Submarine

At 0500 he'd gathered his senior officers into the wardroom (yesterday, wasn't it, 18 May?). It did not take long to reach their decision: they knew that the indicator buoy had reached the surface and that its homing beacon was transmitting satisfactorily: it would only be a matter of time before the LRMPS picked up the signal. It was best to stay put, taking all prudent measures: conserve what was left in the battery; burn up as little air as possible by banning cooking, by turning-in, not talking and by using the 002 scrubbers. If conditions became desperate, they could attempt a controlled escape: 297 feet was easily within limits.

Their decision was proved to be the right one when two hours later, at 0640, the first of a Viking's active transmissions pinged against the hull. Hope soared and it was difficult to stop the infectious chatter which was burning up the limited oxygen. At 0930 morale rose even higher when the noise of propellers from the first of the destroyers was picked up by the watcher sonar. Communications with the surface was then established through the underwater telephone — and Coombes began to anticipate with enthusiasm the routine calls from that distorted, burbling, American voice of die destroyer CO.

From that moment onwards, 1040 18 May, Coombes' patience had been tested to the limit: his junior officers steered well clear, but Number One and the chief had demonstrated once again their calming influence. The increasing condensation in the submarine as the temperature dropped; the enforced, fitful, disturbed sleep woken violently by nightmares; the periodic contact with the destroyer through the telephone until the gale made speech unintelligible — a full night and day dragged by. Dawn on 19 May had brought the abatement of blizzard conditions up top.

At 0835 Coombes could once more understand the destroyer captain's words: Carl Vinson and Constitution should be seven miles off by 0900; Avalong would be lowered immediately into the water and should start her first descent at 1030. That, Coombes calculated, would make it thirty hours since Safari scrammed. The jubilation was contagious: it was difficult to restrain the optimistic whisperings through the boat, an excitement fanned by Bull Clint who, fly-whisk in hand, accompanied Number One through the boat to make their final count. Once the DSRV began its descent, the hands would start to muster aft, because Avalon 3 would be docking over the engine-room escape hatch. The DSRV could lift twenty-four men per trip- so, subtracting the number of dead for'd, three lifts should do it. The air was still good and hopes were high.

At 1130, the destroyer captain was on the underwater telephone:

'Hi, commander,' the distorted voice burbled. 'How.you doin'?' He sounded as jubilant as Coombes.

'Okay down here.'

'Good — that's fine.' The American voice paused, waiting for the 'squelching' to subside. 'Are you in good shape? Life support okay?' His heartiness was irritating: why didn't he get on with it?

'We're fine: all set and ready to go.'

'Commander — we've a little problem up here.' He seemed to hesitate. 'How much longer can you hold on? Life support — how many hours?'

'Difficult to estimate — we're okay at the moment — twelve hours, maybe.'

'Twelve? Good, good. Wait one, please.' Several minutes elapsed before he was on the line again:

'Could you wait a bit longer, commander? We'd like to start the first descent at about 1730.'

Hell, Coombes exploded to himself. 'What's the trouble?' he asked curtly over the phone.

'The Typhoon is sunk at 960 feet. Forty-six of her men are trapped. They're in bad shape. The Russians are co-operating with us, but they don't have time for a rescue with their diving bells: the water's too deep and the weather's not yet fined up sufficiently for their support vessel.'

'So?' Coombes asked, glancing at his officers grouped around him.

'They're asking us to help with Avalon 3: apparently their hatches are designed for our DSRV fit. The admiral's asking if you can wait a bit longer, commander, while Avalon 3 makes two lifts to save the Russian survivors?'

'Can't you use Avalon 4?' Coombes asked.

'Wait one.'

Another long interval. Then:

'Commander: Avalon 4 was lost yesterday in a helicopter crash.'

The hopes of the men grouped about the telephone evaporated as suddenly as they had arisen. It was Coombes'. turn to ask for time to consider:

'Wait one.'

At 1140 he and his officers made their decision: they'd have to wait, wouldn't they? Submariners were much the same the world over, even the Soviets…

'Okay: we'll expect you at 1730,' Coombes told them on the surface. 'My life-support guesstimate is 2300, repeat 2300.'

'Roger. Thanks, commander — out.'

Coombes spoke to the troops over the broadcast and they accepted the disappointment as he expected — but the smiles vanished from that moment onwards.