steps as George Henry told them, 'The UN Secretary-General's left Brussels for Moscow. NATO has agreed we'll confine ourselves to the bottom right-hand corner of the area. A quadrant with a 100 mile radius from point Bravo. Moscow's been told and the Commodore has SACLANT's order to comply forthwith.'

Buchanan removed his beret, rubbed the crown of his fair head. 'Partial surrender?'

'Utter rubbish!' Ashton rounded on him. 'It's disengagement, not surrender. We'll still be in the area - and that's what this row's about, isn't it?'

Buchanan did surrender. 'Yes - I suppose ...' There was an R/T signal coming through: a course alteration to 147 degrees. George Henry was looking relieved; and Comerford was thinking that the UN initiative had been well timed, from the NATO squadron's point of view. Thirteen fast ships against eight slow ones hadn't been much to look forward to. Ashton said, 'I'm going below for a while. Bring her round when the time comes, pilot.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

When they were settled on the new course Gahan ordered a speed increase to fifteen knots. Comerford went into his chartroom, to check the new plans put on the chart. Distance to the quadrant was forty miles, so three hours would see them well into it, while the Soviet task-force would now overhaul them at about i pm, 1300, some ten miles this side of the radial perimeter.

But they might not bother, now. Their admiral would have been informed, presumably, of the diplomatic and physical moves towards disengagement.

Buchanan was out in the open port wing. Comerford joined him there.

'Bit of a relief, Tommy.'

'Right.' He was leaning with his weight on his forearms, watching Devon's stem as it cut through the smoothly rolling sea. 'And some considerable contrast to what it was a very short time ago. Those were strained minutes we had with the bleeding Badgers.'

'Thought we were going to cop it, did you?'

'All the indications said so. I know, to start with it didn't seem likely - you think 'They wouldn't dp such a dreadful thing' - eh? But took what they did in Czechoslovakia. Turned their tanks I

against children. So what's a Badger or two against us, when we're challenging them?' He shook his head. 'If they felt they had to win this, that it was really vital to them, they'd do it, all right.'

Comerford leant over, watching the sea fold back hissing white along the destroyer's sides. He heard Buchanan say, 'All one's past life flashing before one's eyes. Except one's far too busy - so past life remains, fortunately, a closed book----'

Comerford smiled. Buchanan's memoirs might have made good reading, of its kind.

'Talking of which, Frank - Kiel just about beat everything? Looking up at the sky, the scattered slow-moving clouds: down again at Comerford. 'Swedish. Widow. Hell of a looker, and - how I didn't slip all my discs I can't imagine. Talk about athletics - I've never known such------'

Comerford was staring at him, fascinated: 'Young Swedish widow? Did you say------'

'I'd hardly have gone for an old one, chum. But - oh, out of this world, boy! And - the most extraordinary thing. I met her at the dance at the submarine base, and cutting a long story short -apparently I'm the dead spit of her late husband. She told me afterwards that when she saw me she nearly fainted, I'm so like he was. Tell you one thing - I reckon I know what he died of. She must've worn him out----I'm joking - it was a car smash, in Sweden. But - Frank, I've never known anything like it. And I've knocked around a bit, you know. She goes mad. And - anything, once she lets herself loose she's the wildest thing you ever dreamed -'

Beale came out, looking for Comerford.

'We're to swap stations with Fermenger, sir. Commodore wants to come into the centre with Tideway.' He stared at the sub-lieutenant's genial, rather goofy face. 'Have you told the captain?'

'Yessir. Lieutenant Gram's just------'

'All right, I'm coming.'

Buchanan said, 'First chance I have of getting back to Kiel, by God I'll------'

'Tommy.' Comerford, moving to the screen door, interrupted him. 'First chance you get, ask Dan Gregory in Fermenger if he's met any sex-mad Swedes lately.' 



Diagram of Sector deployment with Devon at 12 o'clock (threatwarningred-3.jpg)





Chapter Fifteen


Gahan had been trying to engage the Soviet admiral in conversation, but the Kara wasn't answering Fermenger's lamp. Harry T. had just informed his captains of this on R/T, and warned them to watch out for Soviet tricks and also for flag signals from him if future attempts to communicate by R/T should be jammed.

On the radar plot Ashton could see all the ships around, all their movements, the changing and developing formations. No reason for them yet, no pattern of attack discernible..., There would be, though: the vital thing was to recognise it in time to move to counter it.

The force on the Canadian's quarter was being led by the Kara-class cruiser. She had the two Krivaks to starboard of her and the Kashins to port, and the pair of Krestas were abeam of each other astern of the DLGs. They'd shuffled round into this formation during the last twenty minutes and now they were keeping station on the NATO squadron, just holding that position near the Canadian frigate while the six Skory destroyers raced up in line-ahead to starboard. The Skorys had overhauled Jylland and within a few minutes they'd be passing Alvarez Pereira. The bulkhead clock in the Ops Room showed 1315. In half an hour Devon would be the first ship to enter the 'UN quadrant'.

'Flagship's launched her helo, sir.'

Gahan would be sending Fermenger's Lamps helicopter to get a close look at the Kara lot. He'd be as much in the dark back there as Ashton was up on the perimeter.

The PWO - Kemp - suggested, 'Perhaps they haven't been told about the UN negotiations, sir.'

'It's possible.'

It was also possible that NATO's unilateral offer to disengage had been interpreted in Moscow as a lack of resolution. In Moscow they might be thinking One good strong shove.... When it came, it would be something drastic.

On the bridge, Comerford watched Fermenger's helo circle the formation astern and then head back towards the centre. The helo was only a black mark mosquito-shaped in his binoculars. He was out in the starboard wing, looking almost directly astern and just past Fermenger and Tideway: everything was too far off to make much sense. The Soviet group was a grey haze of superstructure and masts 22,000 yards away. He swung round for a look at the other bunch, the Skorys; they were well out on Devon's bow, about three miles off and still in line-ahead, still opening at high speed.

From inside he heard an R/T message coming through, and as he passed in through the screen door Cy Hughes was announcing that the squadron's formation would now change from cartwheel to sector screening. The inner radius of sectors would be three miles, outer radius six, and the tanker in the centre became guide now, giving Fermenger freedom of movement inside the inner three-mile circle. It was an immediate-excute signal, so it took effect at once.

The freedom to roam around inside an advancing area - the whole formation still maintained a speed-of-advance of fifteen knots -would make it easier for individual ships to take avoiding action if the Soviets began to lean on them.

Ashton's voice came over the Open Line: 'Officer of the watch. Stay at five miles and keep us between the flagship and the Skorys.' 'Aye aye, sir.' Oram was taking a quick check on the Skorys' bearing: something like forty-five on the bow, and four miles distance. And turning to port.... He said into his microphone, 'Skorys are altering to port, sir. Shall I wait and see?'

'Yes. Keep me informed.'

Comerford had put his own headset on: leaning against the captain's seat he trained his glasses on the Skorys, The leader had swung out until she was in profile, beam-on, and she was still turning: the others were beginning to file round astern of her. He heard an Open Line report, 'Flagship's helo about to land on', and then Lionel Kemp's voice: 'Kara is moving up. That whole group is coming up abeam of Winnipeg.'1 The radar picture would have shown this, but now a Canadian voice on the Tactical Circuit was confirming it in a report to Spaniel. The Kara and the others with her were overhauling the Canadian on course one-five-zero, speed two-five knots.

