A Ravel of Waters

The pilot clammed up. 'What do you know about NSGA?' 'Paul Brockton was my friend.'

There was a short silence. Then the pilot answered in a different, friendly voice. 'Mine, too. Yeah, this ship's from NSGA. Put Paul on the line, will you?' 'He's aboard. But he's dead.' 'Paul — dead!' 'I killed the man who killed him, if that helps.' 'It doesn't. Paul was a regular guy.'

I was still too raw over Paul's death and the other killings to want to talk about them. Instead there were a hundred questions unanswered about the presence of the American long-distance maritime search plane. 'What are you doing in these waters?'

He replied tersely with one word. '''Jetwind. Half the world wants to know what's happened to you. So does the other half — the boys behind the scenes.' ‘What do you mean?'

'If you were Paul's friend, I guess he told you something.'

That bridged a lot of conversational gaps. 'I get you,' I replied, 'but I don't understand why you should come searching here. A position signal was sent off from Jetwind days back saying she was dismasted and in no need of assistance…'

There was a snort of derision from the pilot. 'You can't dipsy-doodle NSGA with a decoy signal, fellah. We weren't born yesterday. The Group on Tristan was on full alert…' So Paul had got enough of his secret signal away to sound the alarm before Grohman's burst had killed him! 'That kind of half-Mayday didn't decieve us. Whoever sent it was a fool. The transmission time was long enough for us to get a position fix. When we compared that with where Jetwind claimed to be, we smelt stinking fish. To NSGA, the stink was to high heaven. It wasn't you who sent that corny signal, I guess?'

'No, it wasn't me. But why the time-lag? Why didn't the Orion come sooner? You could have saved a lot of lives.' 'Lives?' he echoed.

'Lives,' I repeated. 'That part of the story will keep for the present. Why didn't you come?'

'The logistics for mounting a search take time. So do the decisions. NSGA had to be convinced. It took a few days to arrange after Jetwind failed to respond to our signals. You're also a helluva long way from anywhere. This plane has been airborne since yesterday. I've flown all the way down the Big Pond. Thousands of miles.' 'From Lajes in the Azores?' *You were Paul's friend, so I can tell you secrets. Yes. From Lajes. Refuelled Ascension. They had to send an aenal tanker ahead specially to have the gas waiting for me. Maximum load. TACDIFIPS missions.5 'Translate, please.5 'Temporary active duty in a flying status involving operational flights.’ 'Operational?’

The pilot's reply was terse. 'This flight is operational, fellah. I'm armed with every sort of goodie in case of trouble. I'm coming in now for a visual intercept.'

'I also want to see you. I'm changing over to the bridge mike. I'll let you know when I sight you.' 'Okay.'

'Come,' I told Kay and Tideman. We went to the bridge. I opened a window in front of the wheel and took the microphone from its hook. 'There's the plane!’ exclaimed Kay.

Visibility was medium; Kay spotted the T-3 emerging from a cloud to the northeast. I imagined it approached watchfully, as if the pilot still did not wholly credit Jetwind's bona fides. I recalled his remark about the punch of 'goodies’ the Orion packed. The wires in behind-the-scenes secret counsels must have burned over Jetwind's disappearance.

The pilot exclaimed suddenly, 'I see you! Say, you're beautiful, Jetwind!' 'Don't touch me or I'll scream.'

I liked the way the pilot laughed. Then he added. 'Says you're also damaged — you're missing part of a mast.' 'I was in a fight.' 'When Paul was killed?'

'No — later. What I tell you about it, I'd like to be on the record. Can you tape this conversation?'

The pilot laughed without humour. 'This flight's operational, top secret. Everything you've said already is on the reel. You're important, Tristan as monitoring us as a back-up. Now tell me about your blow-off.' 'Blow-off?' 'That fight.'

I couldn't think where I should begin. I tried to muster the facts. I said, marking time, 'I have five dead men aboard.'

The pilot's voice held admiration. 'Who else was on your shit list, fellah?'

