Geoffrey Jenkins - A Ravel of Waters

He listened carefully again before answering. 'It's coming a long way, that's for sure. That's all I can tell. It's in code too.' 'What's the plane's range now?' I asked.

He checked against the calibrations. 'Twenty-three nautical miles.' I had a sudden thought. 'Can you establish the altitude?' 'Low — very low. Under a hundred metres.'

'I don't like it, Peter,' Tideman said. 'If it were a long-range search plane looking for us it wouldn't cruise at such a low altitude because it'd be guzzling fuel. It would stay high until it picked up a surface contact and only then descend.'

'Unless it comes from a carrier. Perhaps that's where the code answer is coming from.' Kay formulated the fears which were in both our minds.

'Perhaps it's a plane looking for… for… Group Condor and the Red squadron.'

'It can't be that,' I replied. 'The plane would know the exact location of Molot and wouldn't need to search.' I spoke to Greg. 'What's the direction of approach of the aircraft?' 'Northnortheast, sir.'

The adrenalin which had seeped out of me after the Molot debacle was back in my veins. Maybe Jetwind hadn't won, after all. The screen with its regular blip exercised a kind of hypnotic effect. The four of us went silent. The target came closer, closer. At twelve miles, it hesitated, moved sideways. The hunter sniffing the trap further? Who was the hunter? Greg broke the silence. 'She sees us, for sure.’ 'Visually — surely not!’

'I mean, by means of whatever fancy equipment she's using. She's casing us.'

'Twelve miles — that's beyond immediate sea-to-air missile range,' murmured Tideman. 'She's playing it very carefully.' 'Any way of contacting the plane?' I asked Greg. 'If she speaks, I've got all the taps ready open.'

Silence again washed through the radar office on a background wing of electricity.

Then I was startled by a voice. It was so loud, it seemed right at my elbow.

'This is a T-3 Orion of the United States Tracking and Control Group speaking. Identify yourself. Immediately. Use this wavelength. I warn you not to try any tricks.'

I activated the UHF microphone we used for ship-to-ship conversations. 'Sailing ship Jetwind. Captain Rainier speaking.'

'Rainier! Well I'll be goddamned to hell!' The voice lost some of its suspicious, offhand note. 'You're Rainier! The guy who's been giving us the runaround all over the Southern Ocean!' 'Are you from Naval Securities Group Activities?'

The pilot clammed up. 'What do you know about NSGA?' 'Paul Brockton was my friend.'

There was a short silence. Then the pilot answered in a different, friendly voice. 'Mine, too. Yeah, this ship's from NSGA. Put Paul on the line, will you?' 'He's aboard. But he's dead.' 'Paul — dead!' 'I killed the man who killed him, if that helps.' 'It doesn't. Paul was a regular guy.'

I was still too raw over Paul's death and the other killings to want to talk about them. Instead there were a hundred questions unanswered about the presence of the American long-distance maritime search plane. 'What are you doing in these waters?'

He replied tersely with one word. '''Jetwind. Half the world wants to know what's happened to you. So does the other half — the boys behind the scenes.' ‘What do you mean?'

'If you were Paul's friend, I guess he told you something.'

That bridged a lot of conversational gaps. 'I get you,' I replied, 'but I don't understand why you should come searching here. A position signal was sent off from Jetwind days back saying she was dismasted and in no need of assistance…'

There was a snort of derision from the pilot. 'You can't dipsy-doodle NSGA with a decoy signal, fellah. We weren't born yesterday. The Group on Tristan was on full alert…' So Paul had got enough of his secret signal away to sound the alarm before Grohman's burst had killed him! 'That kind of half-Mayday didn't decieve us. Whoever sent it was a fool. The transmission time was long enough for us to get a position fix. When we compared that with where Jetwind claimed to be, we smelt stinking fish. To NSGA, the stink was to high heaven. It wasn't you who sent that corny signal, I guess?'

'No, it wasn't me. But why the time-lag? Why didn't the Orion come sooner? You could have saved a lot of lives.' 'Lives?' he echoed.

'Lives,' I repeated. 'That part of the story will keep for the present. Why didn't you come?'

'The logistics for mounting a search take time. So do the decisions. NSGA had to be convinced. It took a few days to arrange after Jetwind failed to respond to our signals. You're also a helluva long way from anywhere. This plane has been airborne since yesterday. I've flown all the way down the Big Pond. Thousands of miles.' 'From Lajes in the Azores?' *You were Paul's friend, so I can tell you secrets. Yes. From Lajes. Refuelled Ascension. They had to send an aenal tanker ahead specially to have the gas waiting for me. Maximum load. TACDIFIPS missions.5 'Translate, please.5 'Temporary active duty in a flying status involving operational flights.’ 'Operational?’

The pilot's reply was terse. 'This flight is operational, fellah. I'm armed with every sort of goodie in case of trouble. I'm coming in now for a visual intercept.'

'I also want to see you. I'm changing over to the bridge mike. I'll let you know when I sight you.' 'Okay.'

'Come,' I told Kay and Tideman. We went to the bridge. I opened a window in front of the wheel and took the microphone from its hook. 'There's the plane!’ exclaimed Kay.

Visibility was medium; Kay spotted the T-3 emerging from a cloud to the northeast. I imagined it approached watchfully, as if the pilot still did not wholly credit Jetwind's bona fides. I recalled his remark about the punch of 'goodies’ the Orion packed. The wires in behind-the-scenes secret counsels must have burned over Jetwind's disappearance.

The pilot exclaimed suddenly, 'I see you! Say, you're beautiful, Jetwind!' 'Don't touch me or I'll scream.'

I liked the way the pilot laughed. Then he added. 'Says you're also damaged — you're missing part of a mast.' 'I was in a fight.' 'When Paul was killed?'

'No — later. What I tell you about it, I'd like to be on the record. Can you tape this conversation?'

The pilot laughed without humour. 'This flight's operational, top secret. Everything you've said already is on the reel. You're important, Tristan as monitoring us as a back-up. Now tell me about your blow-off.' 'Blow-off?' 'That fight.'

I couldn't think where I should begin. I tried to muster the facts. I said, marking time, 'I have five dead men aboard.'

The pilot's voice held admiration. 'Who else was on your shit list, fellah?'

'A Soviet Kashin-class destroyer. A Whiskey Bag sub. A fleet replenishment vessel. An oceanographic survey ship. An assault force of about five hundred men named Group Condor…' I gave him a brief rundown on Molot. I went back to Jetwind's hijacking and the plan to seize the Falklands. I sketched Paul's death, and how we had escaped the Almirante Storni. I explained how I had sacrificed Jetwind's mast.

When I had finished, the pilot exclaimed in an awed voice, 'Sweet Mother of Jesus! All this and Molot too! Dosvidanya!’ 'What's that supposed to mean?' 'It's Russian for goodbye.'

Dosvidanyal It was as good an epitaph as any for that blazing hell of burning liquifying fuel which had been Molot.

There was a silence. Then the pilot said, 'Got a fix for this place Molot where you played clinker boy? I'd better go check and see if there's anything left.'

'Aye. Here it is.' I had made a special point of fixing the location of the secret base by means of Jetwind's satellite navigator as the ship had broken clear of the last of the shoals’ 'I don't expect you'll see much, though. The fire must have burned itself out by now…'