'That might explain his lapse,' Trevellion murmured. 'Is Osgood overworking, Lieutenant-Commander Jones?"
'The teleprinter machines are very worn, sir. Osgood doesn't get much let-up.'
The stooping figure drew back from the table to consider the two men in front of him. Fane shifted his feet, clenched his cap. Osgood, the stocky barrel of a man from Devon, was forged of different stuff. He had drawn himself to his full height, resembling a man in the condemned cell, staunchly awaiting execution. His jaw was set and he was staring his captain in the eye.
'I've heard what your divisional officers think of you both, and I can sympathize with your outraged feelings. But you've brought' — Trevellion hesitated, carefully selecting his words — ' discredit upon our ship. The Bermudans will remember Icarus for a long time, and I don't expect the Admiral in Glorious to forget this fall from grace. Have you anything to add?'
'No, sir,' Fane said.' I'm sorry, sir.'
'No, sir. Nothing.' Osgood remained defiant.
Captain Trevellion turned to the Master-at-Arms:
'Seven days' leave stopped for both ratings. They are to pay for the damage they caused, regular allotments being remitted from their pay by the supply officer.'
The first lieutenant was saluting the captain before the defaulters had finally dispersed.
'Officer of the Watch's compliments, sir. He's increasing speed to take up position for the RAS.'
Ivor Jones saluted too, then watched the gaunt figure hauling himself up the ladder towards the bridge. There was no compromise about this man: was this the message he intended to convey to his ship?
The chief had stopped by his cabin door and was waiting for Jones.
'Bloody shame,' Sparger said. 'But the Old Man's right.'
'The ship's company will get the message,' Jones replied.
'Things won't be the same again.'
Jones nodded.' Maybe that's not such a bad thing.'
But the chief was nodding towards the ladder leading down to the Burma Road on the deck below:
'See what I mean, Ivor? Fane's already back on the job in the DG room.'
7
Hob Gamble replaced his coffee cup on the bar in the wardroom ante-room as the first-comers entered for stand-easy. He squinted into the glass of the framed watercolour of the wartime Icarus and tried to smooth down his shock of fair hair. Though it would never sit down, he tried to get away from the scruffy image beloved by some. He had long ago decided to set his own standards, going it alone if necessary… his 24-year-old face was freckled from the bridge of his nose upwards; his eyebrows were somewhat darker than his fair hair, a peculiarity that was grotesque; and the deep-sunk eyes peering from beneath were blue-green and restless. He supposed that ugly dial did reflect his character? He knew he was ambitious — and could be ruthless if his flying was threatened: he looked deceptively amiable, with his quizzical, faintly genial expression. He slapped on his cap and left the wardroom.
The sub., George Firebrace, was on watch on the bridge. He stood at the pelorus, binoculars around his neck. A gangling youth, fair-haired and shy, he seemed unsure of himself. His claim to fame in the wardroom was being brother to a curvaceous sister who visited the ship too rarely.
The Master-at-Arms was easing himself into the helmsman's seat at the quartermaster's console as he took over the ship's steering, preparatory to the HAS. Hob got on well with Campbell — a good Master-at-Arms who did not compromise — and a steady coxswain on the wheel. The set of Campbell's gaunt head on that lean frame, even from the back, exuded confidence among those around him.
Hob Gamble enjoyed coming up here: the bridge, to him, seemed so leisurely after his mini-cockpit in Perdix. ' What brings you up into this rarified atmosphere, Hob ?' Neame was extracting himself from the chart table which was centrally placed at the back of the bridge. Next to it, to port, was his navigational radar, screened by a black hood for night use.
'Perdix has her off days too,' Hob said. ' When's the captain expected?'
'Any moment, I hope. Defaulters ought to be finished soon… Jesse's been fuelling for over half an hour,' and Neame nodded towards the American frigate who was still hitched by her umbilical oil hose to the Dutch Fast Combat Support Ship, Oileus. The officer of the watch was replacing the engine-room phone. 'That's the Chief,' the sub. reported to Neame, 'the engine-room's at RAS Special Sea Dutymen.'
To the northward Hob picked out the remainder of the Force: the Commodore in Athabaskan was in the act of altering to her new zigzag. A sparkling day, the ocean was the deep, leaden blue of the Atlantic. The forecast was reasonable for the next twenty-four hours.
Hob glanced at his watch: 1022 and a lamp was winking from the Jesse L. Brown's square bridge. He enjoyed these quiet moments when he could watch things: he 'began to appreciate how the 260 officers and men worked their ship — often, for the sole purpose of giving Perdix a platform from which to fly off to hunt submarines and surface ships below the horizon.
He had never regretted joining Icarus, when he had brought the new Mark VII Lynx with him. Neither had he regretted making the Royal Navy his life, to the chagrin of his father. The result of Mr Gamble's views on disarmament and lack of patriotism could have been predicted for any youngster of guts: Hob adopted a reciprocal course. He would fight for the things in which he believed. He knew he was something of an odd man out in these cynical days, but, being top pilot for last year's Search and Rescue stakes from Culdrose, his Icarus messmates had quickly learned to respect him — and to give him a wide berth if argument touched him on the raw.
'Take cover!'
He heard the first lieutenant's whistle blast, even from here, and saw the hole in the buffer's face as he repeated the warning. The RAS crew huddled behind the Exocets, hunched, their arms protecting their heads. These French surface missiles in their corrugated containers were a stopgap before the arrival of NATO'S ASSM, and provided cover from the breaking seas for the foc's'le party. The coston-gun line whistled overhead and then he watched the hands jumping to dash for the line sent over from Oileus… He'd been day-dreaming and had not noticed that Trevellion was now conning Icarus alongside — and Hob nipped back into the bridge. This was Icarus' thirty-fifth RAS since leaving Plymouth last June.
Captain Trevellion sat, relaxed and cross-legged, in the command chair. A charred pipe jutted from his mouth, its stench percolating through the enclosed bridge. Occasionally he would extract it from his mouth and turn to the coxswain to pass a wheel order. He never raised his voice and seemed to expect the same sang-froid from others; he had ticked off the Royal Marine quartermaster and the sub. who had been nattering in the port corner. Trevellion's head was slanted, as if he was instinctively feeling for the wind, one eye on Oileus' massive grey side smashing through the seas only a cricket pitch away. The distance line was being secured on Icarus' for'd guard-rail; and from the starboard wing Number One was yelling at the hands who were hauling in the telephone cable, hand over hand.
'I'll ease back now, Cox'n. Steady on zero-zero-five.'
'Aye, aye, sir. Course zero-zero-five.'
The refuelling at sea continued, a routine for Icarus' company, but a fresh experience for her new captain. Oileus, a purpose-built tanker of nineteen thousand tons complete with helicopter pads and hangar space for five machines, forged ahead at eighteen knots, conned by her master and a couple of officers who were gazing down from her port wings. No fuss, no shouting… an officer by the fuelling derricks holding up the oiling procedure boards, that was all.… The jack-stay was sent over, then run away by the Icarus' RAS party. It was snap-shackled to the RAS anchor-point, abaft the starboard Exocet, while the fuelling derricks towered above the frigate, the bights of oil hose dangling and swinging above the threshing seas as Oileus surged ahead.