Submarine

Jessup watched the three DDG's bucking into the seas while trying to keep station on Safari's buoy. For Jessup it was the worst moment during the whole of SUBSMASH. The buoy was the vital communication link, indeed the only one: the DDGS were lying off, waiting for the cable of the buoy to part at any moment. They had established contact on underwater telephone last night at 1030, but the bad weather during the rest of the night rendered underwater communication very difficult, the squelching distorting all speech. But during the early hours of this Monday morning, the wind miraculously began to moderate, to leave a long swell, the surface ice streaked slate-green where the leads of open water stretched like fingers to leeward.

Jessup enjoyed these snatched interludes on his bridge, for a brief moment trying to escape his heavy burden. In half an hour Carl Vinson would be in position, ready to launch Avalong, the DSRV. The swell would make the helo's task hazardous but apparently the drop evolution had been exercised in worse conditions.

The admiral stood in the lee, marvelling at the skill and confidence of his chopper pilots: no problem, they had said, to lift that massive sausage-shaped load over the side and to dump it gently into this long swell, the troughs of which must be twenty feet below the crests. He turned as the screen door slid on its tracks. His staff captain, baggy half-moons beneath his eyes, was saluting:

'There they are, admiral — starboard bow.' They lifted the binoculars — yes, the first crosses of the Soviets' mastheads was etched against the leaden sky.

Tunny old world, Tom. Twenty-four hours ago, if someone had dreamed this up, we'd have laughed our arses off.'

'Their first units located the Typhoon buoy at dawn, sir. This lot's their heavy mob, complete with diving bell and lifting gear.'

The screen door slid back again and the communications officer, still in his shirt sleeves, stepped out on to the bridge:

'The Soviets are on the air, sir. They're asking to speak admiral to admiral, using their interpreter.'

'They've kept their word, sir, since the President's call,' the staff captain added 'They've been co-operating all down the line.'

'Yeah,' Jessup murmured. 'When we lost Avalon 4 and the helo, I sure appreciated their message. And 'I reckon they meant it: Gorshkov's traditions will die hard in their navy.' The two officers stood aside as the admiral moved towards the screen door:

'Keep the fighter coverage going, Tom,' he said, 'and the Force at Readiness State One.' His bushy eyebrows rose, as he peeled off his jacket. 'Some guy has to make the first move after a quarrel,' he said in his slow, Southern drawl. 'I'll talk to 'em, Tom: reckon it should be interesting.'

Chapter 31

HM Submarine Safari, 19 May.

There was barely sufficient light percolating through from the control-room for Janner Coombes to read his own handwriting. His first decision after being forced to scram the reactor was to switch to emergency lighting. The cold gleam of the single white light bulbs were having a depressing effect on morale: deprived of the evening film show, the hands found boredom difficult to combat, with reading difficult under the lighting conditions. There was a sepulchural gloom about the compartments when the first lieutenant did his rounds with the cox'n. The canteen manager and sixteen others were drowned in the deluge which overwhelmed the fore-ends when the missiles struck. Nothing could be done about the bodies, because three compartments were flooded for'd of the main bulkhead.

Even the effort of sliding his chair towards his desk made Coombes fight for air. He inhaled a long draught, felt the scarce oxygen reaching to the depths of his lungs, then tried to focus his thoughts as he picked up his pen. He must complete this final day of his patrol report so that FOSM could know what happened. He leaned backwards, trying to pin-point the sequence of events, and painstakingly jotted down the times for his rough draft — detailed times after Safari plunged into the mud were impossible to recall.

The first entry in the log was at 0412 when the chief was forced to scram the reactor six minutes after their first attempt at shifting the submarine. And that was when he, Janner Coombes, made his serious misjudgement in the crisis of the moment — understandable, but critical: he blew main ballast. He then went full astern on the egg-beater, the battery-driven vertical shaft and propeller which, in emergency, could be lowered like an outboard motor to drive the boat at four knots. Hundreds of tons heavy, the 4,500 ton submarine was stuck fast. He tried not to overdo the discharge on the minute battery by going astern too long- it was difficult to judge, but now they could be paying with their lives for his error.