I stared at him. I'd had my showdown with Grohman. He was bad news. These two were good news; on my side. However, I had finally to penetrate their cover. They had a lot of explaining to do. Ordinary yachting journalists cannot usually handle highly sophisticated electronics and discuss the dimensions and origin of the world's largest iceberg at the drop of a signal, so to speak. Nor do they ordinarily lapse into Navy jargon when their guard is down. And what was Trolltunga to Tideman? Like icebergs, five-sixths of the truth about them was concealed.
I went on matter of factly, 'Jetwind will follow the same route as Albatros. Briefly, I'm taking her eastnortheast until I cross the fifty-degree south line a little short of forty west. From there on there's a one-knot current in our favour -1 discovered it in Albatros — and we can count on a westerly or southwesterly gale almost continuously. We'll intersect the Trolltunga ice danger zone about six hundred miles southwest of Gough. After Gough it will be a straight run to the finishing tape at the Cape.'
It was as if what I had just said had erased the strain of his long stint of duty from Tideman's face. He made a great effort to be non-committal. 'How many days have we scheduled to make Gough?' 'About six and a half — as of now.' 'Good,’ he said, half to himself. 'That's very good, Peter.'
Brockton said obliquely, using a similar satisfied tone as Tideman, 'By the time you got to the Trolltunga area in Albatros you must have been pretty short on sleep, Peter.' I wondered what he was driving at. 'I was.'
He laughed, a kind of tell-me-all-pal laugh. 'Just the sort of time-lapse when lone sailors get tired enough to hallucinate and see their mother-in-law climbing up the mast, or even spot an imaginary aircraft flying overhead?' He had given me the opening I was looking for.
'Sit down,' I said, 'Both of you have a lot of explaining to do.'
I picked on Brockton first.
'Paul’1 said. 'I'm ready to tell you about my hallucinations. In return, you tell me who you really are.' 'What do you mean?'
'You know perfectly well what I mean. First, however, I want you both to know that I realize you're on my side. You're no yachting magazine writer, Paul. No journalist could possibly have handled all that sophisticated equipment the way you did.' 'The America Cup trials…' he started.
'Cut it out,' I replied impatiently. 'I don't believe it. You don't act like a reporter and you don't talk like a reporter. You haven't written or filed a single story since you boarded Albatros. Even in Knysna you were much more interested in my so-called hallucinations than in reportage. Now you've given yourself away again. You discuss Trolltunga like an expert. Not many have ever heard of Trolltunga except a few scientists or weather-men. But you're able to give chapter and verse about the world's biggest iceberg. Your detailed knowledge of the Southern Ocean is, to say the least, phenomenal.' ‘A journalist has to know his beat.'
'Rubbish, Paul! Journalists usually have no more than a working knowledge of their subjects. As a group they lack in-depth knowledge. Not you, though.' 'So what?'
'You maintain the act fairly well normally but when the pressure mounts you give yourself away. If you want to know, you've something to do with the US Navy.'
He stood up and held out his hand. 'You win, fellah. I am a Navy man. Commander Paul Brockton. Glad to meet you, Peter.' 'That makes two naval men, Paul,' said Tideman.
'Thanks for coming clean, Paul,' I added. 'And now may I ask what is your function in these waters?'
'What I'm going to tell you is so classified that it could cost a man his life, if he talked.' 'You have my word.' Tideman nodded his agreement. 'Ever heard of Lajes?' he asked.
The name had a familiar ring. Before I could crystallize my thoughts, however, Tideman said, 'The American Atlantic base, on the island of Teceira in the Azores.' 'Correct.'
'Where does Lajes connect wtih Jetwind and the Southern Ocean? The Azores are thousands of miles away.'
'I'll come to that,' answered Brockton. 'Near the main base at Lajes is a village named Agualva. It's so small that 1 guess the hundred men of my command doubled its population overnight. Back at Atlantic Fleet Command HQ in Norfolk, Virginia, my men are rated officially as Naval Securities Group Activities.' 'Go on.'
'We operate what is called a high frequency direction finding facility. In plain language, we monitor the movements of Soviet vessels in the Atlantic, subs in particular. We fly regular missions using Orion T-3S way out across the Central Atlantic Ridge and drop sonar buoys. These relay the sound of ships' engines to listeners at the Agualva tracking station. We also use other methods which the Reds would give their eye-teeth to know.' 'In short, you spy on the Soviet Fleet,' I said.
He nodded, but Tideman interrupted. 'You're not telling us much that's new, Paul. All this is pretty well known. It's also known that Lajes provides staging and logistic support for the U.S. Sixth Fleet. Lajes was very much in the headlines a while back when a lease agreement with Portugal regarding the base was renewed.'
Brockton went on, 'It was also in the headlines when the Russians claimed to have discovered the site of the legendary Atlantis not so far from Lajes. You may have seen a guy called Dr Andrei Aksenov on TV announcing the news to the world. We on Lajes itself knew different. The Reds are so determined to find out about our methods that they hatched up the Atlantis story as a cover to spy on Lajes.'
'Paul — all I can say is that you are a helluva long way from base aboard Jetwind. That's what I am primarily interested in.'
He dropped his voice, as if fearful he might be overheard. 'Recently, I and about twenty guys from Naval Securities Group Activities set up a secret listening base on Tristan da Cunha.' 'Now we're getting closer!' I exclaimed.
'Yeah,' he replied. 'Tristan is only two hundred and thirty nautical miles from Gough Island — and Jetwind is on her way to Gough.'
'We'll be there in less than a week if we keep our present speed,' added Tideman. 'What made your group move to Tristan?' I asked.
'There was an impressive build-up of Red signals emanating from this area,' replied Brockton thoughtfully. 'We haven't yet been able to pinpoint the source.'
'You can't fly those big Orions from Tristan,' I said. 'No airfield can take a plane like that anywhere between the Cape and South America.'
'There is one, but it's a powerful long way away, answered Brockton. 'On Ascension Island. There's a big airfield there which was built during the war.'
'I'd say Tristan itself is a flight of close on two thousand miles from Ascension,' remarked Tideman. 'This build-up of signals…' Brockton resumed. 'Naval signals?' I interrupted.
'Aye,' he said, grimly. 'Naval signals. NAVWAG has 'em all on tape…' 'What's NAVWAG?' I queried.
'Navy Underwater Sound Reference Laboratory. To try and track the origin of the signals, the Navy fitted an Orion with special electronic gear — everything the latest, the most top secret. We filled her up with gas until it ran out of her wing tips. Every man aboard was a specialist — twelve of them. It constituted a top secret maximum range search, acoustic intelligence. And when I say maximum range, I mean maximum range. The Orion could stay airborne for eighteen hours, maybe even a little more. I myself spoke to the pilot. Captain Bill Werner, as the plane passed over Tristan. He gave me the okay — no problems. The Orion kept going. It entered the Southern Ocean Air-Launched Acoustical Reconnaissance Zone SSI…' 'What in hell's that?' I demanded.
Brockton was speaking fast and became agitated. 'That's the secret zone where we suspected a Red concentration. Werner ran into bad weather but he wasn't worried. An Orion is built to stand up to that sort of thing.'
As if to emphasize what he was saying, Jetwind gave a sudden pitch. I heard the crash of tons of water sluice along her deck. 'Then?'