The squadron's course was still one-four-seven. So the Kara was pushing up more or less through the centre of the circular formation. And the Skorys, Comerford saw, had all turned now. They'd be coming down through the formation's perimeter about halfway between Devon and Pereira. Oram was reporting the Skory movements to George Henry. And the Canadian was piping up again. The two Krestas had reduced speed, apparently taking station in line-abreast halfway between Winnipeg and Fermenger, with the Kashins veering off to port - steering to pass astern of Fermenger and up her port side - while the Kara and the two Krivaks pushed up fast to starboard.

Ashton saw it, just as the R/T crackled and Porkchop's voice broke through with a sharpness in it: Moose, Ms is Spaniel. Join me. Over! Gahan must have seen his danger seconds before Ashton had. He was being surrounded in the centre, isolated from his squadron. Ashton wondered whether those Krestas would be so kind as to let the Canadian through. He doubted it: they weren't there for nothing. More R/T now: the black lieutenant's voice was ordering Eagle and Fox - Jylland and Baden - to come into the centre too and take station two cables abeam to port and starboard of Tideway. Aiming to guard the tanker: which might well be the Soviets' target. Kidnap the oil-well? Ashton thought that if he was right, then Harry T.'s counter-moves were perhaps a little late. Baden, Winnipeg and Jylland had five miles to cover, to get into the middle where he wanted them. Christ, the bastards could still win! The Skorys were passing between Devon and Pereira. Slightly nearer Devon than the Portuguese. Aiming, plainly enough, for the centre where Fermenger and Tideway were now boxed in. The Kara had gone on past, overhauling the flagship and the tanker three or four minute? ago, carrying on when the Soviet DLGs had slowed. She was ahead of them now by about a mile, and edging over to port. To take station ahead of the tanker, of course--- Too late now for Devon to fend off the Skorys. On one boiler, she didn't have the speed: even if she could have put herself in the way they'd have just swung round her.

'Officer of the watch.' Ashton on the Open Line. 'Come round/ to starboard, take station three miles one-seven-five degrees from Tideway.' 'Aye aye, sir ... Starboard fifteen.'

'Starboard fifteen, sir!'

Comerford was at the Battenberg getting Oram a course to steer. It would be something like 270. A matter of shifting westward and dropping back to the inner radius of the sector: but the formation as a whole was advancing on its course of 147 degrees, so there were three dynamics involved.

'Fifteen of starboard wheel on, sir.'

'Course should be two-six-seven.'

Oram told the quartermaster, 'Midships. Steer two-six-seven.' Devon was swinging round to starboard as the Skorys came thrashing in: high bow-waves, spray streaming on the wind. Crossing ahead of the British ship as she herself steered across the formation's line of advance. The Skorys had come well inside the perimeter now and their leader was about halfway to the tanker.

'Krivaks have gone round ten degrees to starboard, sir.'

Ashton grunted an acknowledgement. On the plot, he'd already seen that gap begin to widen. He thought the Krivaks were angling out to let the Skorys dash in between themselves and Tideway and Fermenger. From astern, Jylland, Winnipeg and Baden were slowly clawing up towards the flagship: it was going to take them far too long to get there. The Soviets' intention was as clear now as if it had been scrawled in capitals across the surface of the plot. Those two in the centre were surrounded by ships who'd use their speed to shut out any interference while the Skorys slipped inside and -well, they'd try to force the flagship to turn away. Then the tanker would be unprotected. If they had the tanker they could force the whole issue.

'Chief Yeoman.' The Chief was on the Open Line too. 'Make to Spaniel from Crow, Submit I should close you with Elephant and Puma. Quickly.'

The three of them were certainly doing no good out here. Ashton heard the R/T hum into one ear while in the other Oram was reporting that the ship was steadied on 267 degrees.

Galaxy, this is Spaniel... Harry T. was getting in first, then.

... Immediate execute, turn starboard four answer. I say again, Immediate execute, turn starboard four answer. Stand by ... Stand by ... Execute! A simultaneous turn forty-five degrees to starboard. Ashton said, 'Chief Yeoman, belay that signal. Officer of the watch, alter to port to one-nine-two.'

He could adjust station afterwards, when the new pattern had resolved itself. Gahan was making this turn just as the Skorys came in to wedge him away from the tanker: he'd be swinging his port bow to them, turning Tideway across them too, and he and the tanker would pass astern of the Krivaks so that - for the moment, anyway - he'd be out of the box they'd put him in. And the Skorys were having to shove their helms over smartly, wheel off to starboard to avoid collisions with their own DLGs.

Ashton had gone over to the GOP, where Hunt the Navigator's yeoman had a small-scale version of the plot in its geographical context. He saw that Gahan's new line-of-advance would still take them to the UN quadrant even though it would add about ten miles ' to the distance they had to cover. Not that the quadrant seemed at this stage to have much significance. He was back on his stool at the corner of the big plot, sliding his headphones on, when the Commodore came up again on R/T, ordering all ships to join him at their best speed.

'Revs for twenty knots, Officer of the Watch. Come round to a course to intercept.'

'Revolutions one-seven-two. Starboard fifteen.' Oram snapped it into the wheelhouse microphone. Comerford was at the Batten-berg getting that course. He told Oram, 'Two-four-two.'

'Revolutions one-seven-two passed and repeated, sir. Fifteen of starboard wheel on, sir.'

You could see the revs mounting, in the dials in the front of the bridge.

'Midships. Steer two-four-two.'

'Midships, sir ...'

Comerford had gone over to the starboard side, joining Alec Holliday in trying to make sense of the jumble of ships four miles west of them. Down in the Ops Room, George Henry would have a clear picture of it all, of course. But the Krivaks, Comerford could see, had swung over to starboard and were in line-ahead on Tideway's port bow. Fermenger and Tideway had turned under the Russians' sterns and then afterwards those DLGs had altered to the same course: to all intents and purposes they'd swapped places with the Kashins. He couldn't see the Kashins, but they had to be on the far side of that bunch composed - he could make it out now - of Skorys crowding up round Fermenger. The respite had been short-lived.

Holliday muttered, 'Sooner we get there, the better. But the Krivaks'll try to shoulder us out of it.'

'They won't be making the fast tackle.'

'What?'

Comerford pointed with his binoculars. The Kara. She'd been left somewhat out of it by that sudden turn but she'd cracked on speed since then and she'd be between Devon and the flagship before Devon was halfway there. Just as the Krestas, on the far side of that pack of jostling ships, would be holding off the German and the Dane. Holliday muttered, 'Like playing eleven men with six.' Comerford wondered whether Ashton had considered using the gas boost. Twenty knots, the speed he'd ordered now, was the absolute maximum they'd get, on their one boiler, but if you clutched in the gas turbines you'd have nearer twenty-six.

Ashton's voice on the Open Line: 'Officer of the Watch. Tell the MCR stand by for State 3.'

'Aye aye, sir!'

Oram was passing that order down. State 3 meant gas boost. Great minds, Comerford told himself, thought alike. But it was going to take a little while before the engineers would be ready to clutch in. And you couldn't see the flagship at all now - except for her bulbous funnel-top. Those were Skorys, two of them, actually between her and Tideway. between her and Tideway The Steam Turbine Room was entered from 3 Deck, and on the starboard side the entrance was near the door of the MCR, machinery control room. But the evap watchkeeper, MEM2 Jock Dark, had gone on down inside it by two full-length ladders, into the very base of the compartment. Now, he was on his way up again: a gangling, slow-moving youngster with crewcut yellow hair and forward-drooping shoulders. He was called the evap watchkeeper because his duties were largely concerned with the evaporators, huge white-lagged contraptions on each side of the compartment.

