Submarine

Woolf-Gault straightened his back, glimpsed the reflection of his hollow-cheeked, grey face in one of the dials of the control-room. His adorable Eve wouldn't recognize those haunted eyes staring from their sunken sockets. He compressed his lips and crossed to the doorway of the sound-room. The operators took no notice of him as they concentrated on their displays, monitoring, counting the revs, analysing the shaft and blade signatures. Chris Sims, the jovial, fair-haired sonar officer with the freckled face, was leaning over one of the operator's shoulders, helping to analyse a contact in the eastern lane, when from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Windy-Gault's arrival. Pointedly, Sims bade his team good-night and, easing past Woolf-Gault, made his way for'd to his bunk. The operators continued making their reports to the anonymous OOW in the control-room, where only the relief panel watchkeeper was half asleep at his panel. The lieutenant sat down in the captain's canvas stool and began his long vigil The life-support system was the only machinery still running: the boat had not snorted since after Vardo. The WEO had reported that the battery was down to sixty per cent: nothing to worry about yet, but a lot might happen before they could get in another charge. Denzil Woolf-Gault shivered in the silent control-room. The clammy cold? Or was this tingling at the nape of his neck the onset of flu? The doc, Bob Tomkins, the only man in the wardroom to remain tolerably friendly, was worried by the epidemic: three men were running high temperatures, all three, Bob said, would be virus-pneumonia cases, if the drugs didn't take hold.

Without the doc's unspoken sympathy, Woolf-Gault might have been tempted to put an end to this misery — and he thrust away that moment when he'd considered the revolver cupboard above the wardroom table. Messy for everyone — and the act would only compound his cowardice. And how could Eve live with the shame for the rest of her life? Jeremy, their four-year old: would he inherit his father's trait? It was going to be difficult enough explaining to Eve that moment of panic which had overwhelmed him on the bridge, that split-second of derangement which had wrecked his service career. His future depended upon Eve's reaction. She'd married a man with feet of clay, not a knight in shining armour. In the prison of his personal world, alone in the control-room with the petty officer at the panel intent on his girlie magazine, Woolf-Gault began to sense again the advent of black depression.

How could anyone begin to know what ostracism by one's peers was like? He realized how insufferable he must have been, lording his seniority and experience over Prout. But, virtually sent to Coventry, he wasn't going to crawl to them — bloody hell, no. He'd been top of his term on passing out from the college, had a successful career ahead of him. He knew he wasn't as calm, sometimes, under stress, as some of the others, but he'd managed to keep the knowledge to himself. To compensate he'd gone flat out as soon as he joined the fleet, throwing himself into any extra activity he could: the cross-channel races in the yacht; the sub-aqua clubs which led to his qualifying as a ship's diver, a skill he had conscientiously kept up to date, never missing his routine proficiency tests; and his standard A1 as a Russian interpreter. He had more to offer than most… and he felt again the stab of remorse as his eyes wandered round the control-room: depth 634 feet; bubble three degrees bow-down; ship's head steady on 039°. The hum of the ventilation was making him drowsy.

The hands of the clock moved imperceptibly. The reports from the 187 sonar were all that kept him awake: the initial contact, the classifying, the refining, ship after ship, but mostly in the eastern lane. When at 0105 the operator came up with a contact on 030°, it dawned in Woolf-Gault's half-consciousness that the bearing was odd. He ordered a check: the bearing was, confirmed, with an estimated range of six miles. He dragged himself from his chair and walked quietly to the captain's cabin. He tapped on the door frame and drew back the curtain half-way.

The dark head on the pillow turned, the dark eyes meeting his suspiciously.

'187 reckons she's a diesel, sir, medium-sized. They can't identify her.'

'030°?' the captain asked. 'That's between the lanes.' 'Yes, sir,' Woolf-Gault said. 'About six miles from us.' Farge propped himself on his elbow. He slowly smoothed back his thinning hair.

'Sure you're not giving me the reciprocal?' 'Certain, sir. I've had a recheck: confirmed 030°.' The captain slumped on his bunk. 'Let me know if she entries any closer or if the active transmissions to the west start again.' Glancing at the clock at the foot of his bunk, he added, 'I'll sleep better now. Don't forget to shake me at 0400.'