The fishing-boats provided the chance Farge needed to get the batteries fully charged. Inside the Kola Inlet, the detection of his snort mast would be suicidaclass="underline" to the hazard of certain discovery by radar would be added the risk of sighting from the shore, because Orcus would be working in close if she succeeded in negotiating the minefields. Farge slipped from his bunk and walked into the control-room.
'Anything on 187?' he asked.
'Contacts bearing 085°, sir,' the OOW reported. 'The fishing fleet: nothing else, sir.'
Orcus was sliding nicely up to periscope depth.
'Seventy feet, sir.'
'Up search periscope.' Farge stood astride, waiting for the steel tube.
'Sixty-five feet.'
'Watch the bubble,' Powys said, correcting the planesman 'More dive on the after planes. That's better. Keep her there.'
'Put me on the bearing,' Farge ordered.
'Red 118, sir. You're on.'
The periscope was breaking through the grey film that was the surface; the lens blurred, cleared suddenly — and there were the fishing-boats — just right, about six thousand yards.
'Raise EW mast.' He heard it hissing behind him while he swung round the horizon, searching for the enemy — the air menace was priority, and he continued to flick the lens from the surface to the band of sky above the horizon.
'Clear all round,' he reported, 'except for the fishing-boats bearing that.' 'Red 95-'
He slapped shut the handles of the periscope and the tube slithered downwards. 'Anything on EW?'
'Radio beacons, sir,' the Chief RS called out. 'Vardo bearing 294°, Cape Nemetskiy 177°. No other contacts.'
'Very good,' Farge acknowledged. 'Stand by to snort, generating both sides. Up search.'
Powys repeated the order and the pipe echoed through the boat:
'Red watch, watch snorting, both sides. Shut the intermediate flood and drain valves. Open the tundish valve.'
Farge was staring again through the search periscope. The pale sun was sinking below the olive-green sliver of land or their starboard quarter. Several of the fishing-boats were visible, bucking on the horizon-line.
'Raise the snort induction mast three feet… open snort drain one… open the outer tube vent,' and the drill continued until at last they were ready.
'Start generating both sides,' Farge ordered. He heard the diesels firing, waited an instant for the slight vacuum to clear the stale air. 'Raise the induction mast fully.' He could see it now, the ugly bulb of the snort, clear of the crests. He turned to the OOW, who was manning the attack periscope. 'You have the induction mast.'
'I have the induction mast, sir,' Powys acknowledged Farge took another swift all-round search, then lowered periscope. 'Keep a good lookout and report when the box is up,' he said. 'I'll be in my cabin.'
It was still daylight up top: there was no need to shift to red lighting because it was twilight all night up here, never dark There was little chance of detection from the enemy with 0rcus close to and in line with the fishing-boats, and an hour's charge on both generators should bring the box right up. The massive batteries should give him all the amps he would be needing.
In his cabin again, he tried to put his mind at rest, but sleep still evaded him. Murray had worked out the tidal streams off the inlet: always northerly in the upper reach. He had jotted down the times of the easterly and westerly sets which ran parallel to the coast. Farge decided to ignore the current, which was never more than a knot, though if this north-easterly persisted the currents would become a factor in their calculations.
The unknowns were the whereabouts of the enemy's hydrophones and minefields, though Northwood had given him the suspected positions of these dangers. His only course was to ignore them and trust to luck. The Soviets were known to have stocks of moored mines in addition to their intricate, accoustic, magnetic and pressure jobs — but at least the moored mines were likely to be sited only in depths of over five-hundred feet. Murray had marked these areas with hatched red lines on the charts.
A further problem was bothering Farge: the cox'n had reported to Tim Prout that several cases of flu — or what resembled it — had broken out, and the doc had confirmed the diagnosis. In this rarefied, oxygenated atmosphere bugs had a habit of raging through the boat. Apart from warning the hands of the obvious, there was nothing Farge could do. So long as he could keep clear of flu himself… at last, he drifted into uneasy sleep.
'Captain, sir. The box is up. EW reports enemy maritime aircraft search frequencies in northern sector.' Powys was in the doorway.
Farge was immediately awake. 'What's the time?'
'2117, sir.'
'Stop snorting. We're getting close to land anyway.' And so, the batteries charged, their position fixed from the radio beacons of Cape Nemetskiy and Tsyp Navolokskiy at the tip of the Rybachiy peninsular, Orcus lowered her masts to glide down again into the depths. She was ten miles from the Rybachiy coast and Farge made a mental note not to overrun his reckoning, a common error, apparently, due to the easterly current, At 2326 the 187 sonar picked up a motor ship to the nor'-nor'-west, range twenty miles.
Chapter 14
At 0015 Farge altered course parallel to the southern boundary of the former mined area. He reduced to six knots and, after an all-round sonar search, brought her up to periscope depth. The red-tinged grey of the arctic night pervaded the surface world. On his second sweep he picked up a pin-point of light from the masthead of the merchant ship. Seven minutes later the plot, using sonar references, had produced her course and speed; by her signature she was evidently an Altay support tanker escorted by a turbine ship and probably homeward from a Narvik run.
'She's steering for the entry into the inward traffic lane, sir. She'll be at the outer end at 0215 if she maintains her speed,' Murray reported. Farge moved across to the chart table where Murray was pricking off the distances:
'Course for an interception, pilot?'
'You're about right, as you are, sir: you'll be two miles from her at two o'clock.'
'Diving stations.' Farge grinned. 'We'll refine and wait for her at the entry point. She can take us right into the inlet, bless her little socks. Three hundred feet, Officer of the Watch.'
There was a ripple of excitement, an intangible expectancy in the control-room. Farge was stretching out his hand for the mike to inform his company of his intention when the sound-room cut in:
'Contact dead ahead, sir, range four miles, classified Natya.'
'How many?'
'Can't be sure yet — possibly five.'
Murray was turning up the identification manual. His finger underscored the minesweepers' potential.
'Damn. They've got MBUS,' Farge added. 'They're on their passive sonar.' He turned to the OOW:
'450 feet. Shut off for going deep. Assume the Ultra Quiet State.'
Their optimism had been short-lived, Farge mused, as he watched the bubble sliding aft. A spanner dropped now and it would spoil their whole day. Working on the assumption that what the approaching merchant ship and escort could do, Orcus could do better, Farge altered course to the north-east in order to ease round the minesweepers. Orcus would scrape the southern boundary of the prohibited area, but if the Altay tanker and her frigate (both now confirmed by sonar from their characteristics) could steam safely across the area, there was little risk to Orcus. The sweepers passed a mile to the south of the submarine which, with only sufficient speed to retain depth-keeping and steerageway, remained undetected at 450 feet, with a further 200 feet of water beneath her keel. At 0120 Farge went to action stations. He then talked to his men over the intercom: