Submarine

Janner Coombes paced his constricted control-room, hearing only the subdued commands, the acknowledgement of orders. The hands were keeping well out of his way: they did not realize that Orcus, because of Safari's let-down, could be sacrificing herself needlessly. He, Coombes, was failing them, that bloody fine team headed by the man whom his stepsister loved, the Lorna whom Janner had loved once himself.

Chapter 19

HM Submarine Orcus, 16 May.

Farge tried to guess how long they had listened to the unforgettable scraping sound of the moored mine: the ordeal seemed interminable, but could not have been more than thirty seconds. The wry grin spreading over Bill Bowies' face told Julian that the worst bit of the emergency could be over. Surprisingly, Orcus managed to hold her trim, with judicious kicks ahead on slow one and with fifteen degrees of rise on the after-planes.

The tidal stream was setting easterly until 1121, so the mine, which must be floating within feet of the fin, might be being held more vertically by the tidal stream. Who the hell knew?' They were alive, creeping along at two knots, at a nine degree bow-up angle. Farge wiped the top of his head with his palm while he waited for the reports to come in.

Tim Prout elbowed his way through the bulkhead doorway. He stood, out of breath, at the for'd end of the control-room, all eyes upon him:

'We can't shift the fore-planes, sir — even in hand. Depth gauge in the fore-ends shows seventy-six feet.'

'124 feet aft,' Farge said. 'We're nine degrees bows-up and holding her.'

'I'm bodily heavy, sir,' Foggon, the MEO interrupted. 'Permission to pump on Ms?' His matter-of-fact question, spoken with his calm North Riding accent, was a reassurance to all who heard him.''

'Yes, chief- but don't overdo it. I'll turn to the southward to clear the bastards.' The mine detecting sonar was pinging, but had picked up only one more contact, fine on the port bow. 'Starboard ten, officer of the watch. Steer 160°.'

'Spoils your whole day, doesn't it, sir?' Chris Sims murmured from his sound-room.

The chuckles in the control-room relaxed the tension as the boat slowly made her wide turn. She was now steering south-south-east, away from the minefield.

'Can you hear anything in the fore-ends, Number One?'

'A very faint sort of scrabbling, sir. Nothing else.'

'We can't tool around with a bloody great lethal bollock suspended over us,' Farge said. 'It must be hovering over the fin — or even further aft.'

'The fin can't be much more than sixty feet below the surface,' Foggon said.

Farge was hoping someone might come forward with what he knew they had to do.

'If we don't clear it, we've had it,' Murray said softly.

'And SO's SDW,' David Powys added.

And then Farge saw the moonlike face of Able Seaman Hicks, who had joined at Barrow. He was edging his way through the press at the bulkhead doorway.

'Leading Seaman Robertson and me will go outside, sir, to cut the bastard.'

Farge met the man's steady gaze (never volunteer, they always said, didn't they?). 'Have you worked at this depth?' he asked. 'Seventy-five feet?'

'Course, sir.' Hicks' glance was scornful, his reputation at stake. 'We'll get togged up, sir.' He was turning when Farge saw them making way for the slight figure of the surgeon lieutenant.

'Leading Seaman Robertson's very ill, sir,' Bob Tomkins said.

'He's the only mah, doctor, who can work with Hicks,' Farge said curtly.

'With respect, sir, Robertson can't do the job, however much he wants to.'

'He'll have to try,' Farge said. 'Tell him to dress.'

'You'll kill him, sir. He can't possibly do it.'

'That's enough, doctor. Robertson…' Farge, annoyance surging within him, turned as he felt a slight tap on his shoulder. Woolf-Gault, strained and pale, met Farge's angry eyes.

'I'll go with Hicks, sir. I'm as highly qualified as he is.'

Farge heard the ticking of the clock, the shuffling of feet. He turned back to the burly Hicks in the doorway:

'Are you happy, Hicks, for Lieutenant Woolf-Gault to help your

The able seaman did not know how to put it. Facing the lieutenant, he asked haltingly, 'Do you know your stuff, sir? I mean…'

Woolf-Gault nodded. 'I'm a qualified ship's diver,' he said softly.

The able seaman beckoned with his hand. 'C'mon sir. Better get our gear.' He stood back for the lieutenant to proceed him, as the press about the doorway parted for Woolf-Gault to make his way for'd.

It was 0910 before Able Seaman Hicks and Lieutenant Woolf-Gault were finally ready to dress into their suits. Sorting out the gear under Leading Seaman Robertson's glazed supervision had taken time: the weights, knives and lamps; fitting the primers to the explosive cutting charges; the long handled cutting tool; they all had to be checked and their lanyards adjusted. The noise risk when using the charges would have to be accepted. The submarine was still creeping southwards and was barely making enough way over the ground to prevent the mine's sinker from snagging on the bottom.