Farge had been furnished with every known detail of the enemy's monstrous weapon, his Typhoon, the secret plans of which must have already been decided upon when the Kremlin attached its signature to the Helsinki agreement. During the early eighties the Soviets had built two classes of boats, the Typhoon and the Alfa. The Alfa was constructed of titanium alloy, instead of steel, to give immense strength. Because of difficulties in welding techniques, the Alfa was originally plagued by leaks, but the difficulties were rapidly overcome: Nato deep-field SSNS lost the Alfas when they increased to forty-two knots and went deep. Armed with MRV nuclear missiles, Nato assumed that their function was to escort and cover the Soviets' cruise missile attack SSNS, their Charlies and Echos. The second class was the Typhoon. Even now, the West could not satisfactorily explain the enemy's strategic thinking behind this incredibly expensive weapons system: size was not always beautiful in submarine warfare.
The Typhoon was gigantic: only a cricket pitch shorter, but twice the displacement size of the British CAHS Invincible, Illustrious and Ark Royal, and as Julian's father had remarked, the Typhoon was identical in size to Cunningham's famous flagship, Warspite. The monster submarine carried twenty ballistic missiles for'd of its fin, weapons with a range of over four thousand miles. But the Delta us, with their SS— N-X–I8 ballistic missiles, could already cover half the world from the Barents citadel, so why the Typhoon?
Its immense size suggested that it carried stocks or reloads and the complicated machinery for the tricky reloading operations, and several reactors to drive the underwater monster at speed. Intelligence guessed that they also were built of titanium: if so, the Typhoon could dive to perhaps four thousand feet and lie on the bottom for months, impossible to detect in the shallower wildernesses of the polar seas, such as the Lomonosov Ridge. Once concealed there, she would only have to lift from the bottom to find a polynya, a window in the ice, through which to launch her deadly ICBMS.
How many in the ship's company? Farge mused. An admiral commanding? And discipline for months on end? Hundreds of bored men without women, though Russian women were known to be at sea, some even in command. He smiled to himself. I must be going down with flu, he thought, as at last he watched the hands of the clock creeping up to the hour.
'Action stations,' he ordered, nodding at the outside wrecker. 'Time to have a look.'
It was good to see daylight filtering through the lens of the attack periscope as the submarine crept up to the undulating, grey surface. The glass broke through, cleared. Farge spun on his heel — no aircraft, nothing close.
'Down attack. Up search.'
More leisurely this time, flicking to high power, as he picked up a masthead to the eastward.
'Bearing that… looks like a destroyer's mast. I've got Cape Sunduki, pilot… bearing that.' Swift five-second looks to fox the enemy radar; rapid identification of the land points — and Murray had his bearings for a three-point fix. 'Down search.'
Farge smoothed his black hair, watched the wider steel tube disappearing into its welclass="underline" 'Great day up top. Bright and blustery. Force five, from the east; good vis.' The trimming was going famously: up from deep without a hitch, settling bang on fifty-eight feet. The team's spirits rose with his own optimism.
'0752 fix, sir,' Murray called out. 'Puts us three-quarters of a mile to the east of our E.P.'
'Roger.' Farge grabbed the handles as they swept upwards again. He'd take another bearing of the destroyer while Murray, allowing for the easterly stream which began at 0506, worked out his revised course to WP4 on the easterly edge of the easterly and outward lane. Ah, there was the destroyer: no nearer, but her bearing was drawing seawards, up to the north-east. Odd that she should be on her own — and he flicked to high power. That was better… He could distinguish her aerial, but could not identify her bridge. He swung slowly to the southward.
'Bearing that,' he rapped, trying to smother the excitement in his voice. He slammed shut the handles, turned and grinned at Prout. 'A Delta II, I'm pretty certain…'
'Green 112, sir.'
At 0755 he swung round for a last look to confirm his Delta sighting before taking Orcus deep to the shipping lane. The sea was sparkling on this fresh morning, the waves curling rhythmically, lazily, the crests tumbling merrily: ideal conditions for the judicious use of his periscope. There she was: her ugly, protruding missile housing, with its down-turn abaft the black match-box fin, confirmed his identification.
'Bearing of the Delta II is that.' His periscope had been up for only a few seconds. He was in the act of shutting the handles when something strange caught his eye — a white mist clouded her bow: must be the bow-wave she was pushing ahead of her as she worked up speed… but the white plumes were spouting high, abaft her fin.
'Down periscope,' he blurted. 'She's diving!' The 187 sonar had got her too: Farge heard the murmuring behind him as the stick streaked downwards — here was the evidence for which they had been seeking for so long.
'Assume she's in the centre of the far lane, pilot. Give me a course to the eastern edge, four miles north of her diving position.' Farge caught Number One's eye, grinned in return. 'Starboard ten. Six down, two hundred feet.'
'Course 098°,' Murray called.
'Steer 098°.'
'Steer 098°, sir,' the second cox'n reported from the wheel. 'Ten of starboard wheel on.'
'Pilot, how far to-'
But Farge stopped midway in his sentence, canted his head, listening… then he heard it, as they all did: standing, or crouching, suddenly rigid; like the Pompeii victims sculpted in lava for eternity, listening to the scraping noise from the eyes of the boat. At first, it was a barely audible ticking, then as the mooring-wire of the mine scraped across the hull the scrabbling along the casing rose to a screeching crescendo — then stopped, to continue with a low-pitched, rhythmic creaking.
'Loud banging noises on the sonar,' the sound-room called.
Farge could hear his own breathing. He glimpsed Woolf-Gault, propped in the corner, his eyes fixed on the deckhead, his jaw clamped, the muscles twitching in his cheek. The way was coming off the submarine, and to the ominous creaks was added a low thrumming noise which, the hull being like a sounding board, was reverberating throughout the boat.
'Stop both,' Farge rapped, shattering the silence. 'Half astern together. Shut off for depth-charging.' He raised his voice. 'Quiet with the doors.' In seconds, each compartment was an isolated world cut off from its neighbour.
'Fore-planes jammed at twelve degrees of dive,' the cox'n reported, as if he was on exercise in West Bay. 'Can't hold her, sir. After planes at hard-a-rise.'
Farge was watching the log-pointer walking back in its dial down to one knot.
The bight of the mooring-wire must have snagged in the fore-planes. Turning at four knots under rudder, Orcus was dragging the infernal mine down upon herself. It had only to kiss the fin…
One of the plotters at the sec was crossing himself, his eyes shut, his lips moving. Farge registered the depth: ninety-eight feet. He raised his hand, touched Lorna's cross beneath his shirt and momentarily closed his eyes.