They Stood Steadfast: A Re-imaging of a Future Past

A Rude Awakening

Untitled Project [97], Chapter One

HMS Orion, North Sea, North of Iceland, 0627 Hours, Friday September 14th, 1984

A  frigid breeze blew over the deck, as icy waves came crashing against  her bow, with determination she cut through the rough seas. With the rather unwelcoming stormy weather to the dismay of those who stood watch.  While somewhat higher above the deck itself the lookouts standing either  side of the bridge were still occasionally hit by the customary North Sea spray. A  miserable experience in such weather, but a necessary one. With tensions  with the Soviet Union escalating all NATO forces were at increased  readiness.

Orion herself was a peculiar ship instead of being upgraded to the usual batch 2 standard with 4 exocet anti ship missile and single sextuple SeaWolf launcher, she had only the later and retained her twin 4.5 inch deck gun. Due to the rapid expansion of the Royal Navy, funding for what was after all just an anti-submarine frigate was scarce. With the commission of many new warships to fill her place she was only expected to serve a few more years before being sent to the breakers.

The  Captain sat in his seat, brow furrowed, slowly stroking his greying  beard with a cup of coffee in his other hand. He was a tall man with  broad shoulders the very essence of a ships captain, sometimes he even smoked  from a pipe to really sell the look. Commander Edward Taylor was well  respected by his crew, and seen as a reliable man by the admiralty. He was distinguished by his actions during the Falklands Conflict by protecting the landings from air attack. He was born  in Yorkshire to a farmer's wife, where he spent most of his early life before signing up to the navy. His first command was that of a minesweeper, then a frigate and now Orion, another frigate. Having served briefly aboard larger vessels earlier in his career he found he preferred the small tightly knit crews of a ASW frigate.

"Helm make turns for 223" Taylor said with a groggy undertone, still not fully recovered from a bout of illness.

"Turns to 223 Aye" said the helmsman sharply in response.

About an hour  ago they received information that an RAF Nimrod picked up a surface  contact, without a transponder inside a exclusion zone set outside a NATO Arctic exercise but was unable to inquire further due to fuel state. Whatever  it was could range from a lost Icelandic fishing trawler to a Soviet submarine.  With the weather making the use of her helicopter rather dangerous given the violently pitching deck, the  commander chose to close to visual range. At a steady speed the small  frigate cut through the rough seas towards the reported  position to investigate the report.

Below  the bridge in the heart of the ship was the Operations Room, OPS, where  the ships weapons and sensors were controlled from. At the air search radar operator's station sat a man hunched over, staring half asleep at red coloured screen, light  discreetly emitted from the screen. With the dimly lit room amplify the  effect as a slight tinge of that colour reflected back onto his tires face.  His job was to stare intently at the screen and inform on the  appearance, disappearance, and movements of contacts on his screen.  Watching the slow traversal of the orange-reddish band which indicated the radars  sweep was memorising, almost putting one to a peaceful rest on a dreary Friday  morning. However, and rather surprisingly, just as the operators  mind began to drift from the luminescent screen a small blip appeared.

He called out "Unknown air contact bearing 285, 40, for 120 feet, hot".

The information was quickly passed through the centre and the contact  designated as a track. The OPS Watch Officer grabbed the bridge phone in  haste.

Commander  Taylor was sat comfortably enjoying the roof over his head and warm  coffee, unlike the poor lookouts either side of the bridge , then the phone rang. With an annoyed  grunt the barrel-chested man grabbed the phone