The boat had been at watch-diving since bottoming, but the sound-room had been watch-on stop-on, listening to the traffic up top. Sonar conditions were difficult because the beach was so close: rumbling and squelching background noises were intermittent and irregular between the steady crashes of the swell on the shoreline.
Lodeynaya Bay was open to the north-east; with the wind from that direction the scend lumped into caves at the foot of the cliffs of Pushka Point, half a mile north of Orcus. The boat was rocking on the gravel, and the scraping against the hull was getting on their nerves — both M tanks had been flooded to make the boat bodily heavy, in the hope that this would anchor her. At the back of everyone's mind was the unpleasant feeling that she was being remorselessly swept by the swell on to the beach only four cables under their lee. The navigator was running the depth recorder every fifteen minutes, beaming it to the surface: during the last half-hour, Orcus had crept towards the twenty-metre line — and, according to the chart, the beach shelved steeply. During the last few minutes, Bowles was sure that the unnatural movement had increased. The captain had been huddled over the chart with the navigator during the past hour, and looked strained when Bowles had a word with him on passing through the control-room.
Bill Bowles began to sort out the bumph in front of him as his mess-mates, disturbed by the change in the rhythm of the boat's movement, began stirring in their shallow slumbers.
'What's the time, Bill?' croaked the Chief MEA, his grizzled head appearing from behind his bunk curtain. 'I could do with some scran.'
'1745. Supper's in a quarter of an hour.'
The air in the compartment was becoming stale: to conserve amps the captain had shut down the life-support system at 1000. For Bill, the ability of modern submarines to provide breathable air was as big a miracle as the provision of nuclear power in the SSNS and SSBNS: Orcus could survive for several days on her own air supply, but the cold and the consequent condensation was becoming unpleasant.
There was a tap on the door frame and Able Seaman Riley, their messman, entered with the tea, cold spam and bread.
'Big eats, 'swain,' Riley said, his thin face expressionless. 'Hope it don't choke yer.' He nipped out again before Joker Paine could reply. Riley lacked the social graces but was a good messman.
The three senior ratings talked quietly, feeling the food doing its stuff. They were all now thoroughly sick of the continuing topic of Windy-Gault; even if Bowles and his messmates deliberately avoided talking about it, the worry persisted.
Woolf-Gault had shaken the morale of the boat more than the cox'n had at first realized. Turle, the disrated leading hand in the JRS' mess was stirring it in the fore-ends. Bowles had even been to see Jimmy about the trouble, but Prout was as powerless as the captain. 'Windy-Gault', as the ship's company referred to him, now talked in monosyllables and only when addressed. It was that hunted look in the poor sod's eyes which pricked Bill Bowies' conscience. Windy-Gault must be going through hell, unable to escape the contemptuous glances of everyone on board, including the snide, just-audible comments from the JRS. Once a sailor had lost trust in someone he could be brutal without saying much — what the army called 'dumb insolence'. The officer was rapidly developing into a pathetic wreck: he should never have been allowed to come on this trip. Fear is only the unknown; it can strike anyone, and when you can't control it, trouble begins. With the appalling manning situation during the recession, the service couldn't be blamed for officers like Windy-Gault, but it's tough, Bill Bowles thought, when your life is the price.
It was 1530 when Farge began to worry seriously about stranding on the lee shore: by SINS, Orcus' position had shifted imperceptibly to the westward and, judging by the external wave noises and the reverberations from the seas walloping into the Pushka cliffs, the gale was continuing to rage up top-as the met. had forecast.
The sonar team had been closed up since dawn listening to the inward and outward traffic trundling overhead. It was paradoxical, but Orcus was too close to the roundabout for Joker Paine, the sonar chief, and his boys to sort out the constant stream of traffic. Analysing the mass of data was proving too much, even for the whole attack team. Of one thing Farge was certain: the sonar picture indicated clearly that the submarines of the enemy's Northern Fleet were using the easterly lane, both inward and outward. This discovery, and the knowledge that Orcus was being shifted bodily towards the rocks in spite of the total flooding of Q, prompted Farge to have another scrutiny of the chart. By being driven inshore Orcus was wooded by the cliffs from the radar dish on Set' Navolok. The sailing directions also warned that a north-easterly caused an, onshore set of the tidal stream. The sooner he was out of the bay the better. Trim would be the hazard, after flooding Ms and Q But, even if he was forced to speed up to prevent a suicidal break-surface, his periscope was unlikely to be spotted in the windswept seas. He could risk waiting until 1945 and could begin coming up at 1930.
At 1830 he summoned Murray from the fitful sleep he was snatching between depth recordings. 'Let's move, pilot, to our second waiting position, WP2, three miles from the roundabout Work out a course, but get your sums right, because we'll be creeping across at four knots. We're on neaps but, with this north-easterly, the westerly tidal stream is bound to be running faster.'
Murray nodded. 'The set's always northerly out of the northern reach of the inlet, sir. That can help us too, quite a bit.'
'It's in the right direction — away from this rotten hole. But apart from our own safety, in WP2 we should be able to monitor where the action apparently is.' Farge paused, watching the navigating officer drawing out his course, as a loud rumble from the caves reverberated through the submarine. 'And there's one other thing…'
'Sir?'
'I've a nasty feeling we've been detected.'
Murray turned his grey face to meet his captain's eyes:
'Can't have been.'
'Just a hunch. Sonar insists there's distant, active pinging north of Set' Navolok.'
'Those sweepers?'
'Could be… but keep it to yourself. Let me know when you're ready and I'll talk to the troops. You can brief me at supper in the wardroom.'
Farge made his broadcast, concealing nothing except his suspicions of detection:
'We'll be coming to periscope depth soon after supper. Enjoy your meal because it could be our last peaceful one for some time.' He paused, then added, 'We may be able to snort for a bit, if the cliffs screen us from the radar station. We're doing all right, so far: at least we know that their warships are using the other lane. Don't forget, we've got a date for midnight, the sixteenth. That's all. We'll shift to red lighting now. An extra can of beer all round, please, cox'n.'
He registered the murmur behind him, then moved into the wardroom where the officers were changing the light bulbs. The place was always snug, almost homely, in red lighting.