The system worked when it was quiet and the sea was calm, otherwise surface and water noise destroyed much of its capabilities, but Thresh was notorious for getting the most from the least.
In this case, his information was based on solid knowledge.
“Chief, I’ve a definite submarine contact… bearing 160 to 165 at no more than four thousand two hundred, closest possible range three thousand nine hundred. Best guess is 160 at four thousand. I’m not sure but it seems almost on the surface.”
“Keep working, lad.”
Roland leant back for the telephone but hesitated, sensing Thresh had more to say.
“Go on, lad, Spit it out now.”
“Chief, I think it’s one of those twenty-ones. We’ve got some of those, don’t we?”
“Aye we do, lad. The skipper’ll sort it all out. No worries.”
There was more.
“It’s snorkelling. I’ll put ten bob on it, Chief.”
Roland had been impoverished a few times by Thresh’s uncanny abilities and refused to take the bet.
“Bridge, Sonar… update on contact, now classed as definite submarine. Thresh thinks it’s snorkelling.”
He reeled off the information, and updated the bearing and other details at Taggert’s request.
“Right, Chief. I’m going to alert Snowy, but I’ll need an up-to-date set of figures to give them. Rework it, Chief.”
“Aye aye, Skipper.”
He replaced the phone.
“You heard the skipper. Start from scratch, lad.”
Topsides, the crew closed up on the searchlight and, on receipt of the order, illuminated, and sent their invisible infrared beam down a bearing of 160.
“Sonar, bridge, report target details.”
“Bridge, sonar, target steady at 160, probably making six knots, range decreasing, now approximately three thousand four hundred and closing. Over.”
The First Lieutenant arrived on the bridge with the Radio Officer in close attendance.
“The bastard’s coming right at us, Number One.”
“Righty-ho, Skipper. I’ve confirmation from the Admiralty. Definitely no friendly submarines in our patrol area. No Swedish vessels have been registered either. Rules of engagement apply.”
Taggert had sought confirmation, even though his current information gave no Allied submarine anywhere west of the Danish islands.
No self-respecting submarine captain would be snorkelling as he stalked an enemy contact, but that simply didn’t matter.
It was in the wrong bit of sea.
“Rules of engagement permit us to open fire. An unidentified, but not friendly, submarine is now closing on us. Concur, Number One?”
“Absolutely, Skipper.”
“Sparks, radio Snowy-two-two. Standby to initiate attack. Target data to follow shortly. ”
“Roger, Skipper.”
“Sonar, bridge. Report target details.”
“Bridge, Sonar… target holding on 159 at six knots, range three thousand, closing. Over.”
“Number One…”
Taggert need say no more as his First Lieutenant was already on the phone to the searchlight position, relaying the slight change of angle.
“Bridge, radio. Inform Snowy-two-two that he may attack. Target is illuminated… presently on bearing 159, closing, and probably snorkelling.”
“Aye aye, Skipper.”
“Number one, reel the eel.”
The crew were already standing by to recover the electric eel array, the first five hundred yards of which was the easiest and required no special handling.
After that the sensors started coming aboard and, despite the redesign, they were still easily damaged.
Leaving them trailing in the ocean in the presence of explosions was guaranteed to wreck them, so the procedure was to recover prior to any attack, as spares were scarce.
It also meant that Loch Tralaig lost contact on her passive systems.
Taggert accepted that this time, especially as whatever it was seemed calm and unworried.
Ears attuned to the sounds of the sea suddenly wrestled with a new sound as the growl of engines rose.
Snowy-two-two flew on a course almost perfectly perpendicular to the bearing of the submarine, and at a height that seemed no more than a few feet above the waves.
The RAF Lancaster MR-3, a coastal command conversion of the successful heavy bomber, guided in by the infra-red line that Loch Tralaig used to show where the submarine was, suddenly illuminated its own searchlight, a powerful Leigh Light, which bathed the waves ahead with roughly twenty million candelas of penetrating light.
The nacelle mounting the light was slung under the rear belly of the giant aircraft and, to the watching seamen, gave the Lancaster a deadly halo.
Aboard the coastal command aircraft, the snorkel was clearly marked by the small wake it left as its parent submarine moved gently ahead, although it suddenly disappeared, which the crew assumed meant they had been detected.
Behind them, HMS Loch Tralaig, its work done, came about and cleared the immediate danger zone whilst readying the Squid launchers, should Snowy-two-two’s attack fail.
Inside the Lancaster, the order was given and two objects detached themselves.
The two Fido acoustic torpedoes were newly modified versions, whose attack patterns could be pre-programmed just before launch from within the aircraft, and these two were told to go to active sonar search from the moment they entered the water, and to look straight ahead.
Both the Fido torpedoes also had improved engines that offered nearly twenty knots, which was roughly three times the speed that the submarine was achieving, and more than enough to chase her down, if they acquired her.
The Lancaster pulled up and turned away to port, leaving both submarine and frigate behind her.
It would not put any more Fidos in the water unless specifically authorised by the commander on the surface, for the acoustic torpedo tended to be indifferent to the nationality of any metal it detected.
Both found the lump of metal they had been fired at and both struck within a second of each other.
Aboard HMS Loch Tralaig, headphones had already been removed to avoid ruptured eardrums. With the successful hits, they were replaced and the listeners bore witness to the death of whatever it was that threatened them.
Commander Taggert accepted the confirmation with little elation. His brother and his wife’s cousin had both died in submarines in the last show, so he had an understanding of the terrible death that awaited the men who sailed beneath the waves, but it didn’t stop him sinking them, just from overly celebrating the end result.
Throughout the ship there were whoops of joy as the result was announced over the ship’s tannoy, immediately followed by an order to maintain silent routine.
Snowy-two-two rose back up into the night, her patrol not yet finished.
“Number One, reposition us to the east and trail the eel again. We’ll make a sweep at daylight for any survivors. Not risking ourselves now.”
There were no further contacts and the Lancaster was back at her Dutch base by the time that HMS Loch Tralaig returned to the area of the kill.
The sea was covered with the detritus expected after the sinking of a submarine.
Paper.
Cork.
Oil.
Lifejackets.
Wood.
Bodies.
The presence of smashed corpses in Soviet naval uniform relieved the last vestiges of doubt.
The whaler was deployed and Loch Tralaig moved away again, leaving the small boat, commanded by one of the Sub-Lieutenants, to sweep through the remains of a Soviet submarine and her crew.
No one was more surprised than Taggert when the cutter signalled for pick up and confirmed it had two survivors recovered.