A Ravel of Waters

Geoffrey Jenkins

A Ravel of Waters PROLOGUE: War, 1980s Style

Classified: Top Secret. Red Code. Office of Issue: Task Force 24, Atlantic Fleet HQ, Norfolk, Virginia.

Monitored exchange of final signals between Orion T-3 on maximum-range search of Southern Ocean and Commander, US Naval Securities Group Activities, South Atlantic, Sector T-G-F South (Tristan da Cunha). Location of missing aircraft: Uncertain. Last position and intended movement reported on entering Southern Ocean Air-Launched Acoustical Reconnaissance Zone SSI on an effective air path of 220 degrees (true) between Lat. 440 South and Long. 140 West, approx. 850 sea miles SSW Tristan da Cunha. Time: 21’2’81 Mission: Top Secret. Acoustic Intelligence. Crew: 12 Report Orders: Special visual flight rules. Air reports in plain language. Weather at time of loss: Force 9 gale, severe maritime polar air mass (analysis by National Oceanic and Atmospheric Agency). Course, directional controlled automatic meteorological (special Antarctic compensations). Visibility, poor. Intercept Tracking and Control Group: Detached unit, US Naval Securities Group Activities, Tristan da Cunha. Surface Observation Report immediately prior to loss: Yacht in full sail, mysterious type of rig. No Mayday Evaluation of loss: Possible enemy underwater-to-air missile.

MONITOR: Tape input begins. The following is a verbatim reel of the cockpit tape of missing Orion T-3, the last flight deck conversations between Captain Bill Werner and his crew, as well as verbal reports by Captain Werner to Commander, US Naval Securities Group on the island of Tristan da Cunha, South Atlantic. Reel commences____________________

'Hello, NSGA, Bill Werner reporting, Orion T-3. Do you hear me?' 'I hear you. Bill. Readability, strength and tone okay. Shoot.' Fine. Fine. Time 0100 GMT. Estimated position 850 miles south-southwest of Tristan, approximately 600 miles south-southwest of Gough Island.' 'What the hell's wrong with your navigation. Bill? Can't you do better than that? Be exact. You could be anywhere.' 'Maybe I am, fellah. You should be here. I'm flying blind, dead blind. I reckon the top of the overcast could be anything up to 30,000 feet. There's a 50-knot gale. I'm plugging right into the teeth of it. Air speed is down to 200 knots – plane's guzzling gas.' 'What's your visibility?' 'Nil. I couldn't see another plane if it came into me. It's nine hours since take-off-and this ship can stay in the air for seventeen. Not at this rate though.' 'You're not going to crap out of the mission because of that, are you, Bill?' 'Who said I was crapping out? You should be here to see for yourself. This is one hell of a cockamamie search – acoustical reconnaissance, Jeez! All the acoustics I can hear is the sound of the goddam gale!' 'Nothing on your anti-sub plot? No malfunction of your electronic data-gathering gear? No intercept?' 'You're making my co-pilot piss himself laughing, fellah. I said, you should be here. This sort of flying is poker with everything wild. There isn't a damn thing from here to Cape Horn. Not a ship, not an island – nothing! It's all sea and gale and icebergs. As for a Red sub…!' 'What is your estimated time to the turn, Bill?' 'Could be anything. Depends on how much gas she consumes how far south I get. I'm at 10,000 feet now. I've been right down to 2000 and up to 20,000 looking for easier conditions. It don't make much difference to the gale. Hey, wait a moment…!'