'Captain speaking,' he began. 'I want a word with you, while I still have the chance. We're going to be busy and I rely upon you all to be at your most vigilant, however tired you may become. Get in as much rest as you can, even at action stations We are now on the enemy's doorstep and are about to go in through his front door, probably the best protected door in the world. Everything depends upon your efficiency, upon your ability to maintain the Ultra Quiet State for hours on end Move about slowly, thinking about what you are doing: one mistake and they might pick us up, so watch it.' He paused 'Because I can't read the crystal ball, we must conserve our battery power and our air, both high pressure and life-support, to the utmost, in case we run into trouble. Talk and eat as little as possible. If we want to get home, it's up to each one of us to carry out his job to the best of his ability. Orcus may be an old lady, but she's manned by a good team. That's why we've been chosen for this job.' He glanced at the officers in the control-room then continued:
'We're on the edge of the main shipping channel into the Kola Inlet. I'm coming up now for a quick look: an Altay fleet support tanker, probably in ballast after supplying Narvik with oil, is four miles to the north of us. A modified Kashin, I think, is weaving ahead of her. She's armed with two twelve-barrelled MBUS, VDS and a helicopter. Once she's past us, I'll get in under the tanker and follow her in.
'Remember, conserve your energy and remain silent. Some of you, notably the torpedo crews, won't have much to do, but the sonar team will need all the help it can get, so share the work as much as you can. From one point of view we're in luck, because there's a north-easterly gale blowing up top. There's bound to be a sea running: that can't help their sonar, but can hide our periscope. I'm coming up for a look now.' He cleared his throat and ended: 'That's all.' He replaced the mike and faced his first lieutenant who was standing by the TCC and keeping an eye on the plots.
'Any other contacts on 187?' Farge asked. 'No other contacts, sir. Just the two bearings, 355°.' 'Ten up,' Farge snapped. 'Periscope depth.' He crossed his arms behind his back, glanced at the log. On slow one and at minimum revs Orcus was creeping inaudibly through the depths. He felt her bows slanting upwards. Bowles had her firmly under control.
'380 feet, sir,' the scow, Woolf-Gault, reported. '370…'
At two hundred feet Farge held her while he made a sonar check of her stern arcs and a final all-round search. 'Periscope depth,' he ordered.
The whine of a motor somewhere, that was all, the subdued commands, the murmured acknowledgements. Thank God, Farge thought, the destroyer is remaining passive on her sonar. He could hear her propeller beats echoing softly from the sound-room.
'Ninety feet, sir, eighty…'
'Up attack.' Farge straddled his legs. 'Put me on the bearing.' As the head swept upwards from the well, he snatched at the handles. He glued his eyes into the rubber eye-guard: the suffused greyness of the surface was already showing.
'Sixty-five feet, sir.' The MEO had taken over. 'Sixty-two… fifty-nine… Breaking.' The dullness of the lens persisted, smeared by the draining water. For God's sake, clear, you bastard…. Farge could her the MEO flooding, trying to keep her down.
'Fifty-seven feet… fifty-six…'
Farge was crouching on his knees. Hadn't he drilled them enough, damn and blast them? A break-surface now, dead ahead of the escort…
'Fifty-seven… fifty-eight…'
The glass was clear: the modified Kashin's dark silhouette was unmistakable, with the unbroken sweep of her upper deck, the exaggerated rake of her bows and her two widely-spaced, squat twin funnels. Her helicopter platform was visible, her chopper on it, presumably secured for entering harbour. He swung on his heel, sweeping round the horizon.
'Bearing that. I'm 70° on the escort's starboard bow. No aircraft.' He shut the handles. The tube hissed downwards.
'Red no,' from the bearing-ring reader. The drill was running smoothly.
'Happy with the trim?' Farge asked, an edge to his voice.
'Got her now, sir,' Foggon said.
'Stand-by for a range of the Kashin. Up attack.'
'Bearing of, target should be red 98,' the TCC called.
Farge was peering again at the enemy: he could see the two SS-N-2 missile launchers aft on her starboard side.
'Range that,' he snapped, adjusting the range-finder vernier. 'Masthead.'
'Twenty minutes,' the reader called.
Farge snapped the handles shut, waited for the tube to slide downwards. 'What masthead height are you using?'
'Mainmast ninety feet, sir — range is eighteen hundred yards.'
'What should my relative bearing be of the tanker?'
'Red 105.'
'Put me on.' He snapped his fingers. The periscope operator flicked the control. Farge grabbed the handles. It was difficult to see with the flying spray. Hell, where was the Altay?
'Bearing's that. I'm 70° on the tanker's bow. Range of the funnel, that.' 'Fourteen minutes.'
'Down periscope,' Farge said quietly. 'Take her down, Number One: two hundred feet. Course for a 120° track?'
He waited, watching the bubble sliding aft.
'145°, sir,' the TCC called.
'Starboard ten, steer 145°,' Farge ordered. 'I'll come in under her stern, round up and follow her in.' He glanced at Prout who was watching the operator on the TCC. 'What's my distance off track?'
'Six hundred yards, sir.'
'Let me know, sonar, ten degrees before I should alter course. I want to get right under her — a cable astern at the most.' Farge watched the gauge as Orcus sank to her ordered depth.
'May I pump, sir?' Foggon asked. 'We're a bit heavy.'
Farge shook his head. 'Wait until I'm under the tanker.'
Orcus levelled off nicely, dropping only a couple of feet below two hundred.
'Course, sir, 145°,' the helmsman reported.
At 0216 they heard the tanker rumbling overhead, the noise of her diesels and propellers resonating throughout the boat.
'Alter now, sir,' Prout reported.
'Enemy's course 180°, sir,' the LOP operator called. 'Speed twelve knots.'
'Sonar: track and report,' Farge said. 'Tell me at once if she slows down.'
Farge watched Chris Sims, half in half out of the sound-room. Their lives depended on his sonar team and their efficiency.
'You're to port of her track, sir. She bears 186° now.'
'Starboard fifteen. Group up and speed up,' Farge snapped, taking advantage of the tanker's racket as she trundled overhead. 'Steer 210°.'
Three minutes later, they were tracking in astern and following in her wake. 'Eighteen knots,' Farge commanded. 'And watch your steering: I want to keep right under her.' He glanced at Sims. 'Tell me immediately of any alteration in her course or speed.'
'Aye, aye, sir. Range four hundred yards.'
The tension in the boat was tangible as at two hundred feet they blindly overhauled the tanker above them. Gradually the company realized that this was the safest fashion of penetrating the enemy's defences; whispered conversations were starting up, and soon they were relaxing, leaving the tricky stuff to those on the controls: Bowles, the cox'n on the planes, Foggon, the MEO in his white overalls, behind him; the second cox'n, Ronald Parry, tall and black-bearded, tensed over the wheel as he steered the boat, meeting each sheer before it began; and the outside wrecker, Chief MEM Tom Grady, at the panel, waiting upon the trimming officer's orders. Taking advantage of the noise, Foggon had pumped and her trim should be about right: guesswork, but with plenty of experience behind him. As the pressure increased with depth, the submarine was squeezed; as she displaced less she became effectively heavier.