Squadron Commander Adrian Viper stood, legs astride, on the starboard bridge wing of HMS Blackbird. At six feet tall, his muscular frame remained rock steady on the moving vessel. Deep blue eyes set in a weathered yet well-tanned face resulting from a lifetime in contact with salt and sun. This made him appear older than his forty-five years. Adrian picked up his binoculars, turned and studied the line of ships astern.
The storm of the last two days was the past, and now the sun shone on a rolling dark-grey sea. At five knots, Her Majesty's Tenth Minesweeping Squadron departed from St Nazaire, ready for the next phase of Exercise Clean Sweep. Command had tasked this minesweeping squadron to clear a marked zone of submerged practice mines.
Once into the exercise area, these little ships manoeuvred to transfer equipment. The crews were rusty, and the evolutions took longer than expected. After a while, they were ready and began the downward leg of the sweep. One ship lagged, its task to destroy any mines that surfaced or collect them for reuse.
Adrian, in command of HMS Blackbird, drew the short straw for this mundane chore.
During daylight hours, he remained on the bridge. To his left, he overheard the port lookout say, "' ere, what do ya make of that?"
"How the fuck would I know. It's too far away. Its bloody rubbish dumped by a wanker."
As he listened to their banter, Adrian peered through his binoculars in the general direction.
Stroking his chin, he turned to the Officer of the Watch, "Peter, alter course and check it out."
"Aye aye, sir. Port twenty."
HMS Blackbird turned and proceeded at ten knots.
Adrian went out to the bridge wing and rested his elbows on the steel superstructure. He spoke with authority to those on the bridge. "A couple of cans of beer for the first man to name whatever."
Men grabbed spare binoculars and focused them on the mass of debris. Whatever it was, Adrian was annoyed that the sea had become the dustbin of the world.
Able Seaman Williams, with his binoculars fixed on the flotsam, broke the silence. "Captain, sir, at red two zero, we have an upside-down boat with two bodies tied to the hull."
Adrian focused his binoculars. But he knew Hawkeye McWilliams was never wrong. "Peter, increase speed; eighteen knots."
Two plumes of exhaust smoke erupted from the funnel as Blackbird ploughed ahead.
Jim Scott, the Executive and Medical Officer, stood behind Adrian, leaned forward and whispered, "Sea-boat swung out and ready, sir."
"Thank you, number one. Do you know anyone with a video camera? I want this rescue filmed for the record. You never know. Some Admiral with nothing better to do might want to ask awkward questions."
Adrian continued examining the wreck as Jim ordered a Snotty to get his camcorder.
On the remains of the yacht, the two people remained motionless.
Adrian returned to the centre of the bridge. "I have the ship. Yeoman, priority signal. Request helicopter transfer of casualties."
Peter stepped back and began plotting on the chart and compiling a summary of events in the ship's log.
Adrian manoeuvred HMS Blackbird until she was fifty yards from the wreck. The ship's boat hit the water with its engine at full throttle. With the skill of an experienced hand, the boat driver came alongside the damaged craft with the gentlest of bumps.
