Bush decided to walk the ship again, talk to the sailors who were making things happen and get a feel for the atmosphere. As he emerged into the huge space of the hangar deck, a scene of frantic activity met him. Pallets of stores were being unloaded from trailers by working parties of sailors, while the Viking armored vehicles, Land Rovers and light guns of the Army’s commando gunners were being parked along the sides of the hangar to make space for incoming helicopters. At the heart of it all, directing, cajoling and gripping any slackers, Bush saw Executive Warrant Officer Geordie Rae, the senior Warrant Officer on board and a man who knew better than anyone how the lower deck ticked. I’ll get the truth from him, Bush said to himself, making his way through the chaos.

Rae was a forthright Mancunian, who had known Bush since they were both junior Able Seamen seventeen years earlier, and the close bond of friendship, formed as young men, had lasted after Bush was commissioned. Rae spotted Bush and immediately grinned, braced up and saluted. They might be old shipmates, but now Bush carried the Queen’s Commission the usual formalities applied.

“Morning, Sir. Good to see you . . . Come to see how the troops are getting on?”

“Exactly, Geordie.” Bush was not one to stand on ceremony. “How are the vibes?”

“Where do you want to start?” Rae wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand and gestured to the working party he’d been directing to carry on with their task.

“You’ve no need to worry about the quality of the crew or the ship. They’ll be more than up to the mark . . .” Rae dropped his voice, clearly anxious not to be overheard being anything but positive. “But don’t kid yourself that all is well. The guys and girls are seriously worried. We’re pushed to man the ship properly, so each watch is light on people; it’s criminal that, to save money, the amphib Bulwark hasn’t got any hangar space for helicopters, so we’ve got to keep her helicopters on board here. The Lord alone knows how that will work out at the sharp end, when the bootnecks on Bulwark need urgent transport. A midshipman on his first day at sea could tell you that bit of bean-counter-inspired ship design is a lethal cock-up just waiting to happen. Then, to cap it all, one of the Type 23 anti-sub escorts is on its last legs. Apart from that, it’s all peachy . . . Sorry to whinge, but you did ask.”

“What’s the score on the Type 23?” Bush asked.