Submarine

They were playing Beat That at the end of the wardroom table while they waited for their captain to rejoin them in their interrupted round of Liars. It was 2225 when Janner Coombes finally returned from Safari's control-room to this after-dinner ritual which he was loath to miss: to his way of thinking, this half-hour was a safety-valve which did nothing but good. He took his place on the pilot's left: Farquharson was a crafty player. Coombes had already lost two lives this evening, his two matches in the centre of the table proving the point. Number One, Lieutenant-Commander Stuart Hamilton, led off, rattling the poker dice in one of the pots.

Coombes enjoyed this moment, one of the interludes during patrol when he could get to know his officers. Malcolm Gunn, Safari's indefatigable MEO, had only this evening felt able to leave his manoeuvring-room since the steam-leak breakdown. All was well and Safari had been cracking along at thirty knots until 1900 when Coombes reduced to twenty while approaching North Cape. Since the enemy had invaded northern Norway, hydrophones were suspected off the area.

Though Coombes had remained on a course of 081°, the breakdown had lost precious hours: even at full speed he could not possibly make Position Zulu by midnight tonight. He was trying to make the area On time, but Safari could not be nearer than 180 miles south-west of Zulu by 2400. At 0500 17 May she would still be sixty miles due south of the position, but this last minute alteration by cutting the corner was a calculated risk he had taken.

Coombes felt frustrated to the tits: not only was he adrift on his waiting position, but coming up for the W/T routines was reducing his speed made good. From midnight onwards, Orcus could be coming on the air; again his thoughts wandered to Farge and his chances down in the inlet…

'Your throw, sir,' Farquharson was saying, passing him the two pots. 'Kings on tens.'

'Sorry,' Coombes said, accepting the call and glancing at the MEO on Farquharson's right. 'What did you give him, Malcolm?'

'Kings on nines, sir,' Gunn said, grinning and looking his captain straight in the eye. Coombes tipped up the edges of the pots.

The chuckles round the table ceased as Luke Wesley, the signal communications officer, hurried into the wardroom and stopped by Coombes' elbow:

'Flash report, sir,' he blurted as he passed the message pad into Coombes' outstretched hand.

PRECEDENCE: FLASH

SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: SECRET FROM: CINCEASTLANT

TO: SAFARI

INFO: SACLANT, COMSUBLANT, COMSUBEASTLANT, COMSTRIFOR, COMSTRIGRUTWO

DTG: 162228 (ZULU) MAY TYPHOON 70°48′ NORTH 33°36′ EAST AT COURSE 010° SPEED 15. MESSAGE ENDS.

(ZULU) MAY.

Shoving the pad across to his first lieutenant, Coombes exploded:

'Bloody hell! She's sailed half a day early!'

His chair fell backwards as he hurried into the control-room, his officers following him. Ignoring the sound risk from the possible hydrophones off North Cape, Coombes took Safari immediately up to thirty knots.

'Course direct for Zulu?' he called across to Farquharson at the chart table. Then he turned towards the sec, 'Port five.'

As he reached for the intercom, Farquharson called across:

'066°, sir. I'm laying off Typhoon's track, giving her fifteen knots.'

'Steer 066°,' Coombes ordered.

He wished to reach every man in his ship's company, from the cox'n in the control-room to the JR tucked away in the remotest corner of his fighting machine. He flicked the switch and spoke into the mike of the broadcast system:

'Captain speaking,' he rasped. 'We're on to our man — twelve hours early. The Typhoon has sailed and is heading north. We're pushing along now after her. I've altered course to intercept her, but we can't possibly be within sonar range before dawn, even if she sticks at fifteen knots. I'll be going to action stations during the morning watch. I'll be asking a lot of you, so get your heads down and get in a good meal. That's all.' The intercom snicked and he stretched up to replace.the mike.

'I've laid off our tracks, sir,' Farquharson said.

Coombes crossed to the chart table. The navigator had traced out the two tracks and the hourly distances: by 0600 tomorrow morning, the Typhoon should be thirty-five miles ahead. Coombes crossed to the sec and spoke to the scow:

'Stay on "George",' he said, 'and shake me at 0400.'

Chapter 23

HM Submarine Safari, 17 May.