As the crews of the fleet looked out at Russia now, something stirred in the hearts of many of them. They sensed that they were steaming into a page of history even if that history could not in fact ever reach the printed page. Some of them grinned to themselves in anticipation as they eased stiffened fingers in frost-coated woollen gloves and went on staring through their binoculars. Others, below decks, as they turned oil-fuel jets in the boiler-rooms, or greased machinery, or simply woke up to one more day, were having similar feelings — particularly aboard the Lord Cochrane, now steaming so unexpectedly on her last voyage. Orders were being obeyed smartly and there was joking in the places where men worked, the brittle jokes of men before action begins. They were keyed-up, tense — but not unduly worried. They would get away all right, even if they did get a few broken limbs and a dowsing in the cold waters of the port approaches; it wouldn’t be long before the helicopters had them nice and safe and drying out with a tot of rum aboard the carrier. Old Carleton, he always looked after his men.
He wouldn’t fail them now.
Ready for anything that might happen, the cold wind sighing through the steel-wire standing rigging of the ships and cutting across their decks, the fleet steamed on for Moltsk.
At noon, with ninety minutes to go now, Shaw was on the cruiser’s navigating bridge with Captain Wilson, waiting for the last reports to come in from the Engineer Officer. Shaw had asked if he could be aboard the Lord Cochrane for the operation and he had been delighted when Carleton had arranged with Wilson to let him handle the ship himself. He was now wearing a blue battledress uniform with the stripes of his rank on the shoulders — a uniform lent him by the cruiser’s own commander so that when he entered Moltsk he would be, to all intents and purposes, just another ordinary naval officer. Peter Alison had vanished, and Shaw hoped with a certain amount of unkind pleasure that the MVD were still being kept busy looking for him.
Within the next half-hour the voice-pipe from Number Two engine-room whined and Wilson bent to answer it.
“Forebridge. Captain here.”
The Engineer Officer reported, “Numbers One and Four engine-rooms ready, sir, with steam for full speed.”
“Thank you, Chief.” Wilson, a square, stubby man with a cholerically red face, nodded in satisfaction. “Think everything’s going to hold together all right?”
“Yes, sir.” The voice came thin and hollow up the pipe. “For long enough, anyway.”
“Good. I’m going to put the telegraphs to half ahead now for all four engines, Chief, and I want revolutions for eighteen knots — in other words, we keep to the present speed of the fleet for the time being. We shall increase speed gradually, all ships together, so that by the time we’re coming into position to alter on to the collision course, we’ll be going ahead at twenty-five knots. That means our own subsequent increase to full won’t be quite so immediately noticeable to the people on the tower, not until it’s too late anyway — we hope! All right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, we’ll be in position for the run-in in sixty minutes approximately. I can’t be more precise than that, because of the variations in speed. But when I want your full power, I’ll give you a five-minute warning first, then I’ll ring down Emergency Full Ahead. That’s your cue. I’ll want the lot then, Chief — all four shafts flat out and a bit more.”
“You’ll get it, sir.”
“Thank you. You’ve done wonders in the time available.” Wilson slammed down the polished brass cover of the voice-pipe and turned to Shaw. He asked, “Like to take over now?”
“With pleasure, sir.” Shaw looked all round as he stepped to the Captain’s customary position in the starboard for’ard corner of the bridge, feeling a peculiar thrill in being back aboard a ship again and in full control, if only for so short a time. He said, “I’d just like to run through the drill once more, if I may.”
Ashore in Moltsk the Minister of Defence had arrived in the dockyard to meet the ships and to be present when the button was pressed in the tower’s control-room, when months of planning and seditious intrigue would come to their final fruition. Already he saw himself as Chairman of the Council of Ministers of the Supreme Soviet, the lawful holder of which office was currently — though not so overtly that the Russian people knew about it yet — in house-arrest within the Kremlin walls, together with the President and other high officials of the State — men who were known violently to oppose the Minister of Defence and his colleagues.
Just now the Minister was waiting in the naval Commander-in-Chief’s office, having decided to have a word with the Admiral before going with the other V.I.P.’s to the outer mole for the official reception of the British fleet.
He asked, “You have your precautions all ready, Admiral?”
“But certainly! I do not anticipate using them, but they have been made as ordered. A helicopter will be spotting above the ships as they come in, Minister, and will at once report any activity aboard them. There will also be the guard ship standing by, of course. The British will not be able to close up their guns’ crews unobserved, I promise you that—”
“Good.” The Minister nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You will ensure that there are no mistakes and that everyone is alert. The fleet must be destroyed at once if they attempt to use their armament.” He turned away and walked over to a big window, where he stared out into the yard. In spite of his outward confidence, doubt and anxiety was invading the Minister’s mind now. Was Carew really dead after all… and what had happened to that apparently so unimportant Englishman, Alison? He had vanished without trace, despite the best efforts of the infallible MVD Carew, again… he must be dead, of course. It fitted, as he had told himself earlier. Yes — it fitted. Possibly, then, all was well. And certainly failure at this stage was simply not to be thought of. When the earth tremors from the fissure shook Moltsk and then when the reports came through from the tower in confirmation that everything had gone off according to plan… then he would officially take over the Government. The proclamations already printed would go up in the government buildings and the public places all over the Soviet Union, and the people would find themselves willy-nilly under the new regime. It would be too late for them to protest, except at the peril of their lives. He, the Chairman of the Council, leader of a mighty world-powerful country, would turn to the British Admiral in consternation, say that something terrible must have happened, that something had gone wrong. When the full news broke he would express heartfelt contrition, offer his condolences on the virtual extinction of a country, would promise retribution on those responsible for such a terrible calamity. The Russian people, he would say, would be shocked and horrified, would demand that the Old Guard whose ineptitude had allowed such a dreadful thing to happen be hounded out of the Kremlin… and, later, the British ships would be allowed to sail away to what was left of their shattered country, the great pretence being kept up right to the end for the benefit of the watching world.