Submarine

Farge nodded. 'I'm bringing the boat back now, Number One, to the far side of the lanes. Mines permitting, we should be in WP4 by 1430.' He plucked the broadcast mike from the socket on the deckhead. 'While I'm talking to the ship's company,' the captain said quietly, 'get me the latest batters readings.'

Chapter 20

Washington, 16 May.

Captain Trevellion spent the forenoon in the office of the Commander. British Navy Staff, Washington. Rear-Admiral Quarrie wore three hats: not only did he head the British team, he was also the liaison officer to SACLANT and the naval attache in Washington. He was an astute judge of character and, where women entered the scheme of things, he could pick a good-looker from his Wren officers. The second officer who was his personal aide ran his office and inner sanctum impeccably.

Quarrie had darted off for a working lunch with his opposite number on SACLANT'S staff, so Trevellion had snatched an hour's serenity before his ominous appointment at 1500 with Admiral Floyd, head of the American Navy and the First Sea Lord's counterpart. Trevellion and Quarrie had talked for an hour on the telephone this morning with Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Anthony Layde.

Though the perimeter forces, surface and submarine, were now disposed and having moderate success, the nucleus of Operation sow was splitting apart. Safari was adrift from her Zulu waiting position, if the first Typhoon should break out at her earliest predicted sailing time: 0001 17 May. Satellite 1 communications were disrupted for that area — and the less said about that the better. The Pentagon would neither confirm nor deny that five navsats and communication satellites had been destroyed in space. The President was clamping down on the issue, while the crucial days slipped by: the world was trembling in the balance as the protagonists waited upon the results of Operation so. It was not surprising that tempers were becoming short — and, as Sir Anthony had rasped, 'The buggeration factor is high enough already, Pascoe.'

There was a tap on the door and the Wren second officer entered the room:

'Vice-Admiral Hart is in his car outside, sir. He says he I won't come up because Admiral Floyd is back early from the White House. The admiral would like you both in his office at once.'

Hart had warned Pascoe.

On Trevellion's first encounter with the American Navy's boss and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the admiral had seemed a smooth, distinguished officer at the height of his power. The silver, close-cropped hair, the taut, strong face and the ready smile all suggested a likeable, highly competent officer: an acid tongue, perhaps, if goaded, but the overall impression was one of slick efficiency and geniality.

But Hart had been right…

Admiral Floyd was striding to and fro in his office when they entered. There was nothing casual today about the tall, lean figure who, hands clasped behind his back, paced the soft carpet. He wore few ribbons on his well-cut, light-weight blue uniform. His face was an icy, expressionless mask. He did not invite them to sit, but nodded at the captain standing by the projector. The lights dimmed and a chart of the northern hemisphere of the Pacific Ocean shone on the far wall.

'I've just come from the Secretary of Defense, gentlemen. The President's been giving him hell. Right, John.' A motley of red and green crosses were superimposed on the chart.

'Count them, gentlemen,' Floyd said. 'That's CINCPAC'S score to date: noon today.'

Trevellion saw that the crosses were bunched in three widely separated areas: three red crosses, the kills by CINCPAC'S attack submarines, were sprinkled about the Kurils; one on the edge of the Chukchi Cap inside the Arctic Ocean; one off Komandor Island in the Bering Sea, and one at each end of the Aleutian Trench. Kills by the Pacific Fleet's ASW forces were coloured green and totalled five; three in the wide ocean between Midway and the Aleutians; one in the Great Pacific Basin off the Marshalls, covering Sydney; and one, north of the Marquesas, well within range of either Panama or Los Angeles.

'Eleven, total,' Butch Hart said.

The projector clicked and the North Polar chart glared at them. Then up came the red and green crosses: one red in the Yermak Ridge, another in the Nansen Deep. The only green cross must have been an SSBN on passage, caught by Car. Vinson's Striking Force west of Spitzbergen.

Trevellion felt Floyd's eyes boring into him.

'Nato's bag?' the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff asked, his mouth a crimped line.

'Three,' Trevellion said.

'Two Yankees and a Delta I. SDE and sow together total fourteen.'