Dark hummed a pop-song as he climbed a near-vertical ladder of unpainted steel then crossed at the higher level from port to starboard on a walkway of steel plates - in order to make his rounds report, update the evap watchkeeper's log in the MCR. He had to enter in the log the amount of fresh water that had been distilled; he'd taken the tank readings and he had the figures scribbled in ballpoint on his left palm.

After he'd written up the log, he'd every hope of being allowed to linger in the MCR long enough to drink a mug of tea and smoke a cigarette. It was sort of a social centre, the MCR; certainly a pleasant change from being on one's own in the machinery spaces.

This STR was a huge compartment. It extended down for three whole levels: like a great cube, a pit in the middle of the ship. The MCR itself, a fair-sized room - long and narrow with cut-off corners - was just a small enclosure in the middle of it at the highest level: like a matchbox fixed into the top of a shoe-box, say. You could put a fair-sized house into the STR - that about summed it up. Aft of it was the gear room - where the clutch-gear was, for clutching-in the gas turbines - and abaft that again was the gas-turbine room. Neither of those compartments was anything like as big as this one. And for'ard of this one was the boiler-box. That also extended down three deck-spaces and right across the ship from port to starboard, but it was only about one-third as deep in the fore-and-aft dimension. In here, on this side of the boiler-box bulkhead, all you could see of the boilers themselves were the ends of them where the oil-sprayers were fixed into them. There were four sprayers to each boiler and they were set vertically, one at the top here and the other three at intervals downwards with the lowest ones, port and starboard, right down at the bottom. That was the very gut of the ship, down there, a long way under water. The whole of this compartment was below sea-level, of course. The oil passed to the sprayers through flexible armoured hose, and you could see a short section of it, bronze-coloured, at each sprayer.

The starboard boiler was cold, not flashed up. Its main feedpump was out of action. The artificers had put an emergency packing on it but they didn't trust the job well enough to use it unless they were forced to.

Near the top of this second ladder was the door; it had a glass observation window in the top of it. Dark undipped it, went through, shut it again behind him. Then he went up the three steel steps into the doorway of the MCR.

Right in the base of the steam-turbine room, where he'd come from, the armoured hose carrying oil-fuel to the lowest of the four sprayers might have been waiting for a moment when the big compartment would be deserted. Now it ruptured. Diesel oil under a pressure of 650 Ib to the square inch shot out in a powerful spray, and one of the places where it began to fall was the turbine end of the port main feed-pump, which was extremely hot.

Lieutenant Andy Morrison and CMEM Hollingsworth were in charge of the watch in the MCR. The PO on the boiler panels was Groucho Higgs; the artificer on the throttles Georgie Rose; and the electrician of the watch was Mervyn Heale, an OEM. It was Heale, a plump young man whose fat paunch stuck out through an unbuttoned shirt, who handed Jock Dark his mug of tea and accepted one of Dark's cigarettes.

'Brooky on his rounds then?'

Brook was the auxiliary killick. He did have rounds to do, periodically, of the auxilliary machinery. Merv Heale shook his head, which was round, like a football.

'Shiftin' to State 3.'

'Go on.'

'Panic stations, I reckon.'

'Chasin' us off, are they?'

'Or we're chasin' them. Not as we'd catch a bloody crab, state we're in.'

'Hey.' Willy Askins, the outside runner, had just sloped in. Fishing a half-smoked cigarette out of the top pocket of his boiler suit. 'Tea up, is it?'

'If you got a mug.'

'Bloody 'ell, mate, 'ow'd I 'ave a bloody------'

The screech of the Minerva fire-and-smoke alarm was head-splitting, thought-stopping ...

It didn't stop Chief Hollingsworth, though. He could see the flashing light on die bulkhead dial accompanied the noise: he'd pushed his way down the length of die MCR, sending Askins and Dark staggering, and switched it off.

'Got bloody tea in your ear-drums, have you? You - Dark - get in there, see what the hell it is!'

'Aye, Chief-----'

'Move!'

Hollingsworth came back to Morrison. He said, 'Minerva's very sensitive. Goes off if you give it a hard look, sometimes. Doesn't have to be much.'

'Quite.'

'Quite' wasn't an Andy Morrison-type expression. He didn't want a lecture, that was all. These chiefs reckoned they knew every damn thing. All right, so this one here had been at sea twenty-two years, but he, Morrison, had a degree course in Marine Engineering behind him and quite enough sea experience to know how sensitive the deckhead Minerva sensors were, for Christ's sake.

Jock Dark peered in through the glass observation window before he opened the door. He couldn't see anything at all inside. He opened die door, went in, shut it again. He could smell smoke, all right. Looking downwards from the steel platform he saw it rising and that down at the bottom it was very thick. Looked worse from up this high, probably; when you got down to it it mightn't be anything much. Could be just some lagging smouldering. Several things, it could be. Anyway, he could hardly go back and say, 'There's a lot of smoke in there'; Chief Hollingsworth would bawl him out and send him back to find out what was smoking. He went down the ladder to the next level. The smoke made him cough when he breathed normally, so he took short, shallow breaths; it helped but it didn't stop his eyes running. He thought, Come out of here like a bloody kipper ... Warmer than usual: or that might be imagination. He was walking across the steel plating to get to the head of the port-side ladder down to the lower part: that was where the source of all this was. Couldn't see more than six feet at this half-way-down stage, and he thought he'd have to hold his breath when he went lower. But he'd been told to find out what had set die Minerva off, and he hadn't got any answer to take back with him yet. Hardly breathing at all now: he had one hand cupped round his nose and mouth - as if that could filter it----But it was really thick and at the top of the second ladder now he hesitated before turning to go down it in the usual way - backwards - and peered down through narrowed, watering, smarting eyes. He saw a glow. A reddish-orange patch. As he peered down at it, trying to see what it was and precisely where, it seemed to be spreading and also brightening: then it shot out sideways suddenly, streaking out and------

The bilges flared, lit with an exploding whoosh of fire. He'd flung himself back as the heat sprang up at him, the rail behind cracked him in the small of the back and his skull banged hard against overhead piping: the smell of the blaze was suffocating and he was surrounded by a red, hot glow. He'd half-fallen, clinging to the steel rail, and only as he got up on to his feet again did he realise his eyes had been screwed shut all the time. Opening them, he was blinded by the fire: and the heat struck at him, pushed him back away from the ladder. The steel of the rail and the platform was already hot from the furnace under it.

'MCR reports ready for State 3, sir.'

'Very good. Revolutions two-three-four.'

'Revolutions two-three-four, sir!'

Revs for twenty-six knots ... Comerford told Oram, 'Come round to two-five-one.' With the extra speed Devon could now cut in a bit, take a shorter route in order to join Fermenger and Tideway that much more quickly.

'Starboard wheel, steer two-five-one.'

'Starboard wheel, sir, steer two-five-one. Revolutions two-three-four passed and repeated, sir!'

'Very good.'

Comerford explained the small course adjustment to George Henry. He added, 'The Kara is closing on our starboard bow, sir. 2,000 yards, about.'

