We were coming in from the west at an oblique angle, the bulk of the Aurora B gradually blotting out the shape of the other tanker, which was about a mile to the east. The Dover cliffs showed as a dirty white smudge on our port side and there were several ships in the westbound lane, foam at their bows as the waves broke over them. Closer at hand, two small drifters danced on the skyline, and almost dead ahead of us, I could see the ungainly lanterned shape of a light vessel. ‘The Sandettie,’ Cdr Fellowes said. ‘We’ll be in the deepwater channel in ten to fifteen minutes.’ Behind him the radio suddenly poured out a torrent of French. It was the fishery protection vessel now shadowing the tankers from the eastbound lane. We could just see it past the Aurora B’s stern steaming north-east ahead of a large ore carrier. ‘Ready?’ Fellowes asked me, and I nodded, though I didn’t feel at all ready. What the hell was I going to say to Hals?
I was still thinking about that, the loud hailer gripped in my hand, as he led me out on to the starb’d side deck below the tall square needle of the radar mast. The Tigris was turning now, her speed slowing as we ranged alongside the tanker’s superstructure. I could see the length of its deck, all the pipes and inspection hatches that I had stumbled over in the night, the long line of the catwalk. And right above me now the wheelhouse with faces I recognized framed in its big windows. Sadeq was there and the Canadian, Rod Selkirk, and two men I didn’t know, both of them dark and bearded. And then Hals appeared, his pale hair and beard framed in the glass of the bridge wing door. I raised the loud hailer to my lips. Captain Hals. I had my finger locked tight round the trigger and even my breathing came out in great audible puffs. This is Rodin. Trevor Rodin. I was with you in the Gulf, that khawr — remember? It’s Rodin, I repeated. Please come out on to the bridge wing. I want to talk to you.
I thought he was going to. I saw the uncertainty on his face, could almost read his intention in the expression of his eyes. We were that close, it seemed. I must speak to you, Pieter. About pollution. He moved then. I’m certain of it, reaching out to slide open the door. But then Sadeq was beside hum am one of the others. A moment later they were gone, all three of them, the glass panel empty.
‘Ask for his destination,’ Fellowes said. ‘That’s what CINCHAN wants and he’s got the SoS breathing down his neck. Try again.’
But it was no use. I kept on calling over the loud hailer, but there was no response. And no faces at the window, the bridge appearing blind now as the tanker ploughed on. ‘Well, that’s that, I guess.’ Fellowes turned away, walking quickly back to his wheelhouse. I remained there, the wind on my face, sensing the heel of the ship as the Tigris pulled away from the tanker, dropping back until the light vessel became visible beyond the blunt rounded stern. It was so close now that the name SANDETTlE stood out very clear on its hull. We were in the deepwater channel.
It was then, just as I was turning to follow the captain back into the shelter of the frigate’s bridge, that something happened, up there on the tanker’s high superstructure. The door to the bridge wing was suddenly slid back, four men stumbling out in a cloud of thick billowing smoke. And the tanker was turning. I could see the bows shifting away from us, very slowly. She was turning to starb’d, towards the Sandettie bank, towards the other tanker. And her speed was increasing. She was drawing ahead, her stern turning towards us so that I could no longer see what was happening, the bridge wing empty, no sign of anybody, only the smoke hanging in a haze behind the superstructure. I dived back into the frigate’s wheelhouse and as I came through the door I heard Fellowes’ voice calling: ‘Tigris to Coastguard. Something odd going on. The Aurora B is shifting course. She’s turning to starb’d. Also she’s on fire. There’s smoke pouring out of the wheelhouse area. Looks as though she intends to close the other tanker. Over.’
‘Any change of speed?’ It was Evans’s voice.
‘Yes, she’s increased at least a knot. Her bows are pointing diagonally across the channel now. And she’s still turning…’
‘Aurora B. Aurora B.’ It was Evans again, his voice a little higher. ‘You’re standing into danger. Ghazan Khan. This is Dover Coastguard. We have you on our radar. You are approaching collision course. I repeat — collision course. You are standing into danger.’
Silence then. A deathly hush on the frigate’s bridge and the tanker still turning. And just below the clouds, circling ponderously, was the Nimrod, the pilot quietly confirming that from where he was, right above the tankers, collision appeared inevitable. Then, suddenly, a new voice: ‘Tigris. This is the Secretary of State for Trade. I want you to stop that tanker, put a shot across the bows. Acknowledge.’
‘I can’t, sir,’ Fellowes replied. ‘Not at the moment. She’s stern-on to us and the other ship’s right ahead of her in the line of fire.’ And almost in the same breath he was dictating a signal to CINCHAN and ordering gun crews closed up. The loudspeaker crackled into life again, a different voice calmly reporting: ‘On collision course now.’ It was the watch officer on surveillance duty in the Radar Room fourteen miles away. ‘Two minutes forty-seven seconds to impact.’
‘My God!’ It was the Minister again. ‘Tigris.’ His voice was suddenly firm and decisive. ‘That rogue tanker. Open fire immediately. On the stern. Take the rudder off, the propeller too.’
‘Is that an order, sir?’ And as the Minister said, ‘Yes, yes, an order,’ a voice I recognized as Saltley’s said, ‘If that Navy ship opens fire, I have to tell you it could be argued later that you were responsible for the subsequent collision.’
There was a short silence. Fellowes was handed a signal, gun crews were reporting and the frigate was gathering speed, turning to starb’d. I could see the bows of the Aurora B, now barely half a mile from the long low shape of the ship she was going to ram, and in that moment I had a clear mental picture of the wheelhouse and Hals standing there in the smoke and flame steering his ship to total destruction. It was deliberate. It had to be. Like Karen — immolation, death, it didn’t matter, the object a disaster that would shake Europe into action. And in the silence the Minister’s voice shouting, ‘Open fire, man. Hurry! There’s barely a minute to go.’
I heard Fellowes give the order, and in that same moment a new voice erupted on the air: ‘Rodin! Are you there? Can you hear me?’ It was Pieter Hals. ‘It’s fixed now. Nothing they can do.’ There was a crash, a spurt of flame from the for’ard gun turret and instantaneously a matching eruption from the tanker’s stern. It was low down on the waterline, a single shot, and the whole blunt end of the Aurora B instantly disintegrated into a tangle of steel, like a sardine can ripped open at one end. The ship staggered at the impact, smoke and flames and the debris of torn-out steering gear and bollards splashing the sea. But it made no difference. The gaping hole, and the sea rushing in — it didn’t alter her course, it didn’t stop her progress through the water. With her steering entrails hanging out of her stern she went ploughing on, and in the sudden silence Hals screaming, ‘It’s fixed, I tell you. Nothing you can do about it. Seconds now…’ There was a noise like ripping calico, the sound of a great gasp of air — ‘Go-o-d!’