“Call me ‘Dick’,” the tall, handsome man in his fifties said to the unkempt former US Naval Attaché to the Court of Balmoral. “I hear you share our fervent desire to avoid further mutual unpleasantness between our two countries?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Reuters is reporting explosions and heavy fighting in the streets of Washington DC,” Tom Harding-Grayson said flatly, coming to a decision that he fully understood would be the making or the breaking of his career, and possibly of the British people.
Chapter 28
Commander Simon Collingwood stood over the Plot Table in the control room of the Royal Navy’s first — and only — nuclear-powered attack submarine while he methodically deconstructed, and then as painstakingly, reconstructed the operational plan he had been considering ever since the two United States Navy boats had latched onto HMS Dreadnought like a pair of four thousand ton steel limpets.
Both of Dreadnought’s jailors had similar acoustic signatures and since one of them, USS Scorpion, SN589, had been identified from a previous encounter by her sound profile, it was likely that both vessels were Skipjack class hunter killers. It was this realisation that had placed a malicious seed in Simon Collingwood’s mind.
Under the terms of the 1958 US-UK Mutual Defence Agreement Dreadnought had been constructed around exactly the same S5W reactor and propulsion system as the boats of the Skipjack class. Although the hull forms of the British and the American boats were different, they ‘sounded’ very alike, especially when they were in close company or making speed at a distance. This shared ‘acoustic profile’ was much less of a problem for the hunted than it was for the hunters who, in dire straits, had at all times to be absolutely sure they weren’t hunting the ‘wrong’ target.
The Commanding Officer of the Dreadnought had been observing how his jailors were going about their business for the last twelve hours. While it was clear that the American captains were manoeuvring independently; he’d seen enough to know they were both using the same, somewhat unimaginative ‘playbook’. Understandably, their priorities were to: one, not collide with each other or their ‘prisoner’, and; two, not to give Dreadnought any excuse to start a shooting war in which, most likely, all three boats would probably be sunk with all hands. While Simon Collingwood wasn’t planning to get himself killed — well, not if he could help it but accidents happened — if the price of getting out of jail was to risk a collision…so be it.
“Mr Forton,” he said quietly to his bearded Executive Officer, “the boat will come to Actions Stations. As loudly as possible, if you please.”
The other man grinned wickedly as he raised the intercom microphone to his lips.
“This is the Executive Officer. The boat will come to Action Stations! Repeat, the boat will come to Action Stations!” He nodded at the crewman opposite the plot. “Sound the collision alarm!”
The crew of the Dreadnought, pre-briefed, compartment by compartment, division by division clattered noisily about their business.
“Down planes,” Simon Collingwood called. “Ten degrees down angle. Helmsman, come left ten degrees…”
Right now the control rooms of the two shadowing Skipjack class submarines would be coming to life with a rude shock. Reports would be ricocheting off the bulkheads, heads would be being scratched, and watch officers urgently summoning their captains.
“Make you revs one hundred, Mr Forton.”
“One-zero-zero revs, aye, sir!”
“Reverse planes. Up angle ten degrees!”
Dreadnought’s turning dive became a rolling ascent as she slowly porpoised down and then up some one hundred and fifty feet in the water column.
“Scorpion has broken right and come up to ten knots. Away Doppler.”
The USS Scorpion had been trailing a thousand yards astern.
“Bandit one has come to a full stop, sir.”
The other boat had heard Dreadnought’s sudden, unexpected emergence from silent running and plotted her turn. Now she was listening; trying to work out what was going on. So far, so good. One jailor had broken away to reduce the collision risk, the other had passively stood off.
“All stop!” He called.
The boat stopped softly vibrating and glided to a halt at a depth of two hundred and thirty feet, slowly, imperceptibly at first, assuming a bow up attitude.
“Let’s have lots and lots of running about all over the boat impersonating headless chickens if you please, Number One.”
The word was passed and soon men were trampling up and down the boat, hitting bulkheads with wrenches and scraping anything that made an appropriately unhappy screeching sound against available exposed metal surfaces. And then Dreadnought’s bow rose higher and the boat began to slowly slip back into the waiting depths.
“Five zero revs please,” Simon Collingwood ordered.
At three hundred and thirty-five feet the boat’s gentle descent slowed and stopped.
“Four zero revs.”
Still the depth gauge remained steady.
“Three-zero revs.”
Dreadnought began to slip backwards.
“Three-five zero feet!”
“Three-six-zero feet!”
Simon Collingwood knew what the men in the American boats would be thinking. Dreadnought was in distress; and no submariner would ever wish that on another.
“Flood torpedo tubes one and two,” he ordered very quietly.
On an older, smaller diesel-electric boat the water rushing into the forward tubes would have been audible in the control room. Not so on the Dreadnought.
“Tubes one and two flooded down, sir!”
“Flood tubes three and four.”
Simon Collingwood didn’t believe the American boats would fire on Dreadnought but if they did he didn’t intend to die wondering. Both Skipjack class boats were standing off, slowly circling.
“One hundred revs if you please.”
“One-zero-zero revs, aye, sir!”
“Ten degrees left rudder. Hold the boat at two-seven-zero feet.”
HMS Dreadnought turned wide circles beneath the North Atlantic with her jailors watching from afar for over twenty minutes before turning onto a course that intersected the Portuguese coast north of Oporto, and increasing speed to twelve knots.
Obediently, the two Skipjack class jailors fell in behind the British submarine. After an hour one of the pursuers came alongside Dreadnought’s port side at a range of about five hundred yards, probing the renewed silence of her quarry.
Simon Collingwood had predicted the manoeuvre. The US skippers weren’t about to be lulled into a false sense of security because that wasn’t the way either the US Navy or the Royal Navy trained its submarine commanders. However, Dreadnought’s antics and her dogged attempt to head for Portugal would have suggested to them that their prey was damaged and therefore, less dangerous. Because of this it might make what he had in mind much more likely to work.
Another hour passed. The USS Scorpion trailed in Dreadnought’s wake, her companion boat quartered the ocean about a mile ahead.
“Full right rudder!” Simon Collingwood rasped. “Helmsman, reverse your course. Come down to four-zero revs please.” The acknowledgements rattled back.
The USS Scorpion might be trailing at the same depth as Dreadnought, or not. If she was then she was going to have to take drastic evasive action. Either way, the game had begun in earnest.
The jarring pings of active sonar shattered the quiet.
“That was Bandit One getting nervous, sir!” Reported the sound room. “Scorpion is still running silent.”