Submarine

Farge closed his eyes, his thoughts rushing onwards, glimpsing in a flash of clarity a vision of peace which was at this moment within the grasp of humanity. And he prayed to the God whom he had discovered at this last moment. From far away he heard the approaching chatter of the torpedo's propellers, the racket of the weapon which submariners were trained to recognize. It came from the port quarter, louder, until the propeller beats merged into one single, deafening roar. He grabbed at the periscope rods; for God's sake, hurry, Bowles..

A thud, a blinding flash: the explosion, remarkably unimpressive after the previous upheavals, shook the old submarine's hull. He was deafened momentarily by the sound of cascading water in the engine-room as the bulkhead door slammed shut on its hinges, torn from its clips. He picked himself up at the foot of the bulkhead, reached up and swung off on the quick-acting wheel, watching the dogs dig home into their sockets. Gasping for air, he fought his way upwards to the for'd door of the control-room, fell through it, grasped at the outstretched hand reaching for him.

As they hauled him upright and began slipping his feet into the legs of the escape suit, he half turned towards the passageway leading to the fore-ends:

'Shut bulkhead doors,' he gasped, choking from the first whiffs of the lethal gas. 'Flood up the fore-ends. Rush escape?

Chapter 25

USS Carl Vinson, 17 May.

Though midsummer was only five weeks away, his wind-cheater, fur hat and gloves did little to keep out the biting cold. Must be my age, Vice-Admiral Lincoln Jessup, Jr, thought to himself as he paced his small admiral's deck above the main conning position on Carl Vinsons's island. He needed the air after this long day, the most gruelling twenty-four hours he had endured since his appointment as commander of Carrier Striking Force, Atlantic. It was good to see his ships out there, dispersed across the horizon, on the edge of the pack-ice: the cruisers, destroyers and frigates and, jutting above the horizon-line to the north-east, the spiky topmast of the other carrier, the old lady, Constellation. His force packed a punch, but even with Constellation's contribution, his own aviators were flying round the clock.

The admiral's Striking Force was steaming 140 miles to the west of Isfjord, Spitzbergen's main inlet on its western coast. If Nato had not reacted so swiftly in Spitzbergen, when the enemy invaded Norway four months ago, Jessup wouldn't have been here now: Spitzbergen was a vital link in the West's periphery of defences. The radar early warning and SOSUS chains were making it possible for SACLAVT to challenge the Soviets' assumption of proprietorship in the Barents Sea… a helluva day, since the receipt of Safari's flash report at 0835 this morning. To maintain the Force's LRMPS his carriers' Phantoms, Tomcats, Hornets and F — I8s were flying at extreme limits round the clock to maintain even an hours' umbrella above the LRMPS.