Submarine

'Track 333 is target,' Stuart Hamilton reported as Coombes leaned forward to watch the command display, the cathode ray tube upon which the target's noise was visually projected. As the next fifteen minutes slipped by, the sonar reports and the monitoring of the plotters mounted to a crescendo while the two spots on the displays converged. Coombes swung Safari across the Victor's position for the last time, to present the sonar with the best ranging opportunities.

'Bring numbers one and two tubes to readiness state one,' Grenville, the FCO, ordered.

In the tube-space, the crew were opening the valves and making their final checks: and then the tube-ready indicators were glowing red in the fire control console. So far, so good: track 333 was down to 6,400 yards.

'At fifteen, go fifteen,' Coombes rapped. 'Fore-planes and steering in hand.'

'AIO checks correct,' Kenneth Whalley, the AIO, reported.

'Fire control checks correct,' from Grenville.

'Try the final solution,' Hamilton snapped. 'Course 085°, speed twenty-six, range 5,900 yards.'

Coombes had been through the drill so often before, coaxing, bullying his team to as near perfection as he could get them. But now… the tension was almost tangible as the moment dragged closer. At five thousand yards he would fire. At six hundred yards to go Hamilton's final solution was coming up correctly. The computers were confirming the last refinements and the sonar reports were streaming in, a familiar background, as Coombes watched the glowing displays: the spokes and crosses were slowly converging, but range was the crux. Simon Grenville was stretching out his arm, his finger poised above the fire button.

'Contact 333, red 10. Range, five thousand yards.'

'Ready to fire, sir.' Stuart Hamilton was ice cool as he made his final report.

'Stand-by to fire,' Coombes snapped, his eyes on the fire control console.

'Cut a firing bearing,' Whalley commanded his team.

'Sonar cut!' The sonar controller's reply was immediate.

A few seconds to check the cut and then Coombes commanded briskly:

'Fire!'

Grenville's finger stabbed at the fire button.

Five seconds… five, four, three… then the unmistakable phumph! as the water slammed behind the torpedo in its tube. The boat shivered.

'At ten, go ten,' Coombes ordered. He'd ease her down, just in case. The clock showed 0747. AH eyes were on the fire control console and its operators while they guided the Tigerfish towards its target.

'Weapon under guidance,' Grenville reported. In the tense silence, only his brisk commands and the voices of the guidance operators could be heard while the seconds ticked away: five minutes at the torpedo's running speed should do it…

The boat was now at a two-degree bow-down angle; Bull Clint was easing back on his fore-planes while the boat began to lose way.

'Step the weapon to a course of 357°,' Hamilton commanded crisply, his eyes glued to the spokes glowing on the screens before him.

'2001, contact 357°, range 4,600 yards,' the sonar controller reported.

'Arm the weapon,' Hamilton snapped — and seconds later: 'Select "activate".'

'Weapon has acquired and is attacking,' Grenville rapped.

Coombes glanced at the clock: 0749, another three minutes. They'd chopped the wire: the fish was homing on its own…

At that instant the plot cut in brusequely:

'Target track 333 altering outwards to port. Turning towards… range 4,200 yards.'

Coombes caught his breath: the Victor had picked up the noise of the Tigerfish.

The digital clock was remorselessly ticking away the seconds… then, at 0750 the unmistakable reasonance of an 'active' transmission blasted their world.

'2001, active contact 355°, range 4,600 yards.'

The reverberations hummed in their ears as the enemy's pinging struck home.

'Weapon has missed… is slowing left for re-attack,' Hamilton called out. The spokes had drawn apart on the scans, steadied, converged again.

'Weapon has re-acquired and is re-attacking,' Hamilton reported, his voice steady.

'God,' Coombes whispered to himself. 'The torpedo is wrong for depth — it's passing over the top of the Victor.'

'Loss of guidance commands on the weapon,' Grenville reported.

Coombes closed his eyes: at any moment, the Victor would be firing her own torpedoes.

'Six down,' he rapped. 'Assume reactor full-power state, revolutions for thirty knots! Deep diving stations, one thousand feet. Lock the fore-planes; after-planes in auto. Take her down, Number One.'

'Loud explosion on the target bearing,' the sonar controller announced. 'Implosion sounds on target bearing, 354°.'

Coombes could not resist his own contribution to the cheers echoing in the control-room.

'Quiet,' he shouted. 'She can still have fired her fish.'

As Safari planed swiftly down to the depths, they could all hear the hideous sounds of the enemy breaking up and collapsing beneath the pressures of the ocean: the buckling bulkheads, the screech of tortured steel, the exploding tanks. The cheers ceased as suddenly as they begun.