Submarine

There was a ripple of excitement, an intangible expectancy in the control-room. Farge was stretching out his hand for the mike to inform his company of his intention when the sound-room cut in:

'Contact dead ahead, sir, range four miles, classified Natya.'

'How many?'

'Can't be sure yet — possibly five.'

Murray was turning up the identification manual. His finger underscored the minesweepers' potential.

'Damn. They've got MBUS,' Farge added. 'They're on their passive sonar.' He turned to the OOW:

'450 feet. Shut off for going deep. Assume the Ultra Quiet State.'

Their optimism had been short-lived, Farge mused, as he watched the bubble sliding aft. A spanner dropped now and it would spoil their whole day. Working on the assumption that what the approaching merchant ship and escort could do, Orcus could do better, Farge altered course to the north-east in order to ease round the minesweepers. Orcus would scrape the southern boundary of the prohibited area, but if the Altay tanker and her frigate (both now confirmed by sonar from their characteristics) could steam safely across the area, there was little risk to Orcus. The sweepers passed a mile to the south of the submarine which, with only sufficient speed to retain depth-keeping and steerageway, remained undetected at 450 feet, with a further 200 feet of water beneath her keel. At 0120 Farge went to action stations. He then talked to his men over the intercom:

'Captain speaking,' he began. 'I want a word with you, while I still have the chance. We're going to be busy and I rely upon you all to be at your most vigilant, however tired you may become. Get in as much rest as you can, even at action stations We are now on the enemy's doorstep and are about to go in through his front door, probably the best protected door in the world. Everything depends upon your efficiency, upon your ability to maintain the Ultra Quiet State for hours on end Move about slowly, thinking about what you are doing: one mistake and they might pick us up, so watch it.' He paused 'Because I can't read the crystal ball, we must conserve our battery power and our air, both high pressure and life-support, to the utmost, in case we run into trouble. Talk and eat as little as possible. If we want to get home, it's up to each one of us to carry out his job to the best of his ability. Orcus may be an old lady, but she's manned by a good team. That's why we've been chosen for this job.' He glanced at the officers in the control-room then continued:

'We're on the edge of the main shipping channel into the Kola Inlet. I'm coming up now for a quick look: an Altay fleet support tanker, probably in ballast after supplying Narvik with oil, is four miles to the north of us. A modified Kashin, I think, is weaving ahead of her. She's armed with two twelve-barrelled MBUS, VDS and a helicopter. Once she's past us, I'll get in under the tanker and follow her in.

'Remember, conserve your energy and remain silent. Some of you, notably the torpedo crews, won't have much to do, but the sonar team will need all the help it can get, so share the work as much as you can. From one point of view we're in luck, because there's a north-easterly gale blowing up top. There's bound to be a sea running: that can't help their sonar, but can hide our periscope. I'm coming up for a look now.' He cleared his throat and ended: 'That's all.' He replaced the mike and faced his first lieutenant who was standing by the TCC and keeping an eye on the plots.

'Any other contacts on 187?' Farge asked. 'No other contacts, sir. Just the two bearings, 355°.' 'Ten up,' Farge snapped. 'Periscope depth.' He crossed his arms behind his back, glanced at the log. On slow one and at minimum revs Orcus was creeping inaudibly through the depths. He felt her bows slanting upwards. Bowles had her firmly under control.

'380 feet, sir,' the scow, Woolf-Gault, reported. '370…'

At two hundred feet Farge held her while he made a sonar check of her stern arcs and a final all-round search. 'Periscope depth,' he ordered.

The whine of a motor somewhere, that was all, the subdued commands, the murmured acknowledgements. Thank God, Farge thought, the destroyer is remaining passive on her sonar. He could hear her propeller beats echoing softly from the sound-room.

'Ninety feet, sir, eighty…'

'Up attack.' Farge straddled his legs. 'Put me on the bearing.' As the head swept upwards from the well, he snatched at the handles. He glued his eyes into the rubber eye-guard: the suffused greyness of the surface was already showing.

'Sixty-five feet, sir.' The MEO had taken over. 'Sixty-two… fifty-nine… Breaking.' The dullness of the lens persisted, smeared by the draining water. For God's sake, clear, you bastard…. Farge could her the MEO flooding, trying to keep her down.

'Fifty-seven feet… fifty-six…'

Farge was crouching on his knees. Hadn't he drilled them enough, damn and blast them? A break-surface now, dead ahead of the escort…