Submarine

'Stop blowing main ballast. Group down, stop together.'

The wrecker shut his master blows. The screaming ceased in the air lines. Grady's voice broke through the sudden calm:

'Hydraulic pressure's on the line.'

'Planes are in power, sir.' Bill Bowles reported as he pushed his column for'd, while the bows continued to soar upwards: twelve degrees bow-up and still porpoising wildly. Farge must rid the tanks of any trapped air while the turmoil persisted:

'Open main vents.'

He heard the clunk from for'd as the mushroom-headed valves jumped open.

'One, two, three main vents checked open,' the report came back from for'd.

The boat was still cocked upwards at eleven degrees, but her rate of ascent was decreasing swiftly. She steadied at 240 feet; and then the depth started to fall away again. The MEO glanced over his shoulder at his captain:

'She's very heavy, sir.'

Farge nodded, acknowledging the trimming officer's misjudgement on the way up from deep.

'Open D port and starboard Kingstons,' Foggon ordered.

'270 feet.', The panel lights blinked as the Kingston valves were monitored 'open'.

'Blow D, port and starboard,' Foggon continued, his eyes on the panel.

Farge was listening to the hiss of the high pressure air as Grady opened his blows, when another- active ping reverberated through the hull, a nerve-twitching, eerie sound. As the noise died away, the sound waves disappearing into the distant ocean, the control-room suddenly split asunder.

An appalling shock hammered the boat at the exact moment that Grady was set to shut his HP air blows. Foggon yelled at Grady but the CPO had been flung backwards, his seat wrenched from the deck by the explosion. The submarine was being picked up by a giant's hand and hurled upwards. In seconds her bows were leaping towards the surface, the bubble '

against the stops. Men were scrabbling about the deck, trying to regain their feet, their hands streaming blood where they clawed among the slivers of glass and perspex from the gauges and instruments.

• Farge glimpsed Foggon hauling himself upwards, grasping at the metal frame of the wrecker's seat. Pushed from behind by Sims, the MEO was snatching at D's HP air blows, desperately trying to shut them.

The cox'n lifted his hands from his column, his voice inaudible as Farge shouted for Q to be flooded. The depth-gauge pointer was flying backwards behind its splintered glass, 160 feet and still swooping upwards…

Sims somehow opened Q and to the pandemonium was added the roar of its inboard venting as someone used his initiative. The angle must be over 60° bow-up, but for some reason she was steadying: 155 — 155 — 147 — 135, then began dropping fast. God, why weren't the bows coming down, with that extra three and a half tons right for'd in Q? And with D Kingstons…?

'Shut D Kingstons. Shut main vents,' Farge shouted above the diminishing chaos. 'Vent Ds inboard. Stand by to blow Q.'

The submarine was now dropping backwards, sliding into the depths stern-first. The depth pointer was slewing fast round its dial as she hurtled towards the bottom. 390 feet, 410: still she remained at this terrifying angle, the hands standing against the vertical surfaces as Grady fought his way back to the panel, to be held there by Sims and Grant.

'Blow seven, six, five main ballast,' Farge yelled above the din, as he tried to lift her stern. 'Group up, full ahead together.' Nothing was holding her now and the angle was not coming off. She was desperately heavy aft. 'Blow Q.'

Somehow Grady reached the blows and Farge heard the glorious sound of the HP air in the lines. The three men struggling at the panel had their eyes fixed on Farge while he gave the after main ballast tanks all the air he dared — but he continued blowing, listening for the rising whine of the main motors, feeling with the soles of his feet for the angle to come off, watching for a decrease in depth. He could waste no more of the precious HP air. 'Stop blowing main ballast.'

Someone was shouting:

'D Kingstons jammed open!'

'Stop together,' Farge commanded.

'475 — 480.'

'Hold on — down on the deck!' Farge yelled at the top of his voice. 'Protect your heads!' He flung himself to the sloping deck.

'490 feet.'

Surprisingly, he felt a gradual deceleration as the submarine ploughed to a halt, the hull trembling throughout its length. She remained for a few seconds at her terrifying angle, then Farge felt her bows subsiding. As he hauled himself upright by the periscope rods he felt her stem come up all-standing on something hard. The depth pointer was fixed at 487 feet.

After the shocked seconds of relative calm, he heard shouting through the open doors as men scrambled along the plates of the engine-room, the curses of his control-room team while they struggled to their stations. The unnerving active pings were growing louder as the enemy strove to regain contact.