Submarine

'Right, sir.'

'Who's the control officer of the watch?'

'WEO, sir.'

Farge nodded at David Powys. 'Have you been able to solve the problem with SINS?'

'Fixed, sir. One of the few spares we carry did the trick.'

'Good. Call me at once if you pick up anything on sonar — and watch the trim as we near the coast. There are several river estuaries on the north side of Rybachiy.' If the OOW wasn't on his toes, the crossing of a freshwater estuary could upset the trim: if the insidious change in water densities went unnoticed, the boat could in seconds become tons heavy — with devastating results.

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Julian Farge drew the curtain across his doorway and lay on his bunk. This was his last chance to relax for he knew not how long. If he could sleep for a few hours, it would help during the crucial days ahead. He had done all he could, read up all the bumph, all the physical conditions: in the Barents in summer, fog could clamp down in seconds. This year's pack-ice limits, upon which everything depended if Coombes was to intercept the Typhoon before she reached comparative safety, was reported to be normal for May, extending as far south as the seventy-sixth parallel. The unnavigable polar ice was just clear of Spitzbergen and Franz Josef Land. That gave Safari a leeway of five hundred miles from her position Zulu in which to track down her Typhoon before she reached the polar ice.

Sleep eluded Farge, though with the trial of his life imminent he felt amazingly serene. He knew he was not alone; for the first time, someone was remembering him in her prayers, including them all…. Almost, — a third of his men had in peacetime carried out a patrol in these waters. Farge had noted the steadying effect their apparent nonchalence was having upon the younger element. His ship's company seemed to be itching for the chance of getting their own back, to bloodying the enemy's nose after the raids on Plymouth, Faslane and the Clyde.

The early W/T routine this morning brought for the first time something tangible: intelligence reports that two Typhoons were in all respects ready for sea. Typhoon Kilo was expected to sail 17 — I8 May; Typhoon Lima, 20–21 May. Northwood's forward planning had been accurate. There was also the good news that the Americans had reported their first kills in the Pacific: a Delta 11 off Hawaii, a Yankee on her way home from Seattle; and an Oscar, one of the enemy's 24,000-ton jobs, sortieing from Petropavlosk in the Kamchatka peninsular. The routine also confirmed that in Nato's neck of the woods things were also hotting up: Carl Vinson, with her Striking Force, was in the Greenland Sea, and Nato submarine forces were in position at the ice edges. The Barents Sea was effectively surrounded.

There was a tap on his doorway and David Powys poked his head through the curtain:

'187 confirms the fishing-boats, sir: quite a fleet, the nearest, six thousand yards, stretching to nine thousand. We'll soon be abeam of them.'

'How long do you need to get the box right up?'

'About an hour, sir.'

'Anything else on 187?'

'No, sir. Clear on all sectors, except for the fishing-boats.'

'Start bringing her up on the watch to fifty-eight feet. Stand by to snort, both sides. Tell the Chief.'

'Right, sir.'

Powys pulled the curtain across: he was efficient, the most highly qualified officer on board, with a London honours degree in physics. He was intelligent all right, but he lacked the quality of confidence — perhaps this trip would remedy that deficiency….

The fishing-boats provided the chance Farge needed to get the batteries fully charged. Inside the Kola Inlet, the detection of his snort mast would be suicidal: to the hazard of certain discovery by radar would be added the risk of sighting from the shore, because Orcus would be working in close if she succeeded in negotiating the minefields. Farge slipped from his bunk and walked into the control-room.

'Anything on 187?' he asked.

'Contacts bearing 085°, sir,' the OOW reported. 'The fishing fleet: nothing else, sir.'

Orcus was sliding nicely up to periscope depth.

'Seventy feet, sir.'

'Up search periscope.' Farge stood astride, waiting for the steel tube.

'Sixty-five feet.'

'Watch the bubble,' Powys said, correcting the planesman 'More dive on the after planes. That's better. Keep her there.'

'Put me on the bearing,' Farge ordered.

'Red 118, sir. You're on.'

The periscope was breaking through the grey film that was the surface; the lens blurred, cleared suddenly — and there were the fishing-boats — just right, about six thousand yards.

'Raise EW mast.' He heard it hissing behind him while he swung round the horizon, searching for the enemy — the air menace was priority, and he continued to flick the lens from the surface to the band of sky above the horizon.

'Clear all round,' he reported, 'except for the fishing-boats bearing that.' 'Red 95-'

He slapped shut the handles of the periscope and the tube slithered downwards. 'Anything on EW?'