'I'd like to hope that Woolf-Gault might turn out differently: but that's not likely, as you know.'
'We'd better go,' Coombes said, 'or I'll miss my shuttle to Glasgow.' He pushed back his chair. 'Share my taxi to Heathrow. You can take the tube into London for Euston.'
Chapter 8
The flashes from the lighthouse of the Point of Sleat were already tinged yellow with the advent of morning twilight. Orcus, having rounded Ardnamurchan at first light, was now ploughing up the Sound of Sleat to catch high water in Kyle Rhea. Farge felt relaxed: with the last of the flood under him and only two days after full moon, he could guarantee fifteen feet under her keel. The quick-flashing green light of Mallaig harbour faded on Onus' starboard quarter and an hour later the submarine was entering the approaches to the bottleneck of Rhea.
'I have the ship,' Farge muttered to the officer of the watch at his side on the diminutive bridge. Alastair Murray, the navigating officer, was bent over the bearing ring of the compass repeater as he checked his last fix.
'You have the ship, sir.' Chris Sims, sonar officer and the Third Hand, stepped back from the voice-pipe as his captain took over the conning. Above them, the radar mast twisted in its rings as the officer, on the plot in the control-room confirmed Murray's visual bearings.
'Control — bridge,' Farge called a few minutes later over the intercom, 'plot: are you happy with your position?'
'Bridge — controclass="underline" yes, sir. On track, in the middle of the channel. We're up to time. You should sight the buoy any time now.'
Farge lowered his binoculars and spoke into the mike. 'We've got it. Cable party up top: prepare the anchor ready for letting go.'
The passage was narrowing as the submarine nosed into Kyle Rhea. It was dark here, cold and inhospitable, where the hills dropped into the dark, steely sea. High above the submarine, the tops of the larger hills scraped the base of the mist which was swirling up, towards the peaks where the rising sun was touching the mountains. The black water hissed down her sides as Orcus forged through the kyle which had been gouged from the rock by the eternal rhythm of the tides.
'Nothing to port, cox'n.'
'Nothing to port, sir.'
The passage was less than half a mile wide here: shags were perched on their favourite rocks; a seal stared in curiosity at its giant cousin, the gleaming, black submarine. As Orcus swung into the final bend of the kyle, Farge glimpsed the blue water of Loch Alsh sparkling ahead. Ten minutes later he brought his submarine round to the north-west: the rays of the sun were suffusing the hills and the loch with that magical, fragile luminosity which only Wester Ross and the Western Isles can produce. Below the fields, carved from the heather, the northern shore was sprinkled by a patchwork of white-washed cottages and crofts. Their slate roofs, still wet with dew, were glistening in the freshness of the new day.
'Steer 280°, cox'n.'
Farge again lifted his binoculars. There was the Balmacara hotel and to the west of it the inlet in which he would anchor tonight. He could see the road now, skirting the water's edge — and he grinned secretly to himself. If all had gone as planned, she would have travelled along it yesterday evening, on her way to the Kyleakin ferry. Then Orcus was through the worst of the Rhea narrows; there remained only the Kyle of Akin, the bottle-neck debouching into the open water leading to the Inner Sound. He was lucky to have CPO Bowles. He was as competent a helmsman as he was a cox'n, that key man in a submarine who was responsible for the well-being and routine of the ship's company. Yes, he was fortunate to have Bowles, particularly as Orcus' first lieutenant, Tim Prout, still lacked experience.
'Steady, sir. Course 280°.'
The fishing haven of Kyle of Lochalsh was coming rapidly into view: the brightly coloured trawlers and purse-net boats were nestled about the quays and he could distinguish the yellow upperworks of the fleet tenders huddled on the nearest jetties.
'Nothing to port.'
'Nothing to port, sir.'
There was no more than a cable between the rocky shore and Orcus as she slid through the Kyle of Akin. Farge glimpsed the red-painted ferry and its sleepy crew preparing for the first trip of the day. Behind the houses huddled about the hard, he spotted the hotel where Lorna should be sleeping.
'Fourteen metres, sir… fourteen, fourteen, fourteen and a half…' Murray was reporting as he monitored the depths.
Then the submarine was through and into the open water where lay the channel to the Inner Sound. The panorama opened before him: to the north-east, the distant mainland sprawled, mauve and silvery-blue with mist where it merged with the far mountains. He lined up Orcus between the Crowlin Isles and the islet of Longay, which passage was the final gateway to the Inner Sound, North Minch and the Arctic oceans beyond.
Again Farge felt the twinge of apprehension, once more the weight of the secret he was carrying. He could tell them all on Friday off Loch Cairnbawn; he would drill them silly there, the last opportunity before the real thing. Today, the vital trials lay before them: the deep dive to check that the leak round the after hatch was cured, during the forenoon; in the afternoon, bottoming drills, then back to the anchorage in Loch Alsh, to give night leave.
'Open up for diving,' he passed down over the mike. 'Diving stations in three-quarters of an hour's time. Secure the anchor for sea.'
He watched the cable party, Woolf-Gault supervising, while Parry, the lanky, black-bearded second cox'n and the hands secured the anchor. The precocious sub-lieutenant, Halby, had fallen sick at the wrong moment, and Farge had to accept that Woolf-Gault was the obvious replacement.
Orcus was steadying nicely between the islands: up ahead lay the long whale-shaped island of Raasay, sloping towards its northern tip. To the westward behind the island, the Cuillin Hills of Skye formed a breath-taking backdrop, powder-blue with distance in the purity of this soft, clear air from the Atlantic. Scalpay lay close to port; and due south the islet of Pabay where, north of the wreck of the World War II ammunition ship, Safari would anchor tomorrow at the end of the day. She too, as part of the deception plan, would give normal leave. Woolf-Gault was standing beneath the fin and yelling upwards:
'Anchor and casing secured for sea, sir.'
'Fall out specials.' Farge nodded at the lookout, 'Go below.' He picked up the mike:
'Diving stations in ten minutes' time. Navigating officer, report when I'm in my diving position.'
The last man of the special sea-dutymen was disappearing through the fin door. 'Carry on below, Sims,' Farge ordered his officer of the watch.
'Bridge — controclass="underline" boat opened up for diving, sir,' the MEO reported. 'Boat shut off for going deep. Q tank empty.'
Up ahead were the fleet tenders, waiting in position to keep the exercise area clear. The crofts were distinguishable, huddling along the shore at the northern end of Raasay. When the cottages were abeam, he would dive. He would take her down slowly to the deepest patch off the kyle between Rona and Raasay. He could dive to a thousand feet there, but he'd have to watch his navigation. Vickers had carried out a pressure test on the hatch, but there was nothing like the real thing to create confidence.
'In diving position, sir,' Murray called. 'Good fix.'
It was peaceful without the coughing of the diesels, while the submarine glided ahead on her electric motors. A pair of gulls dived angrily upon the periscope rearing behind him; he watched them peeling off, screeching furiously towards Raasay. He glanced round the horizon, yanked out the mike and leaned over the voice-pipe: