Submarine

'Radio beacons, sir,' the Chief RS called out. 'Vardo bearing 294°, Cape Nemetskiy 177°. No other contacts.'

'Very good,' Farge acknowledged. 'Stand by to snort, generating both sides. Up search.'

Powys repeated the order and the pipe echoed through the boat:

'Red watch, watch snorting, both sides. Shut the intermediate flood and drain valves. Open the tundish valve.'

Farge was staring again through the search periscope. The pale sun was sinking below the olive-green sliver of land or their starboard quarter. Several of the fishing-boats were visible, bucking on the horizon-line.

'Raise the snort induction mast three feet… open snort drain one… open the outer tube vent,' and the drill continued until at last they were ready.

'Start generating both sides,' Farge ordered. He heard the diesels firing, waited an instant for the slight vacuum to clear the stale air. 'Raise the induction mast fully.' He could see it now, the ugly bulb of the snort, clear of the crests. He turned to the OOW, who was manning the attack periscope. 'You have the induction mast.'

'I have the induction mast, sir,' Powys acknowledged Farge took another swift all-round search, then lowered periscope. 'Keep a good lookout and report when the box is up,' he said. 'I'll be in my cabin.'

It was still daylight up top: there was no need to shift to red lighting because it was twilight all night up here, never dark There was little chance of detection from the enemy with 0rcus close to and in line with the fishing-boats, and an hour's charge on both generators should bring the box right up. The massive batteries should give him all the amps he would be needing.

In his cabin again, he tried to put his mind at rest, but sleep still evaded him. Murray had worked out the tidal streams off the inlet: always northerly in the upper reach. He had jotted down the times of the easterly and westerly sets which ran parallel to the coast. Farge decided to ignore the current, which was never more than a knot, though if this north-easterly persisted the currents would become a factor in their calculations.

The unknowns were the whereabouts of the enemy's hydrophones and minefields, though Northwood had given him the suspected positions of these dangers. His only course was to ignore them and trust to luck. The Soviets were known to have stocks of moored mines in addition to their intricate, accoustic, magnetic and pressure jobs — but at least the moored mines were likely to be sited only in depths of over five-hundred feet. Murray had marked these areas with hatched red lines on the charts.

A further problem was bothering Farge: the cox'n had reported to Tim Prout that several cases of flu — or what resembled it — had broken out, and the doc had confirmed the diagnosis. In this rarefied, oxygenated atmosphere bugs had a habit of raging through the boat. Apart from warning the hands of the obvious, there was nothing Farge could do. So long as he could keep clear of flu himself… at last, he drifted into uneasy sleep.

'Captain, sir. The box is up. EW reports enemy maritime aircraft search frequencies in northern sector.' Powys was in the doorway.

Farge was immediately awake. 'What's the time?'

'2117, sir.'

'Stop snorting. We're getting close to land anyway.' And so, the batteries charged, their position fixed from the radio beacons of Cape Nemetskiy and Tsyp Navolokskiy at the tip of the Rybachiy peninsular, Orcus lowered her masts to glide down again into the depths. She was ten miles from the Rybachiy coast and Farge made a mental note not to overrun his reckoning, a common error, apparently, due to the easterly current, At 2326 the 187 sonar picked up a motor ship to the nor'-nor'-west, range twenty miles.

Chapter 14

HM Submarine Orcus, 14 May.

At 0015 Farge altered course parallel to the southern boundary of the former mined area. He reduced to six knots and, after an all-round sonar search, brought her up to periscope depth. The red-tinged grey of the arctic night pervaded the surface world. On his second sweep he picked up a pin-point of light from the masthead of the merchant ship. Seven minutes later the plot, using sonar references, had produced her course and speed; by her signature she was evidently an Altay support tanker escorted by a turbine ship and probably homeward from a Narvik run.

'She's steering for the entry into the inward traffic lane, sir. She'll be at the outer end at 0215 if she maintains her speed,' Murray reported. Farge moved across to the chart table where Murray was pricking off the distances:

'Course for an interception, pilot?'

'You're about right, as you are, sir: you'll be two miles from her at two o'clock.'

'Diving stations.' Farge grinned. 'We'll refine and wait for her at the entry point. She can take us right into the inlet, bless her little socks. Three hundred feet, Officer of the Watch.'