Submarine

Three-quarters of an hour later, Sims was slithering across the deck, his strained face trying to conceal any signs of elation: they were all becoming wary of false hopes.

'Her blade and shaft counts are decreasing, sir.'

Murray called across:

'Her 2100 position puts her on the edge of the two-hundred-metre line, sir.'

Farge rose wearily from his chair and moved across to the chart table.

'Here, sir, on the tip of the bank.'

Farge traced the spur of shallower water protruding to the north-west. In another eighteen miles the Typhoon would be rounding the tip.

'She's settling again to fifteen knots,' Sims called from the sound-room.

By 2100 the Typhoon was twelve miles ahead and the sonar was having difficulty in holding her. Despair quickly replaced the optimism in Orcus' control-room.

'She's altering to the north, sir,' Sims called from the sound-room.

'That's it,' Farge murmured. 'This is the best we can do. She's rounding up clear of the shallow bank. We'll lose her soon. Sims, refine as best you can, and ask the chief radio supervisor to report to me.' He turned to Murray. 'How far off is she now?'

The tall figure of the Chief RS approached from the radio-room.

'Chief, we'd better prepare our flash report,' Farge said.

During the next hour, while the sound of the Typhoon faded to the northward, the sonar team produced the most accurate state report of which they were capable: the only other contact was distant and bearing 350°, ten degrees to port of the Typhoon. They could not classify, except to identify the contact as fast-revving and probably geared-turbine. At 2205 Orcus crossed the Typhoon's track.

'Group down,' Farge ordered, trying to conceal his weariness. 'Slow ahead together.' He brought his submarine round to the north-east for a final refinement. Typhoon had not altered course or speed.

'No contacts, watcher,' the sound-room reported. 'Target bearing still appears to be the same.'

'Typhoon's course 010°, sir,' Prout confirmed. 'Speed fifteen knots.'

'The submarine is returning to periscope depth,' Farge announced. 'Stand by to raise the W/T mast.' He glanced towards the Chief RS who was propped against the door of his radio room.

'Ready, chief?'

'All set, sir.'

'Stand by to raise ECM mast.'

'No contacts, sector seventy-seventy,' the 187 sonar reported. 'Target bearing still the same.'

'Ten up,' Farge ordered the cox'n. 'Fifty-eight feet.'

Their mission was nearly completed: transmit the flash report and Orcus could creep away on her last amps to the westward and the open spaces for her vital charge. Then home, if the enemy did not pick up the W/T transmission. It was up to Janner Coombes now.

'150 feet…'

'Sector sweeping, seventy-seventy, no contacts.'

Farge felt a sudden anti-climax. It was nearly over, the tension, the days of twitch. He'd snatch a quick look while the masts were up. If the sea was still rough, there'd be no risk of a mast sighting. He'd go deep, slide out, send the troops to watch-diving to catch up on their zeds.

Bowles was as rock-like as ever, planing her up: Foggon had her, was flooding normally, compensating for her bodily trim.

'Seventy feet.'

'Raise W/T and ECM masts. Up search.'

He watched the masts and the periscope sliding upwards, gleaming in the white lighting. Wearily he opened the handles, shoved his forehead into the eyepieces.

'Breaking.'

'Make the flash report,' Farge commanded.

He swung round on his low-power periscope, covering the whole horizon. From behind him, he registered the whirring and the crackling from the radio-room, as the Chief RS pushed out twice the vital signal, the message which would bring Safari in from deep field, the flash for which Coombes would be waiting — even though the enemy had sailed twelve hours earlier than expected.

'ECM, scanning contact red 20.'

Farge flicked to high power. 'Put me on.'

The lens swung to port, was held steady by the reader.

'On.'

'Flash report passed,' the radio-room reported. 'Good signal strength.'

Farge felt his Adam's apple mounting in his gorge: in his field of vision three dots showed, low on the horizon.

'Bearing that,' he snapped.

'Red 45.'

Farge tried to keep his voice level as he snapped shut the handles:

'Down all masts,' he ordered. 'Three hundred feet.' He watched in silence as the tubes slid down into their wells.

'Port ten, steer 240°,' he commanded. 'We'll slip away to the south-west.' He turned and faced his first lieutenant:

'Ultra Quiet State remains in force, Number One,' he said. 'Three helicopters are on that bearing.'

Chapter 22

HM Submarine Safari, 16 May.