Frigate
Captain Dennison was being made to wait and he was becoming tense. He sat in the Admiralty chair and fiddled with the dive bezel on his Rolex, waiting for the green door to open. This investigation was not about his conduct or the performance of his ship, which had both been rated as satisfactory. Sworn to secrecy, he had told nobody of his experience, yet the rumour mill suggested it had not been an isolated incident. That was why he was here today. His mind drifted back.
His ship HMS Haven, a Royal Navy Frigate was slashing her way through the South Atlantic on a routine cold war anti submarine exercise. Dennison liked being at sea, he liked being on exercise, enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. He also knew that the ship and her crew were at their best when busy, so he pushed them hard. On that day he’d decided not to fly the helicopter judging that visibility was too poor. They were completely alone in the grey mist where sea blended seamlessly into the sky.
The ping had appeared from nowhere, ten nautical miles out with no warning. That was impossible given Haven’s extensive radar and sonar suites. They could detect surface ships out to fifty miles easily. Dennison had assumed this was part of the exercise and had gone to full battlestations. He had to choose between running and taking a look. He decided to look.
At five miles through the mist they identified the ship as a Soviet destroyer, more than a match for the Haven, but she appeared to be listing to port and to have suffered some damage to her radar masts. The ship had not noticed their approach. Something was clearly wrong. Cold war be damned, all sailors are brothers at sea. He decided to radio and offer assistance.
Nobody on the Haven spoke Russian. The reply from the radio was unintelligible to them, but the fear and anger in the voice was obvious. The Soviet ship had started to turn to engage Haven. On the bridge a multitude of alarms indicated they were now being targeted. Dennison ordered a turn and acceleration, he needed to get the little frigate clear of the bigger ship’s weapons.
Two huge splashes to port and one to starboard, incoming gunfire. A constant stream of Russian invective from the radio. Haven was running fast, zig zagging to confound the enemy guns.
Dennison was expecting missiles. They could, with luck dodge the incoming gunfire, but missiles were another matter. Haven had limited countermeasures and a ww2 era bofors gun for close-in defence. The report came in, missile launched. The Russian screaming on the radio had intensified, risen to a pitch of insane hysteria that barely seemed possible.
They could see the orange fire and smoke from the missile launch. He guessed the missile flight time at fifteen seconds. Another shell landed in the water only feet from the ship throwing harmless spray high in the air. Ten seconds to impact. Denison turned the radio down blotting out the madman. Full counter measures. Haven fired smoke and chaff, her powerful radar suite emitting confusion on any frequency Soviet missiles might find attractive. Five seconds. The bofors gun opened fire. The antique machine gun valiantly attempting to hit the sea skimming missile.
Impact! The missile came in from port, something in its primitive logic attracted to the tiny fragile Wasp helicopter on the flight deck. Instantaneously the chopper was gone, dragged across the sky and into the ocean, a hot yellow fireball.
We won’t get that lucky again he thought but it was already over. The Destroyer was gone. Gone from radar, gone from sonar, gone from the surface of the ocean. The only evidence of its existence, the damage to Haven’s flight deck and the data on her tapes.
Speculation was useless but rife among the crew. Dennison kept them busy. They stayed on full alert, wary of another encounter with what some were now calling a ghost ship. He didn’t believe in ghosts, he didn’t think war had broken out and he didn’t believe it was a mutinous ship, but the Russian voice, so tortured, so scared, so angry on the radio haunted him. He sent a full detailed report via encrypted satellite back to the Admiralty.
They came across the inflatable lifeboat the following day. Without a helicopter, rescuing the three half drowned, hypothermic Polish sailors was difficult, but they’d managed it without any crew injuries. Two of the Poles died that day and the third was very sick. He was obviously in a bad way. He did manage to speak before he died. He called them bastards and asked them why they’d done it.
They continued to patrol the open ocean warily and alone. Dennison received new orders by satellite. War had not broken out. Nothing was wrong. Sail to the Falklands immediately.
Dr Snipes, the ships medico had woken him in the dead of night to tell him about the radiation poisoning. Snipes had been treating the Poles for hypothermia and superficial burns, he hadn’t been looking for radiation, it had taken him half a day to make the connection. A quick check with a geiger counter had confirmed his fears. Dennison’s first concern was for his crew. The men on the rescue team were brought in for decontamination and a medical exam. All of the Polish equipment was secured using protective equipment.
There was nowhere on the small frigate to store radioactive bodies. Dennison decided to flush everything into the ocean. Photos were taken and then everything was tossed overboard. The three men were given a hasty sea burial. Then they set course for the Falklands. It was over.
