War with Russia

“Enough.” The Captain held up his hand and smiled and Bush knew he had got away with it as Narborough, with his typical arrogance, assumed that it was his own good name he was worried about, rather than the safety of the ship and its crew. In fact, Bush realized in a moment of grim humor, he had probably just done what was needed to get an “outstanding” on his next Annual Report. Next moment his guess was confirmed.

“But don’t think I don’t appreciate your concern, Number One. It’s been noted. Relax. It’s not going to happen. The Russian navy has never recovered from the rusting hulks in Murmansk after the Cold War. It’s manned by conscripts. They’d never dare come near us. Now, I’ll see you at the O Group at 1900 hours.”

Bush had said what needed to be said and knew he could go no further. He stood up and saluted.

“Aye aye, Sir.”

Bush left the Captain’s day cabin. Fat lot of good that did, he thought, but someone had to say it.

Bush decided to walk the ship again, talk to the sailors who were making things happen and get a feel for the atmosphere. As he emerged into the huge space of the hangar deck, a scene of frantic activity met him. Pallets of stores were being unloaded from trailers by working parties of sailors, while the Viking armored vehicles, Land Rovers and light guns of the Army’s commando gunners were being parked along the sides of the hangar to make space for incoming helicopters. At the heart of it all, directing, cajoling and gripping any slackers, Bush saw Executive Warrant Officer Geordie Rae, the senior Warrant Officer on board and a man who knew better than anyone how the lower deck ticked. I’ll get the truth from him, Bush said to himself, making his way through the chaos.

Rae was a forthright Mancunian, who had known Bush since they were both junior Able Seamen seventeen years earlier, and the close bond of friendship, formed as young men, had lasted after Bush was commissioned. Rae spotted Bush and immediately grinned, braced up and saluted. They might be old shipmates, but now Bush carried the Queen’s Commission the usual formalities applied.

“Morning, Sir. Good to see you… Come to see how the troops are getting on?”

“Exactly, Geordie.” Bush was not one to stand on ceremony. “How are the vibes?”

“Where do you want to start?” Rae wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand and gestured to the working party he’d been directing to carry on with their task.

“You’ve no need to worry about the quality of the crew or the ship. They’ll be more than up to the mark…” Rae dropped his voice, clearly anxious not to be overheard being anything but positive. “But don’t kid yourself that all is well. The guys and girls are seriously worried. We’re pushed to man the ship properly, so each watch is light on people; it’s criminal that, to save money, the amphib Bulwark hasn’t got any hangar space for helicopters, so we’ve got to keep her helicopters on board here. The Lord alone knows how that will work out at the sharp end, when the bootnecks on Bulwark need urgent transport. A midshipman on his first day at sea could tell you that bit of bean-counter-inspired ship design is a lethal cock-up just waiting to happen. Then, to cap it all, one of the Type 23 anti-sub escorts is on its last legs. Apart from that, it’s all peachy… Sorry to whinge, but you did ask.”

“What’s the score on the Type 23?” Bush asked.

“Kent is only fit for the knacker’s yard,” replied Rae. “My mate is her Executive Warrant Officer and he tells me she’s fucked; that she’s well overdue a full refit. Strictly between us, and it would be his arse on the line if this went any further, when she put into Portsmouth at the end of her last trip her skipper was no longer willing to risk going to Full Ahead in case she blew something. The chances of her generators and turbines lasting around the North Foreland are pretty much zero. Then we’ll be down to one anti-sub escort… and what if one of the Type 45s decides to blow its generator? Then we’d be right royally buggered. I’d have hoped for four Type 23s; two might just have sufficed, but not if things go tits up out there. One can’t begin to do the job.”

“Thanks, Geordie,” said Bush quietly. He knew that this was a coded signal that morale was more than fragile and that the Navy was being asked too much of this time. “There’s no getting around it. The cupboard’s bare. Something like this wasn’t meant to happen and certainly not in Europe. We still haven’t recovered from that crazy assumption in the 2010 Defense Review that we’d never have to go to war again, so the clever dicks in the MOD never thought we’d have to assemble another Task Group in double-quick time. Trouble is, as you know, the other anti-sub escorts are either spread to the wind doing other stuff or they’re in refit. We’ve just got to do the best we can, Geordie, God help us.”