'Yes, sir…' How could he ever forget it, that graceful clipper bow lifting to the swell? The silhouette which burst through the maelstrom was familiar to every officer in the Royal Navy. She had been at only a few cables: Stoddart had recognized that castellated superstructure with the 30 top sail radar at its peak, the radome forward and just below the truck. The huge ship had rolled slowly towards him, her great flat expanse of flight deck gleaming in the darkness, an expanse of shimmering water sluicing across the surface like a motorway during a downpour. She rolled away; then, in the confusion of that furious cauldron, she vanished as swiftly as she had emerged — it seemed to Stoddart that the apparition had flashed into view for only seconds; afterwards the signalman said he had timed its presence as lasting forty-seven seconds.
'I've lost her, sir.'
Dick swept back again for a final look. At first, he thought he was seeing Kazan's wash again, waves breaking in all directions. But then the grey furies seemed to divide. The seas were flying into the night, cascading high into the blackness, across something thicker, more opaque than the curling seas. He felt the kick in his guts again….
'There, sir! One of her screening destroyers!'
The captain was standing by him, feverishly searching. ' Where, soldier, for God's sake…?'
'I'm on now, sir. Green one-two-oh.'
'Got her…' the captain shouted. 'She's bashing straight through… Christopher! Look at that, soldier. Her main deck, right aft to her quarterdeck, is underwater. See the gap between her bridge superstructure and mainmast? She's no destroyer.'
Dick had picked her up for a few seconds, holding her in his circle of vision. He held the spectre momentarily, watched it merging into the spray that was swallowing her again.
'It's their relative sizes, sir,' Dick shouted, trying to steady his voice.' A cruiser, isn't she?'
The captain was snapping his orders at the signalman:
'Send out a Flash Report,' he commanded briskly. ' One Kiev carrier, probably Kazan, escorted by one Kara cruiser in position (quote our DR)… course 280°, estimated speed eighteen knots.' He turned to his navigating officer who was poring silently over the chart table, his pencil and parallel ruler flying as he traced the enemy's track.
'Where's that taking her, Pilot?' he shouted against the battering of the storm.
'Doesn't make sense, sir. Jan Mayen, if she holds that heading.'
The enemy report was cleared in seconds. The Commodore repeated it to CINCEASTLANT, then relaxed radar silence and used UHF to manoeuvre his Force. STANAVFORLANT turned in a forlorn attempt to hang on to the Russian ship who, probably, had not even sighted Gloucester. Within minutes, it be came obvious that the chase was futile: the enemy's radar echoes soon vanished as Kazan and her escort disappeared to the north-north-west.
For the remainder of the last dog watch, little was spoken on Gloucester's bridge. Stoddart sensed the frustration, the intense disappointment: the superior speed and the excellent sea-keeping qualities of those superb Soviet ships had never been brought home in such a traumatic manner.
Gloucester was a formidable warship: her dual purpose missile system, her Foxer and sonar; her chaff rocket-launchers and STWS torpedoes; and, above all, her Mark VII Lynx helicopter system would force a Russian to think twice, wherever she was encountered throughout the world. At last, we were catching up — but did we have the time? The bogey-man always had the initiative.…
Stoddart handed over his watch to the Sub. He had only three minutes in hand before his Divisional Meeting with the Royal's contingent at 1815. He wanted to be there to help the lieutenant who had only recently been appointed to Gloucester. Stoddart felt that the chap could cope now, because the drill had been standardized with the other frigates and destroyers. Gloucester's contingent was not being put ashore, because few of its Marines were arctic-trained and also because the contingent was vital to the manning of the destroyer.
The Divisional Meeting went well, cooped in the fug and warmth of the Royal Marines mess. The bulkheads and lockers dripped condensation: the arctic was no respecter of comfort. They had tried everything, but nothing dried, the dampness permeating everywhere. The Divisional Officer closed the meeting:
'And I know you'd like to thank Captain Stoddart for all he's done for us during his enforced stay. Good luck, sir, in Norway.'
They rose to let him edge past them. The stench of sweaty feet and stale vomit was getting even Stoddart down. ' Thanks,' he said. ' If I can get ashore. Depends on this bloody weather. Good luck to you lot in Gloucester.' It was 1925 when he reached the wardroom. He still felt queasy, so paused to read the bulletins pinned on the notice board outside the canteen. No one knew when the next mail could be expected, so the BBC news provided the only means of guessing what was happening at home. Propping himself against the bulkhead, he tried to focus on the news-sheets swaying backwards and forwards with the rolling of the ship.
So the Soviets were keeping up the pressure? Divisional troop movements on the Central Front yesterday, Boxing Day, while the Western world snored in front of its tellies, had been confirmed by SACEUR, and, meanwhile, the Murmansk Divisions were concentrating on the Kirkenes frontier.
The atrocious weather was preventing accurate reports on the movements of the Soviet Northern Fleet, although more outward sailings than normal of ballistic submarines from all their fleet were suspected. And then the home news caught his eye: the usual disquieting stuff to which Britain had become accustomed during these locust years.
The various European transport systems were struggling to cope with the chaos of cancelled bookings all over Europe — skiers were shuffling back and forth in both directions, unable to decide whether it was prudent to risk a few more days in the snow. By all accounts, it was a case of the survival of the fittest on the railways. Anarchy prevailed as usual at British airports; the weather and a festering go-slow of traffic controllers in Britain and France ensured the customary farrago — but, Stoddart felt, not many servicemen would be suffering those frustrations… The Home Office had its hands full, dealing with riot fever spreading in the big cities… was it too late, this time, to rise to the challenge, as always we had succeeded in doing before? And could the politicians give a lead now, after years of fostering the politics of envy? Would the Deputy Leader this time loyally back up his Prime Minister as that chap Attlee had done in World War II? Dick Stoddart shook his head and pushed open the wardroom door. Avoiding the chattering group of officers in the ante-room, moved straight into the dining annexe: a quick supper and then straight to his pit He had the morning watch which he shared with the first lieutenant.
17
It was very dark when Oileus Sea King dropped to the lights glimmering from the black abyss below the shuddering cab. Dick Stoddart returned aft, to his seat next the observer: the two pilots were concentrating on their approach drill into Harstad airport. He clipped on his safety belt, then tried to focus his thoughts on the job which lay ahead.
Gloucester's chopper had managed to transfer him to Oileus, for the gales had begun to moderate. COMSTANAFORLANT could not spare his principal air defence ship to approach the Norwegian coast in order to fly off her Lynx so the superior range of Oileus' Sea King had been exploited. These two imperturbable Dutch pilots were good news. They had just signed off from Andoya air strip, the most northerly and seaward of the Vesteralen islands: the observer had homed on the Andenes radio beacon and had picked up this wicked coast exactly where he expected it.