'Can't raise Sierra,' the signalman hailed.' It's past 0725 now. Shall I go on, sir?'
'Pack it in,' Stoddart replied. 'We don't want to cane our batteries too.'
Damn, no contact with Corporal Burns, who was one of the best NCOS Stoddart had known. The sooner communications were re-established the better.
'Driver Hawkins.'
'Sir?'
The Marine who was cleaning his teeth, swilled out his mouth, tried to salute with the stump of his toothbrush in his hand. The chuckles of the section were a needed tonic this morning. In the snow, no one stood on rank and this policy had amply justified itself. In the arctic, an officer lived with his men — cooking for them if he was the best cook — which was one reason why such comradeship existed among these magnificent men. Dick Stoddart felt proud of his section: what other bunch of guys displayed such loyalty, such versatility?
'Get the truck ready, Hawkins. Tell the signalman to load up the spare batteries. I'll go up to Sierra as soon as you're warmed up.'
Marine Hawkins disappeared and minutes later the sound of a starter motor grinding to a halt disturbed the stillness in the valley.
'You bastard!'
Stoddard finished his own tooth drill. Land-Rovers disliked -35°; by the time they had got the camphor stove going, heated the water and coaxed the truck into life, it was already past eight o'clock.
'Sir, will you wait for Sierra's 0810 call?' the signalman asked. 'They might have tried warming up their batteries.'
'Okay, I'll hold on.'
He waited impatiently until the fruitless exercise was over and then jumped into the Land-Rover. The surface was crisp; no problems for the climb. ' Keep a constant watch,' he shouted to the signalman. ' I'll keep in touch through my set in the truck.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
'Let's go.'
As the driver let in the clutch, he heard a shout from behind.
'Hold on, sir…' the signalman was yelling. ' Flash Report, sir, from Cornwallis.' Stoddart halted the truck, leaped out. Why was Ramsund HQ coming on the air out of routine? He heard the static of the signalman's receiver, then the measured voice of a staff officer, determinedly unflappable….
In the silence, the only sound was the coughing of the truck's exhaust and, from the birch woods below them, the croak of a ptarmigan. The carrier wave of die radio began crackling again:
'Flash — Flash — Flash,' the operator's voice snapped.
The signalman held up a hand…
'Stand-by, sir. There's another coming up,' he shouted, adjusting his headset. In the loneliness of their ambush position, perched above the vital road junction, die men listened to the awaited code word; some dreaded, some relieved, others elated. ' Command 42: Red Alert.'
The enemy had to fight his tanks past their vital junction, even if he was overrunning 45 in Nordland. 45's Brazen had at last been broadcast… It would be interesting to see how long they could hold out.
'It's no good sitting about on our arses here,' Stoddart snapped. ' Strengthen points of fire, while we take Sierra's batteries up to them. Stockpile the ammo, and see that it's easy to get at. Set up the Milan to cover both bridges… and nip down to the first bridge to check that the detonators are okay.'
He needed to jolt them into action: HQ'S sitrep had shaken them. At least everyone knew where they stood now: out on their own, miles from anywhere, short of ammunition.
The Land-Rover churned the snow, then settled to its four-wheel climb up the valley. By 0850 they were above Lulle; twenty minutes later they slid past the tributary from the lake westward of Helligskogen. The driver was hauling the vehicle out of a right-hand bend when he braked suddenly.
'Good God, sir, what's that?'
Through the frosted windscreen a yellow glow spread across the valley. The light jumped crimson at times, pulsing orange and throwing up cascades of sparks.
'Helligskogen's on fire,' Dick shouted. 'The town's ablaze.' He was turning towards the driver, when he saw the loom of a tank swinging rapidly towards them, down the centre of the road. He picked up the mike as the driver swerved, wrenching the Land-Rover round in two movements. They thrashed down the hill as the first missile streaked past them to explode in a puff on the rocks to the right.
'Flash — flash — flash!' Stoddart yelled into the mike. ' Contact Report. One: now. Two: three kilometres north Helligskogen. Three: enemy tank force: T-80. Four: proceeding north at speed down E seven eight. Five: withdrawing…' He paused to catch his breath; he could hear the signalman breathing at the Zulu end.' Contact — wait out.'
'This is Zulu. Message received. Will relay to 42. Out.'
The Land-Rover lurched, struggled round the bend. 'Unfriendly bastards,' the driver said as he flicked on his sidelights. ' Didn't even sound their bleedin' 'orns.'
22
'Slip the jackstay.'
Captain Trevellion nodded through the window to his first lieutenant standing in the starboard wing of Icarus. When the last line had gone and the telephone disconnected, he waved to the Dutch captain towering on his bridge above the diminutive frigate. 'Port ten…' Another RAS completed. He had lost count of the number, but Icarus had dropped below the acceptable fuel level after last night's debacle.
'You have the ship, Officer of the Watch.'
'I have the ship, sir.' The sub. was on watch again, more reliable since the bollocking which Trevellion had given him for passing too close under the oiler's counter. The captain could ease his tired brain for half an hour, while Icarus took up her position again on the south-east flank of the force. To the north he could distinguish the dark blur of the replenishment ship, hull down on the horizon and silhouetted against the dancing lights of the aurora borealis. Icarus was also running low on provisions and would have to replenish tomorrow.
Yesterday's Damage Control Exercise had been a success. Controlling emergency after emergency from his DC HQ, the Chief had been master of every complexity. Today's RAS had also gone welclass="underline" refuelling had taken threequarters of an hour, so he could nip down to his cabin for an uninterrupted spell in which to digest Rowena's long letter. She was coping in these difficult times but, reading between the lines, Ben was being very difficult.
He slumped in his chair, felt the weariness seeping through his limbs: last night had been one of intense strain for him, with its frustrating disappointments and fears. It was all too easy to see now where the mistakes had been made.
At 2300 last night, after turning north-east to sweep towards our SSN'S enemy report, the jamming had ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The interference had been directional, an arc blanketting the coast between the Barents Sea and a line of bearing of 210°. On receiving CINCEASTLANT'S new directive on radar silence policy COMSTANAVFORLANT had lifted the ban. Closing at speed on a course of 065°, Athabaskan's 265 radar had picked up echoes of what must have been the enemy's carrier group reported by our SSN off North Cape.
The Commodore had maintained his course and for twelve never-to-be-forgotten minutes both forces were racing towards each other at a relative speed of over sixty-five knots; shifting from the tracking to the firing mods, the enemy's radar was illuminating STANAVFORLANT — and the pulse and scanning rates were switching. The NATO force was also in all respects ready for battle, their weapon systems at the first degree of readiness. The ECM boys were hard at it and it had been a hairy few moments, with both sides' fingers caressing the triggers.