'Our nuke has made an amplifying report,' Captain Trevellion said. 'A heavy force is steering 264°, speed twenty-eight. STANAVFORLANT has been ordered to make contact and to shadow. The Commodore has ordered us to rendezvous at 2200, further north. He's disposed the force on a line of bearing across the enemy's track. Contact should be at any time after 2230. A white-out has clamped down in the Barents Sea, but its depression shouldn't be with us for a few hours yet. The electronic emission policy has been relaxed so there's a good chance we'll find 'em, if their jamming eases up.'
Hob had not known the Old Man to be so loquacious for a long time. The blue eyes glinted, but he was holding something back…
'Yes, sir?' Hob asked doubtfully. He wanted to add, 'so what?' Without her Lynx, Icarus was as vulnerable as a sitting duck.
'You'll be pleased to know, Hob, that the rules of engagement are becoming realistic. I can open fire if I believe the enemy is about to attack.'
Hob nodded. Comforting, but Icarus without Perdix would be blown out of the water as soon as the frigate's frequencies were picked up.
'Who's in the enemy force, sir?' he asked. 'Do we know?'
'A carrier and full supporting programme.' Captain Trevellion was twitching a scrap of paper from his pocket. ' Read that.'
It was from MoD, originator Westlands, info. COMSTANAVFORLANT. Westlands considered that it was operationally safe for all Mark VII Lynxs to continue flying for a maximum of another twenty-five hours.
'We don't have to disobey orders, after all,' the captain said. ' Get your whirly bird out of her shed and kit her up.'
Hob turned to leave the bridge.
'What armament, sir?'
'Sea Skua missiles. Be prepared for anything. The Commodore may have other ideas.'
Hob saluted and scrambled down the ladder for Rollo's cabin. So there was work to be done… he must check that the Mark VI torpedoes and the sonobuoy kit were ready for action.
21
Corporal Burns slept fitfully during that night. In their snow-hole they stripped off to their underclothes; each man took an hour's trick at remaining awake to watch the candle flame. By the early hours they were suffering the usual headaches. Burns never slept for the first night in a snow-hole, the unique existence being alien even for a Royal Marine. '
Grant eventually drifted into a restless sleep, but fears for his recovery were soon dispelled when the colour came back to his limbs. Only luck and swift survival drill had saved him.
At 0554 Burns slid from his sleeping-bag and dressed. Trying not to wake his snoring companions, he crept past the heavy-lidded watchman and crawled through the tunnel. He was used to the candle-light; he would remain here a few minutes to restore his night vision. He was not used to this cold: the thermometer hanging from a branch outside the tunnel entrance was showing -38°. He felt hungry. While waiting for the day's first radio check with Zulu, he might as well mentally check the rations remaining.
Twelve hours gone now — a quarter of their rations already devoured. They'd had one good evening meal — a tin of soup, biscuits, minced beef and gravy, apple sauce and chocolate pud. O'Malley was a dab hand at cooking, which made all the difference to the morale of a troop. He'd be getting the breakfast in half an hour, a meal which they craved in this cold. Even the dreary old oatmeal block, the hamburgers, the biscuits, the marge and jam, rounded off with tea, put heart into a man when he couldn't tell the difference between night and day…. Burns shoved back his sleeve with the edge of his mitt: 0610. He scrunched to the wall of the snow hole and picked up the radio telephone.
After the third attempt, Signalman Budd, Stoddart's communications' man came on the air. His voice was heavy with sleep as he accepted Burns' sitrep:
'Come in Sierra. You're very weak: strength three to four, over.'
'This is Sierra,' Burns repeated.' Wait one.'
He clumsily pushed up the control to full power, but the output needle quivered at only two decimal five.
'This is Sierra. Any better, Zulu?'
'This is Zulu — my sit: four-two all quiet.' There was a snick of the switch, but then Budd came back: ' We'll bring up the batteries on our milk run,' he said. ' We'll replace and put yours on charge, over.'
'Roger. Own sit. No change. Weather overcast, minus thirty-eight. Admin, nil. No general info., over.'
'This is Zulu. Next check 0710, out.'
'Roger. Out.'
The message had been barely intelligible. He'd be glad of the charged batteries. He stamped his boots, scraped the packed snow from soles and heels, slipped on his skis. He tested the release on his bindings, slung his rifle about his shoulders and shoved off down the slope. He'd call on Tucker, the dawn sentry, then make up towards the frontier post.
It had not snowed during the night, and the going was iron hard. Last night's frenzied tracks were still very visible, their flurry winding upwards towards the ambush's rocky escarpment. When he got back, he'd have them obliterated before the captain came up for his daily rounds.
'Okay, Tucker?'
'Fine, Corp. What's for breakfast?'
Tucker's white shadow had drifted from behind the snowcapped rocks, his rifle cocked. The white ski uniform gave good camouflage in these conditions. It was said that the Russian soldiers disliked moving in the snow… and Burns smiled to himself. They might take an aversion to these conditions, but Marines had developed a love-hate relationship with the Arctic — sweating it out in Guyana or freezing in the ice was all part of the job. He didn't wear the Royal's badge on his beret for nothing: the laurels surrounding the globe and the motto ' By sea and land' couldn't be more appropriate for the Corps. And, as he pushed his way upwards, the image of Margaret invaded his mind. She was as proud of the outfit as he was, which was the whole battle. Even if he wanted to slap in his notice, '73.
Margaret wouldn't let him, and once again her sweet face floated into his mind. She'd be getting up soon, seeing the kids were ready, before nipping down to Harry's little shop on the corner. He could see her so clearly, round and soft and comfortable, as exciting to hold now as she had been those seven years ago…. He was puffing as he reached the crest overlooking the Finnish frontier post. Huge snowflakes were beginning to tumble from the darkness, gently, silently, like feathers.
What must it be like to be vassals of the Russians? Impossible for a Brit to conceive: we took freedom for granted. If he had his history right, the Finns under Mannerheim had fought to the death, holding up the Russian colossus for over six weeks across those frozen lakes… He screwed up his eyes to peer into the gloom of those eastern ranges… over there, three hundred miles away, the monstrous beast squatted, waiting to lumber forwards across defenceless nations.
Then his attention was drawn to the increase in activity at the frontier post. A dozen or so individuals, impossible to distinguish in their winter clothing, had appeared and seemed to be interrogating the pair of sleepy customs men. The two Norwegians, on their side of the post, seemed to be enjoying the argument. A lighter flared and by the light of its flame he could see that the Norwegians were laughing their heads off.
Tucking the tops of his sticks into his armpits, he leaned forwards to take a breather. Between the road and the near side of the broad snowfield which was Lake Kilpisjarvi, he watched the headlights of several trucks, yellow glow-worms in the distance, threading their way through the falling snow as they approached the frontier post. They were a noisy lot… then, suddenly he realized that the growl of engines came, not from the road, but overhead, reverberating across the valley.