Ashton could see it for himself on the plot, of course. But from up here the Kara wasn't just a spot of light on a radar screen or a symbol at the end of a track of greasy pencil: she was 10,000 tons of very aggressive-looking missile-ship. And beyond her were the Krivaks. Farther back, the Krestas were in position to block off Marnix and Baden when they got close enough to look like interfering in .the Soviets' plans. Jylland, on the other side, would have the Kashins to head her off: but one of the Kashins had moved out ahead of the central melee ready to get in Alvarez Pereira's way. Pereira - if she managed to get past that Kashin - would be at Harry T. Gahan's right hand within minutes.

Ashton said, 'We may have to go round the Kara's stern, pilot.'

'Yes, sir. But I think there's a good chance we may make it straight across.'

A moment's pause ... Then: 'I'm coming up.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Course two-five-one, sir.'

'Very good.'

Holliday said, watching the Kara through binoculars, 'She's woken up. Putting on speed.'

'Yes.' He still thought Devon would make it. No right even to attempt it: the Soviet cruiser had the right of way. But legalities weren't counting for much this afternoon. He could feel the speed increasing, the solid surge of it as the gas boost built up the revs.

'Now where the fuck is that Scotch idiot?'

Jock Dark, Chief Hollingsworth meant. Looking round - disguising anxiety with impatience - he saw Leading MEM Brook, the auxiliary killick, as Brook walked into the MCR at that moment. Hollingsworth pointed at him: 'You - get into the STR and see" what's up. Minerva went off and young Dark's in there so------'

Brook had gone. Hollingsworth glanced round and saw MEM Askins, the outside runner. 'Askins - go with him. Run!'

Dark had been gone a hell of a long time. It was possible he'd located some minor trouble and was dealing with it, of course. Hollingsworth looked round at Lieutenant Morrison: 'I dunno, sir, but seems to me there's------'

'Chief!'

Brook and Askins, supporting Jock Dark. The front of Dark's boiler-suit was smouldering and his face looked as if it had been peeled. Holding his hands out clear of anything that might touch them. A stench of shoeing horses and behind that, diesel: it was enough to tell Hollingsworth that by this time the STR was a blazing furnace and to remind him that above it was the Seaslug magazine full of missiles.

He'd leant over Higgs's shoulder and hit the switch that would trip the fuel-supply to the boiler. Over his own left shoulder he snapped, 'Shut your throttles! Telegraphs to stop!'

Morrison looked stunned. 'Chief, we can't------'

'Oil's feeding that fire, sir, so it's go to be shut off.' The Chiefs voice was surprisingly calm and reasonable. He told Brook, pointing, 'Shut that steam valve.' Then, turning to Askins, 'Telephone - tell HQ1 there's a fire in the STR.' Askins jumped for the telephone. The steam valve which Brook had now screwed shut was up on the bulkhead near the door  shutting it had cut steam from the fuel-supply pump - and the switch he'd tripped on the console had shut the supply between pump and sprayers. Not knowing where the burst was, he'd made sure of it. Meanwhile the throttles had been shut and the red pointer in the telegraph indicator moved to the 'Stop' position. It was a signal to wheelhouse and bridge that steam had been shut off.

In the wheelhouse, the pointer jerking to 'Stop' created a discrepancy between what the bridge had ordered and what the MCR was reporting back: an alarm buzzer sounded automatically. The telegraphman went through the drill of moving his own handle to match the 'Stop' signal, and called up. 'Bridge - wheelhouse.'

'Bridge?'

It was the moment when they felt the screws slow. Close to the Kara's high-speeding bow it wasn't the nicest feeling. It felt like being in a ship that was about to be cut in half.

'MCR signals stop both engines, sir.'

Oram looked shocked: 'What------'-' Alec Holliday took over. 'Full ahead both engines!' Where the hell was Ashton? Below, the telegraphman pushed his handle over and acknowledged, 'Full ahead both engines, sir!'

They weren't going to make it.... Holliday said into the microphone, in a voice so artificially calm that it was almost a purr, 'Starboard twenty-five.'

In the MCR the artificer, Rose, saw the pointer snap over again. He reached for his throttles. Morrison asked Hollingsworth, 'Chief, what------'

'Leave them throttles shut!'

Morrison stared at the telegraph that was still ordering 'Full ahead': then back at his CMEM.

'No.' Making the first vitally important decision of his life, he told Georgie Rose, 'Open them. Full ahead!'

Rose wrenched the throttles open. The fuel-supply was shut off but there was pressure still trapped in the boiler. Enough to give full power for about half a minute: after that there'd be nothing.

Holliday had taken over from Oram, and now Ashton took over from him. The Commander told him, 'Wheel's hard a-starboard, sir. MCR stopped engines but they're full ahead again now.'

She'd lost a lot of way, and for a rudder to take sharp effect there had to be speed through the water. The Kara, 10,000 tons of steel travelling at more than thirty knots, was practically on top of them. Devon turning sluggishly, wallowing as her own wake overtook her.... Ashton snapped, 'Midships!'

The Kara had put her helm over to starboard: none too soon, and even now he wouldn't be doing it to save Devon's bacon. His own ship, he'd be thinking of. Ashton's move to the bridge had been delayed because the lift gate had stuck, but there'd been nothing he could have done up here that hadn't been done already. Now, he had to check the ship's swing so that she wouldn't crash her stern against the Kara foaming past at about arm's length.

'Port twenty!"

'Port twenty, sir!'

For what might have been five seconds the Kara was so close that she was shutting out the light. For one frozen century - Comerford remembered later - he found himself with a close-up view of her port-side SAN-4 missile silo.

'Midships!'

Devon was slowing. The telegraphs were still at full ahead, and the way was coming off her. As she began to pitch across the Kara's wash you could feel her slumping like something worn out, dying. Ashton flung himself across the bridge, snatched up the telephone to the MCR. But he was saved the trouble of asking for an explanation: the broadcast system boomed, 'Fire in Steam Turbine Room. Standing Fire Party, close up. Fire in Steam Turbine Room. Standing Fire Party, close up!'

All over the ship, lights were dimming, flickering out. Using that last spasm of boiler-pressure had provided thirty seconds' worth of power for the screws but there was none left now for the generators or from them for the fire pumps.

They were jamming the R/T frequencies. And another Skory had just tried to pass between Fermenger and Tideway, and once again Pete Bruckner had declined to make room for it. In the flagship's bridge they'd been ready for the crash which could change this skirmish to a battle and which they'd expected half a dozen times since the pack closed in on them: the only reason there hadn't been a collision was that the Skory's captain must suddenly have realised nobody was about to get out of his way. Just in time he'd put his wheel over. Gahan, grim-faced, called across the bridge from his position on its starboard side, 'Nice work, Captain.' Bruckner had sweat running down his face and his khaki shirt was sticking to his back: it was getting worse all the time and it was obvious it couldn't last for ever.

Gahan had been trying to call Pereira, to tell Joao de Oliveira to adopt a similarly intransigent attitude instead of dodging about and getting turned away all the time by his two attendant Skorys. It was when he'd started to get this call out that Cy Hughes had discovered the R/T jamming. It wasn't the sort of message you could easily communicate by flags, and these bastards could read Morse.

The hell. They'd almost certainly read flags and R/T too. But Joao was doing his- best: he had a small, slow ship against two much bigger, faster ones. Both Kashins were on Fermenger's port quarter. There was a Skory on her starboard beam and one on each side of Tideway, crowding her. Whenever Bruckner had tried to push up there, putting on a few turns and trying to get the flagship's snout into the small gap between the tanker's side and either of those two Soviets, to edge the thing away, it had started weaving to and fro, making the move impossible and putting Tideway in danger of a sideswipe. The Krivaks were off the tanker's port bow. Skorys four and five were the ones herding the Portuguese around, and number six, the one who'd played last-across and should have learnt a lesson, had circled out to starboard and was now nosing in astern somewhere.

