Sea Leopard

'

'They're looking for her,' Clark remarked unnecessarily.

'We conclude an intensive search of a very small area of the seabed, especially inshore. Two Tupolev “Bear”-Cs function exactly similar to our own, are also on station in the immediate area. All units are aware of us, we conclude. Over.'

Aubrey glanced around at Clark, then at Copeland.

'You can speak to Squadron Leader Eastoe now,' Copeland informed him.

'I realise that, young man. I am merely considering my reply.' Aubrey remarked frostily. He paused. The open channel hummed in the silence.

'Squadron Leader,' he began without introduction, 'you evidently have no trace of the Proteus. Is it your opinion, your considered opinion, that the submarine has received your message and is acting upon it? Over.'

The fast tape whirled, and again there was the little asthmatic cough of sound. Then the humming silence again, into which Pyott's drawl dropped theatrically, startling Aubrey.

'Not quite as easy as you thought, Kenneth?'

Aubrey did not turn round. Pyott had entered the room without his noticing. Aubrey sensed a lofty acquiescence in his tone.

'Ah, Giles,' he said, 'I'm afraid things don't look awfully sunny, just at the moment.' Aubrey's own voice was similarly affected, announcing the draw, the honourable compromise. Pyott pushed past Clark and arrived at his shoulder.

'Have they got her?' he asked. Genuine guilt, concern.

'We don't know. I' ve asked the captain of the Nimrod to make a guess.'

Tape whirl, then the slow tape, then Eastoe's unemotional voice.

'My guess is she's on the bottom, not moving.' A pause, then, as Eastoe realised that Aubrey could not comment immediately, he continued: The submarines and surface ships are concentrating in a very, very small area. Either they' ve lost contact altogether, or they have a pretty good idea where they'll find her. Over.'

Immediately, Aubrey said, 'In your estimation, is the Proteus damaged?'

'You're not serious, Kenneth?' Pyott asked while they waited for Eastoe's reply.

Aubrey looked at him. 'The possibility has to be considered. If they are searching a very small area, it may be because they suspect, even know, she can't move out of that area.'

'God,' Pyott breathed, and his face was slack and grey, much older. His mouth was slightly open, and he looked very unintelligent.

'I don't think we could raise Him on this set,' Clark observed, having overheard Pyott's admission of negligence, culpability. Pyott glanced at the American malevolently. Clark raised his hands, palms outwards. 'OK, I'm not crowing, Pyott.' Giles Pyott nodded.

Then Eastoe's voice, as naturally, it seemed, as if he was in the room with them. 'It's possible, sir.' Aubrey's astuteness had won Eastoe's respect, at least for the moment. The search appears to be concentrated well inshore, but it isn't being extended outside a certain radius. They're refining the search all the time, they're not widening it. I think she's in there somewhere. Over.'

Aubrey looked at Clark. 'Could they have damaged her, Ethan?'

'It's possible.'

'How?'

Clark considered the problem. 'Wire-guided torpedo, maybe. If they got a temperature trace —' Hidden fear now made itself apparent on his face. 'Wake-homing — yes.' He shook his head. Copeland's face was lengthened with realisation, complicity in fear. Clark cleared his throat. 'If they got some kind of heat trace, and then used a wake-homing torpedo, maybe with a proximity fuse, then the torpedo would follow the Proteus's wake like a hound. Yes, it could be done.'

'Do we accept that it has been done, and act accordingly?'

'I — guess so,' Clark replied.

'No,' Copeland said softly.

'What action, Kenneth?' Pyott asked.

'Diplomatic, of course, through the Norwegians. And practical. What other vessels do we have in the area?'

'Not much — and far away. Maybe the closest is a day's sailing from the Tanafjord.'

'I see. I wouldn't like to escalate NATO activity in the area, anyway, with the present Soviet concentration of vessels.' He paused. 'I shall instruct Eastoe to monitor and report continuously. It would seem that, at the moment, the Red Banner Fleet cannot find our elusive submarine. That situation may not exist for much longer. There is a rescue ship in the area — Eastoe must monitor its activities with particular care. Meanwhile, gentlemen, we must consider all possible scenarios for the prevention of the loss of the “Leopard” equipment to the Russians. Even at the expense of the Proteus herself.'

Aubrey turned back to the communications console. It was a few seconds before his audience realised the implications of his statement and the uproar prevented him from completing his instructions to Eastoe and the Nimrod.

* * *

The sand dunes on the northern side of the airfield at Kinloss appeared momentarily through the lashing rain, and then vanished again. Tendrils of low cloud were pulled and dragged like bundles of worn grey cloth across the higher ground. Glimpses of hills and mountains were just discernible between the heavier squalls. Three RAF Nimrods gleamed in the rain, their nose sections shielded under protective covers, and the only colour in the scene was the brilliant red of a lone Hawk trainer. All four aircraft were lifeless, abandoned like exhibits in some open-air museum.

The controller watched, from the fuggy warmth of the control tower, a khaki-coloured crew bus returning across the concrete, its lights fuzzily globed by the rain, its whole appearance hunched, its roof shining like a snail's shell. Beyond it, two red anti-collision lights winked rhythmically, and a fourth Nimrod was just discernible. A fuel bowser edged cautiously away from it. Because of his headset, the scene had no sound for the controller, not even that of the incessant rain beating on the control tower roof and windows.

'Kinloss tower — Kestrel One-six requesting taxi clearance.'

'Roger, Kestrel One-six. You're cleared to the holding point, runway Zero Eight.'

Take-off conditions were bordering on the critical. A decision taken on the station would have resulted in the Nimrod's flight being cancelled. The controller disliked the interference of civilians with all the habitual ferocity of the long-serving officer. Eastoe was over the Barents Sea, waiting for his relief Nimrod. This crew were going to take off in distinctly risky conditions at the order of the same civilian, a little old man from the intelligence service. The controller had not been present at the crew's briefing, and the station commander had not seen fit to inform him either of Eastoe's mission or of the origin of their orders from Whitehall. That small resentment flickered through the controller's mind like one of the anti-collision lights out there in the murk.

If he kept quite still, he could line up the nearest Nimrod's fin with a joint in the concrete. He could see the shudders through the airframe as the wind buffeted it. Someone in a nice warm Whitehall office — ah, tea Miss Smithers, excellent, is it still raining outside? — giving easy orders with his mouth full of digestive biscuit and risking other people's lives —

The Nimrod Kestrel One-six was almost invisible now, tail-on to him, its winking red lights accompanied by white strobe lights. They alone announced its presence and movement.

'Kestrel One-six — Kinloss tower. You have your clearance.'

'Affirmative.'

'Roger. One-six. You are cleared for a left-hand turn out above five hundred feet.'

The lighting board showed all the lights on the taxiway and the runway to be on. A telephone near him blinked its light, and the duty corporal picked it up, interrupting his making out of the movements slip. The controller lifted one headphone, and caught the information that Flying Officer Harris was sick and would not be reporting for the first shift the next day. He replaced the headphone.

'Kestrel One-six ready to line up.'

'Kestrel One-six, you are cleared to line up, runway Zero Eight, for immediate take off. Wind zero-two-zero,