Dennison looked up as the green door opened. A young head with too much hair and a hippie beard. The head was attached to a black robed body by a white dog collar. A religious man, the last thing he’d expected.
23rd Nov 2019 Milford Haven
His ship HMS Haven, a Royal Navy Frigate was slashing her way through the South Atlantic on a routine cold war anti submarine exercise. Dennison liked being at sea, he liked being on exercise, enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. He also knew that the ship and her crew were at their best when busy, so he pushed them hard. On that day he’d decided not to fly the helicopter judging that visibility was too poor. They were completely alone in the grey mist where sea blended seamlessly into the sky.
The ping had appeared from nowhere, ten nautical miles out with no warning. That was impossible given Haven’s extensive radar and sonar suites. They could detect surface ships out to fifty miles easily. Dennison had assumed this was part of the exercise and had gone to full battlestations. He had to choose between running and taking a look. He decided to look.
At five miles through the mist they identified the ship as a Soviet destroyer, more than a match for the Haven, but she appeared to be listing to port and to have suffered some damage to her radar masts. The ship had not noticed their approach. Something was clearly wrong. Cold war be damned, all sailors are brothers at sea. He decided to radio and offer assistance.
Nobody on the Haven spoke Russian. The reply from the radio was unintelligible to them, but the fear and anger in the voice was obvious. The Soviet ship had started to turn to engage Haven. On the bridge a multitude of alarms indicated they were now being targeted. Dennison ordered a turn and acceleration, he needed to get the little frigate clear of the bigger ship’s weapons.
Two huge splashes to port and one to starboard, incoming gunfire. A constant stream of Russian invective from the radio. Haven was running fast, zig zagging to confound the enemy guns.
Dennison was expecting missiles. They could, with luck dodge the incoming gunfire, but missiles were another matter. Haven had limited countermeasures and a ww2 era bofors gun for close-in defence. The report came in, missile launched. The Russian screaming on the radio had intensified, risen to a pitch of insane hysteria that barely seemed possible.
They could see the orange fire and smoke from the missile launch. He guessed the missile flight time at fifteen seconds. Another shell landed in the water only feet from the ship throwing harmless spray high in the air. Ten seconds to impact. Denison turned the radio down blotting out the madman. Full counter measures. Haven fired smoke and chaff, her powerful radar suite emitting confusion on any frequency Soviet missiles might find attractive. Five seconds. The bofors gun opened fire. The antique machine gun valiantly attempting to hit the sea skimming missile.
Impact! The missile came in from port, something in its primitive logic attracted to the tiny fragile Wasp helicopter on the flight deck. Instantaneously the chopper was gone, dragged across the sky and into the ocean, a hot yellow fireball.
We won’t get that lucky again he thought but it was already over. The Destroyer was gone. Gone from radar, gone from sonar, gone from the surface of the ocean. The only evidence of its existence, the damage to Haven’s flight deck and the data on her tapes.
Speculation was useless but rife among the crew. Dennison kept them busy. They stayed on full alert, wary of another encounter with what some were now calling a ghost ship. He didn’t believe in ghosts, he didn’t think war had broken out and he didn’t believe it was a mutinous ship, but the Russian voice, so tortured, so scared, so angry on the radio haunted him. He sent a full detailed report via encrypted satellite back to the Admiralty.
They came across the inflatable lifeboat the following day. Without a helicopter, rescuing the three half drowned, hypothermic Polish sailors was difficult, but they’d managed it without any crew injuries. Two of the Poles died that day and the third was very sick. He was obviously in a bad way. He did manage to speak before he died. He called them bastards and asked them why they’d done it.
They continued to patrol the open ocean warily and alone. Dennison received new orders by satellite. War had not broken out. Nothing was wrong. Sail to the Falklands immediately.
Dr Snipes, the ships medico had woken him in the dead of night to tell him about the radiation poisoning. Snipes had been treating the Poles for hypothermia and superficial burns, he hadn’t been looking for radiation, it had taken him half a day to make the connection. A quick check with a geiger counter had confirmed his fears. Dennison’s first concern was for his crew. The men on the rescue team were brought in for decontamination and a medical exam. All of the Polish equipment was secured using protective equipment.
There was nowhere on the small frigate to store radioactive bodies. Dennison decided to flush everything into the ocean. Photos were taken and then everything was tossed overboard. The three men were given a hasty sea burial. Then they set course for the Falklands. It was over.
Dennison looked up as the green door opened. A young head with too much hair and a hippie beard. The head was attached to a black robed body by a white dog collar. A religious man, the last thing he’d expected.
23rd Nov 2019 Milford Haven