Submarine

'Make it immediately.'

Coombes stood back from the periscope as the MEO reported from the manoeuvring-room: 'Captain, sir?'

'Yes, chief?'

'Can't tell yet, but I think the valve's only lifted off its seating. The pumps are winning at this depth.'

'Can you steam?'

'Slow only, sir. The excessive revs may have damaged the engines.'

'Thanks, chief.' Coombes paused. He desperately needed time to think. 'Can you repair the valve?'

'Can you stay on the surface, sir? We may have to rig a cofferdam and the least depth the better for us. We took quite a thump from the explosion back aft. I'll report on the damage as soon as I can.'

'Roger, chief. There's nothing up top but miles and miles of pack ice. I'll start recirculating the air while we push out our flash report.' He hesitated before asking, 'You all right, back-aft?'

'No one hurt,' Malcolm Gunn replied, his soft Scottish voice steady and reassuring. CPO Scanes got a wetting, that's all.' Then the chief added as an afterthought, 'I'd appreciate as much warning as possible if you have to dive.'

'Roger. ECM is clear at the moment. Well done, you back-endies.' Coombes twitched at his whiskers as he switched off the intercom. Whether Safari

could remain on the surface depended upon Ivan. It was senseless to harass Malcolm Gunn further: he was a first-rate MEO and realized only too well the decisions facing his captain.

'Open the lower lid,' Coombes ordered. 'Officer of the watch on the bridge.' He briefed the OOW then turned towards Hamilton. 'Bring her to full buoyancy. You have the ship, Number One. I'm going up top.'

'I have the ship, sir.'

The PO steward stepped forward from behind the masts, his captain's heavy-weather clothing in his arms.

'Thanks.'

Then, clad in his warm clothing, the hood tied about his head, fur mitts on his hands, Coombes entered the tower. Far above, the small circle of daylight showed; he grasped the wet, slippery rungs of the ladders and began climbing upwards towards it.

After nearly a fortnight's existence below in the comfort of Safari's constant atmosphere, the intense cold on the minute bridge was a shock to Coombes' system. The steel was already crisped with frost; the lookouts were stamping their feet and beating their muffed hands together to keep their circulation going-- Coombes stared over the lip of the fin, his mind sluggish, mesmerized by her whale-like snout butting steadily through the pack ice; he listened to the cracking as it parted asunder to hiss down Safari's rounded sides. To the north visibility was shutting down where sea smoke was forming, caused presumably by the icy wind sweeping across the relatively warm surface. The intercom snicked on:

'Bridge — control.'

'Bridge.'

'ECM reports reconnaissance aircraft frequency, bearing 020°. Distant, sir,' and Coombes detected a trace of anxiety in Hamilton's voice.

'Roger. Anything further from sonar?'

'Nothing more since 0200, sir. But there's a Mayday on radio distress frequency from the same bearing, sir.'

'A Mayday?'

'Yes, sir, strength six.'

'Roger. Keep me informed of all ECM contacts.' Coombes turned, watched the ECM warner mast swivelling slowly above his head. This was the third contact since Safari surfaced three hours ago. She had got away with it so far, but she was chancing her luck, even up in this God-forsaken ocean. How much longer before the chief was finished with the hull-valve? And would the damn thing hold, even at periscope depth? He turned impatiently, cursing softly to himself.

The exhilaration of having sunk the Typhoon rapidly evaporated as he realized that Safari was struggling for survival. And now ECM was picking up Maydays originating from a source close to the Typhoon's breaking-up position: though she was crippled in deep water just outside the edge of the polar ice, there must be survivors. How else could one of her combined indicator and radio beacon buoys have succeeded in reaching the surface?