Submarine

'Sixty-four…'

He opened the periscope handles. The light from the surface was percolating downwards… and then suddenly came the bubbles and the frothing.

'Breaking.'

'Sixty-two…'

'No contacts, watcher.'

'Sixty feet.'

As the glass cleared Coombes could see Raasay, bare, fresh green at this time of the year — and he swept round in low power: Scalpay, Pabay, Longay and the Crowlins between which Safari would be slipping, the rounded cliffs of the Ross-shire coast: then, back to the north, towards the top of the Sound and Rona — there was Orcus… 'Nothing close,' he snapped. 'Orcus bearing that, six thousand yards.'

'Red 147°, sir,' the bearing-ring reader reported.

'Sonar standard. Fall out, 2001,' Coombes could dispense with sonar now.

'Sector contact: John Cabot ten thousand yards.'

'Roger.' There she was, a speck on the edge of the area, keeping guard.

'Officer of the Watch on the search periscope.'

'Officer of the Watch, sir.' Grenville stepped forward to replace Coombes at the handles.

'Up attack,' Coombes ordered. The thin tube slid upwards and he jammed his face into its eyepieces, carried out a careful all-round look and then, relieved to see no ships dangerously close, gave the order. 'Stand by to surface.'

The sec watchkeeper repeated the order and the crew began its drill of opening up valves on the ventilation exhaust and draining the low pressure blower system. When he was satisfied, Coombes barked the orders which had now become part of his existence. He heard the bolts being knocked off the lower lid as the drill continued:

'Mast draining down… shut the inter-space drain. Inter-space drain shut. Roger. Ready to surface, sir.'

'Down attack,' Coombes snapped. He briefed the officer of the watch on the surface situation, then slammed shut the handles of the periscope. He stood back to glance at the gauges.

'Pipe, "Surfacing now". Surface! Blow all main ballast tanks.'

The sec repeated the order, then began counting, '… Four, five, six. Stop blowing.' High pressure air was precious: there was not much of it.

'Open the upper lid. Start the blower,' Coombes ordered. 'Raise the radar mast.' He turned over the submarine to the officer of the watch on the bridge, then glanced at the first lieutenant: 'Patrol routine. Specials in a quarter of an hour's rime, Number One. I'm going up top.'

As Coombes began climbing up the ladders in the tower, he heard the intercom piping the Red Watch to Patrol Routine and for the White and Blue Watch libertymen to clean. Emerging through the upper lid to the daylight of the overcast May afternoon, the thought crossed his mind that this would be his last ascent for some time. He tucked himself into his corner of the bridge and picked up the mike: 'Control — bridge: bring the plant to three-quarter power state. Revs for ten knots.'

He opened and shut four main vent, to expel the air in four main ballast tank. This would bring her stern down so that the propeller could bite deeper and he could ring on a few more revs.

'Six-nine revolutions set, sir,' the control reported. The bridge watch was now complete: the OOW, Lieutenant Geoff Punt, the boat's TASO and the weak link in Coombes' officers; Midshipman Basil Spurle, still wet behind the ears; and the lookout, a sonar plotter, Able Seaman Joe Robinson; he was a West Indian from Tobago, a popular, cheerful man. The search periscope revolved above their heads as the navigating officer fixed her position, below in the control room. Coombes pulled the collar of his jacket closer about his neck as a rain squall swept down upon them.

'Take her between the islands, Lieutenant Punt. Leave Longay Haifa mile to starboard.' Coombes leaned over the lip of his bridge; he sniffed the humid air, pulled down the peak of his cap on which the commander's oak-leaves still gleamed with pristine newness. Beneath his anorak, he had shifted into his number ones, so that he would not hold up the liberty-boat. The weather was notoriously unpredictable in this dreary neck of the woods: he certainly understood Trix for not wanting to settle up here. She longed to be in her native Surrey again, particularly since the biopsy. He picked up the mike. 'Give the Signals Communication Officer my compliments and ask him to speak to me.'

Orcus was still visible, her fin showing to the northward where she was finishing off her calibration and de-gaussing runs. She was completing her noise trials this morning when Safari arrived at midday, entering the Sound from the north.

'Signals Officer, sir.' Wesley was a good officer, a bright lad, the sort of bloke Coombes liked: robust, plain-spoken, he would stand up to his captain if necessary.

'Have you got Orcus on VHP?'

'Yes, sir. No problem.'

'Make to her, "CO to CO — RFC 183 °Carnburn for a quickie. I have to return on board by 1900 boat".'

'Roger, sir.' Farge would understand and in half an hour they could fix tomorrow's arrangements.

Safari was through the narrows five minutes later and lining up for her anchorage off Pabay.

'Specials in five minutes time,' Coombes said into the intercom. 'Tell the first lieutenant that the liberty-boat is lying off waiting for us. He can pipe libertymen.'

'Aye, aye, sir. Message to Orcus passed, sir.'

'Very good.'

Ten minutes later Coombes had anchored Safari in twenty-one fathoms, half a mile to the east of Pabay. After checking his anchor bearings, he went below. He could hear the after hatch opening, the hands in good spirits as they hustled up the vertical ladder. When he reached the after casing himself, Punt was already supervising the coming alongside of the tender, abreast the fairing of the exhaust discharge. The skipper of the drifter was having difficulty as he nudged his boat against Safari's pressure hull. The bowman was working closely with his skipper and biding his time for the right moment to catch a fin turn with the headrope. Twice Punt yelled at the older man, finally:

'Hurry up, for'd. Turn up the rope round your cleat.'

The grey-haired man in the eyes of the drifter glanced up in disbelief.

'Hurry up, there,' Punt shouted excitedly. 'Secure at that.'

The deckie glared at the impatient young officer. 'See here, laddie,' he complained resignedly, 'look after your boat, mister, and I'll look after mine.'

In the amused silence, Coombes glanced from the corner of his eye at his senior ratings mustering on the after casing. They had heard the exchange too, but were staring nonchalantly towards the far horizons.

'Carry on,' Punt told the duty PO.

The libertymen started to nip across into the pitching drifter. The transfer took five minutes and then Coombes followed his only two officers to be going ashore, the midshipman and the instructor lieutenant who was still borne on Safari's books. Coombes joined the skipper in the wheelhouse and then the tender was wallowing towards the Kyle of Lochalsh. Through the window, Coombes watched his submarine growing smaller, her black, whale-like shape silhouetted against the rounded island.

'This fair weather's breaking up, skipper,' Coombes said.

'Aye, 'tis that, captain.'

'Are you running the 1900 trip back?'

'Aye.'

'Hold on for me, will you? I may be a few minutes late.'

'Sure, captain. That's what we're here for. Your lads could do with a run ashore.'

The boat chugged towards the Kyles, the shore road to Kyleakin now in sight, an occasional car moving ant-like along it.

Coombes watched his men, huddled on the lee side. They were in good cheer and he hoped that there would be no leave-breakers. Number One had piped that the ship was under sailing orders and that they must keep their mouths shut when approached by talkative strangers. And as for himself? He was nipping ashore early, but not solely to take advantage of the liberty-boat; an intriguing hour lay ahead of him, if what he had learned was correct.