Submarine

The first Tigerfish had been wrong for depth, Scanes realized, and was having another go. To have a torpedo failure after all this, would be the end. He pushed the horrid doubt to the back of his mind: the Navy disliked leaving the vital servicing of its torpedoes in the hands of civilians, but the wires had been chopped and there was nothing more to be done. Both Tigerfish were on their own, homing on their target.

Then, just as sonar reported that the Typhoon had discharged her second torpedo, Scanes felt a tap on his shoulder:

'Come aft, chief,' the pale-faced stoker blurted. 'You're wanted on the lower level. Distiller's giving trouble.'

Crouching over his command display, Safari's captain was watching two torpedo tracks: one, his own, diminishing in intensity, the Typhoon's, intensifying with each second that was ticking away. The racing of the enemy torpedo's propellers was only too audible.

'It's going like hell,' he blurted, his eyes flicking to the clock: over half a minute since he'd ordered the streaming of Safari's second decoy.

'Get a move on with the decoy,' he shouted, 'or it'll be too bloody late. Switch to active, even if it's half-streamed.' And he listened to Grenville's anxious voice while Safari's second Tigerfish turned again to make its second pass 'Number two weapon in contact and attacking!'

Coombes felt remote, a powerless spectator ever since the guiding wires of the weapon were chopped on command by its FCO. Its umbilical cord severed, Safari's second Tigerfish was on its own now, homing in on the gigantic enemy submarine. The Typhoon's captain would not allow Safari a second opportunity. The Russian's retaliation would be massive: the existence of everyone in the British submarine hung precariously in the balance, their lives depending upon the ingenuity of the Tigerfish's designers and upon the diligence of the civilians who serviced the torpedo…

The sonar controller's reports were streaming in, his voice as calm as if he was conducting exercises off Portland:

'Track 334, bearing 264°, range 3,800 yards. Target's torpedo approaching port beam.'

Coombes could feel his heart pumping beneath his shirt. The Typhoon's captain had been swift on the draw.

'Torpedo approching, sir, 3,100 yards…'

The torpedo's track was thickening, clear and distinct on the display, racing towards Safari, The sound-room cut in:

'Searcher holding the torpedo, 261°.'

At the same instant, the attack co-ordinator said:

'Tigerfish has re-acquired and is attacking.' Hamilton stood rigid, his eyes fixed on the Tigerfish's track.

Grenville shouted from his fire control console: 'Loss of guidance commands on the weapon,' and immediately there was a faint clang from somewhere aft.

'Loud explosion bearing 255°. Implosion sounds on target bearing 255°,' the sonar controller reported.

Even without the benefit of sonar, Coombes heard the breaking-up noises on Safari's starboard beam — and then, drowning them, the racket of the enemy's torpedo growing louder, louder as it homed in on to Safari. 'Six down, seven hundred feet!' he rapped. He must summon every scrap of guile, every grain of experience he'd amassed over the years to evade this savage beast now hurtling towards Safari: he'd drive Safari to her limits to evade the torpedo which had sniffed him out. Bull Clint was sitting tensed in his seat, his eyes fixed on the indicator of the after-planes, ready to take over should the auto fail.

'Got a bearing?' Coombes called out.

''Torpedo port quarter, fifteen hundred yards.'

'Starboard ten. Steer 180°. Hold on everyone.' The angle was jerking down: her bows fell away and Coombes felt the elation he always experienced when putting his submarine through her paces. Safari behaved like a fighter aircraft, responding positively and immediately to her controls. He was flying her down at thirty knots to seven hundred feet, at a rate of six hundred feet a minute. As she banked to the turn, he grasped the mast cage to keep his balance.

''Torpedo coming in on five o'clock,' sonar reported, 'twelve hundred yards.'

'Roger.'

'540 feet — 560 — 580 — '

'Decoy half-streamed and switched on, sir,' Hamilton called.

'Too flaming late,' Coombes murmured. Things were moving so fast: he'd hardly hoisted in that he'd hit the Typhoon. His total concentration was bent upon saving Safari from this torpedo speeding in on his starboard quarter.

'Midships,' he commanded, 'port five. Come left to 090°.'

The boat flung upright, steadied, then canted over, banking into her opposite turn.

'640 feet — 660 — 680 — '