Submarine

Farquharson had 'anticipated and was already running the overhead sounder 'No deep ice, sir: surface is 590 feet.'

'540 feet — 520 — '

At sixty feet a minute, another fifty seconds at excessive revs from the engines and she would be up…

'Shut main vents,' Coombes ordered, trying to keep his cool. 'Blow all main ballast.'

He listened to the marvellous music of the HP air screaming along the line. The wrecker was working feverishly, his hands flickering over the switches on the ship control console.

'Three hundred feet.'

'Surface!'

The first lieutenant was holding Coombes upright, pushing him with all his strength towards the periscopes. No time for sonar clearance: straight up. But above the din the sonar controller was cutting in above the bedlam:

'No contacts on sector, 187.'

'Surfacing now!' Coombes shouted. He heard the doors opening, sensed the bridge team gathering beneath the lower lid of the tower. Drill, drill, drill — thank God his men were trained up.

'Blowing on all main ballast!'

'150 feet.'

'Permission to open the lower lid?'

'Open the lower lid. Stop blowing main ballast,' Coombes called out above the racket. 'Prepare the blower for running.'

'Hundred feet.'

'Course, sir, 180°.'

'Man the tower,' Coombes ordered. 'Assume the half power state. Revolutions for ten knots.' He heard the thumping on the lower lid, saw the legs of a man scrambling into the tower.

'Mast drained down… snort valves shut.'

'Sixty-five feet. Breaking!' 'Up ECM mast, up search periscope.'

Coombes forced his back against the barrel of the attack periscope, gripped the handles of the search periscope as it swept upwards.

The lens pierced the surface as he was flung backwards, his feet sliding across the deck while the submarine rocketed upwards, her bows rearing high before plumping downwards with the momentum of thirty knots behind them. A curtain of spray leapt into the sky as her 4,500 tons crashed back into the waves.

As he slithered round on his heels, he heard his men picking themselves up from the deck. Nothing in sight: a grey, dismal sky, and from horizon to horizon a waste of patchy pack-ice.

'Open bulkhead doors,' he snapped. 'Signals officer, is the flash report ready?'

'Ready to send out, sir.'

'Make it immediately.'

Coombes stood back from the periscope as the MEO reported from the manoeuvring-room: 'Captain, sir?'

'Yes, chief?'

'Can't tell yet, but I think the valve's only lifted off its seating. The pumps are winning at this depth.'

'Can you steam?'

'Slow only, sir. The excessive revs may have damaged the engines.'

'Thanks, chief.' Coombes paused. He desperately needed time to think. 'Can you repair the valve?'

'Can you stay on the surface, sir? We may have to rig a cofferdam and the least depth the better for us. We took quite a thump from the explosion back aft. I'll report on the damage as soon as I can.'

'Roger, chief. There's nothing up top but miles and miles of pack ice. I'll start recirculating the air while we push out our flash report.' He hesitated before asking, 'You all right, back-aft?'

'No one hurt,' Malcolm Gunn replied, his soft Scottish voice steady and reassuring. CPO Scanes got a wetting, that's all.' Then the chief added as an afterthought, 'I'd appreciate as much warning as possible if you have to dive.'

'Roger. ECM is clear at the moment. Well done, you back-endies.' Coombes twitched at his whiskers as he switched off the intercom. Whether Safari could remain on the surface depended upon Ivan. It was senseless to harass Malcolm Gunn further: he was a first-rate MEO and realized only too well the decisions facing his captain.

'Open the lower lid,' Coombes ordered. 'Officer of the watch on the bridge.' He briefed the OOW then turned towards Hamilton. 'Bring her to full buoyancy. You have the ship, Number One. I'm going up top.'

'I have the ship, sir.'

The PO steward stepped forward from behind the masts, his captain's heavy-weather clothing in his arms.

'Thanks.'

Then, clad in his warm clothing, the hood tied about his head, fur mitts on his hands, Coombes entered the tower. Far above, the small circle of daylight showed; he grasped the wet, slippery rungs of the ladders and began climbing upwards towards it.

After nearly a fortnight's existence below in the comfort of Safari's constant atmosphere, the intense cold on the minute bridge was a shock to Coombes' system. The steel was already crisped with frost; the lookouts were stamping their feet and beating their muffed hands together to keep their circulation going-- Coombes stared over the lip of the fin, his mind sluggish, mesmerized by her whale-like snout butting steadily through the pack ice; he listened to the cracking as it parted asunder to hiss down Safari's rounded sides. To the north visibility was shutting down where sea smoke was forming, caused presumably by the icy wind sweeping across the relatively warm surface. The intercom snicked on:

'Bridge — control.'

'Bridge.'

'ECM reports reconnaissance aircraft frequency, bearing 020°. Distant, sir,' and Coombes detected a trace of anxiety in Hamilton's voice.

'Roger. Anything further from sonar?'

'Nothing more since 0200, sir. But there's a Mayday on radio distress frequency from the same bearing, sir.'

'A Mayday?'

'Yes, sir, strength six.'

'Roger. Keep me informed of all ECM contacts.' Coombes turned, watched the ECM warner mast swivelling slowly above his head. This was the third contact since Safari surfaced three hours ago. She had got away with it so far, but she was chancing her luck, even up in this God-forsaken ocean. How much longer before the chief was finished with the hull-valve? And would the damn thing hold, even at periscope depth? He turned impatiently, cursing softly to himself.

The exhilaration of having sunk the Typhoon rapidly evaporated as he realized that Safari was struggling for survival. And now ECM was picking up Maydays originating from a source close to the Typhoon's breaking-up position: though she was crippled in deep water just outside the edge of the polar ice, there must be survivors. How else could one of her combined indicator and radio beacon buoys have succeeded in reaching the surface?

At 013 °Coombes had followed up his first flash with an amplifying sitrep which was immediately acknowledged by CINCEASTLANT. It was comforting to know that the home team were aware of Safari's plight: unable to dive as yet, she continued to steam at ten knots on the surface, heading for the shelter of the glacial but friendly Nordaustland, that vast chunk of island with its two thousand foot cliffs, north-east of Spitzbergen. It was also comforting to have received the signal half an hour ago that part of Carl Vinson's Striking Force had been alerted and was racing northwards to the area. Safari was still ninety miles from safety — the shallow water, in case of catastrophe. Safari was ordered to signal her eventual diving position and to transmit on every hour, a procedure which Coombes was observing reluctantly. His radio transmissions must soon bring down reprisals upon Safari. What the hell was holding up the chief? It was all Coombes could do not to pester Malcolm Gunn with bloody-fool enquiries. Talk of the devil, that was him on the intercom:

'Bridge- control.'

'Bridge.'

'MEO here, sir. The hull valve's reseated, if you'd like to take her down slowly. Give me five minutes to clear things up, will you?'

'Bloody good-o,' Coombes shouted. 'Five minutes, then?'

'Please. Slowly, mind you, in case it doesn't hold.' The Scottish voice paused. 'We ought to stay at periscope depth, sir, until we get back to base. I don't want to push our luck.'