'First clip on!' He smacked on the second. 'Second clip on. Take her down, Number One,' he shouted down into the tower. 'Two hundred feet.'
He began descending the clammy, slippery rungs of the ladder. In the gloom and chill of the tower, a momentary shiver passed through him leaving an unease he could not explain. 'This is it,' he muttered to himself. 'Next stop,' Kola.'
Chapter 13
'That's Vardo, all right,' Farge murmured. 'Store Ekkeroy beacon, pilot, bearing that. Down search periscope. The radar dome on the shoreline is a monstrous, great thing.' Farge stood back as the stick slid downwards, the palm of his hand slicking back his thinning black hair in that mannerism which showed when he was under stress. 'Got your D/F bearing yet?'
'Green 92,' the periscope reader called, his eyes glued to the bearing-ring which encircled the steel tube hissing downwards into the well.
'Vardo radio beacon 265°, sir,' Murray called. 'Good fix: we're nine decimal six from the nearest point of land.'
'Down EW mast. Take her down, Number One,' Farge ordered. Three hundred feet. Don't speed up. We'll remain at the Quiet State.'
'Three hundred feet. Six down.' Prout ordered, glancing at the cox'n.
Then Orcus was sinking again into the depths, invisible, silent. Seeing the low-lying island of Vardo, black against the flat hinterland, hostile since the Soviets had invaded northern Norway, had jolted Farge and his whole crew into the reality of war. Forty miles to the westward of Vardo, in the Varanger uplands, survivors from 42 Royal Marine Commando Brigade were still holding out. Organizing Norwegian guerrilla resistance, the gallant Booties continued to harass the Russian convoys streaming southwards to Narvik along the E6 highway.
'One hundred feet, sir.'
The MEO stood silently watching Bowles while he delicately took the boat down at a six-degree bow-down angle. After five days on passage, Foggon had mastered the trim with a competence which Farge had not previously experienced. They had snorted most of the way, the EW mast giving them ample warning of prowling aircraft. But, apart from three distant warnings, Orcus had uneventfully reached her planned position forty miles to seaward of North Cape at 0730.
After the radio bearing from Slettnes — the Russians had re-instituted the international beacons after the truce talks had begun — Farge altered course at 1100 to 156° for the final run-in to his landfall off Vardo. He had decided to take this risk, because an exact position was vital for his final approach into the Kola Inlet — Murray had not been entirely happy about his SINS position: although that box of tricks rarely let them down, there was nothing like an eyeball sighting to give Farge the confidence he needed when bearding the lion in his den. The bid weather had helped all the way and snorting had kept the box right up, until going deep when approaching the 200-metre line off Syltefjord. He had managed to average twelve knots but at 2000 hours he would reduce to ten on main motors until he could snort again: it was vital to have his batteries fully charged before his final approach to the eastern tip of Poluostrov Rybachiy, the thirty-mile long peninsular guarding the western entrance of the channel into Murmansk.
'Three hundred feet, sir.'
'Very good,' Farge acknowledged. 'Happy, Number One?'
'Trim's fine, sir.' The sound-room was cutting in on the intercom:
'Bearing 096°, distant, group of fishing trawlers, sir.' Chris Sims, the sonar officer, stuck his head around the door: 'They seem to be moving fairly slowly, sir. Range about sixteen miles.'
'Nothing else?'
'All-round sweep completed, sir. Nothing else.'
'Go to watch-diving, Number One. Ten knots. The Quiet State is to continue from now on. I'll try to stick to the deep water: we don't know how far out they've got their hydrophones.' Farge glanced at the clock. 'Everyone is to get his head down: this is our last chance to get in some zeds before we reach the tricky bit. What's our ETA Cape Nemetskiy, pilot?'
'2200, sir. If you could come up for a D/F from the radio beacon, it would help.'
Farge checked the log: Orcus was settling nicely to her ten knots. 'If the fishing-boats are still around, I'll come up,' he told Tim Prout, as the watch took over. 'I'll be in my cabin.'
'Right, sir.'
'Who's the control officer of the watch?'
'WEO, sir.'
Farge nodded at David Powys. 'Have you been able to solve the problem with SINS?'
'Fixed, sir. One of the few spares we carry did the trick.'
'Good. Call me at once if you pick up anything on sonar — and watch the trim as we near the coast. There are several river estuaries on the north side of Rybachiy.' If the OOW wasn't on his toes, the crossing of a freshwater estuary could upset the trim: if the insidious change in water densities went unnoticed, the boat could in seconds become tons heavy — with devastating results.
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Julian Farge drew the curtain across his doorway and lay on his bunk. This was his last chance to relax for he knew not how long. If he could sleep for a few hours, it would help during the crucial days ahead. He had done all he could, read up all the bumph, all the physical conditions: in the Barents in summer, fog could clamp down in seconds. This year's pack-ice limits, upon which everything depended if Coombes was to intercept the Typhoon before she reached comparative safety, was reported to be normal for May, extending as far south as the seventy-sixth parallel. The unnavigable polar ice was just clear of Spitzbergen and Franz Josef Land. That gave Safari a leeway of five hundred miles from her position Zulu in which to track down her Typhoon before she reached the polar ice.
Sleep eluded Farge, though with the trial of his life imminent he felt amazingly serene. He knew he was not alone; for the first time, someone was remembering him in her prayers, including them all…. Almost, — a third of his men had in peacetime carried out a patrol in these waters. Farge had noted the steadying effect their apparent nonchalence was having upon the younger element. His ship's company seemed to be itching for the chance of getting their own back, to bloodying the enemy's nose after the raids on Plymouth, Faslane and the Clyde.
The early W/T routine this morning brought for the first time something tangible: intelligence reports that two Typhoons were in all respects ready for sea. Typhoon Kilo was expected to sail 17 — I8 May; Typhoon Lima, 20–21 May. Northwood's forward planning had been accurate. There was also the good news that the Americans had reported their first kills in the Pacific: a Delta 11 off Hawaii, a Yankee on her way home from Seattle; and an Oscar, one of the enemy's 24,000-ton jobs, sortieing from Petropavlosk in the Kamchatka peninsular. The routine also confirmed that in Nato's neck of the woods things were also hotting up: Carl Vinson, with her Striking Force, was in the Greenland Sea, and Nato submarine forces were in position at the ice edges. The Barents Sea was effectively surrounded.
There was a tap on his doorway and David Powys poked his head through the curtain:
'187 confirms the fishing-boats, sir: quite a fleet, the nearest, six thousand yards, stretching to nine thousand. We'll soon be abeam of them.'
'How long do you need to get the box right up?'
'About an hour, sir.'
'Anything else on 187?'
'No, sir. Clear on all sectors, except for the fishing-boats.'
'Start bringing her up on the watch to fifty-eight feet. Stand by to snort, both sides. Tell the Chief.'
'Right, sir.'
Powys pulled the curtain across: he was efficient, the most highly qualified officer on board, with a London honours degree in physics. He was intelligent all right, but he lacked the quality of confidence — perhaps this trip would remedy that deficiency….