'At twenty, go twenty,' Coombes snapped. 'Six down, five hundred feet.'
Scanes felt the angle increasing, watched the pointer on the gauge falling away. Thank God the Old Man was taking no risks with the ice. The tension could be felt, Botham's voice and the subdued reports of the plotters being the only interruptions when at 0035 Safari neared the edge of the polar ice. Only the motors hummed in the control-room for at action stations the doors were shut, each compartment a sealed world on its own.
'Track 334 is target,' Hamilton reported.
'Bring number one and two tubes to readiness State One,' Grenville ordered.
Scanes could hear his own breathing as he waited, watching the drill. In the tube-space the bow caps would be opening, the attack team tubes' crew opening the valves, flooding numbers one and two tubes. The silence in the control-room was broken by reports from the sonar controller and then, in the speakers, Scanes heard the first sounds of the ice grinding above them, moving mazily in the Arctic swell.
The sinister sound always gave Scanes the creeps: he had never yet discovered anyone who enjoyed this mysterious world beneath the polar cap: it was deep here in the Arctic Basin, too deep for comfort. But what made the adrenalin spurt were the invisible, uncharted dangers, hazards which had to be risked if Safari was to remain undetected…
The captain and the navigator had spent the afternoon studying the ice patrol reports. The buzz suggested that this was a bad year, the icebergs more numerous than usual after the hard winter. Silent, gigantic, their bases piercing the depths for hundreds of feet, these isolated monsters were a constant menace to submarines. Scanes clearly heard the creaking, then the distant booming — if only Safari could use her active sonar, at least she'd pick up the fang-like protrusions of the icebergs, detect the ice pillars which could stretch down from the surface to the sea bed. Another distant boom echoed sepulchrally up ahead and Scanes caught the glance which flickered between the captain and the first lieutenant.
The sonar was picking up the peeking sounds offish — Scanes had sometimes heard the 'chukking' of dolphins, a joyful sound after the weird creakings of the ice. Scanes was thankful that Safari's sonar controller was one of the most senior chief ops in the Navy: not much got past him. During the last patrol, he had allowed Scanes to listen in on the sonar — the joyful twitterings, the chief said, were the sounds of shrimps making love.
'AIO checks correct, sir,' Whalley, the ops officer, called.
Grenville hesitated, then followed with his report.
'Fire control correct.'
'Try the following solutions,' Hamilton rapped, 'Course 335°, speed ten, range 8,200 yards…'
The captain was bending over the command display, twitching at his beard:
'Pilot,' he snapped at the navigator. 'How close is the ice?'
Why's the Old Man worried about the depth above us? Scanes wondered.
'May I run the upper echo-sounder?' Farquharson asked, surprise on his face as he half turned. The detection hazard, Scanes knew, was great: the Typhoon might pick up the reverbs from the sounder's echoes — presumably Coombes had calculated the risk:
'Yes. Be quick about it.'
'Range 8,100 yards,' Hamilton said.
Scanes heard the faint ticking of the overhead sounder, a few transmissions…
'Least distance 464 feet, sir,' the navigator reported, flicking off the sounder.
'Try the following solutions,' the attack co-ordinator was continuing. 'Course 330°, speed ten, range 6,900 yards.' Hamilton seemed as unconcerned as always.
Scanes, watching the attack developing, was fascinated by the precision, the result of months of training. They might have been in the simulator, the way they were going on.
Hamilton was trying his next solution, refining, always refining when at 0500 the sonar controller cut in brusquely:
'Track number 334 — bearing drawing left.'
'How long's she been held?'
'Two minutes. She's speeding up. sir.'
At 0053 the attack co-ordinator gave the target's course as 240°, her speed fifteen. The captain bounced back into the centre of the control-room:
'Stream the decoy,' he snapped, 'Stand by to fire!'
The controller cut in, for the first time excitement in his voice:
'Track 334 — torpedo discharged! Range 5,400 yards, port beam.'
The captain turned back to his command display, his eyes glued to the spokes. Already Scanes could hear the noisy chatter of the enemy's torpedo, the fastest in the world, speeding towards them.
'Switch on the decoy,' Coombes rapped.
Scanes prayed that the device had been streamed in time… then controlled pandemonium broke loose:
'Stand by to fire!' the captain shouted. 'Steer 090°.'
The intercom broke in:
'Decoy streamed and switched on.'
Scanes heard it, a loud clattering reverberating throughout the hull as the foxer broke into its chorus, thousands of yards astern. Thank God… but the enemy's torpedo had been running for how long?
The ops officer cut his firing bearing. The sonar controller called over the intercom:
'Firing bearing cut!'
'Fire one!' the captain snapped, his eyes on the display. Then the phumph seconds later as the first Tigerfish threshed forwards in its tube.
'Fire two!'
Coombes ordered, 'Planes and steering in auto: starboard fifteen. Assume full power state. Revolutions for thirty knots.'
'Both torpedoes running, sir.' Grenville was crouched over the shoulders of his two aimers, watching each man calmly guiding his Tigerfish towards the Typhoon.
'Enemy torpedo, 4,500 yards,' sonar chipped in.
'Got a bearing?'
'Port quarter, 3,800. Target is streaming decoy, bearing red 120, sir. Range 4,100 yards.'
Coombes was watching the spokes of his display. The mark of the racing enemy torpedo was growing more intense as the noise from its propellers showed up on the cathode ray screen.
'Coming in on seven o'clock, sir,' Hamilton announced.
'How long for ours to hit?' Coombes asked him.
'Two and a half minutes, sir.'
'Weapons under guidance,' Grenville called.
Hamilton took over: 'Step weapon one to a course of 310°. Step weapon two to a course of 290°. Arm both weapons. Select active.'
Grenville was trying to control the excitement in his voice. 'Both weapons in contact and attacking.'
Sonar cut in:
'Target has streamed decoy, bearing red 140.'
'Range of enemy torpedo?'
'2,700 yards astern sir. Track 334 bearing 240°, speeding up.'
Coombes glanced at the log: Safari was at full speed and the enemy fish was having to overhaul. 'Six up, two hundred feet,' he rapped.
Scanes held on when the submarine swooped upwards savagely. Coombes was throwing her about, taking evasive action; Scanes clung to the mast grille as she banked.
Then he distinctly heard the click-click of the enemy torpedo's hydroplanes. Any second now…
''Torpedo altering away, range nine hundred yards.'
Scanes jammed his fist into his mouth to suppress his yell of relief as the bloody thing veered away, lured by Safari's decoy. An instant later, the rap of an explosion clanged against the hull. The boat shivered, trembling throughout her length.
''Torpedo and own decoy destroyed,' sonar called out.
'Stream another decoy,' the captain snapped. 'Midships, six down, seven hundred feet. Starboard five, steer 100°.'
Grenville half turned, his face a study of despair:
'Number one weapon has failed to acquire. Turning right.'
'Number one weapon has failed on its first pass,' Hamilton reported calmly. 'Is making its second pass now!'