‘What’s happened?’ Layde demanded impatiently.
‘D’you remember, sir, during your Devonport inspection, you looked at the two new submarine dry docks?’
‘Yes…’
‘Saboteurs — there must have been divers among “em — have shattered the hinges on both dock gates.’ The voice at the other end paused, tense.
‘Are the gates inoperative?’ Layde asked, thinking of the huge steel flaps imprisoning Britain’s newest nuclear submarines.
‘Totally, sir. I don’t know for how long, but they could be jammed for days.
They’ve also put the operating winches out of action.’
‘So Saracen is boxed in?’ The First Sea Lord paused, then added: ‘Her dock’s not flooded?’
‘No, sir. The gate held, but they killed her sentries. Thank God, sir you insisted on getting Sealion to sea, in spite of her defects.’
Layde was stunned by the catastrophe: a handful of determined saboteurs had put out of action half of Britain’s nuclear submarine force, even before the war had officially started. The Soviets were playing no longer. ‘Faslane all right?’
‘Nothing so far, sir. Better security.’
There was a long silence and then VCNS came back: ‘You there, sir?’
‘Come to Rule of Engagement Two, Charles.’ Layde paused, then ordered: ‘Put the Navy and the yards on Alert One, war footing, whatever the politicians are doing.’
‘The PM’S speaking at noon, sir.’
‘Good. I’m returning at once, but I’ll call at Devonport on my way up.’ He raised his eyebrows as he glanced at Quincey. Thanks, Charles. Keep holding the fort.’ He slapped down the receiver.
‘I’ll take you to Guz by Sea King, sir.’
Thanks,’ Layde said. ‘Can your Jetstream take me on from Devonport?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll have it standing by. The helicopter can take you straight into the dockyard.’
The captain led the way to the wardroom. As he stood by the door, Layde said: ‘Before I go, I’d like to speak to your ship’s company on your broadcast system, Derek. They ought to be the first to know we’re virtually at war: they’re right up-front.’
‘Spot 7,’ the visual control ordered. ‘Your passengers are standing-by.’
Hob took Sea King 827 straight in, across the eastern boundary of Helston. No one spoke. There must be more on their slop chit, because Flight Planning had already passed their routeing instructions to Devonport.
Ts and Ps good,’ the second pilot reported, as he completed the landing checks.
‘Brake off.’
‘Harnesses all round?’ Hob asked.
‘Checked. Ready in the back,’ the observer called. Hob dropped the duty Sea King towards spot 7. Out of the corner of his eye he could see four figures standing at one side on the tarmac, two of whom were in flying gear. 827 hovered for a couple of seconds then flounced down on to the spot.
‘I’ll welcome the Old Man,’ Hob said, handing over the helicopter to the second pilot.
Hermann slid back the side door. As Hob gingerly eased himself between the pilots’ seats, he glimpsed the two passengers climbing into the back of the aircraft. The younger of the two senior officers stayed with the aircrewman, while the elder (presumably the First Sea Lord, by the size of him) was being eased for’d into the passenger’s seat. The intercom lines were plugged in and, stooping like a couple of hunchbacks, the two men laced each other, their eyes meeting beneath their grotesque helmets.
‘Lieutenant Gamble?’ the admiral asked.
Hob tried to slice him off a smart salute. ‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid we’ve kept you waiting.’
‘Thank you, Gamble. I didn’t think I’d have the chance of congratulating you myself on your gong. Seems some time ago, I expect.’
‘Yes, sir. Another world.’
‘Thanks … that’s fine. I won’t bother you any more.’
Hob climbed back into his pilot’s seat.
‘I have control…’
‘You have control,’ the second pilot acknowledged and then they were again soaring over Helston. As soon as he had cleared the airfield, Hob turned towards St Anthony Head. The observer passed the heading and they settled down for the flight.
‘Quite happy, sir?’ Hob asked. ‘ETA Devonport 1205.’
The deep voice replied with a touch of gentleness not usually associated with admirals.
‘You’ve had a busy forenoon, Gamble. How did your SAR trip end up?’
‘DOA, sir.’ Hob said.
‘DOA?’
‘Dead on arrival.’
As so often occurred in the SAR squadron, the satisfaction of skilful flying was too often marred by tragedy. The crews were hardened men but the deaths of children affected even these professionals.
‘What sort of casualty?’ the admiral asked quietly.
‘A six-year-old girl, sir. Her dog’s okay.’
There was silence at the other end. Hob added: ‘There’s the Dodman coming up, sir. Fine on the port side.’
‘814 Squadron is joining Furious tonight,’ the First Sea Lord said. ‘Hunting Soviet submarines will be more to your taste, I suspect.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Hob glanced sideways at his second pilot: ‘Your lever,’ he commanded. He would relax for a few minutes before taking the chopper across the Sound.
Funny how life dealt the cards. This early morning had been good news; he could see Allie now, standing in the porch while she waved him off. Her face had been radiant.
‘Dodman abeam to port,’ the observer chipped in from the back.
Hob glanced down at the surging rollers of the confused sea which always built up here on the ebb, then the milkiness of St Austell Bay came up and the entrance to Fowey. Minutes later, Polperro appeared, where, a fortnight ago, Allie and he had whiled away a Sunday, happy in the driving rain as.they tramped the cliffs towards Lantivet. They loved the place and the cider was good.
‘My lever,’ Hob said, as the dark bluff of Rame Head grew in size.
‘Your lever.’
‘You’ll see the Sound at any minute, sir,’ Hob reported to his passenger. ‘We’ll be landing in five minutes.’
‘All ready in the back,” the observer reported. ‘Harnesses checked.’
The landing drill continued until the cliffs of Rame were sliding beneath the cab. Hob had decided to follow the shoreline and take her in over Cawsand and ‘For point. Already he could see the blue waters of the Sound. The observer was getting through to the dockyard heliport: 1200 exactly, and Hob could begin his approach procedures.
‘Your harness secured, sir?’
‘Secured.’
The curve of Cawsand Bay slid beneath them. Drake’s Island came abeam to starboard and then, as Hob turned to put ‘For point on his port bow, the sprawl of Devonport opened ahead. He steadied 827 on the three covered dry docks of the frigate complex; he identified the nuclear submarine refuelling and refitting base on the Hamoaze, where there seemed to be much coming and going along the perimeter road.
‘Standby, sir ’
But Hob, who had begun to lose height, never finished his sentence. As he peered downwards, a blinding light streaked across his vision. Then, just clear of the frigate complex, a turmoil of brown dust and smoke, an orange fireball flashing at its core, jerked skywards. More explosions flickered ahead of him as the first of the Shockwaves blasted Sea King 827, slamming her bodily sideways. Hob allowed her to fall from the sky, his fingers poised above the collective, ready to counter the uncontrollable antics as soon as the turbulence ceased. He counted eight shocks, before he halted his helicopter. The frigate complex ahead of him and half the town of Devonport beyond the dockyard wall had erupted into a cauldron of fire and swirling brown smoke.