Submarine

'Pilot,' he snapped at the navigator. 'How close is the ice?'

Why's the Old Man worried about the depth above us? Scanes wondered.

'May I run the upper echo-sounder?' Farquharson asked, surprise on his face as he half turned. The detection hazard, Scanes knew, was great: the Typhoon might pick up the reverbs from the sounder's echoes — presumably Coombes had calculated the risk:

'Yes. Be quick about it.'

'Range 8,100 yards,' Hamilton said.

Scanes heard the faint ticking of the overhead sounder, a few transmissions…

'Least distance 464 feet, sir,' the navigator reported, flicking off the sounder.

'Try the following solutions,' the attack co-ordinator was continuing. 'Course 330°, speed ten, range 6,900 yards.' Hamilton seemed as unconcerned as always.

Scanes, watching the attack developing, was fascinated by the precision, the result of months of training. They might have been in the simulator, the way they were going on.

Hamilton was trying his next solution, refining, always refining when at 0500 the sonar controller cut in brusquely:

'Track number 334 — bearing drawing left.'

'How long's she been held?'

'Two minutes. She's speeding up. sir.'

At 0053 the attack co-ordinator gave the target's course as 240°, her speed fifteen. The captain bounced back into the centre of the control-room:

'Stream the decoy,' he snapped, 'Stand by to fire!'

The controller cut in, for the first time excitement in his voice:

'Track 334 — torpedo discharged! Range 5,400 yards, port beam.'

The captain turned back to his command display, his eyes glued to the spokes. Already Scanes could hear the noisy chatter of the enemy's torpedo, the fastest in the world, speeding towards them.

'Switch on the decoy,' Coombes rapped.

Scanes prayed that the device had been streamed in time… then controlled pandemonium broke loose:

'Stand by to fire!' the captain shouted. 'Steer 090°.'

The intercom broke in:

'Decoy streamed and switched on.'

Scanes heard it, a loud clattering reverberating throughout the hull as the foxer broke into its chorus, thousands of yards astern. Thank God… but the enemy's torpedo had been running for how long?

The ops officer cut his firing bearing. The sonar controller called over the intercom:

'Firing bearing cut!'

'Fire one!' the captain snapped, his eyes on the display. Then the phumph seconds later as the first Tigerfish threshed forwards in its tube.

'Fire two!'

Coombes ordered, 'Planes and steering in auto: starboard fifteen. Assume full power state. Revolutions for thirty knots.'

'Both torpedoes running, sir.' Grenville was crouched over the shoulders of his two aimers, watching each man calmly guiding his Tigerfish towards the Typhoon.

'Enemy torpedo, 4,500 yards,' sonar chipped in.

'Got a bearing?'

'Port quarter, 3,800. Target is streaming decoy, bearing red 120, sir. Range 4,100 yards.'

Coombes was watching the spokes of his display. The mark of the racing enemy torpedo was growing more intense as the noise from its propellers showed up on the cathode ray screen.

'Coming in on seven o'clock, sir,' Hamilton announced.

'How long for ours to hit?' Coombes asked him.

'Two and a half minutes, sir.'

'Weapons under guidance,' Grenville called.

Hamilton took over: 'Step weapon one to a course of 310°. Step weapon two to a course of 290°. Arm both weapons. Select active.'

Grenville was trying to control the excitement in his voice. 'Both weapons in contact and attacking.'

Sonar cut in:

'Target has streamed decoy, bearing red 140.'

'Range of enemy torpedo?'

'2,700 yards astern sir. Track 334 bearing 240°, speeding up.'

Coombes glanced at the log: Safari was at full speed and the enemy fish was having to overhaul. 'Six up, two hundred feet,' he rapped.

Scanes held on when the submarine swooped upwards savagely. Coombes was throwing her about, taking evasive action; Scanes clung to the mast grille as she banked.

Then he distinctly heard the click-click of the enemy torpedo's hydroplanes. Any second now…

''Torpedo altering away, range nine hundred yards.'

Scanes jammed his fist into his mouth to suppress his yell of relief as the bloody thing veered away, lured by Safari's decoy. An instant later, the rap of an explosion clanged against the hull. The boat shivered, trembling throughout her length.

''Torpedo and own decoy destroyed,' sonar called out.

'Stream another decoy,' the captain snapped. 'Midships, six down, seven hundred feet. Starboard five, steer 100°.'

Grenville half turned, his face a study of despair:

'Number one weapon has failed to acquire. Turning right.'

'Number one weapon has failed on its first pass,' Hamilton reported calmly. 'Is making its second pass now!'