'Lower the nets,' Towke ordered.
The guard-rails were slipped and the safety nets fell horizontally. Things were relatively safe at the moment, but on a bad night the deck was slippery and the nets were a comfort. He could see the faces of Hob and Rollo shadowy behind their windscreen while they carried out their pre-flight checks. The white lights were on in the cockpit as Hob checked his instruments. Perdix's navigation lights were bright beneath the fuselage — and Bernie Towke checked his own illuminated batons with which he visually demonstrated his orders.
'Start port engine.' As Bernie gave the order, he held the glowing white baton of his right hand high above his head. He twirled the baton in his left hand, keeping the tip low, then the port engine was in accessory drive and running up until its whine had reached full pitch. Perdix was free to escape now, held by only her harpoon; Hob, engaging the rotors, forced the Lynx down on to the grille by adopting negative pitch.
Towke flipped down his right arm, twirled the baton and waited as Hob started the starboard engine. The flutter pitch changed, roughened, and then both engines were screaming at full power… The weird, luminous parabola glowed above the cab, where the blades chopped through the darkness.
Hob had signed for the torpedoes which now hung snugly in their common carriers beneath each side of the cab. Operated by the observer, the solenoids would release the lugs and the fish would drop into the sea. Hob had accepted the pins of both torpedoes and the 4.5 inch flares; coloured ribbons were attached to the pins and to any other extraneous fittings which had to be removed before take off, so that they could not be missed during the final checks.
The captain had asked that take-off should be confined to well within limits, the 40° restriction on each side of true wind. At twenty-one knots Icarus was opening out to close the reported sub contact, and tonight Hob was relaxed: the ship's pitching and rolling was minimal.
Towke watched the vertical edge of the superstructure cutting across the dark horizon, swinging into the glittering path of the moon, before settling to the take-off course. learns was turning into the wind.
'Stand-by.'
'Stand-by for take off…' Hob came through clearly on the loop above the cacophony of the engines.
The ship had steadied and Towke's eyes flickered for the last time across the deck. His arm shot above his head, the baton tips touching.
Hob swivelled into wind; he released the harpoon, applied full power. The Lynx shook, shivered and then she was clawing upwards, hauled vertically by her pilot who had judged the moment perfectly. In seconds she was away, lunging to the south-west and gaining height at every second. Her flickering red light grew fainter and then vanished into the night.
A handler took Towke's batons from him and he switched off the loop system. Then he noticed the bulky figure in the anorak, a rating he had not recognized in the darkness: Osgood was up here, helping when they were short-handed. There had been rumours that he was slapping in his notice, so what was going on?
Hob revelled in flying his Mark VII Lynx in these conditions: the weather was right, Icarus and her HCO (Helicopter Control Officer) were doing all the work: all Rollo and he had to do was to obey orders. The captain had wasted no words on their mission: 'Relieve Jesse's LAMPS chopper. The course of the contact is 275°, her speed thirty-one knots, from her furthest-on position, working from Jesse's datum. Carry out a Jezebel and hang on to the contact by MAD until the three Sea Kings from Glorious relieve you. I'm ordered to remain on screen for the time being.'
Kid's stuff — and here they were within three minutes of the drop position. It was difficult to believe that down beneath that silver surface a hundred or so Russian sailors were sweating it out… and, suddenly, Hob felt the elation of reality. What was the submarine's purpose, steaming at speed into the Atlantic? Normally she would have been tailing the NATO exercise…
He glanced at Rollo, waiting for orders. The observer was busy, setting out his position for latitude and longitude on one chart, and his position on the grid for easy reference. He had sorted out his plot and had identified the other ships in the force, in addition to the other choppers in the area. Glorious' three Sea Kings would be airborne soon: Perdix had taken off at 0354 and was just approaching the furthest-on position of the contact: the time was 0401.
'Ready on heading,' Hob said.
'Lowering the MAD bird,' Rollo reported.
So Rollo was starting his MAD run now.
'Two hundred feet,' Hob said. He watched the pointers on his dials as he took Perdix at cruise speed along the heading. The torpedo-shaped shell of the MAD bird was streaming astern, fifty feet above the surface of the sea.
'Heading two-nine-oh,' Hob reported. So often had they practised this drill, the whole business a monotonous chore…
Now Rollo was reporting Perdix' position back to Icarus. The HCO in the ops room had been kept in the picture but, for real, Rollo would have remained silent. So far, things were running to form — Jesse's LAMPS report must have been a false echo, or one of our own boats.
'MAD contact hot!'
Hob twitched in his seat when Rollo shouted, the report deafening the pilot inside his bone dome.
'Hot, Hob. Hold where we are while I get out an enemy report. Yippee!' Rollo's fingers were flicking at the switches, scribbling across the plot with his chinagraph pencil, his eyes scanning his instruments. 'Stand by to lay an ASRB pattern,' he ordered. ' Heading three-one-five, Hob.'
Seven minutes later, the ASRBS laid, the observer reported tersely to his pilot:
'Nuke confirmed. She's going like hell. I'll get out an enemy report before we refine.' Rollo turned briefly, grinning all over his face. ' She's a goer, Hob! We mustn't lose her. Hope to God she doesn't alter course.'
'She doesn't even know we're here,' Hob said.
'FLASH — FLASH — FLASH. Firm nuke contact grid two seven decimal three, four eight decimal six. High speed. Refining… out,' Rollo snapped. That was all he had time for at the moment. Hob glanced again at Rollo, working furiously trying to localize the contact. That was the first priority: to hold on to it until the Sea Kings arrived. It was 0409 already. Glorious' choppers had been airborne since 0406 and Rollo had said that they should take nineteen minutes, if they homed on Perdix' IFF. Rendezvous should be at 0455, sixteen minutes….
'Come to port: heading two-nine-oh,' ordered Rollo. He could not contain his excitement as he localized the data from the ASRBS: position, course two-eight-oh, speed thirty knots, signature confirmed nuclear submarine. He passed the information back to Icarus, knowing that the whole force must be listening in, ' probably a… Charlie II.'
Rollo turned to Hob, a look of amazement on his face… for months and months they had dreamed of such a moment. Then the observer was crouching again over his plot, determined to hold on to the contact until the Sea Kings took over. The Charlie was going like a bat out of hell. Then he called up 864, Glorious' leading Sea King.
'864. This is 491.'
'Roger 491. Three big dippers joining from the east at two hundred feet, one hundred knots. We carry six Reptiles and have no restrictions.' His voice was matter of fact (sounded like Tony Hall, Glorious' senior pilot; if it was, the nuke would have to be good to escape). ' We have four hours endurance, Charlie time 0800.'