Submarine

The clock showed 0627 before the plots produced their sit-rep page numbers, 332, 333 and 334, though the last, well to the north and very faint, was being disregarded.

'Sector on the net,' Coombes ordered. 'Come right, steer 080°.'

'Coming right, 080°.'

The refining continued until at 0632 the captain was satisfied. He brought Safari left again, recrossing 332 and 333's tracks. For a brief moment he stood back, then his head jerked up as he made his decision:

'That's the Typhoon all right, Number One: the right number of shafts and the correct signature. She must have speeded up since the flash and track 333 must be an escort. They never told us about her.'

'Confirmed Victor II, sir. No doubt about it: three shafts. She's ten miles astern, on the Typhoon's port quarter.'

'How far's the Victor ahead of us?'

'Twenty-one miles at 0600.'

'We'll overtake at fifteen knots, if I crack on again.'

'Affirmative. At 0700, she'll be at twelve thousand yards.'

Scanes saw that the captain had already made up his mind: though Safari's prime target was a Typhoon how the hell was Safari to get at her without being picked up first by the Victor II?

'Come left, steer 090°,' Coombes ordered. 'Reactor plant to full power state.'

'Manoeuvring — control,' the scow repeated. 'Assume the full power state.'

'Manoeuvring… roger. Assume the full power state.'

Seconds later the manoeuvring-room came back, and Coombes swung towards the sec:

'Steering in auto. Revolutions for thirty knots.' He turned to his first lieutenant:

'Send the hands to breakfast, Number One. We'll be within twelve thousand yards of the Victor by 0700.' He grinned as he stretched up for the intercom. 'Their Lordships won't like it,' he murmured, 'but we've got to sink this bugger first.'

Scanes turned abruptly and began shinning down the steps to two deck: he'd have to hustle if he was to eat before the Old Man went to action stations.

Janner Coombes, in clean shirt and tie, hands in pockets, feet astride, stood back from his attack team. The first lieutenant, Stuart Hamilton, was silently checking the operators concentrating over their instruments. The FCO, Simon Grenville, as rigid as a statue, was watching his console and his two operators; the Action Information officer, who was also Safari's TASO, Kenneth Whalley, was checking the refining of the past hour's sonar-ranging on the Victor II. Coombes had veered Safari back and forth to provide broad tracking and now the computer was presenting its final solution.

Coombes felt confident: if the Victor had not picked him up by now — she was 11,500 yards at this instant — he was certain he could sink her. He had worked up Safari to his satisfaction and felt master of this superb fighting machine. His team was part of him now, instinctively anticipating his thinking: a restrained calm pervaded the control-room of his hunter-killer as she swooped silently into the attack on her unsuspecting prey…. The scow, Luke Wesley, was in the bandstand supervising Hank Botham, on the sec. Bull Clint was for once silent, his arms folded, his eyes fixed on his instruments, as he supervised the auto-trimming. The fore-planes were locked, the after-planes automatically keeping the submarine within ten feet of the ordered depth of six hundred feet, while she hurtled northwards. Safari was one of the most silent, most efficient hunter-killers in the world, Coombes was sure of that. 'The Victor's weaving back to starboard, sir, range 11,000.' Coombes nodded, calm now, his reactions geared to as fine a pitch as they would ever be, the tactical picture etched on to his mind. In two minutes' time the Typhoon would be sixteen miles ahead; the Victor II 10,500 yards ahead of Safari and eleven miles astern of the Typhoon's port quarter. The Victor was weaving to keep clear of her consort's wake and Safari was working relentlessly into her attacking position inside the two wakes. The Victor was being overhauled at a relative speed of fifteen knots though, to keep in station under continuous weave, she was obliged to steam faster than the Typhoon: the CEP was continually confirming the Victor at twenty knots.

'0730, sir,' the navigator was calling across: 'Range 10,300 yards.'

Coombes could wait no longer: the Victor might at any moment pick him up and retaliate.

'Action stations! Plant at half-power state. Revolutions for twenty knots. At twenty, go twenty.'

Luke Wesley repeated his captain's command through the intercom and seconds later the bulkhead doors were shut, each compartment sealed off from its neighbour.

'No buggering about, Number One: I'll go straight in. Stand by Tigerfish attack.'