Submarine

'Fifty-seven… fifty-eight…'

The glass was clear: the modified Kashin's dark silhouette was unmistakable, with the unbroken sweep of her upper deck, the exaggerated rake of her bows and her two widely-spaced, squat twin funnels. Her helicopter platform was visible, her chopper on it, presumably secured for entering harbour. He swung on his heel, sweeping round the horizon.

'Bearing that. I'm 70° on the escort's starboard bow. No aircraft.' He shut the handles. The tube hissed downwards.

'Red no,' from the bearing-ring reader. The drill was running smoothly.

'Happy with the trim?' Farge asked, an edge to his voice.

'Got her now, sir,' Foggon said.

'Stand-by for a range of the Kashin. Up attack.'

'Bearing of, target should be red 98,' the TCC called.

Farge was peering again at the enemy: he could see the two SS-N-2 missile launchers aft on her starboard side.

'Range that,' he snapped, adjusting the range-finder vernier. 'Masthead.'

'Twenty minutes,' the reader called.

Farge snapped the handles shut, waited for the tube to slide downwards. 'What masthead height are you using?'

'Mainmast ninety feet, sir — range is eighteen hundred yards.'

'What should my relative bearing be of the tanker?'

'Red 105.'

'Put me on.' He snapped his fingers. The periscope operator flicked the control. Farge grabbed the handles. It was difficult to see with the flying spray. Hell, where was the Altay?

'Bearing's that. I'm 70° on the tanker's bow. Range of the funnel, that.' 'Fourteen minutes.'

'Down periscope,' Farge said quietly. 'Take her down, Number One: two hundred feet. Course for a 120° track?'

He waited, watching the bubble sliding aft.

'145°, sir,' the TCC called.

'Starboard ten, steer 145°,' Farge ordered. 'I'll come in under her stern, round up and follow her in.' He glanced at Prout who was watching the operator on the TCC. 'What's my distance off track?'

'Six hundred yards, sir.'

'Let me know, sonar, ten degrees before I should alter course. I want to get right under her — a cable astern at the most.' Farge watched the gauge as Orcus sank to her ordered depth.

'May I pump, sir?' Foggon asked. 'We're a bit heavy.'

Farge shook his head. 'Wait until I'm under the tanker.'

Orcus levelled off nicely, dropping only a couple of feet below two hundred.

'Course, sir, 145°,' the helmsman reported.

At 0216 they heard the tanker rumbling overhead, the noise of her diesels and propellers resonating throughout the boat.

'Alter now, sir,' Prout reported.

'Enemy's course 180°, sir,' the LOP operator called. 'Speed twelve knots.'

'Sonar: track and report,' Farge said. 'Tell me at once if she slows down.'

Farge watched Chris Sims, half in half out of the sound-room. Their lives depended on his sonar team and their efficiency.

'You're to port of her track, sir. She bears 186° now.'

'Starboard fifteen. Group up and speed up,' Farge snapped, taking advantage of the tanker's racket as she trundled overhead. 'Steer 210°.'

Three minutes later, they were tracking in astern and following in her wake. 'Eighteen knots,' Farge commanded. 'And watch your steering: I want to keep right under her.' He glanced at Sims. 'Tell me immediately of any alteration in her course or speed.'

'Aye, aye, sir. Range four hundred yards.'

The tension in the boat was tangible as at two hundred feet they blindly overhauled the tanker above them. Gradually the company realized that this was the safest fashion of penetrating the enemy's defences; whispered conversations were starting up, and soon they were relaxing, leaving the tricky stuff to those on the controls: Bowles, the cox'n on the planes, Foggon, the MEO in his white overalls, behind him; the second cox'n, Ronald Parry, tall and black-bearded, tensed over the wheel as he steered the boat, meeting each sheer before it began; and the outside wrecker, Chief MEM Tom Grady, at the panel, waiting upon the trimming officer's orders. Taking advantage of the noise, Foggon had pumped and her trim should be about right: guesswork, but with plenty of experience behind him. As the pressure increased with depth, the submarine was squeezed; as she displaced less she became effectively heavier.

'Watch leader, you have the control. Twelve knots.'

David Powys stepped from between the periscopes.

'I have the control, sir.'

Farge moved across to the chart table. 'Pilot, this alters things. Where are we?'

'Coming abeam of Tsyp Navolokskiy. Here, sir, in the inward shipping lane.' Murray's finger traced the dotted line on the chart, a track skirting the mined area two miles to the eastward. 'I've checked with SINS, sir. The tanker's heading straight into the inlet.'

'This is throwing my original plan out of gear,' Farge murmured as they crouched over the chart table. 'But it's a chance too good to miss. Scrub my intention of bottoming in Ura Bay. We'll follow her in.'

'How far, sir?' Murray asked softly. 'Right in?'