Submarine

'Don't come down,' he said. 'When I get back this afternoon from Safari, I'll go straight alongside Orcus.' 'When are you sailing?' she whispered.

'Dusk. Don't hang around: it's better for you to go quickly. Your mother'll be worrying.'

She did not answer, but shook her head.

His voice hoarse, he asked: 'If it's a son, you'll call him Julian?'

As she turned, tears streaming down her cheeks, he brushed her golden hair with his lips. He picked up his bag and swiftly left the room.

By the evening of Thursday, 8 May, the weather in the Hebrides had worsened to half a gale. Blustery and bleak, the wind was gusting through the Kyle of Lochalsh and whipping the running tideway into flecks of white. The fishing-boats, lungeing against each other along the quays of the little harbour, were pitching in the scend.

The harbour master was worried as he leaned against the gale, on his final rounds to check the warps. When he reached the harbour light, he found a solitary woman sheltering in the lee of the boat which was shored up on the extremity of the outer jetty.

'Dirty night,' he remarked, darting her a glance: not a local girl, she was in her mid-twenties; her face beneath the scarf about her head was pale and drawn. 'You all right, miss?' he asked kindly.

She nodded, but he could not catch her reply as she stared up the loch, her back to the wind. From the darkness three pin-points of light were emerging, growing rapidly in brilliance: one white, above the other two, green and red. The harbour master stood back, watching the sleek, black submarine as she swept towards them. Her bows showed now, a bulbous dome on her stemhead; she rounded up for the narrows, then slid abeam of the two lone observers, her long fore-casing glistening from the light cast by the harbour lights. She was abreast of the jetty, a flurry of spray dashing against her fin as her bows clove the confused waters of the kyle.

The men on her bridge were mostly indistinguishable, hooded in their heavy-weather gear as they peered into the night. The only exception must be her captain who was still wearing his cap. He stood apart from the others, leaning over the lip of the bridge as he conned his boat through the narrows.

The girl standing beside the harbour-master had dragged off her scarf. Holding it above her head, she let it stream in the wind while the submarine slid past. The submarine captain was peering toward the Carnburn Hotel, when he seemed to spot the two figures under the light at the end of the jetty. As he raised his binoculars, the woman started brandishing her scarf back and forth. The captain lowered his glasses; he raised his arm and waved towards the jetty. Swivelling round to cope with the rapid change of bearing, he stood momentarily rigid, his hand at the salute. A final wave and he was lost among the huddle of figures on the bridge, as the boat swept onwards through the kyle.

The girl's arm fell listlessly. The harbour-master could not see her face while, facing the wind, she stared after the submarine until the stern light vanished into the filthy night.

'They're brave men,' the man shouted. 'You'd best go home, miss. This is no sort of night for the likes of you to be out in.'

A smothered cry broke from her, and the harbour-master could see the shaking of her body, wracked by dry sobbing. He watched her stumbling blindly along the jetty, until she was lost to sight.

Chapter 12

HM Submarine Orcus, 9 May.

'Stand by to surface!'

The cox'n of HM Submarine Orcus, Bill Bowles, shifted his buttocks in the planesman's seat. Grasping the control column lightly between his hands, his eyes on the depth gauge, he was thankful that at last things were under way. Today, Friday, had been a long day.

'Open two, four, six and seven LP master blows,' ordered Lieutenant-Commander Foggon, the MEO trimming officer, who was standing behind him and watching points. Eddie Foggon was good at his job, a sound engineer officer who allowed the cox'n to use his own judgement. Orcus was a responsive old lady and Bill Bowles had the measure of her, providing the trimming officer kept the trim right: only when things became tricky did Foggon take firm charge of his cox'n. The main vents were being cycled and soon she'd be on the surface. They could all do with a bit of fresh air after today's exercises — and before the long patrol lying ahead of them.

'Permission to open the lower lid,' Lieutenant Sims, the bridge officer of the watch, asked after the captain had finished briefing him. He and the lookouts were already dressed for the weather.

'Open the lower lid,' Farge ordered, swinging round on the search periscope for the last time. The clips of the lid clunked free.

'Permission to man the tower?'

'Man the tower.'

'Ready to surface sir,' the control-room OOW reported.

Farge snapped shut the handles and the periscope hissed downwards into the well.

'Surface,' he ordered brusquely. 'Blow two, four, six and seven main ballast.'