They paused again to recover and then Buchanan was levering the diver up to a sitting position, his knees to his chest. Hicks was responding to Buchanan's efforts. The MEM held up his fist, nodded and shipped the lower lid. Then Bowles was on his own, the two men locked above in the escape-tower. Through the sighting port, Bowles could see Buchanan opening up the flood, and then the water-level climbing up their legs.
Bowles felt the thud above him when Buchanan opened the upper lid. Then through the port, he saw the lower part of the MEM'S legs floating upwards: Bowles held his breath, waiting for the cramped bundle that was Hicks to follow upwards. But the man was stuck, Buchanan's legs threshing. The lashing joining the two men jerked, whipped — and then Hicks was slowly rolling upwards, suddenly vanishing. Thank God… and Bowles slumped backwards, leaning against the heads door. The two men must be on their way to the surface, or they would have dropped back into the chamber. The upper hatch would be left open, so it was his turn now. He'd shut the upper lid, give 'em a few minutes, then follow… Orcus' company were certainly contributing with the most precious commodity of all. -He supposed their deaths could be justified, but only if the sacrifice helped to prevent the appalling alternative with which England was threatened by the Soviets.
Bill Bowles and his Hilda were simple people; they had found support in their faith…
Hilda'd always been true to their marriage, he knew that, despite his long absences, and the spate of separations and desertions which decimated the lives of so many of their service friends and acquaintances. He could see Hilda still, as she was at eighteen, twenty years ago. For him, though twice he had been tempted, she was now more attractive, even more desirable than during those first passionate months. Hilda, his Hilda… he wasn't going to give up now-but if he didn't make it, well, the kids would look after her… Flood up and get on with it, Cox'n Bowles: the chamber was drained down.
He reached up and twisted the upper hatch control handle to 'idle'. He checked that he had his vent cap. Then he climbed into the dripping tower and, using the lanyards, lifted the lower lid into place. For an instant he paused, alone in the dark tower; this depth produced a pressure of three hundred pounds per square inch — thank God, these modern suits were designed to compensate automatically. Breathe naturally: the gas bottle in the suit did the rest. Here goes… and deliberately he zipped up his suit. He opened the flooding valve and then the water was licking around his feet, swirling and frothing. In seconds, the sea was up to his navel, icy cold, shrivelling him — and he shivered inside his suit when the water reached the top of the vent. He smacked the vent cap over the top of it and then felt the water deluge starting to ease. The swirling surface was up to his chin, over his mouth, then his head was under water, his world pitch black as the pressure equalized. Panic now, Bowles, and you're done for: drill, drill, remember what they taught you, lad…
He felt the cold circumference above him, traced the circular hatch, stood beneath it, breathing regularly, hearing the clicking of his exhaust valve… save me God. With a swift movement he reached upwards and opened the lid, pushing it with all his strength.
He felt the surge, the pain in his ears: heard the roaring above him as the air bubble lifted him crashing through the hole. He ignored the pain on his shoulders, as he scraped upwards in the darkness and sensed the sudden leap upwards. Breathe normally, that's what they said: in… out… there was enough air in his suit to last the ascent. Thirty seconds for a five-hundred-foot escape; how long to go now? He tugged at his apron to control his attitude. He clamped his feet together, trying to halt the somersaulting, felt the water rushing past him as he threshed up towards the life-giving surface.
The pressure was building up in his suit, pressing on his lungs; then he felt its automatic-venting compensating to prevent his lungs from bursting… but how long, oh God, how long? He closed his eyes with the pain, screaming, for he could bear no more of this agony. His mind began to swim as the roaring overwhelmed him, then there was a gradual lightening around him, paler, brighter.
He flew upwards, shooting from the surface like a fish, his lungs about to burst asunder. He felt the shock of the waves beneath him, heard their rhythmic music- and then he was on his back, turned over by his suit… just before he lapsed into semi-consciousness, he remembered to pull the toggle. The compressed air hissed. His survival suit inflated, blowing up like a balloon to keep the back of his head to the breaking seas. As he floated up on the crests, he glimpsed an off-shore fishing-boat, a canoe-sterned craft, chugging towards him, then another and another.
Chapter 27
With his navigating officer, Coombes was poring over the chart of the Barents Sea. The red and blue tracks, the Typhoon's and Safari's, had formed an elongated triangle, with its northern apex converging between Cape Mary Harmsworth and the shallow water to the eastward of Victoria Island. The Typhoon was still steering 335°, to which she had altered an hour ago.
'She's heading for the Nansen Deeps, sir,' Farquharson murmured. 'In an hour and a half she'll be under the polar ice.'
'Thank God the weather's moderated,' Coombes said, 'or we'd lose her. It'll be quiet under the ice in this calm.'
It had been a long chase since 0830 and by 2300 both men were feeling the strain.
'If she reaches Nansen,' Coombes went on, 'we're finished. She'll bottom on the edge and we'll never get at her.' He glanced again at the sounding lines: Nansen was over two and a half miles deep. The Typhoon with her titanium hull could reach four thousand feet. If Safari lost her now, she'd never pick up the monster again in that vast Arctic basin. Coombes reread COMSUBEASTLANT'S flash which Safari had received when she came up for the 2130 routine. The Typhoon was then a faint but definite contact at thirty-seven miles' range. Sonar had already confirmed that the quarry had reduced speed to twenty.
PRECEDENCE: FLASH
SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET FROM: CINCEASTLANT
TO: SAFARI
INFO: SACLANT, COMSUBLANT, COMSUBEASTLANT, COMSTRIFOR, COMSTRIGRUTWo
DTG: 172130 (ZULU) MAY TYPHOON 80°19′ NORTH 41°02′ EAST. COURSE 360° SPEED 20. ALL OWN FORCES WITHDRAWN. YOU HAVE NO RESTRICTIONS. MESSAGE ENDS.
The day, one of frustrations and vacillations, was ending better than it had begun: the balls-up over the atmosphere specification was a mistake which Coombes certainly could have done without. He couldn't blame the watchkeeper for the failure of the oxygen generator during Safari's attack on the Victor II, but the momentary slackness had compounded trivial errors to a point where Safari's mission could possibly be jeopardized.
The oxygen specification had slipped too low before the defect was noticed. The resulting drowsiness among the ship's company had produced an over-correction in the proportion of oxygen: a fire broke out in one of the freon refrigeration machines. The buggeration factor then ensured that at the same time there should be a freon gas leak; the resulting small discharge of the killer gas, phosgene, had not been immediately detected during the Victor II drama. They had switched to the secondary life-support system while trying to rectify the atmosphere specification (the freon gas was automatically sucked up). Since the emergency, the atmosphere, though breathable, had become distinctly foul.