'On this auspicious occasion, Bernie, I bet you're giving us " herrings-in": mustn't go wild during these difficult days…'
'Take no notice of the Philistines, sir,' the patient Towke replied, resignation on his face as he smiled at Trevellion. ' They're jealous of us pussers.'
The conversation warmed and Trevellion was soon able to observe his officers discreetly. Jones was an unflappable technician, highly qualified and immensely proud of his large weapons department. In a small ship, it was a truism that each man depended on his opposite number; each watch upon the other; and each department upon the others: there was no room for the 'skiver'. The WEO (Weapons Engineer Officer) shared with the MEO the responsibility of keeping efficient the technical running of the ship.
Lieutenant-Commander Jones had cause to look weary; he was responsible directly to his captain for the three electrical categories of his branch, Radio, Control, and Ordnance: ' trickle-drafting' played the same havoc with his department. Jones' concentration was divided as he listened with his other ear to the discussion opposite, between the cadaverous, gaunt-faced Principal War Officer (Underwater), Lieutenant-Commander Julian Farge, and the helicopter pilot's observer, Lieutenant Rollo Daglish. Both had finished the snapper and were leaning across the table — Towke had provoked the argument:
'They'll have to honour the promises they made: there are too many men in the ship slapping in their notices.'
'But Jack will never catch up at this rate.' The speaker Was a pleasant-faced, fair-haired lieutenant sitting at the far end of the table. This was Alastair McKown, a university entrant and the PWO (Air) — he had sharp eyes and a sardonic twist to his mouth: ' I can never understand why we don't always have a national government. The two-party system is self-destructive if its tolerance is abused and manipulated by the wreckers.'
'No one thought our new national government would honour the Pay Code.' The Senior Watchkeeper, Sam Gubbay, peered across from the far side of the table.
Jewkes banged the table with his gaveclass="underline" ' Gentlemen, we've had enough of this conversation. When I first came to sea, discussion of pay was taboo. You can add it to our other three verboten topics, gentlemen,' Jewkes continued, rapping the table again. ' Politics, religion and women — '
'Nothing worth talking about,' the helicopter pilot murmured. There was laughter from that end of the table.
'What's his name again?' Trevellion asked Jewkes quietly.
'Gamble, sir.' He called across to the Lynx pilot: ' How d'you get your name, Hob?'
Gamble glanced across at Jewkes, face dead-pan:
'Had an argument during flying training, with a double-decker bus, sir.' He turned towards his captain, as he fiddled with the spoon in front of him. ' At my court-martial, the prosecution's main witness, the bus driver, a Pakistani, insisted on addressing his pride and joy as his " hobnibus".'
Trevellion chuckled: it was obvious that Hob Gamble was liked in the mess: he and his observer, Lieutenant Rollo Daglish, were the only officers who regularly risked their lives. Gamble was one of the navy's best chopper pilots, having come top of the air-sea rescue stakes at Culdrose last year. Icarus' new Lynx helicopter, was the first of the modified Mark VIIs, and Hob had been selected to carry out trials on her.
'Hob'll never find a Russian, not if Rollo's navigating…'
The chat began to rattle across the table. These men were used to each other: they had learned tolerance over the months, making allowances for each other's foibles. Trevellion, no longer scrutinized, was able to listen to the chat around him. And then came the inevitable topic, the reason for Icarus' existence; it continued down the table and even the sub-lieutenant, the tall, rangey Firebrace, was shyly taking part.
The Russians' magnificent fleet, its aggressiveness and its harrassment of the NATO navies produced a different reaction in the Royal Navy than in the breasts of politicians. Most sailors were all for annoying the Russians on every possible occasion, instead of weakly playing the Russians game of one-sided detente. The new men in the Kremlin had never been bloodied in battle, could not remember the Great Patriotic War. Now that there was subversion inside the Soviet Union, sometimes induced from outside her frontiers, the untried and unknown Kremlin masters might be compelled to divert the discontent of the masses. What easier solution than the traditional appeal to the patriotism of the Russian? The temptation to strike while she could still win might be irresistible to the younger team in Moscow. There could be doves amongst the hawks, even in the Kremlin; using conventional weapons, the idea might be growing that a trial of strength in the remote wastes of the Atlantic would be preferable to the devastation of the planet with nuclear annihilation.
'They're winning without firing a shot,' Farge was saying. ' They don't need to fight if they manipulate the weapon of inflation given to them gratuitously by the Arab oilmen. The Russian leaders have repeatedly told us they aim to destroy us and our system, so why shouldn't we believe them?'
Jewkes said, 'By building up their military might, they're forcing the West to spend money we haven't got. This makes us live beyond our means: that's inflation. The Russians don't need to provoke a hot war: they're wrecking our economies by subversion and by forcing us into a one-upmanship armament game.'
'If the Soviets cut our oil route round the Cape, that means war, whatever our collaborators may say,' Jewkes said. 'The Yanks aren't so diplomatic, now they've the Chinamen on their side…' He added as an afterthought,'… and NATO.'
Neame said: ' That's all too remote: they'll try much nearer home.'
'Iceland?' Farge murmured.
'The Yanks will never allow it,' Ivor Jones said. ' Even if the Icelanders invite the Russians, the island is still vital to NATO. Don't forget the West's early warning chain depends entirely upon Iceland's radar.'
McKown, the honours degree man, chipped in again. 'The Faeroes and northern Norway — that's where they'll probe — North Cape is now America's eastern frontier.'
Trevellion had remained silent, listening to his officers. The stewards were discreetly waiting to clear the table. Jewkes passed the port and then banged the hammer:
'Mr Vice: the Queen.'
Sam Gubbay, acting as vice-president at the after-end of the table, raised his glass:
'Gentlemen: the Queen.'
The glasses were raised, the toast was drunk… Trevellion noted the supercilious smirk on the navigator's face. For an instant their eyes met and from then on Trevellion knew from which quarter he could expect trouble. The cynical, contemptuous Brian Neame had caught the malady of the times: patriotism, for him, was archaic. In Trevellion's opinion, doctrine such as this would bring Britain to the brink: the captain inclined his head towards Jewkes who was speaking softly into his ear:
'Please excuse the Officer of the Day, sir. He's wanted by the Master-at-Arms.'
The Officer of the Day slipped out through the door and Trevellion caught a glimpse of the upright figure waiting outside in the flat. The Master-at-Arms, Fleet Chief Campbell, file-board in his hand, was an impressive figure.
They adjourned to the ante-room where Ivor Jones poured the coffee. Before they had finished the telephone buzzed. Gubbay answered it, then turned to the first lieutenant:
'For you, Number One,' he said, handing him the instrument. 'The Hamilton police.'
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