'Lookout aft reports destroyer overhauling port side!'

That was the JL talker, the little black one. Big-eyed, like a cartoon ant in a headset. So that Skory wasn't just somewhere, it was coming up to port: and Fermenger was closing on the one ahead of her.

'Down four turns.'

'Down four turns ..." Lee helm bayed, 'One turn over fourteen knots, sir!' Trying to make her drop back, back farther from the tanker. Same damn tactic all the time: just different ways of trying to achieve it. You didn't want a collision: if Fermenger became immobilised even temporarily they'd have the tanker to themselves. So if they could engineer one and have it look like the American ship's fault--- Bruckner heard Harry T. growl suddenly, 'I want a flag signal to warn Tideway to stick with us when we turn.

'Would Follow me do, sir?'

'Sure. Have that bent on. Don't hoist it yet.'

That Skory dropping back wouldn't be affecting Femenger if she'd been right in the tanker's wake, but since the last attempt they'd made at moving up and inserting themselves in the gap the flagship had been kept out this way, to starboard. Gahan came over and stood near Bruckner. You could see he had some plan in mind: when he was about to take an initiative he got an intent, tight-lipped look which Bruckner had learnt to recognise. Gahan was looking at the Skorys ahead, on each side of the tanker. Then back at the Kashins down there on the port quarter and at the Skory coming up close now, about to shut off that view of the Kashins. Bruckner said, 'Rather 'n take more turns off I'll crowd over and nudge him out.'

'Sooner you didn't, Pete.' Harry T. was looking around, judging distances. 'Take eight turns off: and ease over that side, let this guy believe he's making you give way.'

'Your signal is bent on, sir.'

'Hoist it.'

Bruckner said over his shoulder, 'Come right to one-nine-five. Down eight turns.'

He could see the idea. Encouraging that Skory to drop back was giving Tideway sea-room to starboard. So that was the way Harry T. was going to try to break out of this, in a minute. The Skory on the flagship's own starboard side would either skid out of it, or get rammed.

The Kara had sheered off to intercept Marnix, who'd been trying to sneak in while the big cruiser had been occupied with Devon. But from Devon's predicament the action that mattered most was the fight below decks - against the fire and the overheating Seaslug magazine. Pete Hayes, in charge of fire-fighting operations at the scene of the damage while his boss, Hugh Deeping, took overall command of damage-control from HQ1, had ordered La diesel generator to be started and the auxiliary boilers to be flashed up. They were all in the Gas Turbine Room. The generator would provide power for the fire pumps - which were needed urgently for boundary-cooling, dealing with decks that were getting very hot - and would also provide light. At the moment there were only the damage-control floodlights out of the DC lockers, and the lower-powered emergency lamps. The auxiliary boilers - it might be another ten minutes before they were operational - would provide steam for steam-drenching, which would be the only really effective way to drown the fire. Meanwhile Hayes had started with foam-drenching. There were two systems: first the overhead sprinklers - which they'd switched on from outside the compartment, but which would be about as effective as spitting into an oven, on a fire that had already taken so strong a hold. In any case they'd only last a few minutes. But they were something.... While they were hissing away, the fire-fighting team were rigging hoses and branch-pipes for bulk foam-injection to the bilges on both sides. On the port side there'd been a delay because the passageway had been so full of smoke that they hadn't been able to get in until one hand in breathing apparatus had gone through to shut the STR hatch: anyway, foam was pouring in now, filling the bilges and rising. But even with this system - well, to drown out a fire with foam you really needed a level, unbroken surface to it, and in a compartment full of machinery that was something you didn't get.

The ship was at NBCD State i now, which meant she was cleared away for action. Alec Holliday had been down on 3 Deck, checking on the area of the fire and what Pete Hayes's men were doing and what the other NBCD parties had been doing on its periphery. Now the generator was running and there was light all over the ship and power on the pumps, but they'd still been waiting for the steam when , he'd left them. He was walking for'ard now, on his way to the ladder up to 2 Deck, and from there he'd go for'ard to HQ1, the damage-control centre. En route, he was casting an eye over the State i preparations. The grey polythene covers had been pulled off the emergency coils of cable, for instance, hoses connected to fire mains, self-charging emergency lanterns set up near doors and hatchways, portable pumps placed wherever there were connections around the danger area. Steam-drenching would put the fire out, in time, but decks and bulkheads were already dangerously hot and becoming hotter - largely owing to the delay in getting steam. The ship's fabric had to be cooled - and the cooling water then pumped out of her, to avoid a build-up which could endanger her stability. The portable pumps would do this, and their outlets had already been connected to the black-painted discharge points through which the heated water would be returned to the sea. Putting the fire out was obviously Hayes's first target but it wouldn't quickly remove the threat to the missile magazine: temperatures wouldn't just stop and come down when the cooling process started, they'd rise higher - perhaps much higher - and beyond a certain point Devon would become an enormous floating bomb.

HQ1, where Holliday was going now before he went back to report to the Captain, was on the starboard side just for'ard of the Ops Room and the wheelhouse. He was just coming up the ladder when he heard the broadcast of Seaslug emergency: Seaslug emergency party close up in MTER.... Well, he had to see Deeping, he could go aft to the MTER afterwards.

Deeping, when he reached HQ1, was answering a telephone call from the MCR.

'What is it, Pete?'

Hayes asked him, 'Permission to steam-drench now, sir?'

'For Christ's sake, yes!' But Hayes couldn't have started to do it without his permission. Deeping asked him, 'Got steam now, have you?'

'Just coming on, sir.'

The ship heeled suddenly, under a lot of rudder. More dodging about in progress, then. The ship's manoeuvring powers were reduced now: on gas-turbines alone she had an absolute maximum of seventeen knots and the screws couldn't be put astern. Seventeen knots, Holliday reflected, was just half the speed of most of the opposition up there. He asked Deeping as the Commander (E) handed the phone to one of his killicks, 'Seaslug emergency?'

'Temperature in the crated stowage section's forty-six and rising.' Forty-nine was the point at which you were supposed to flood before you blew up. Deeping said, 'Doug's trying to move some missiles aft, clear the for'ard part. Trouble is the crated ones aren't fast Two to go, and one of them was up on the overhead traveller ready to be slung aft to the check-room for uncrating. When the missiles were uncrated they could be put on carriages and become mobile, be moved at the touch of a switch in the MTER. 'Crates' were steel frames, a protective cage, box-shaped and painted blue: glistening, as the missiles were, with condensation, steam. Bloody hot ... Sam Ozzard was wet through: with sweat, salt water, steam from the six inches of hot water that was sloshing to and fro with the motion of the ship: if it hadn't been for that water on it the deck would be glowing red by now. The cooling was being done from outside the magazine, with hoses rigged to through-bulkhead hose connections: in spite of it the temperature was still rising, and there were still two crated missiles to come out.

