Submarine

The captain spoke quietly: no histrionics, for as the details of their mission unfolded, even the dimmest amongst them latched on that this was going to be an unusual patrol. Until that moment, from Barrow onwards, various incidents had started the buzzes flying around the messdecks: the landing of the torpedoes and the empty for'd tubes were for the mines which Orcus would be loading in Faslane. Obvious, wasn't it? There had been many wild guesses to explain the alterations and additions which Vickers had carried out at such speed: extra H/F sonar transducers fitted, the existing sets serviced again and checked; doubling-up the supplies of absorbent for the CO2 scrubbers, and the oxygen candles; renewal of the main W/T aerial; checking the insulations and the transmitters, and a complete overhaul of the EW aerials; special wire-cutting tools (nets?); the wardroom pistol locker topped up — and several other mods which had been outstanding. But it was the personnel changes which were the most difficult to explain.

By chance Orcus already bore an able seaman diver, yet a Leading Seaman Diver, Malcolm Robertson, had joined at Kyle of Lochalsh. The unannounced arrival in Barrow of Surgeon-Lieutenant Tomkins had posed an accommodation problem for the officers, but to the pleasure of the junior rates, Sub-Lieutenant Halby had been rushed ashore with suspected meningitis and was now languishing in Barrow hospital: an unlucky turn of the wheel for the captain, because his argument for replacing Lieutenant Woolf-Gault had been demolished. 'Windy-Gault' was officially appointed as Halby's relief and was now the boat's TASO — but at least the wardroom would not now have to sleep 'hot bunks', the doc taking the spare bunk. As a wag in the senior rates mess had put it: 'At least Windy-Gault can't foul things up in the tube space: we've got no fish.' Joker Paine, the sonar chief, had added: 'Jimmy's no fool either: he's got Windy-Gault as far from the control-room as he can get him.'

Bowles leaned back, puffing at his pipe. There was no doubt that everyone felt better, now they knew what they were up against. After talking to his company, Farge had gathered the senior rates and the officers in the wardroom, where he explained his plans more fully: he and his officers would be studying the secret sailing orders while the boat was on passage to North Cape, which they should reach at dawn on the twelfth.

Farge was turning out a better CO than they had expected; he was a reserved bloke, difficult to know — but, as much as he could, he kept everyone informed of what was going on. With luck and God's help, the war might finish soon: whether it did depended, it seemed, very much upon two submarines…

'Safari's calling us.' The signalman at the after-end of the bridge was shouting above the wind buffeting the fin. 'Red 120, sir.'

Farge turned and saw the light winking on the port quarter: through his binoculars he could make out the blur of the nuke's silhouette.

'Take her on the lamp,' he said. 'For once, we want to announce our presence.'

Twilight was nearly gone and the north-easter was cutting through them. Safari was on time, exactly as Coombes and he had planned yesterday. Safari sailed this afternoon, deliberately trundling on the surface up the Sound, for prying eyes to see. After this brief rendezvous, she would alter south-west for the Little Minch. With her nav. lights burning, she would bumble southwards to be off Bara Head tomorrow morning where, hopefully, the habitual prowling Russian submarine would report Safari heading west into the Atlantic. The deception ploys were being carried out to the letter, while other Nato submarines were taking up their billets encircling the Barents.

'From Safari, sir,' the signalman called. ' "Interrogative?" '

'Make to her, "A.O.K."'Julian glanced at his watch: 'Date time group 092151 Zulu May.'