Submarine

'The prayer of Saint Chrysostom,' he began. 'Almighty God, who gives us grace at this special time with one accord to make our common supplications unto thee; and dost promise that when two or three are gathered together in thy name, thou wilt grant their requests.' He had to stop, fighting for breath. In that brief silence, his men around him, shivering in the clammy chill, heard the rattling of an anchor cable echoing against the hull. Coombes looked up, then flipped over the page to where he had marked the confession. As he concluded the supplication he heard Sims calling for him to man the underwater telephone.

'Tell 'em to wait up top,' Coombes said. 'I'll take the call when we've finished.'

Safari had been crippled for forty-three hours: a few minutes to end with the Lord's Prayer and their tribulations would be almost over.

Chapter 32

Washington, 19 May.

For the past two days the British staff had been at immediate notice, constricted to their homes and hotels. Trevellion was on his hotel bed, trying to keep awake, when Rear Admiral Quarrie's secretary came through on the extension.

'The meeting's convened for 1600 at the White House, sir,' she said. 'Our car's on its way to pick you up.'

Trevellion had time to run a razor over his gaunt face: crescent shadows hung beneath his eyes and the lined hollows in his cheeks were dark with stubble. Forty-seven hours si the momentous news came through of the Typhoon sinking, two days of brinkmanship supreme, America and the free' world daring not to breathe, while their citizens streamed from the cities into the countryside. For the second time that day, Trevellion offered a silent prayer of thankfulness that Rowena and Ben were safely tucked away in Cornwall, though Culdrose, presumably a prime target, was too close for comfort.

It had been 1715 yesterday when SACLANT came through with the news — 0100 Moscow time. Apparently, at the other end of the hot line, the Soviet leader had been as surly as his Motherland's national mascot, refusing to believe the President's claim: the Kremlin was waiting for C–IN-C Northern Fleet's reports. Meanwhile the threat of a nuclear first strike still hung over the West. And that, so the reports from the ops people went, was when the Soviet leader hung up. And now the telephone was purring from Trevellion's bedside. His car was waiting at the hotel entrance.

Rear-Admiral Quarrie was already in his seat when Pascoe Trevellion was ushered into the Situation Room, which Trevellion reckoned was the most elegantly and comprehensively equipped ops room he had yet encountered. But he was becoming blase, having spent much of his time here during the crisis. A vacant seat was separating Quarrie from Butch Hart who had befriended Pascoe since Trevellion first arrived in Washington.

'Hi, Butch,' Trevellion grinned, accepting the seat which Hart indicated. 'He's back from the hills, then?'

Hart nodded his grey head, his distinguished features breaking into a slow smile. 'Could be good news, Pascoe. They wouldn't have allowed the President back, otherwise, would they?'

'The first eleven's here, I see,' Trevellion added, glancing round the room packed with senior officers from the three services.

'Uh?-'

'Cricket,' Trevellion explained. 'Forget it.'

The screen along the wall glowed as the maps were projected: the usual one of the Pacific area; the other, the North Atlantic. The red and green crosses were dotted as before, concentrated in the critical areas — but now three blue crosses showed, two in the Pacific off the Kuril Islands, one north-west of Murmansk.

'Two of ours and one of yours,' Hart said.

Trevellion inclined his head, but remained silent. Though the Kremlin was claiming a sinking off Vardo, Nato refused to confirm that Orcus was missing. FOSM still had no news of her since her signal giving Safari the vital enemy report. A hard price to pay. The double-circled red cross of the Typhoon kill on the edge of the polar ice somehow failed to compensate, now that an end to this sea war was in sight.

'Gentlemen, the President.'

They stood up and the American leader, flanked by his Secretary of Defense and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Floyd, entered through the door leading from the White House. The President looked as fit as ever, but the strain of the terrible load he bore was beginning to show in his craggy face. He glanced round at them all with his humorous, shrewd eyes, bade them, with a casual wave of the hand, to be seated, then strode to the lectern on the raised platform. He waited for the Secretary of Defense and Floyd to settle in front of him. He nodded at the aide and the lights dimmed.