It was 1114 when the CR was completed. He ordered the officer of the watch to return to patrol depth. Eighty metres was a good depth for this area. During the winter in these latitudes, the seas were so shaken up by the gales that few layers formed.
A pity, in one way, because the layers were a comfort if being hunted; but when 329 was herself the huntsman, these good sonar conditions rendered her attacks certainties. Her speed saw to that, plus her new sonar.
329's mission, as laid down in her sailing orders, was simple: to report and shadow any enemy movements, to prevent enemy interference with the amphibious landings. The latter had taken place successfully without any support from Zragevski — STANAVFORLANT had reacted as expected by Minsk and her task force. When the Norwegian resistance finally collapsed and the Red Army consolidated its hold, the Red Banner Fleet would be freed from these restricting patrols. SSN 329 could soon quit her billet in Square 15, escape through the gaps and away into the Atlantic for her primary war station. Meanwhile, he had to contain his patience and to continue sweeping passively with his sonar, in the hope that the enemy might pass through his billet.
'May I come in, sir?'
'Sit down. You know I'm always glad to see my signal officer.' The kapitan grinned. 'What've you got this morning, Skopintzoff?'
'Five operationals, sir. I'm afraid we missed one of our indicator groups.'
'When's the next CR?'
'1145, sir.'
Zragevski swore with impatience. ' Tell the officer of the watch to start bringing her up at 1130.'
'Right, sir. Shall I leave these with you? There's a top classification.'
'Thanks.' He stretched out his hand for the decyphered signals. The first message was festooned with security priorities…
The message was banal, the sort of thing that had been coming through daily now. CINCKOL'S staff were having a field-day… ah-ha… an upping of the Rules of Engagement! About bloody well time. A Royal Navy destroyer had brought down a Backfire, had she? So all Northern Fleet units in Squares 1-28 were free of restrictions, if they considered themselves under threat of attack. ' If such a situation develops,' the signal stated, ' Commanding Officers arc to make every endeavour to destroy the enemy totally before, repeat before, the enemy unit strikes. Detached enemy units are priority targets because no trace of the sinking is desirable.'
Bureaucratic jargon — but at least the constraints were eased and he would not be fighting half-fettered. He sifted to the next message:
'Own Forces' Disposition' — so Minsk and her task force were back in the Barents? The infantry regiment had succeeded more completely than anyone had hoped… the ' iron ring' of Victors was being maintained until further orders. He swore beneath his breath, then continued reading:
'Enemy Forces' — A carrier ASW group (probably Glorious) had been reported in position one hundred miles north-west of STANAVFORLANT, the NATO hunting group. Priorities of targets were as follows:
One: the ASW carrier, Glorious, her support vessels, and then her escorts, in that order.
Two: STANAVFORLANT: its support ships, the Commodore's ship, Athabaskan, and the escorts, Gloucester, Jesse L, Brown, Icarus and Goeben, in that order.
Three: detached warships committed to defending the oil installations in the Norwegian and North Seas.
Enemy SSNS were distributed throughout Square 12, waiting presumably for outward Red Banner submarines. But the horse has already bolted from the stable, so we are content to allow the enemy SSN patrols to remain there…
There had been reports of at least two LRMPS Nimrod aircraft in his own Square 15, and one remained in his square at this moment.
He flipped over the next message, the sitrep on North Norway. All organized resistance was crumbling. The remnants of the enemy troops were taking to the mountains and the European reinforcements had never got into action. The remainder of the reserves were on their way back to the Central Front., The next signal was interesting: divers had succeeded in cutting the Fisk and Brent sea bed pipelines to the mainland, thanks to the diversionary action of the Red Fleet. All Soviet warships were to keep clear of the area because of pollution danger to hulls and electronic equipment.
Finally was an admonition to all submariners: ess gear was to be used at all times now that the ASW carrier group was in the operational area. Simple souls, he smirked to himself, there's no need to remind Boris Zragevski.
'Coming to CR, sir,' the officer of the watch reported. So it was 1130 already?
'Have you trailed the CSS?'
'Yes, sir — and sir?'
'What is it?'
'ess is indicating acquisition, sir. The red monitor's showing.'
The kapitan rose briskly from his chair.
'Acquisition? Sure?' 'Certain, sir.'
'Bring her up to CR depth. Be careful.' He grabbed his tunic from the hook by his bunk. ' Broadcast silent routine. I'm coming into the control room.'
The intercom repeated his command throughout the boat. Fans were stopped, ventilation was shut, men moved about in soft-soled boots. While the routines were being read, the weapons officer was interpreting the ess readings. He saluted as he approached the silent control room:
'So?'
'No doubt about it, sir. The CPDS has acquired. Identification of LRMPS frequencies is concentrated on the northern sector.'
'Close?'
'Difficult to estimate, sir. Not close, but in contact; the Nimrod's transmitting her data.'
Kapitan Zragevski remained standing by the all-round periscope, a rotund figure, his hands stuffed in his overall pockets. ' Shake it up with the CRS,' he snapped — but it was 1151 before the signal officer nodded from the watertight door at the after end of the control room.
'270 metres,' the kapitan ordered. 'Stop centre. Slow together outers. Port ten, steer 140°.'
He watched the officer of the watch, noted the planesman suddenly stiffening from his slumped posture of watch-diving routine. The sailors sensed the tension, while the depth-pointer swung round the gauge, slowing as she neared the 250 mark…
'270 metres, sir.' The officer of the watch looked round, a twitch of relief at the corners of his mouth. He hadn't made a halls of it.
At 1156 exactly they heard it, the unmistakable, nerve-racking sonar contact cracking throughout the boat.
'Active transmissions, sir. Surface ship. Not in contact. Bearing 210°, distant.'
'Very good.'
He nodded at the officer of the watch.
'Action stations,' he ordered brusquely. 'Shut all watertight doors.' The LRMPS Nimrod must be vectoring a destroyer towards 329's position.
'Full ahead three,' he snapped. ' Bring all tubes to the ready.'
He would put in a sharp burst, directly towards his hunter. Zragevski would keep going for fifteen minutes, to clear the LRMPS'S sono lay; then he'd stop, listen, review the new tactical situation….
'Plot, give me fifteen minutes.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
The time was precisely 1202. He wondered whether it was twilight yet up top?
It was the nonchalant voice of the Nimrod's captain which made up Pascoe Trevellion's mind for him. The LRMPS aircraft, Bravo One, had been vectoring Icarus, ever since the confirmation of the first sub. contact at 1134.
At 1143, Bravo One's pilot dropped the first hint of his problem. ' Sorry, Hotel Uniform, but we're getting low on fuel. I'm trying to whip up someone to take my place. Can I have the co-ordinates, please? Over?'