He came out himself now, aft to the check-room through the port-side doorway, which was a sort of oblong hatch with a sill about three feet high. The main door in the centre wasn't being opened with that heat on the for'ard side of it, except when there was a missile to come through. It wasn't just the hatch you had to get through: it was an obstacle course of ups and downs, the wheels and wires of the hydraulic system, missile carriages, gear, steps, channels, baffles called deflector plates - which guarded against the accidental ignition of one missile blasting the one behind it as well. Sam came through into the check-room where Chief Dexter was organising the uncrating of missiles that had come through already.

They weren't bothering to wing and. fin. Only to get the things out of their crates so they'd fit on carriages. He said to Dexter, 'I'm going aft to see how we'll make space.'

'Reckon we might have a job an' all.'

Sam met the Yorkshireman's shrewd glance and knew in a flash of memory that he was right. He'd forgotten: during the air-attack emergency they'd moved two missiles to the loaders. There were two spaces less than he'd been banking on.

He muttered, speaking thoughts aloud as he still looked at Dexter, 'Discard bays are full ...'

'True.' Chief Dexter heaved the remains of a. crate aside. 'Here, Chalky, grab hold o' that ...' He glanced at Sam Ozzard and said again, nodding, 'Very true.'

'Only one thing we can do, then.'

'Which the skipper won't permit, sir.'

Sam went over to the corner, to the missile-quarters broadcast system, and spoke to Doug Cooper. They could see each other through the glass window of the MTER.

'We can't shift the last pair, sir, unless we can load the launchers. We put two on the loaders this morning: I'm sorry, I'd forgotten that.'

'Are you certain - for instance, discard bays or------'

'Full. Right up.'

'I see ... Well, hang on,'

Doug would ask George Henry now. And if George Henry said No, the Rules of Engagement didn't allow the launchers to be loaded, then they'd have to leave those two missiles where they were and flood the for'ard section. You'd have to isolate the fire main and then go in with hammers to smash the quartzoid bulbs on the overhead drenching system. If you were in there when it got so hot that they broke of their own accord, you'd drown. It was an extremely efficient system. But using it would cost God-only-knew how much in damage and it would also play havoc with the ship's stability.

Sam asked, via the MQBS, what was the crated stowage section temperature now. Fleet Chief Chubb, answering from the MTER, told him that one minute ago it had been forty-seven. The temperature was being checked every two minutes and reported to the MTER on the intercom. The ship was heeling to port: a sharpish turn, Sam thought. Still playing silly-buggers with the Soviets. Who'd want an unstable ship in this situation? He told Chubb, 'I'm coming out.' If Ashton gave permission for the launchers to be loaded it would be his - Sam's - job to see to it: and it had just struck him that it would be sensible, all things considered, to grant permission, and that George Henry Ashton did give the impression of having quite a lot of sense. So he might as well get out there and be ready.

Ashton, with binoculars at his eyes, whispered, 'Oh, the fool...'

Tideway, he meant. Instead of staying with Fermenger, she'd allowed herself to be .pushed away. From Devon's bridge - making another attempt to get in past the Kara while Marnix made a similar approach from the cruiser's other side - they'd seen the Commodore's signal Follow me flying, and the tanker's answering pendant shoot up in acknowledgement: then the flag-hoist had dropped and the shape of the knot of ships had begun to change as Gahan had put his helm hard over to starboard and the tanker - to start with - had followed suit. Now Fermenger had gone on round: they'd let her do it, and stopped Tideway, turned her back. She should have kept her wheel on, allowed the Skory to be rammed if that was what its captain was prepared to risk: but she'd swung back and she had them all round her and the flagship separated: the Krivaks had been on her port quarter and they'd passed in across her stern, making the break complete while the Kashins went with Gahan, one on each side of him, quite happy to escort him off in that direction so long as he didn't try to turn back. He couldn't: it was too late, they'd got the tanker. They'd won. As Gahan might well have done if only Tideway had stuck with him. You could see what he'd been intending: he'd have unboxed himself northwestward, and he could have gone on round collecting Jylland, Winnipeg, Baden as he went.

Comerford said, 'Those two Skorys seem to be leaving Pereira, sir.'

Ashton didn't answer. He knew what the Soviets were doing. They were about to put all their ships around the tanker: ring her and shepherd her away. Moscow wouldn't have to agree to anything now: they'd probably have been talking to the UN man all day, waiting for news of success. The NATO squadron couldn't stay here long without its fuel-supply.

Harry T. would be reporting the situation to his admirals. You couldn't blame him if captains didn't do what he told them----Telephone buzzing: young Beale answered it: 'Bridge.' He was listening, blinking, Oram glancing at him impatiently. 'Hold on, sir.' Beale told Ashton, 'Commander (W) says they can't get the last two missiles out of crated stowage unless you approve loading the launchers, sir.'

'He says what?' Giving himself time to think. Watching the huddle of ships that seemed now to be splitting, stringing out. Beale began repeating Cooper's message. The answer to it, Comerford knew, would have to be 'Not approved', 'Here.' Ashton slid off his seat. 'I'll talk to him.' He took the phone. 'Cooper? Captain speaking.'

Listening: and staring towards the Kara, which was closing in towards the crowd around the tanker and would be passing about fifteen hundred yards away. Comerford, looking further - at Fermenger and the Soviet DLGs - saw something else: it looked as if the American had broken away from those Kashins: she was heeling under a lot of rudder and picking up speed--- 'Approved. Load Seaslug launchers.' Ashton threw the phone to Beale and snapped, 'Port twenty, stop both engines.' He saw Comer-ford's surprise, muttered with his eyes fixed on the Kara as she neared them, 'Let 'em see us do it. That's downright piracy they're------'

The explosion of Fermenger's five-inch gun thumped across the water: a shell-splash lifted thirty yards ahead of the leading Skory. At the same moment Comerford heard the metallic crash from Devon's stern as a pair of missiles slid into the launchers. He thought, astonished, War? This is where it starts? Sam Ozzard saw die lights come on and he reported to Doug Cooper, 'Launchers are loaded, sir.' And the doors were shut again now between the launchers and the loaders. Two missiles each with its four boosters snuggling round it rested in that cage-like contraption on the ship's stern. Sam told Fleet Chief Chubb, 'Carry on: let's have two empty spaces next to crated stowage quick as lightning.'

In the check-room they were waiting to get rid of two uncrated missiles and get the last two crated ones. In the crated missile section immediately for'ard of the check-room the temperature had reached forty-eight and the water on the deck wasn't far off boiling. But you could only shunt one missile at a time. Chubb was doing it by' moving switches on the board: just a touch and electronically-controlled hydraulics did the rest, moving very large weights at high speed -in return for what had been a minuscule movement by one finger and one thumb. Lights beside the switches came on or went off as missiles moved or stopped, and the lights showed you where you now had the empty spaces. The first thing had been to move two more missiles into the loading positions, then fill the spaces those two had come from, and so on.

Doug Cooper had muttered, 'I don't care how fast you do it', and shoved off.

Now Chubb said, 'Bastard's stuck, sir.'

'Stuck?'

'Dowty, I suppose.' Tall, all bones, haggard-looking, Chubb pointed at the board where, whatever he did to the switch, the light didn't change. He added, 'The bugger we had trouble with last time, sir.'

The first of the two last crated missiles should have been on the traveller and moving through into the check-room by now. But until this lot were shifted to make space further for'ard, nothing could move.

