Submarine

Jessup scratched the grizzled hair at the side of his head, as he interrogated his submarine officer:

'If you were commanding the Typhoon and did not suspect that you were being tailed, once you were clear of the cape, would you increase speed again?'

The young officer shook his head. 'Not in these waters, admiral. Not in these shallows and approaching the edge of the polar ice.'

The admiral nodded. 'Okay. Pass Safari a sitrep,' he said briskly. 'Call off all our dogs of war and tell Safari she has no restrictions.' He turned to the wall display, glanced at the wavy line marking the polar ice. 'It's up to her now,' he murmured. 'Let's hope the Limeys are on the ball.'

Chapter 26

HM Submarine Orcus, 17 May.

''Swain, 'swain, for God's sake, give me an 'and!'

Buchanan's desperate cry and the ice-cold water swirling to Bowies' knees brought the cox'n round from semi-consciousness.

'Can't move 'is legs, 'swain.'

Bowies' head was still reeling, but he and MEM Buchanan together managed to drag the paralysed diver from the side of the bunk to which he was clinging. Buchanan shoving and Bowles heaving, they slithered the helpless Hicks up the sloping deck of the after-ends towards the after bulkhead door of the engine-room.

'Hold on,' Bowles gasped, 'while I get the door open.' The diver's terrified eyes rolled in their sockets as he followed Bowies' movements up the steel plating.

In those brief moments, the cox'n tried to collect his disorientated thoughts together, endeavoured to reconstruct the happenings since the noise of the torpedo's propellers. His wrist watch had stopped at 0541, but how long had he been lying there since the explosion? His head was splitting and the whole of his left side felt as if it had been kicked in… the bulkhead was still a few feet away, but in the gloom of the emergency lighting he could already see the water spilling from the lower lip of the oval door. He propped himself upright and shoved against it with his shoulders. He could not budge it: the engine-room must be flooded.

Fighting for breath in the foul air, Bowles hurled himself at the actuating wheel, wrenched at it until the lugs were notched home into their sockets; then he lay back, exhausted, against the door. They were trapped — but they couldn't now be overwhelmed by a deluge from the engine-room. The water was up to the hatch of the engineers' store, but the level seemed to have stopped rising; mere luck — or was the atmospheric pressure in their constricted space now equalizing with the sea pressure outside? Bad air under pressure could kill.

That was when Bowles decided to take no chances. Painfully and slowly, he and Buchanan dressed Hicks into an escape suit, then donned their own — but, God, how long ago had all this happened?

Two further explosions had wracked the boat, both at the for'd end — must have been hours ago. He and Buchanan shared the strain of supporting the paralysed Hicks, propping him into a half-sitting posture against the door of the after heads. Listening to the sound of beating propellers from craft overhead, Bowles refused to be hustled into an impetuous and possibly fatal decision. He'd persuade Buchanan and Hicks to sit it out, to wait for the enemy to quit the area before they attempted their escape through the chamber above their heads.

They were, after all, still alive; they were breathing good air at the right pressure, though for how long was problematical. The after depth-gauge had showed 487 feet: they had been trained to escape from five hundred, admittedly under the somewhat artificial conditions of the diving tank at Dolphin. Though Bowles was optimistic that they could make their escape, he was worried most by what might be waiting for them up top. He did not relish being chopped up on the surface by racing propellers, or shot. Taken prisoner by Ivan? Some sixth sense was telling him to hold on, to wait. He handed Hicks over to Buchanan and leaned back, trying to ease his cramped limbs.

How much longer should he risk delay? It seemed an eternity since the last surface noise had faded to silence. Perhaps three hours? Could be six, even. The enemy would certainly watch Onus' grave for hours — but how many? Four, before pushing off? Had they marked the sinking with buoys? Perhaps they'd shoved off to chase Safari? Four hours, then — and the hunt must have taken another couple of hours — and add another two for luck… Four plus four, eight; add another three… eleven in all. Adding that to the time his watch stopped, made it 164.1. The evening of 17 May? But in this God-forsaken waste there was no darkness, no real night in May, no mantle of invisibility. Hang on a bit longer. Stick it out for as long as we can and the better chance we'll have…

His companions looked pretty rough. Hicks' eyes were closed; Buchanan was reeling where he hung on to the slumped body of the diver… but God, how can we get the poor fellow into the escape tower?