Hicks, bracing himself against Woolf-Gault, began methodically to saw. Eleven minutes had already slipped away Although he had not been working as hard as Hicks Woolf-Gault was already feeling weary, unable to relax for an instant against the remorseless pressure of water.
Hicks' saw-strokes were becoming feebler and more spasmodic as exhaustion overtook him. He and Woolf-Gault had found the knack of bracing against the wire, and Hicks was not going to relinquish his part of the job, unless he was forced to: precious minutes would be spent in relashing each other if they exchanged roles. The strands were flicking apart more easily now — only one to free. Hicks' eyes behind his mask had that dazed, fixed look of frenzied concentration while his weary arm barely moved. If the wire parted uncontrollably, they would both fall backwards as the mine above them sprung free and the weight came off the lower section. Woolf-Gault had to use force to stop Hicks, whose eyes slowly registered understanding: Hicks must hold on to the hatch lid to recover his strength, while Woolf-Gault finished off the strand with his long-handled cutter.
Slipping the bight of the line, Woolf-Gault kept hold of the exhausted man until he was safely at the hatch. He swam back to the wire and, after immense difficulty, succeeded in fixing the cutter in place. Swimming steadily, just clear to port of the. wire, he cut through the final strand. It parted with a slick of streaming phosphorescence and, as his head jerked upwards, he glimpsed the hideous cylinder spiralling above him, gliding upwards and aft into' the blackness. He tried to continue with his regular breathing, his eyes rivetted on the dark void as he waited for the cataclysmic explosion… but nothing, only the sibilant hiss of the sea against the hull, while Hicks trod water, keeping one thumb pointing upwards from the rim of the upturned hatch to show that he was okay.
Woolf-Gault canted his head to throw the light beam upon the starboard plane. The bare end of the wire had whipped backwards to ensnarl its frayed strands inside the upper end of the mooring-wire from which the sinker must be dangling two hundred metres below. He yelled in jubilation inside his headset: they had won the main battle — now they couldn't all be blown to bits.
Slipping the lanyard of the long-handled cutter around his wrist and swimming with slow leg strokes above the starboard plane, he could make out the final snag: if he could prise one of the handles of the cutter beneath the bare end at the same instant as the plane was brought back to rise the nip could be freed. If Orcus could be going astern at the same time he was certain the wire would clear- but he'd have to hurry for he was beginning to suffer waves of dizzyness. He'd drift backwards and tell Hicks to return to the boat, so that he could explain things to the captain: they must then reflood the tower and have its upper lid ready and open for Woolf-Gault's return when the job was complete.
It took him an eternity to get the message across, for Hicks was about all-in. Hicks then dropped down into the escape chamber. Woolf-Gault, using up much of his failing strength, helped to push the lid down upon its seating before swimming back to the plane. Jamming his right foot against the fairing and leaning against the stream, he managed to prise the end of the long handle of the cutting tool beneath the upper end of the severed wire. Bracing his back, he levered upwards, gently at first, then with all his strength.
The wire might have moved… If the plane could move upwards, if the boat could go astern now, he was ready for the final heave. Oh God, they must hurry, because an irresistible lassitude was creeping over him. Then he remembered the signal. He dare not move the long handle so that he could strike upon the hull with it three times. But yes, the plane was moving creeping upwards, revolving on its axis. Astern, oh God, astern make 'em go astern. He bore down on his heel, straightened his back. Suddenly, he realized that he was slithering forwards, his instinctive balancing against the stream now too pronounced The boat was losing way. God! She was stopping and in seconds would be gathering sternway. He braced his back and heaved upwards on the handle of the cutter.
Woolf-Gault closed his eyes, gasping for the air which was keeping him alive. He exerted all his strength, yelling inside his mask with the effort. His body slumped and he fell backwards across the lip of the casing.
As his hands clutched at the steel, he felt the boat shuddering beneath him. There was a screeching of metal, a searing pain in the calf of his right leg. As he leaned forward to clear the handle, he saw that the wire had freed, whipping backwards to coil around the calf of his leg. The needle ends of the strands had pierced his suit and a cloud of blood was drifting upwards from his leg. The submarine was dropping away beneath him, a shadowy form vanishing into the abyss. He flailed with his hands, trying to wrench away from the coil. Then he was plunging downwards, spiralling to the sea bed, 520 feet below him. Head down, feet kicking, the blood spurting from his severed artery, Lieutenant Woolf-Gault mercifully lost consciousness before the deep finally claimed him.
Bill Bowies' eyes were rivetted on the fore-plane indicator. At 1009 the first lieutenant in the fore-ends repeated the order to put the fore-planes in hand and to try applying five degrees of rise. Bowles held his breath: the tell-tale was moving, just budging, creeping from 'dive' to 'rise'.
Jimmy was shouting from for'd, 'Go astern!'
The tremor, the agonizing wait, and then, to Bowies' disbelief, the fore-planes were responding to the ten degrees of rise he was transmitting from his column.
Seconds later, as the boat's bows fell away, the planes were back in primary controclass="underline" the captain ordered half ahead together to give his cox'n a chance to regain control. Bowles. was sweating when finally he pulled her out at three hundred and ten feet, while the trimming officer pumped on Ms and trimmed heavily from for'd to aft.
'Stop starboard, slow ahead port,' Farge ordered from where he was standing between the periscopes. 'Sonar report at once any possible mine contacts — however doubtful.'
Bowles glanced over his shoulder at the man who held their lives in his hands. Farge still looked spruce enough, but the strain was beginning to register: there were grey shadows beneath his eyes and a muscle was twitching in the hollow of his left cheek. Apart from his obvious impatience to know what was going on for'd, he was wasting no time in taking Orcus clear of this minefield and across to the far side of the eastern channel. It was 1031 when Bowles saw Jimmy clambering through the doorway into the control-room.
'No chance, sir,' Prout said quietly. 'Lieutenant Woolf-Gault must be dead.'
'How d'you know?' Farge's voice, Bowles thought, sounded flat, listless.
'Hicks refused to drain down at once, sir. He signalled from the chambers for us to try the planes in hand again, while he watched Woolf-Gault from the lip of the upper hatch. Able Seaman Hicks banged on the tower with his saw: that's when I yelled for astern, sir.'
Bowles watched the tall, tired lieutenant-commander, with the tight, buttoned-up face, and the younger man, Orcus' second-in-command, who was cementing the respect which the ship's company held for him with each day that passed.
'Able Seaman Hicks saw what happened next, sir,' Prout went on. 'The wire began to slide free, but it catapulted off when the nip freed, the end coiling round Woolf-Gault's leg as the boat gathered sternway. Our bows dropped suddenly. The last Hicks saw of Lieutenant Woolf-Gault was his body spiralling downwards, ahead of the boat and dropping into the depths. Hicks then shut the lid, sir.'