Submarine

At 013 °Coombes had followed up his first flash with an amplifying sitrep which was immediately acknowledged by CINCEASTLANT. It was comforting to know that the home team were aware of Safari's plight: unable to dive as yet, she continued to steam at ten knots on the surface, heading for the shelter of the glacial but friendly Nordaustland, that vast chunk of island with its two thousand foot cliffs, north-east of Spitzbergen. It was also comforting to have received the signal half an hour ago that part of Carl Vinson's Striking Force had been alerted and was racing northwards to the area. Safari was still ninety miles from safety — the shallow water, in case of catastrophe. Safari was ordered to signal her eventual diving position and to transmit on every hour, a procedure which Coombes was observing reluctantly. His radio transmissions must soon bring down reprisals upon Safari. What the hell was holding up the chief? It was all Coombes could do not to pester Malcolm Gunn with bloody-fool enquiries. Talk of the devil, that was him on the intercom:

'Bridge- control.'

'Bridge.'

'MEO here, sir. The hull valve's reseated, if you'd like to take her down slowly. Give me five minutes to clear things up, will you?'

'Bloody good-o,' Coombes shouted. 'Five minutes, then?'

'Please. Slowly, mind you, in case it doesn't hold.' The Scottish voice paused. 'We ought to stay at periscope depth, sir, until we get back to base. I don't want to push our luck.'

Coombes couldn't believe it. Almost home and dry: the Typhoon sunk, Safari still afloat and homeward bound. Selfish bugger, he mused. How was Julian Farge getting on? And what about those poor sods, those still alive, a thousand feet down in the crippled Typhoon? He grabbed the mike:

'Diving stations,' he called. 'Diving in five minutes time. Ask the navigating officer to speak to me.'

'Pilot here, sir.'

'Give the communications officer our position and tell him to push out our diving signal: time 0356.'

Coombes grinned at his bridge team, unidentifiable in their bulky arctic clothing. 'Take your last look,' he told them. 'Next stop, Faslane.'

The sea smoke to the north-east was shutting down fast, wreathing in sinuous trails along the surface: hundreds of miles of whiteness, wiped bare of life by this merciless, icy wind.

'Bridge — control. Diving signal passed.'

'Roger. Finished with the wireless mast. Captain coming below.' Coombes nodded at the bridge OOW, then shouldered his own bulky torso through the upper lid to clamber down the ladders to his control-room.

They unpeeled him from his warm clothing while he prepared to take his last check through the search periscope. Number One was muttering behind him:

'ECM'S picking up that frequency again, sir — 018°. Pulse shifting and seems stronger.'

Coombes said nothing. He swung to the bearing: nothing, only the sea smoke.

'Clear the bridge — clear the bridge,' he commanded, feeling the turmoil in his gut. 'Come below. Shut the upper lid. I have the ship.'

He swept the horizon again, an unease pricking at him, as the diving drill continued around him.

'Bridge is clear, sir,' from the OOW; and then the lookouts were slithering down the ladders, bringing the compass repeat and the bits and pieces with them. He heard, the resonant echoing from the hammering as they fastened home the bolts. Coombes faced the ship control console to check that the HP air and hydraulics were on the line.

'Upper lid shut, two clips, two pins,' a voice called down from the darkness of the tower.

'Lower and secure ECM mast.' The damn thing was only causing twitch.

'Boat diving now,' Coombes said.

'Diving now, diving now,' the sec repeated.

'Open three and four main vents.' He looked at the clock: 0401. Eight minutes to get down, for invisibility. Thank God for that. If the hull valve held, no problem. The ECM mast was hissing behind him, on its way down.

'Three and four main vents indicated,' the sec reported, monitoring the tell-tales in the console.

'Report the bubble,' Coombes snapped.

'Bubble moving for'd, three degrees,' Bull Clint said,' pushing up Safari's nose to clear the for'd tanks of residual air.

'Open one and two main vents.' Coombes had dived this boat innumerable times, but never before had he been so relieved to feel the surface mantle of invisibility spreading above him.

'Bubble coming off, sir,' Clint called.

'Six down, eighty feet, back to fifty-eight.'

Coombes sighed with tiredness: he'd better take a final look.

'Bubble moving aft, sir,' the cox'n said.

Coombes began his last search by sweeping westwards, then slowly through south across the endless white waste merging formlessly with the dead sky. He shivered, whether from the cold or from the effect which this desolate ice-scape was having on him he did not know. All he had left now was the northern sector and that would be it…

The sea smoke was drifting across the northern horizon and reducing visibility to five miles.