'A Soviet Kashin-class destroyer. A Whiskey Bag sub. A fleet replenishment vessel. An oceanographic survey ship. An assault force of about five hundred men named Group Condor…' I gave him a brief rundown on Molot. I went back to Jetwind's hijacking and the plan to seize the Falklands. I sketched Paul's death, and how we had escaped the Almirante Storni. I explained how I had sacrificed Jetwind's mast.

When I had finished, the pilot exclaimed in an awed voice, 'Sweet Mother of Jesus! All this and Molot too! Dosvidanya!’ 'What's that supposed to mean?' 'It's Russian for goodbye.'

Dosvidanyal It was as good an epitaph as any for that blazing hell of burning liquifying fuel which had been Molot.

There was a silence. Then the pilot said, 'Got a fix for this place Molot where you played clinker boy? I'd better go check and see if there's anything left.'

'Aye. Here it is.' I had made a special point of fixing the location of the secret base by means of Jetwind's satellite navigator as the ship had broken clear of the last of the shoals’ 'I don't expect you'll see much, though. The fire must have burned itself out by now…'

The pilot's voice cut me short with a shout. 'Sub! Sub! Sub! Sub! Action stations!'

I froze. Kay shrank against me. 'Dear heaven, no! Not now! Not after what we've been through!'

Tideman leapt as if galvanized to the bridge windows, searching the surrounding sea.

The pilot's voice rose. 'She's surfacing! Alongside you! To starboard! I'm going in after her!'

Tideman's sight was phenomenal. 'There she is!' He seemed to point, grab the mike from me, and snap on its energizer button all in one motion. 'Hold it, Orion! Hold-it! That sub's British!'

There was nothing to show that there was a submarine running parallel with Jetwind, let alone identifying marks. 'Look — flying antenna — only the British Superbs have it! Hold it, I say!' roared Tideman into the mike-Now I saw. Two high swells chased each other; in their trough for one brief second I spotted the top of a black sail, periscope extended. Rust showed redly against the black. Paintwork had been stripped by abrasive speed in the abysmal deeps of the Drake Passage. This was one of the lean musclemen of the nuclear age: had the Seascan rendezvous come off, Jetwind, equally lean in her own way but with the priceless attribute of silence, would have become her killer.

The Orion was wheeling like an eagle ready to swoop. 'She's signalling!' exclaimed the pilot. 'Code's okay — she's kosher, whaddyer know!'

'Kay!' snapped Tideman. 'Fetch Greg — quick! Light signal!' Kay sprinted off.

'Light signal?' I echoed. 'A light signal from a nuclear sub?'

'Aye, it's rarely used. Only then for top secret sub-to-ship exchanges when the coast is clear. No chance of interception. Orion — the sub's putting out a light signal… yes, I said, a light signal. I'll keep you informed.'

He rounded on Greg, who had arrived with Kay. 'Read it, Greg!'

A bright eye of light winked from the periscope tip from among the grey waves.

' "Admiralty to Rainier, Jetwind. Top secret. Seascan rendezvous was at 0900 GMT."'

'Was?' I interrupted. 'Was? You've got it wrong, man! The rendezvous is only this afternoon! Get a repeat!'

Greg blinked his hand-lamp at the sub. The sub responded quick as automatic fire.

Greg mouthed the words. "Signal correct as sent. I am ordered to inform you that the Seascan intercept took place at 0900 GMT this morning. Results were satisfactory."'

Nearly two hours ago! I couldn't believe it. Nor could Tideman or Kay. I managed to say, 'Ask the sub — why the change of plan?'

Greg repeated after the light. c "Owing to the uncertainty following the apparent disappearance of Jetwind, the United States Navy, in consultation with the Admiralty, decided to divert the surveillance satellite slightly from its original track and accordingly advance the rendezvous schedule. Nadir was at 0900 GMT today."' Kay, Tideman and I stood transfixed. 'There's more coming, sir,' said the signalman. No cargo-haul life for you, Jetwind.