Trevellion had noticed that the men seemed reluctant to disclose their reactions to the decisions he had announced, after the short Sunday service which he had conducted yesterday. He had been determined to hold the Church service despite the imminence of ' war'. He wanted, first, to show what he believed in and the spiritual values for which the free world was prepared to fight… even Trevellion was surprised by the response, particularly from the younger element. He had glimpsed Osgood there, tucked away at the back against the hangar door; but he had not caught sight of Bums, the Royal Marine corporal.
Trevellion had considered very carefully what to do about the corporal. He had 'stood-over' Burns' case; he needed time to consider the evidence. He had to uphold discipline, without hurting the splendid soldier. So Captain Trevellion had not removed his stripe, though he punished him with the maximum allowed — a colossal fine and stoppage of leave. Corporal Burns had not appreciated the relatively harmless punishment, which was probably why no Royal Marine attended the Sunday service. Why was it, Trevellion asked himself bitterly, that it was so often the good men who took the can in a slack ship? Osgood was in the same mould as Bums.
It was regrettable that no one in the Royals' mess had pinned anything on Foulgis, the trouble-maker. Being the lower deck sea-lawyer, no one had wanted to pin on him the only charge possible: the hoarding of beer. How else could that steward have become sloshed on the official two cans a day? Burns had refused to cast insinuations, but the Master had sized up the situation accurately enough… and why did not Icarus' officers know what was going on?
He had gathered his wardroom officers into his cabin and, with brutal frankness, listed incident after incident. He described in meticulous detail where he judged his officers to have fallen below the standards he expected. He had referred to none of them by name. At the conclusion the senior types were anxious to show their loyalty, refusing to gainsay his ruthless summing-up.
Then Jewkes cleared his throat: ' We're a bit shocked, sir,' he had said. 'With respect,' (how Trevellion detested this euphemism) ' with respect, sir, you're being a bit unkind. This is how we carried on before, with your predecessor.'
'Well, you won't from now on, First Lieutenant. I expect complete loyalty from you all. And I look to every one of you to give what the ship's company seek but haven't been getting: firm and impartial leadership.'
Perhaps he had been unfair? In the loneliness of his bridge, Trevellion experienced a fleeting moment of regret: perhaps he had been too hard on them.
Pascoe saw the navigating officer standing in the screen door, a signal in his hand: ' From the Senior Officer, sir — Blue Alert. Assume State Two.'
Trevellion returned to the bridge: things were hotting up. He could meet aggression with aggression… he smiled to himself, as he watched the 'Krivak' creaming into the distant horizon. Hamish had done his homework: the ' war' was due to start at ten and a Krivak with her SSN 145 could out-range Icarus from far below the horizon. Okay, Hamish… and Trevellion smiled as he picked up the telephone to the flight deck officer.
'FDO — bridge.'
'Captain here. Is Perdue ready?'
'Ready to take off, sir.'
'Take off. I'm turning into wind.' He nodded to the officer of the watch.' Bring her round, Gubbay.'
Jewkes was on the bridge, binoculars jammed beneath his ginger eyebrows.' She's steaming, sir.'
'Go to Action Stations, Number One.'
Jewkes moved to the port console and picked up the broadcast mike.
Osgood was fed up with the bickering in the Greenies' mess. He had come in for a soothing smoke before returning to the office to finish repairing the latest teleprinter on the blink. He had never known the mess, normally a happy one, to be so divided into cliques. In running the mess he had counted Foulgis as an oppo, but now he was certainly living up to his name as Mick the Moaner. Mick appeared to revel in stirring it among the junior ratings — and Oz had had enough. Mick had been at them since the captain's homily at ' church' on the flight deck yesterday. Ridiculing the new order, Mick was presenting the case for firmer discipline as high-handed autocracy for which Captain Trevellion had neither the power nor the mandate. Something flared inside Oz:
'For Christ's sake, Mick, turn it in. Our mess is becoming worse than Speakers' Corner.'
There was a hush in the small compartment, the pounding of the screws the only background noise. Then Foulgis guffawed — a scornful, unpleasant sound.
'So you've fallen for it too, Oz?' Mick glanced round the sea of faces. Osgood watched the nervous grins of the uncommitted. ' L/RO Osgood: our good, loyal leading hand of the mess,' Mick jeered. ' Creeper to the pigs.' He blew a jet of tobacco smoke in Oz's direction.
'I reckon the skipper's right,' Osgood said calmly. ' Most of us want discipline. You shouldn't have joined if you don't like it, Mick.'
'Captain Bligh's not within his rights,' Foulgis said. ' He's forcing things on us, things outside the regulations.'
'Mick's right,' one of the visiting stewards said. ' Mick's going to write to his MP.' Osgood saw the satisfied smirk on the youngster's face.
'So what?' Oz said. He looked at Foulgis in disgust. 'Why don't you slap in a transfer to the glorious Red Fleet?'
They were both standing, measuring up. Osgood hated Mick's guts at that moment… for the first time in the mess, Oz felt on his own.
'Ever since they killed Niv,' Foulgis added, ' you've been a bloody blackleg. How you goin' to pay his share of the punishment now, eh?' He shoved his leering face straight into Oz's.' Go on, hit me.'
Someone was grabbing Oz's arms from behind.
'Go on…' Mick taunted. ' They'll take your hook off yer — that'd be good news.'
'Don't be needled,' the leading chef called across to Osgood. ' He's not worth it, Oz.'
Osgood stomped from the mess, the jeers of Foulgis' cronies behind him. He nipped up to the upper deck, felt the morning breeze against his face, savoured the warm sun. Over to starboard was Athabaskan, covering Oileus and Guardian, the two replenishment ships upon whom the whole force depended — and, presumably, the prime target for the enemy. Tailing them and easily keeping station, the Russian AGI trawler was smashing through the seas, two miles astern, the spray flying high above her bridge. Oz took a deep breath, felt his cool returning.
He couldn't go on like this. Bastards such as Foulgis were everywhere… it was so bloody easy to criticize, to cause ill-feeling. But the evil was difficult to combat by argument, if you couldn't express yourself adequately. Well, he was going to do something about it. He'd slap in his notice to quit the navy — if his request was turned down, he'd put in for transfer to the Fleet Air Arm. He'd have a man's job to do there, in the helos, hunting subs — and the money was good. He smirked grimly: that should keep Merle happy. He'd go up to the EW room to make his request where there was peace and quiet. It was 0932 by his watch: just time before the panic began. He entered the citadel and set off towards the EW office.
Minutes later, the action stations alarms shattered the peace of the office. He'd have to draft his request during the dogs if he didn't get his head down….
There was a roar from aft, and the Lynx reared off the deck, turned on her tail, then flew towards the blur that was. Phoebe dropping below the horizon. Her four Sea Skua missiles stood out, two on each side of her cab, gleaming lethal and ready to drop if the ' Krivak' meant business. Suddenly there was silence, save for the buffeting of the wind against the glass windows of the bridge. To the north, Gloucester, representing the Kashin, had doubled back and was opening her range on Goeben. Alastair McKown, the PWO (Air), was talking through the loop, his speech crackling through the bridge speaker: