There was relief, palpable as cold, fresh air, in the set of every man's shoulders and on every face that he could see. He kept a sudden assault of doubt from his own features.
"Heat trace strengthening, Captain."
"Magnetic trace positive, Captain."
"Sonars negative, Captain."
"Range and bearing?"
"Bearing unchanged, sir. Range thirteen thousand, and decreasing. We're overhauling her, sir."
"Very well." He paused. The low-warhead torpedo was in the tube. He had four of them, and four multiple-warhead "Catherine Wheel" torpedoes. Could he risk the first one at that range? Torpedo room — fire One! Keep calling."
Tube One away, sir, and running. Sensor on, lights green. Negative readout."
The Russian captain looked at his first lieutenant standing at the depth indicator panel. He shrugged expressively.
"Torpedo sensors have made contact, Captain."
The wake-homing torpedo began its search immediately it was launched. The wire that connected it with the Grishka transmitted to its tiny computer the instructions of the experienced operator in the torpedo room. Its guidance control was tested, and responded, then the speed of the torpedo was altered a number of times in quick succession. On each occasion, the torpedo responded immediately and precisely.
The torpedo crossed the traces of the Proteus" s wake one thousand metres from the Grishka. Its corkscrewing movement through the sea, which enabled it to search in three rather than in two dimensions, took it across the wake well astern of the British submarine's position. There was, however, sufficient trace of the wake remaining for the torpedo to register it.
The torpedo nosed on through the dark water until it reached the conclusion of its next one thousand metre run, then it began retracing its course, back towards the wake. Once it crossed the wake for the second time, and its sensors registered either a stronger or a weaker trace, then it would be instructed to turn to port or starboard, and to run down the submarine's track until it made contact. Once its path was chosen, and the wake's direction established, contact was unavoidable.
The torpedo crossed the wake and turned to port almost immediately with a flick as lithe as that of some hunting sea creature. Its corkscrewing track evened out as it began tracing its way down the wake of the British submarine.
"Contact continuous, Captain."
"Excellent — keep calling." The captain of the Grishka grinned at his first-lieutenant.
"Lock on indicated… three thousand five hundred metres of run completed, sir… four thousand metres completed… heat sensor responding and locked on… command override on, sir… proximity fuse armed and on, sir… seven thousand metres of run completed… TV camera on, light on —"
"Come on, come on," the Russian captain murmured. Too long, too long, he told himself. Should have waited, she's out of range.
"Seven and one half thousand metres of run completed, sir… eight thousand metres of run completed."
"Positive contact, sir!"
"Cox" n hard astern!"
"Hard astern, sir."
"Contact identified as a torpedo, sir!"
On the tiny television monitor in the Grishka, receiving pictures from the camera in the nose of the torpedo, there was nothing more than a weakly illuminated rush of grey water, almost like a heavy, dull curtain being continually whisked aside. Then there was a blur of darker water, then the grey, whale-like shape of the Proteus as the British submarine began her turn. The torpedo seemed to dip towards the submarine, strangely hesitant, and the proximity fuse detonated the reduced warhead. The television screen at which the captain of the Grishka stared went blank, making him wince as if the flash of the explosion had been visible and had startled, even blinded him.
"Target acquired, Captain! Hit, hit, hit!"
"We" ve got her?"
"Direct hit, Captain!"
There was cheering, which he immediately silenced.
Torpedo room, load Two. Multiple warhead torpedo, set range at nine thousand. Manual guidance, direct search track."
"Tube Two ready, Captain."
"Fire Two!"
"Planesman, check that roll!"
" — can't hold the turn —"
"Emergency lights — cancel —"
"Can't hold the trim, sir!"
"Trim responding, sir."
"Engines down one-fifty revolutions."
"The dampers aren't controlling the oscillation, sir."
"All stations — immediate damage report." Lloyd wiped a hand across his forehead, his eyes riveted on the forearms of the two planesmen as they struggled to right the trim of the Proteus. The muscles flexed and strained, veins standing out, the tattoo of an anchor and chain livid on one of the arms. The whole submarine was oscillating wildly, like a bicycle out of control. A child in the saddle, feet unable to reach the pedals. The lights had come back on. His arms felt nerveless and weak as his thoughts churned like his stomach, over and over, and fused into a circuit. The Russians had fired on them, fired on them… Thurston crossed the vibrating control room towards him and lurched against the periscope housing, where he clung unsteadily. "Christ, John — they fired on us!"
Thurston's face confirmed the inadmissible. Enemy action.
"Chief engineer, sir," Lloyd heard over the control room speaker.
"Yes, Chief?"
"Initial damage report suggests external impact, sir. Pressure hull okay, outer plates and aft ballast tanks ruptured. Planes and rudders misaligned, but responding, sir. The vibration we're experiencing is linked to our revs, so there must be prop damage. Or maybe it's the shaft. Or both. The main shaft bearings are heating up."
"Can we still remain under way, Chief?"
"I think so, sir. We'll have to try various rev settings to find an optimum for remaining under way with least vibration and some degree of control. We may be lucky, if the bearings don't get too hot. They're in the orange now, sir."
"Very well, Chief. In your hands."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The multiple-warhead torpedo tracked down the wake of the Proteus, following the range and bearing instructions fed into its tiny computer. It, too, was armed with a proximity fuse. The Red Navy's experts had concluded that a reduced warhead, although capable of damaging the Proteus, might not have sufficient stopping-power to render the British nuclear submarine immobile, which condition was essential to the success of the operation. Therefore, an experimental multiple-warhead, code-named "Catherine Wheel", had been hurried through its last stages of development and its laboratory and sea trials, to fulfil the preliminary work of the reduced-warhead torpedo that would cripple, but not ensnare, the Proteus.
The TV camera switched on at an instruction from the torpedo room operator, and the light came on at the same moment. On the tiny screen, the Russian captain watched the swirling rush of water, and thought he detected the bubbles and general disturbance of the Proteus's wake. He tensed himself, almost as if he had been riding the torpedo like a horse, then the grey-black, whale-backed shape of the submarine emerged from the darkness of the sea. He imagined — saw? — the damage to the rudder and the hydroplanes, and bent his head and cocked it to one side in order to perceive the outline of the stern more easily. Then the warhead detonated, and to his intense disappointment the TV screen went blank. Memory continued the succession of images.
He had seen the "Catherine Wheel" in operation on an old sub during trials. The film had been poor, grainy and cut-about, but the images had been stark, vivid, deadly. When the separate warheads split from the body of the torpedo, they would whirl and spin and weave outwards in a net-like circle. Some of them carried small explosive charges, some barbed hooks of super-strengthened steel, some suction caps or magnets. Twelve in all, each of them trailed a length of toughened steel cable, whipped into a frenzy of whirling movement by the spinning-top effect of the small warheads. Two, three, four or more of these would make contact with the hull and rudder and hydroplanes of the Proteus and, as the submarine moved forward under power, the trailing, whipping steel cables would slash at the hull, be dragged with it, and would fasten and entangle the propellers, twisting tighter and tighter like strangling cords.