Submarine

The torpedo must be overtaking at a relative speed of over twenty-five knots — he could hear the cacophony of its propellers even above Safari's wake. There was still a remote chance by swinging the decoy across its homing head — but Safari's decoy was only partially streamed. He'd be hearing at any second the click-click of the torpedo's hydrophones as they drove the weapon down to Safari's depth.

'Seven hundred feet, sir.'

'Roger.' He staggered to keep his balance as Safari swooped upwards, counteracting her angle to settle on her ordered depth.

''Torpedo's moving left, searcher!' The sonar was still in contact, but was the Typhoon's torpedo really turning, lured by Safari's decoy? The spoke had defined clearly on his PPI, the mark intense, now, no mistaking it. Dear God, it was turning away.

''Torpedo right astern, searcher — it's merging with the decoy.'

Coombes held his breath, his eyes mesmerized by the pin-point of light crawling across the face of the display 'Course, sir, 090°…'

Then events moved fast.

'Starboard ten: steer 180&degree.'

A hammer clanged against the hull. The boat trembled the length of her.

'Explosion astern, searcher! Decoy noise ceased,' the sonar controller called. 'Weapon has stopped running. No contact, searcher, on that bearing.'

Coombes heard the whisper of relief soughing through his control-room — but the cheer which followed ceased as abruptly as it had erupted.

'Seven hundred feet, sir,' the scow reported, satisfied that Safari was under control at her ordered depth.

'Control — manoeuvring,' cut in an anxious voice from the manoeuvring-room.

'Control?'

'Manoeuvring: hull valve.' The MEO'S words were curt, difficult to distinguish above a roaring noise coming over the speakers: 'Circulating inlet valve is off its seating.'

Coombes snatched at the intercom:

'How bad, chief?'

'Full emergency, sir! Major flooding.'

'How long can you give me?' Coombes demanded, feeling the adrenalin spurting. At seven hundred feet the deluge in the engine-room must be devastating.

'Take her up. Fast.'

Blowing main ballast would be too slow: the HP air was insufficient for emergency blowing at this depth.

'Stand by to surface!' Coombes rapped. 'Fifteen up. Planes in hand. Give me all the revs you can, chief. Emergency full ahead.' The roaring ceased as the intercom died.

The boat was swooping upwards. Bull Clint, his arms stretched rigidly before him, his hands gripping the column, was planing her upwards — the bubble was against the stops, but the boat must be at a forty-degree bow-up angle. The control-room teams were desperately clinging to any projection they could.

'Six hundred feet, sir — 580 — 560 — '

'Depth of the ice, pilot?' Coombes shouted.

Farquharson had 'anticipated and was already running the overhead sounder 'No deep ice, sir: surface is 590 feet.'

'540 feet — 520 — '

At sixty feet a minute, another fifty seconds at excessive revs from the engines and she would be up…

'Shut main vents,' Coombes ordered, trying to keep his cool. 'Blow all main ballast.'

He listened to the marvellous music of the HP air screaming along the line. The wrecker was working feverishly, his hands flickering over the switches on the ship control console.

'Three hundred feet.'

'Surface!'

The first lieutenant was holding Coombes upright, pushing him with all his strength towards the periscopes. No time for sonar clearance: straight up. But above the din the sonar controller was cutting in above the bedlam:

'No contacts on sector, 187.'

'Surfacing now!' Coombes shouted. He heard the doors opening, sensed the bridge team gathering beneath the lower lid of the tower. Drill, drill, drill — thank God his men were trained up.

'Blowing on all main ballast!'

'150 feet.'

'Permission to open the lower lid?'

'Open the lower lid. Stop blowing main ballast,' Coombes called out above the racket. 'Prepare the blower for running.'

'Hundred feet.'

'Course, sir, 180°.'

'Man the tower,' Coombes ordered. 'Assume the half power state. Revolutions for ten knots.' He heard the thumping on the lower lid, saw the legs of a man scrambling into the tower.

'Mast drained down… snort valves shut.'

'Sixty-five feet. Breaking!' 'Up ECM mast, up search periscope.'

Coombes forced his back against the barrel of the attack periscope, gripped the handles of the search periscope as it swept upwards.

The lens pierced the surface as he was flung backwards, his feet sliding across the deck while the submarine rocketed upwards, her bows rearing high before plumping downwards with the momentum of thirty knots behind them. A curtain of spray leapt into the sky as her 4,500 tons crashed back into the waves.

As he slithered round on his heels, he heard his men picking themselves up from the deck. Nothing in sight: a grey, dismal sky, and from horizon to horizon a waste of patchy pack-ice.

'Open bulkhead doors,' he snapped. 'Signals officer, is the flash report ready?'

'Ready to send out, sir.'