Submarine

He supposed historians might pronounce that Operation sow was significant in the scheme of things: but was the loss of his men and perhaps Farge, too, a price worth paying? His moustaches twitched with a sardonic smile. He didn't know whether this sinking of the Typhoon had convinced the Kremlin that their game was not worth the candle. The operation was somewhat of a confidence trick, anyway, wasn't it? And he slumped back in his chair, worn out, sick of it all, caring no more for the follies of the distant world above. He and his men were at the sharp end: if the West had woken up earlier, would Safari be stricken here in 297 feet of water, crippled and dying? Coombes wondered whether, through the mystery of divine planning, the ideals of the multi-lateral disarmers could now be realized?

He slumped towards his desk, picked up his pen again and began to write:

Monday, 19 May

Trix, my darling wife, By the time you get this, you will be recovering and longing to leave hospital. How I wish I could be with you to welcome you home with the children!

But I'm afraid it's not to be, as I'm otherwise engaged at the moment, as you know. I've been pretty busy so haven't been able to write my few daily lines to you — nor the children. Try to explain to Luke why I haven't been able to draw him his usual picture of Safari! This, dear Trix, is a difficult letter to write — and if you receive it, you'll know that (as we once talked together) I'll be waiting for you on the 'other side'. We've had a wonderful marriage. And you'll have the sprogs to comfort you during the first difficult years — Luke is already proudly looking after you when I'm away, even now, isn't he? But I must get back to my work…

Thank you, darling. May God bless you and our children and a great big hug for Sarah and Luke too.

He signed his letter with a flourish, sealed it in an envelope and carefully buttoned it into the hip pocket of his trousers. And now it was time to talk to his men. He reached up and extracted the small book from the shelf above his desk.

When the crunch came, every man called upon his God — Christian, Moslem, Buddhist, the lot — yes and probably the Soviet communist submariner as well. Coombes flicked the pages of the Naval Prayer Book: Forms of Prayer to be Used at Sea. He'd begin: 'Thou hast promised that when two or three are gathered together,' then read the General Confession. He'd read the traditional prayer: 'Oh Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rulest the raging of the sea; who hast compassed the waters with bounds until day and night come to an end…' The powerful, majestic words, solemn splendid prose, fashioned by men who really placed their faith in God, would lift the men's spirits, and he'd finish with the Lord's Prayer.

Coombes canted back on his chair and called through to the scow in the control-room.

'Inform the First Lieutenant and the ship's company that I'll be talking on the broadcast in five minutes' time.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Coombes let the curtain drop back into place and wearily climbed to his feet. Knackered though he was, he'd bloody well fight this terrible lassitude to the end. By God, we're not done yet: perhaps He would see them through, if it was His will.

He tightened his tie and shuffled across the few yards of the deck to his customary position between the periscopes.

He reached for the mike, heard his men gasping as, silently, they struggled to their feet. Robinson was at his place in front of the CEP; Number One, silent, head bowed; Bull Clint, by the planesman's seat, was leaning forward because of the curving hull; the wrecker stood in front of his panel. Coombes switched on the intercom.

'Captain speaking,' he began, struggling for breath. 'Wherever you are throughout the boat, I invite you to join us in prayer for our families and our country, asking for God's mercy, asking Him to save us, if it be His will.' He cleared the phlegm in his throat.