The temperature in crated stowage was still rising. Sam said, 'I'll nip in and fix it.' He'd taken a long-shafted screwdriver from the bench. He knew all about Dowty switches and in particular about the one which had now let them down, and there was no problem at all in clearing it. But if Chubb had to wait for him to get in there and fiddle it loose and then return - or at least get all the way back to the MQBS - to tell him he could go ahead, that would mean losing the best part of ten minutes. The temperature in crated stowage was rising at the rate of roughly one degree every five minutes----He told the Fleet Chief as he moved towards the doorway, 'Give me one minute to get to it, and------'

FCOEA Chubb argued, 'Best one of the lads went too and------'

'Say a minute and a half. Then one minute to free it and one more to get clear.' Out of the way, he meant, to the side where he wouldn't get crushed when the system came to life again and the carriages started rushing about. 'That's what - three and a half------'

Chubb growled unhappily, 'Five. Five minutes be more -'

Waste of time arguing. Several seconds lost there already. Out into the missile check-room, down the far side of it, asking OEA Melhuish where Chief Dexter was. Had they crated him? Melhuish called back, 'In crated stowage, sir. Gettin' a sunburn. Can't we shift some of these yet, sir?'

Up, and through the hatch, and down again, climbing over wires. He'd been cut off in here once during a power-failure and it had been the only time in his life he hadn't had a torch with him. He'd have still been groping around a week later if the lights hadn't come on again: some trouble in the dockyard, to whose power the ship had been connected at the time. The Dowty he had to get at would have a missile on its carriage over the top of it, stuck. Dowty switches controlled the movements: or were supposed to. This one was special - it prevented movements. It had been refitted in that same dockyard after its previous failure. Sam thought, not for the first time, that it was a pity they didn't have the facilities to do all their own maintenance, refits, everything. A Dowty wasn't a complicated thing, the one he wanted was in the row to starboard of the centre-line and four switches for'ard of the traverse section. That was the wide thwartships area where you could move them sideways as well as fore-and-aft. But he didn't have to count, to find it; it had to be the one with an empty space immediately aft of it. The missile sitting on top of the duff Dowty should in fact be in that empty space by now. By now, both those last crated ones ought to be in the check-room. He was getting down sideways on the deck, half across the graphite-smeary rail, using his rubber-covered torch to see underneath the carriage where the bloody switch was. Difficulty was, you couldn't get in there with both hands at once. And the torch was too thick to be held in one's mouth. How much time had gone? Do it by feel. It wasn't necessary to see: he knew how it was, what he'd see if he could see, and how to clear it. He reached in, on his back, and twisted to get an arm right under as far as possible, looking up at the probing narrow snout of this particular winged messenger of death. Steady now: gently does it - or as the case may be, doesn't.... Easier if one had a third hand, two on one wrist: you had to have empty fingers for feeling purposes, then produce a screwdriver in the same hand in order to slip its business end inside and give the thing a twist--- Damn! Dropped the screwdriver ... Bloody hell. Oh, temper, temper ... More haste less speed and bad workmen blame their tools, et cetera. Two minutes gone? Two and a half?' No bother: they were allowing him five. Good old Chubby. Bit of an old woman, everything by the book. Well, he was right, you had to, in this area. Everything so very explosive. And right now, so very hot.... Half an inch, half an inch, half an inch onward: the screwdriver, that was, beyond his fingertips. Don't push at it, you clown, get over it and hook it! Ah. Now ... Curling fingertips gently round it, coaxing the damn thing nearer: never mind half-inches, a couple of millimetres and he'd have it. Humming some ditty: hearing himself doing it, not knowing when he'd started: he'd got the screwdriver back in his hand. Matter of seconds now. What he'd been humming had been Oh dear, what can the matter be, three old ladies locked in the lavatory.... Might have had a duff Dowty there too, poor old bags. He was singing it, They were there from Monday to Saturday, nobody knew - found the place now, though. Rail very hard along one's spine and under that shoulder. Shouldn't 've joined, old man. Matter of shifting the screwdriver very very carefully.... Singing again: frightful noise, and all echoey in this tin drum. Lines flashing into and through what had once, in school days, passed for a brain: They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted', They fell with their faces to the foe. He'd said it aloud and he was quite pleased to have remembered it, after quite a few years: he went on to the next verse shouting, hearing the boom and echo of his voice in the empty glistening missile deck: They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. But good God, he thought, hearing the echo in the vaulted steel - them, them, them, - I don't want to be remembered! Not all that steady, either: aglow, all right, if aglow means sweating like a horse and shaking like a God knows what.... I don't want to be remembered, I want to live, survive, I want everyone to survive! Isn't that what it's for, what we're here for? The screwdriver slipped again: with his eyes shut against white light gleaming on white enamel and against the passage of time, minutes, he'd felt it slip and the bruising of his knuckles as his hand grabbed after it: he'd heard it clatter down. Now look, take it slowly, don't try to rush--- Immediately his fingers found it. This time, don't snatch at it - or by God you trill be remembered - as the man who----Careful - or you'll fumble it. Right. Now this time ... Yes. The trouble was -not trouble exactly, but a problem revealing itself- if the time was up, however many minutes it was they'd settled for, that gaunt old Chubb was allowing him, the moment he got this Dowty right the whole joint was going to start - to coin a phrase -jumping: and if one was stupid enough to be across the rail like this, and the bloody carriages started doing their thing.... Not so good a prospect. He'd frozen in that thought, with the tool poised ready, knowing he could finish the job now and that if he did the odds were that he'd have both arms cut off and probably his head as well.

He argued aloud, 'But I need my arms.'

So get out of here, start again from the for'ard end, worm up under the trolley between the rails--- But not even Samuel Ozzard, Lieutenant, Royal Navy, was thin enough for that.

So all right - one-handed, and head well aside: arm's length, point of screwdriver in the slot, and lean out the other way. Both ways at once, in fact: danger of splitting down the centre. Eyes open, staring up: and the missile sneering down as if it knew or sensed his----- He heard the click of the spring coming free so that the contact was made and he'd rolled sideways, jerking his left arm out as if it was a fire it had been in. Rising slowly to his feet: and it was dawning on him that he had not, as he'd begun to imagine for a moment, got away with anything. The Dowty was still jammed and he was going to have to get down there and start over: only this time making a job of it instead of poking like an old woman with a brolly. On the point of crouching down, though, he had the extreme good fortune to hear the soft thump as the hydraulic power came on: sense and fright flared in his brain instantaneously and he leapt upright, straightening like a marionette whipped upwards on its string just as the missile whose carriage he'd been tinkering under sprang away aft and the next one from for'ard slammed into its place.

Alec Holliday came up the port-side steps into the bridge and reported to Ashton, 'Fire's drenched, sir, and the crated stowage is now empty.' Ashton, on his seat and with his glasses up, grunted some sort of acknowledgement. Holliday added, 'Be some hours before they can open up the steam-turbine room.'

For fear of re-ignition, Comerford realised, if oxygen was let into that ex-furnace too soon. Not that it made much odds; the damage in the STR would be enormous. Devon would be in dockyard hands for months. (In Portsmouth? He hoped so: Susie lived in Hampshire.) Alec Holliday was staring round the seascape; he'd been below decks for quite some while and he could have no idea what had been going on. It was a confused picture that he was looking at: ships all over the place, singly and in groups and all pointing different ways. Tideway was just emerging from a group of Skorys like a rugger-player coming out of a hostile scrum, and Fermenger was closing in towards her. Fermenger had Pereira following about a cable's length astern, and coming up from beyond the general area of Soviet ships were Marnix, Winnipeg, Jylland and Baden, in line-ahead and passing between the two apparently uninterested Krestas. Devon was lying stopped.

