Submarine

Farge relished those final moments alone on the bridge. However often he had dived a submarine, there was always this kick of excitement, this realization that the lives of the men below lay in his hands. But today's dive was especially significant, a dive which could be their last. He sniffed the air, for an instant peering up at the darkening clouds sweeping above him. He leaned over the voice-pipe:

'Group up, half ahead together,' he ordered. 'Open main vents.

He watched the flying plumes of spray as the vents opened. He crossed to the upper lid and dropped through the dark hole, firmly grasping the longer handle and pulling the hatch shut over his head.

'First clip on!' He smacked on the second. 'Second clip on. Take her down, Number One,' he shouted down into the tower. 'Two hundred feet.'

He began descending the clammy, slippery rungs of the ladder. In the gloom and chill of the tower, a momentary shiver passed through him leaving an unease he could not explain. 'This is it,' he muttered to himself. 'Next stop,' Kola.'

Chapter 13

HM Submarine Orcus, 13 May

'That's Vardo, all right,' Farge murmured. 'Store Ekkeroy beacon, pilot, bearing that. Down search periscope. The radar dome on the shoreline is a monstrous, great thing.' Farge stood back as the stick slid downwards, the palm of his hand slicking back his thinning black hair in that mannerism which showed when he was under stress. 'Got your D/F bearing yet?'

'Green 92,' the periscope reader called, his eyes glued to the bearing-ring which encircled the steel tube hissing downwards into the well.

'Vardo radio beacon 265°, sir,' Murray called. 'Good fix: we're nine decimal six from the nearest point of land.'

'Down EW mast. Take her down, Number One,' Farge ordered. Three hundred feet. Don't speed up. We'll remain at the Quiet State.'

'Three hundred feet. Six down.' Prout ordered, glancing at the cox'n.

Then Orcus was sinking again into the depths, invisible, silent. Seeing the low-lying island of Vardo, black against the flat hinterland, hostile since the Soviets had invaded northern Norway, had jolted Farge and his whole crew into the reality of war. Forty miles to the westward of Vardo, in the Varanger uplands, survivors from 42 Royal Marine Commando Brigade were still holding out. Organizing Norwegian guerrilla resistance, the gallant Booties continued to harass the Russian convoys streaming southwards to Narvik along the E6 highway.

'One hundred feet, sir.'

The MEO stood silently watching Bowles while he delicately took the boat down at a six-degree bow-down angle. After five days on passage, Foggon had mastered the trim with a competence which Farge had not previously experienced. They had snorted most of the way, the EW mast giving them ample warning of prowling aircraft. But, apart from three distant warnings, Orcus had uneventfully reached her planned position forty miles to seaward of North Cape at 0730.

After the radio bearing from Slettnes — the Russians had re-instituted the international beacons after the truce talks had begun — Farge altered course at 1100 to 156° for the final run-in to his landfall off Vardo. He had decided to take this risk, because an exact position was vital for his final approach into the Kola Inlet — Murray had not been entirely happy about his SINS position: although that box of tricks rarely let them down, there was nothing like an eyeball sighting to give Farge the confidence he needed when bearding the lion in his den. The bid weather had helped all the way and snorting had kept the box right up, until going deep when approaching the 200-metre line off Syltefjord. He had managed to average twelve knots but at 2000 hours he would reduce to ten on main motors until he could snort again: it was vital to have his batteries fully charged before his final approach to the eastern tip of Poluostrov Rybachiy, the thirty-mile long peninsular guarding the western entrance of the channel into Murmansk.

'Three hundred feet, sir.'

'Very good,' Farge acknowledged. 'Happy, Number One?'

'Trim's fine, sir.' The sound-room was cutting in on the intercom:

'Bearing 096°, distant, group of fishing trawlers, sir.' Chris Sims, the sonar officer, stuck his head around the door: 'They seem to be moving fairly slowly, sir. Range about sixteen miles.'

'Nothing else?'

'All-round sweep completed, sir. Nothing else.'

'Go to watch-diving, Number One. Ten knots. The Quiet State is to continue from now on. I'll try to stick to the deep water: we don't know how far out they've got their hydrophones.' Farge glanced at the clock. 'Everyone is to get his head down: this is our last chance to get in some zeds before we reach the tricky bit. What's our ETA Cape Nemetskiy, pilot?'

'2200, sir. If you could come up for a D/F from the radio beacon, it would help.'

Farge checked the log: Orcus was settling nicely to her ten knots. 'If the fishing-boats are still around, I'll come up,' he told Tim Prout, as the watch took over. 'I'll be in my cabin.'