Submarine

'Action stations,' he ordered, nodding at the outside wrecker. 'Time to have a look.'

It was good to see daylight filtering through the lens of the attack periscope as the submarine crept up to the undulating, grey surface. The glass broke through, cleared. Farge spun on his heel — no aircraft, nothing close.

'Down attack. Up search.'

More leisurely this time, flicking to high power, as he picked up a masthead to the eastward.

'Bearing that… looks like a destroyer's mast. I've got Cape Sunduki, pilot… bearing that.' Swift five-second looks to fox the enemy radar; rapid identification of the land points — and Murray had his bearings for a three-point fix. 'Down search.'

Farge smoothed his black hair, watched the wider steel tube disappearing into its well: 'Great day up top. Bright and blustery. Force five, from the east; good vis.' The trimming was going famously: up from deep without a hitch, settling bang on fifty-eight feet. The team's spirits rose with his own optimism.

'0752 fix, sir,' Murray called out. 'Puts us three-quarters of a mile to the east of our E.P.'

'Roger.' Farge grabbed the handles as they swept upwards again. He'd take another bearing of the destroyer while Murray, allowing for the easterly stream which began at 0506, worked out his revised course to WP4 on the easterly edge of the easterly and outward lane. Ah, there was the destroyer: no nearer, but her bearing was drawing seawards, up to the north-east. Odd that she should be on her own — and he flicked to high power. That was better… He could distinguish her aerial, but could not identify her bridge. He swung slowly to the southward.

'Bearing that,' he rapped, trying to smother the excitement in his voice. He slammed shut the handles, turned and grinned at Prout. 'A Delta II, I'm pretty certain…'

'Green 112, sir.'

At 0755 he swung round for a last look to confirm his Delta sighting before taking Orcus deep to the shipping lane. The sea was sparkling on this fresh morning, the waves curling rhythmically, lazily, the crests tumbling merrily: ideal conditions for the judicious use of his periscope. There she was: her ugly, protruding missile housing, with its down-turn abaft the black match-box fin, confirmed his identification.

'Bearing of the Delta II is that.' His periscope had been up for only a few seconds. He was in the act of shutting the handles when something strange caught his eye — a white mist clouded her bow: must be the bow-wave she was pushing ahead of her as she worked up speed… but the white plumes were spouting high, abaft her fin.

'Down periscope,' he blurted. 'She's diving!' The 187 sonar had got her too: Farge heard the murmuring behind him as the stick streaked downwards — here was the evidence for which they had been seeking for so long.

'Assume she's in the centre of the far lane, pilot. Give me a course to the eastern edge, four miles north of her diving position.' Farge caught Number One's eye, grinned in return. 'Starboard ten. Six down, two hundred feet.'

'Course 098°,' Murray called.

'Steer 098°.'

'Steer 098°, sir,' the second cox'n reported from the wheel. 'Ten of starboard wheel on.'

'Pilot, how far to-'

But Farge stopped midway in his sentence, canted his head, listening… then he heard it, as they all did: standing, or crouching, suddenly rigid; like the Pompeii victims sculpted in lava for eternity, listening to the scraping noise from the eyes of the boat. At first, it was a barely audible ticking, then as the mooring-wire of the mine scraped across the hull the scrabbling along the casing rose to a screeching crescendo — then stopped, to continue with a low-pitched, rhythmic creaking.

'Loud banging noises on the sonar,' the sound-room called.

Farge could hear his own breathing. He glimpsed Woolf-Gault, propped in the corner, his eyes fixed on the deckhead, his jaw clamped, the muscles twitching in his cheek. The way was coming off the submarine, and to the ominous creaks was added a low thrumming noise which, the hull being like a sounding board, was reverberating throughout the boat.

'Stop both,' Farge rapped, shattering the silence. 'Half astern together. Shut off for depth-charging.' He raised his voice. 'Quiet with the doors.' In seconds, each compartment was an isolated world cut off from its neighbour.

'Fore-planes jammed at twelve degrees of dive,' the cox'n reported, as if he was on exercise in West Bay. 'Can't hold her, sir. After planes at hard-a-rise.'

Farge was watching the log-pointer walking back in its dial down to one knot.

The bight of the mooring-wire must have snagged in the fore-planes. Turning at four knots under rudder, Orcus was dragging the infernal mine down upon herself. It had only to kiss the fin…

One of the plotters at the sec was crossing himself, his eyes shut, his lips moving. Farge registered the depth: ninety-eight feet. He raised his hand, touched Lorna's cross beneath his shirt and momentarily closed his eyes.

Chapter 18

HM Submarine Safari, 16 May.