Holliday gave up. He asked Comerford, 'What's going on?'

Ashton glanced round. He said, 'We've won. Beaten them. No doubt it will be said they'd just had orders to disengage, but in point of fact -' he nodded - 'we've won.'

Dyson had come up into the bridge. 'Jamming's stopped, sir.'

'Right. Take down a report for Spaniel.'

But there was a call coming in: Galaxy, this is Spaniel... 'Excuse me, sir.' The yeoman went down to deal with it. It was likely to be Harry T. assembling his squadron. Ashton told Holliday, 'I had to load the Seaslug launchers, or according to Cooper we'd have blown up. Purely by chance -' he glanced poker-faced at Comerford, then back at his second-in-command - 'the Kara must have seen us do it. And as luck would have it, our Commodore put a shot across the Soviets' bows at roughly the same moment. Their admiral must have caught on to the fact he'd gone a bit too far. Air's been full of rapid Russian ever since. I imagine our Lord Harry'd been talking to SACLANT and had authority for his warning shot, but -'

He'd shrugged. 'Did the trick, anyway. And they obviously saw our missiles pop out into the launchers. The Kara started calling Fermenger by light and the Commodore, I'm pleased to say, did not answer. If you remember, when they started throwing their weight about the bastard wouldn't answer him.' George Henry had an air of quiet satisfaction. He finished, 'Now, as you see, someone seems to have blown the whistle.... What is it, Yeoman?'

'Squadron is to form in three columns, sir. Commodore in the centre leading Tideway, first division to starboard, us abeam of the flagship to port leading second division. Course one-three-zero, speed twelve knots.'

'Very good.' He glanced over his shoulder. 'Half ahead both..

Oram, bring her round to zero-nine-zero. Alec, are we still at NBCD State i?'

Holliday nodded. 'Condition Yankee, sir.'

'Check with Deeping and Cooper, but let's get back to normal as soon as we can.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Sir -' Dyson again - 'from the Commodore: Request immediate explanation for the loading of jour stern launchers.' 'Certainly. When I can get a word in edgeways ... Pilot, do we know where we are?'

'Not far from where we started, sir. There's a SINS position on the chart. The one-three-zero course will take us into the UN quadrant.'

'Good. Now, Dyson - take this down ...'

Comerford went out into the bridge wing. Into fresh air and streaky sunshine; the swell was right down and there was only a short, loppy sea, green and sparkling in the brightness of the afternoon. Ships seemed to be everywhere, at first sight, but there was a pattern, a sorting-out process developing. The NATO ships were gathering towards Fermenger and the Soviets were moving out northwards; the Kara, who'd been lying stopped, was putting on speed, ploughing a chalky line across the green, steering to put herself ahead of the other two cruisers who were coming up more slowly with the Krivaks and the Kashins slanting in astern of them.

They were handsome ships, all right. But one had, on the whole, seen enough of them. He looked up, at a sky only lightly patched with cloud. There'd be stars, this evening.




Chapter Sixteen


Chris Ozzard had been listening with the phone at his ear for the last five minutes, while a man in London filled in background and other bits that hadn't been flashed into the Situation Centre during the tense hours of this afternoon.

The bare facts were plain enough. The Soviets had tried to force the issue at sea while at the same time they'd been talking in a friendly and co-operative way - in the spirit of detente - with the UN chief, across a table in the Kremlin. Their bluff had been called at sea, and now they were out to impress the world with their reasonable acceptance of the UN plan for disengagement. Quite a lot of the world would be impressed, too.

Pat Cleary had growled, 'Like being in a cage with a tiger. You know - it turns nasty, aims a swipe at its keeper, and he grabs a chair and pokes it in the brute's face? To remind it of its manners, eh?'

Oversimplification of course. The tiger was big enough to eat keeper, chair and all. It hadn't this time: it had the sense, thank God, to prefer easy victories.

Now this call from London: and Chris had the whole picture, in greater depth than they'd received it piece by piece and second by second during the afternoon. There'd been some terrible moments.

'I suppose that's about the lot, Chris.'

'Most grateful.' They kept late hours in MOD: the ones at the top did, anyway. Here at Evere the building was already quiet. He'd sent Huguette home early, partly because he guessed he'd been a difficult man to work for in the last day or two.

'Oh, there's one other item, though -'

'Yes?'

'You'll be asked to come over here next week. Tuesday or Wednesday probably, and you'll have to stick around for a day or two. We've a directive to find out exactly what happened to make your friend Ellermet run out on the job so suddenly.'

'Whose directive?'

'As it happens, Downing Street's '

'For Christ's sake. Was he upset at the outcome?'

'There are a lot of questions being asked. I suppose he doesn't like being in the dark. Anyway, Chris, we'll be in touch.'

'All right. Thank you again.'

He put the phone down and checked the time. On a watch that Sam had given him one birthday. Dear old Sam. They'd have a yarn or two to swap, by and by----Then he thought, Ring Sophie? Well - in the circumstances, perhaps I'd better try to cool that a little, slow it down? She did promise she'd come tonight and I begged her to, but She may want to cool it, now?

Uncomfortable thought. He was surprised how violently he disliked it----He thought, I've - become addicted.

Remembering ...

Well, instead of mooning - do something about it? If the difference in their ages hadn't presented any problems this far, why should it in a longer-term arrangement: like - well, marriage?

Christ. Anyway, she might not A by-product would be to give some of these people something new to think about when they looked at Christopher Ozzard, ASG for DPP. They were all still badgering him with the same questions. Pat Cleary, for instance - at lunchtime today when it had seemed die whole thing might be over, before the Soviets heated it up again -'Now, Chris, you can level with me. What the hell did you do to Ellermet?'

'Do to him?'

'Over that lunch. Incidentally, you were seen handing him an envelope.'

'Only a list of points I'd jotted down - reasons we'd be right to send the squadron in.'

'Indeed. That's what made him run scared and------'

'He was in a tearing hurry, that's all I know. Possibly he was thinking all the time about this resigning business. Trying to make his mind up - for whatever reason - and perhaps my arguments did help. Be nice to think so.'

Cleary had looked fed up. He liked to know it all, of course, so he could pass it back to Eric Lassiter. He shook his head. 'I tell you, Jocelyn Dean's smelt a rat all right.'

'He's a diplomat. He wouldn't smell much else.'

Well. He pushed a drawer shut, locked it, pocketed the key. The inquiry in London wasn't anything to fret about. Come to think of it, he was a servant of NATO now, not of MOD. The boss man here might not feel like sparing him for jaunts to Whitehall, not with die backlog of work that had piled up in the last day or two. The Atlantic fuss wasn't just going to disappear suddenly, either.

Fine. Let the whole thing cool, over there.

Sophie too? Go carefully, think twice, wait a while?

No. He looked at the phone. Ring her now, take her downtown, for a meal at Vincent's perhaps, a private victory celebration. Not that the skirmish in the Atlantic should be thought of as a victory: more as a holding of the line. This wasn't the sort of game you won: you just had to keep on playing it. Hang on: if only by your fingertips.

She'd said / love you, in the night. And he'd felt He knew what he'd felt. What he felt now, too. But you had to use your head as well. As she did, certainly. With the feeling and the head, wasn't that as sound a basis as you'd get?

What'll old Sam think about it? A girl only about six years older than he is: and when I'd sworn I'd never - He reached for the phone and began to dial.

The end.