'Shouldn't go any further, chief,' murmured Luke Wesley, the signal communications lieutenant. 'It's dangerous.'
'What's going on, sir? Back aft, we heard that sonar's picked up something.'
The two men were standing on the starboard side of the control-room, by the ladder down to 2 deck and next to the cage protecting the masts. To the right of them was the snort system and for'd of it the chart table sprawled over by Farquharson's lanky frame. Above the navigator's head was his SINS, its dials and instruments projecting to the bulkhead door and the passage leading for'd. The captain was standing between the two athwartship periscopes and waiting for the boat to lose way. His arms hung loosely from his massive chest; his fiery beard masked the form of his face from which his piercing, blue eyes flicked around the control-room. Coombes was concentrating upon the diving panel in front of which Hank Botham was seated, serenely coping with the situation. On Botham's left, Bull Clint was on the planes, his hands off the column as 'George', the automatic hydroplane control, kept Safari ten feet either side of the ordered depth, her fore-planes locked, as she thrashed along. 'George' was safer than Clint on the planes: if he sneezed Safari would loop the loop at this speed. Luke Wesley was leaning towards Scanes.
'The sound-room picked up two contacts at 0500, chief, when the captain reduced for a listen. Both were fine on the port bow. They merged, but were definite and at about fifty miles. We're easing down now for another listen.'
Scanes saw that it was 0612 by the clock on the diving panel. The scow, standing behind Botham, had his eyes glued to the log- twenty-four knots and still walking back as the submarine lost way.
'At six, go six,' Coombes rapped, his large head canted as he waited impatiently for the first sonar reports. 'Steering in hand.' The hooter blared as the sec rang on the revolutions for twenty knots — and Scanes felt the kick in his guts when the sound-room came in with its report from the main sonar.
'2001 new passive contacts, bearing red 52 and red 47.'
The tension became electric as the sonar team called out their bearings. Scanes saw the stiffening of the plotters' backs where they were tracking on the displays on the port side, abaft the cox'n. To their left was the action information console, in front of which the three operators were silently tracking the sonar reports which the AIC computer analysed from the data streaming in from the sensors. Standing behind them was the AID, Lieutenant Kenneth Whalley, watching points while alongside him was the Fire Control Officer: Lieutenant-Commander Simon Grenville, lean and deceptively nonchalant, as he supervised his two operators, a new able seaman whom Scanes did not know, and the smiling Joe Robinson, the good-natured West Indian whom everyone liked. Their displays glowed in front of them, blue-green circles, served by the fire control computer which accepted the processing of the tracking from AIO. And behind them all stood the immobile figure of the first lieutenant, Lieutenant-Commander Stuart Hamilton, quiet, authoritative, the exact complement to their ebullient captain. Hamilton was a respected Jimmy and, as attack co-ordinator, was skilled in presenting the tactical picture to his captain.
The clock showed 0627 before the plots produced their sit-rep page numbers, 332, 333 and 334, though the last, well to the north and very faint, was being disregarded.
'Sector on the net,' Coombes ordered. 'Come right, steer 080°.'
'Coming right, 080°.'
The refining continued until at 0632 the captain was satisfied. He brought Safari left again, recrossing 332 and 333's tracks. For a brief moment he stood back, then his head jerked up as he made his decision:
'That's the Typhoon all right, Number One: the right number of shafts and the correct signature. She must have speeded up since the flash and track 333 must be an escort. They never told us about her.'
'Confirmed Victor II, sir. No doubt about it: three shafts. She's ten miles astern, on the Typhoon's port quarter.'
'How far's the Victor ahead of us?'
'Twenty-one miles at 0600.'
'We'll overtake at fifteen knots, if I crack on again.'
'Affirmative. At 0700, she'll be at twelve thousand yards.'
Scanes saw that the captain had already made up his mind: though Safari's prime target was a Typhoon how the hell was Safari to get at her without being picked up first by the Victor II?
'Come left, steer 090°,' Coombes ordered. 'Reactor plant to full power state.'
'Manoeuvring — control,' the scow repeated. 'Assume the full power state.'
'Manoeuvring… roger. Assume the full power state.'
Seconds later the manoeuvring-room came back, and Coombes swung towards the sec:
'Steering in auto. Revolutions for thirty knots.' He turned to his first lieutenant:
'Send the hands to breakfast, Number One. We'll be within twelve thousand yards of the Victor by 0700.' He grinned as he stretched up for the intercom. 'Their Lordships won't like it,' he murmured, 'but we've got to sink this bugger first.'
Scanes turned abruptly and began shinning down the steps to two deck: he'd have to hustle if he was to eat before the Old Man went to action stations.
Janner Coombes, in clean shirt and tie, hands in pockets, feet astride, stood back from his attack team. The first lieutenant, Stuart Hamilton, was silently checking the operators concentrating over their instruments. The FCO, Simon Grenville, as rigid as a statue, was watching his console and his two operators; the Action Information officer, who was also Safari's TASO, Kenneth Whalley, was checking the refining of the past hour's sonar-ranging on the Victor II. Coombes had veered Safari back and forth to provide broad tracking and now the computer was presenting its final solution.
Coombes felt confident: if the Victor had not picked him up by now — she was 11,500 yards at this instant — he was certain he could sink her. He had worked up Safari to his satisfaction and felt master of this superb fighting machine. His team was part of him now, instinctively anticipating his thinking: a restrained calm pervaded the control-room of his hunter-killer as she swooped silently into the attack on her unsuspecting prey…. The scow, Luke Wesley, was in the bandstand supervising Hank Botham, on the sec. Bull Clint was for once silent, his arms folded, his eyes fixed on his instruments, as he supervised the auto-trimming. The fore-planes were locked, the after-planes automatically keeping the submarine within ten feet of the ordered depth of six hundred feet, while she hurtled northwards. Safari was one of the most silent, most efficient hunter-killers in the world, Coombes was sure of that. 'The Victor's weaving back to starboard, sir, range 11,000.' Coombes nodded, calm now, his reactions geared to as fine a pitch as they would ever be, the tactical picture etched on to his mind. In two minutes' time the Typhoon would be sixteen miles ahead; the Victor II 10,500 yards ahead of Safari and eleven miles astern of the Typhoon's port quarter. The Victor was weaving to keep clear of her consort's wake and Safari was working relentlessly into her attacking position inside the two wakes. The Victor was being overhauled at a relative speed of fifteen knots though, to keep in station under continuous weave, she was obliged to steam faster than the Typhoon: the CEP was continually confirming the Victor at twenty knots.
'0730, sir,' the navigator was calling across: 'Range 10,300 yards.'
Coombes could wait no longer: the Victor might at any moment pick him up and retaliate.
'Action stations! Plant at half-power state. Revolutions for twenty knots. At twenty, go twenty.'