Frigate

'There's the dockyard, sir…'

Lieutenant Lochead was pointing through the windscreen: the mastheads and upperworks of the ships comprising STANAVFORLANT were ranged alongside the dockyard walls, the outer mole and across the outer arm. Glorious swung at anchor, a toy carrier floating on this sparkling turquoise sea that could be only Bermuda. L/RO Osgood drove slowly past the Bermudan policeman at the gates, then swung the Land-Rover in a half-circle across the white gravel of the dockyard.

A superbly proportioned, two-storied building of mellow light-grey stone brooded over the bustle which during this week had resurrected the defunct dockyard; many years had elapsed since the rusting hands on those black dials had chimed the passing of the hours from the twin square clock towers. STANAVFORLANT'S squadron was once more using Malabar; a sign of the times and of the mounting tension which Russian naval might was provoking.

'Icarus is the outboard ship in the trot,' Lochead was saying. ' The first lieutenant thought you might like to sail earlier than the others tomorrow — to get the feel of her, sir.'

Trevellion nodded. He could see the sidesmen of the German frigate, Goeben, mustering smartly at the gangway. Her officer of the watch was discreetly signalling to the ship on Goeben's outboard side. Trevellion jumped from the Land-Rover and nodded to L/RO Osgood who was extricating his gear. He smoothed the jacket of his lightweight grey suit and placed his felt hat squarely on his head. Then he strode towards the brow leading on to Goeben's upper deck. He raised his hat to the officer's salute, walked briskly across the ship's quarterdeck. Icarus's gangway staff were at attention, the officer of the watch facing the brow. Trevellion heard the side party being called to attention; noted the lieutenant-commander scurrying to take his place alongside the officer of the watch, fastening the top button of his reefer as he saluted. He must be Jewkes, the first lieutenant, who had been holding the weight since Roger Nicolson departed three days ago.

Captain Pascoe Trevellion, Royal Navy, stepped on to the quarterdeck of his new command. He stood at attention, raised his hat, first to the officer of the watch, then to those manning the gangway; he turned finally towards the stern again, doffed his hat to the white ensign which was fouled around the ensign staff. Then he turned to meet the first of his officers.

'Lieutenant-Commander Jewkes, sir,' the first lieutenant said, introducing himself. Trevellion took the man's podgy hand, noted the caution in his brown eyes. He was stockily built, about five foot nine. His hair was on the long side and his sandy sideboards were well down his cheeks. His bushy eyebrows emphasized the ' yo-ho' image he seemed to project…. Jewkes then introduced the officer of the watch:

'Lieutenant Gubbay, sir — our Senior Watchkeeper.'

Gubbay, a solid-looking man, probably 'Special Duties', saluted smartly and looked his captain squarely in the eye.

'And the Master-at-Arms, sir,' Jewkes continued,' Fleet Chief Campbell.'

Trevellion liked the look of Icarus's senior rating — his face was gaunt and lined, with the amused, sky-blue eyes of the Highlander.

'Where d'you come from, Master?'

'Wester Ross, sir. Ullapool.'

The Master-at-Arms was lean, with no spare fat on him. Trevellion turned to his first lieutenant:

'I haven't much time before sailing to meet the ship's company, so I'll do rounds of the ship tomorrow afternoon at 1430. Presumably you'll be giving Saturday afternoon leave on Saturday, Number One… till midnight?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. I'll see heads of departments in my cabin tomorrow morning.'

'Ship will be under sailing orders, sir?' the Master-at-Arms asked.

Trevellion nodded. " I'll be slipping at 0600 on Sunday. I'll be carrying out ship-handling manoeuvres in the Sound, before the Force sails. Thank you, gentlemen.'

'I'll lead the way, sir.' The first lieutenant trekked for'd through the screen door, along the main passage — the Burma Road, the troops called it — up one ladder to the officers' quarters — and then another to the captain's cabin beneath the bridge.

'The bosun's mate is bringing your gear, sir.' Jewkes drew back the curtain in the cabin doorway. He nodded towards the white-jacketed figure standing motionless in the pantry:

'Leading Steward Rowlans,' Jewkes continued. 'Your steward, sir.'

The slight, neatly turned-out rating smiled nervously, his face glistening in the artificial lighting.

'Welcome to Icarus, sir.'

Trevellion felt he was in luck with Rowlans.

'Would you care to come down to the wardroom, sir? The officers are there to meet you,' the first lieutenant was saying.

Trevellion did not answer immediately. Then he faced Jewkes and said quietly:

'I'm used to the captain meeting his officers for the first time on the quarterdeck, Number One.' He stared into Jewkes' cautious eyes. ' Be so good as to assemble them aft at once.'

The first lieutenant hesitated, then turned for the door.

'I'll report, sir, as soon as they're mustered.'

'Ten minutes,' Trevellion snapped. He turned to his steward:

'My uniform, please, Rowlans — number one suit.'

Captain Trevellion was experiencing that numbed mental and physical state produced by jet-lag. He found it difficult to realize that forty-eight hours had elapsed since taking over command on Thursday: it was now 1345 on Saturday afternoon, 8 December. He had interviewed all his heads of departments during this Saturday forenoon, and now he felt he must lunch alone in his cabin. Rowlans had sensed his captain's exhaustion and had unobtrusively turned down the bunk in the inner cabin.

'You're right, Rowlans,' Trevellion smiled. ' Give me a shake during the first dog. I'll see the navigating officer before dinner.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Pascoe stripped to his pants and climbed between the sheets. It was warm despite the air-conditioning, and sleep eluded him. His thoughts were in a turmoil after these crowded hours. The impending problems seemed out of proportion, no doubt, because of his jet-lag. But he could not dispel the disquiet niggling at the back of his mind; again he felt that unease he had experienced during his rounds of the ship yesterday afternoon….

He had deliberately not hurried his tour of the ship. He wanted to meet as many of Icarus's company as he could, so he concentrated on the messes. He began in the chief's mess, the Master-at-Arms introducing the men upon whom the navy most depended. Icarus's chief petty officers seemed a good lot, friendly and relaxed: most were in overalls, straight from their various jobs.

'Our Fleet Chief Marine Engineering Artificer, sir,' the MEO (Marine Engineer Officer) introduced. ' He's leaving us when we get back to Devonport.'

Trevellion regarded the lightly-built Fleet Chief in the white overalls.

'And where are you off to?'

'I don't know yet, sir.' Then the MEO, Lieutenant Sparger, explained quietly: ' He's been promoted to Fleet Chief, sir. I was hoping his relief might have joined in Bermuda: there won't be much time for a turnover.'

Trevellion sensed the appraisal of these men grouped around him. He knew that they were assessing him as closely as he was trying to judge them: these steady men, skilled technicians every one of them, without whom the ship would be only a floating steel hulk. Highly intelligent, these senior ratings were truly the navy's backbone. These men had given longer service than most; they had watched the navy's evolution during these difficult years of change. They had brought up the youngsters, kept the complex machinery and electronics functioning, provided the firm rock upon which young and unsure young officers could lean. Trevellion felt satisfied as he quit their mess.