Submarine

It was 0801 when Safari reached her ordered depth. The breaking-up noises gradually faded — and the silence in the control-room was broken by Coombes asking quietly:

'Range of track 332, please, the Typhoon? Switch to sector.'

'2001, tracking…'

He was surprised at the length of time the sound-room was taking to find the monster. Then the sonar controller came in:

'2001, track 332 very faint, 358°. Estimated range 37,000 yards and fading.'

Coombes moved back to his position by the periscopes.

He turned towards Hamilton: 'We can't let the Typhoon slip away: six up. Five hundred feet.'

Safari flew up to five hundred feet, sweeping upwards like an aircraft.

'2001, contact fading on 008°. Last counts give thirty-plus.'

The sound-room held the contact for seven minutes longer. By 0819 the Typhoon had vanished from the displays.

In sinking her first opponent Safari had alerted her prime target: the Typhoon was lost, tearing away to the northward. Elation turned to despair as Coombes took his submarine up to maximum safe speed after his invisible foe. He could do nothing but hold on, hoping that something would slow the enemy down. Whatever happened, he must resist calling for more power: a propulsion failure now through excessive revs would be fatal, not only for the success of the mission, but to Safari's

own safety.

Because of his blind impetuosity, all that Orcus had endured, all that Julian Farge might have risked, all that the old O boat might now be enduring, was for nothing. He sent the hands to watch-diving, then strode angrily to his cabin.

Chapter 24

HM Submarine Orcus, 77 May.

Julian Farge was too weary for sleep. He lay stretched on his bunk, his eyes closed, his mind flitting from problem to problem, incapable of concentration.

Since that chopper sighting at 2108 when Orcus turned to the south-west after the flash report, life had become surprisingly calm. Enemy ASW forces must have been in the area to the north-west but, apart from the ECM contact, there had been nothing. Orcus

was creeping away steadily on a course of 240° at slow one to conserve her precious amps. He'd hold on until he could delay the decision no longer — the air was becoming foul and the battery was down to a dangerous level — for every hour he could gain towards the vastness of the Norwegian sea increased Orcus' chances of evading the enemy's inevitable retaliation. Both he and FOSM had understood the suicidal risk of Orcus sticking up her masts on the Soviet doorstep. The flash report was bound to be picked up and fixed within seconds of the transmission being whacked out. But if Orcus could endure only a few more hours…

He had ordered half-hourly battery checks: the 0100 reading gave eight per cent remaining. He had been unable to snort since he'd got the box up off Vardo, at 2000 on 13 May, over seventy-six hours ago. If he had not bottomed almost continually, he would never have made it, particularly after tailing the Typhoon, grouped up for two and a half hours, at full speed during the last burst. This final caning of the battery had reduced things to this twitch level — but what was worrying him more than the running down of the battery was the parlous state of the life-support system.

Orcus was running short of candles, the vital element for oxygen replenishment, the burning of which supplied the oxygen and eliminated the lethal carbon monoxide. She was also down on her cog absorbent, and its rationing was causing splitting headaches. The air was foul and breathing was becoming an effort. If he had not at the outset banned unnecessary talking, movement and all cooking, they would now be in a mess. But the cold was getting them down most, with no heating and minimal heat from the reduced lighting.

'Captain in the control-room!'

He slid from his bunk in answer to the traditional summons. Sims, the OOW, was leaning against the door to the sound-room:

'Watcher's got a contact, sir: 350°, steam turbine and closing on a steady bearing. We're classifying.'

Farge went back to his cabin for his sweater and by 0136 sonar came up with the disquieting news that the counts were confirming the signature of a Leningrad ASW carrier. Five minutes later, the sound-room picked up three more contacts on the same sector, probable destroyers, all at slow speed.

'An ASW hunting group,' Farge murmured. 'Chris, shake Alastair, Number One, the Chief and WEO, please. I have the ship.'

Ten minutes later, Farge and his key officers were grouped round the chart table, Chris Sims again taking over the watch. David Powys had spread his battery graphs across the chart table.

'We're down to 67 per cent. The curve falls away sharply at the end.' His fingers followed the falling curve, traced the sharp dip to zero.

'At this discharge rate, how long have we got?' Julian asked quietly.