Coombes lifted his head wearily, met Trix's gentle smile from her photograph, and stared at the clock in front of him. 1709: in twenty minutes recovery should begin and that should be the beginning of the end of a rotten dream.
'Captain, sir?' Hamilton was leaning against the doorway, his chest heaving. 'The destroyer's asking for you.'
Coombes pushed the sheet of writing-paper from him and dragged himself into the control-room. Luke Wesley handed him the telephone.
'Commander?' The American was much easier to understand, the speech almost normal with improvement in the weather.
'How's things, commander?'
'Short of air. We're standing-by.'
'Commander, I hate to tell you: we've another problem.'
Coombes felt the surge of anger rising. 'What now, for God's sake?'
'Avalon's recovered the Russian survivors,' the voice from the surface said. 'The DSRV has been lifted back to Carl Vinson for a battery change.' The American sounded cagey.
'Yeah?'
'The swell's bad, commander. There's a sea running.'
'For God's sake,' Coombes muttered to himself, glancing at Hamilton, 'get on with it, man.'
'Avalon's undercarriage has been damaged during the lift — sorry, commander. We've signalled for spares, but delivery will take time.'
It was unreasonable, Coombes knew, to begin to hate that fruity, casual voice from the surface.
'How long for the spares?' He was trying not to shout. 'I can't hold out much longer — a few hours at the most.'
'Fifteen hours — mebbe.'
'Cancel the whole damn thing,' Coombes told him. 'Standby for my controlled escape.'
'The weather's not too good. The ice is jumping about — listen, commander, Goddammit, let me finish — '
'I've made my decision. I'll contact you when I'm ready for the first ascent. Out.'
He was handing back the instrument to Wesley when the American came in again, exasperated also, by the tone of his voice:
'You've gotta listen: the Russians are offering to help. They're steaming as fast as they can towards me: thirteen miles off now.'
Coombes battened down on his smouldering wrath. He asked stiffly:
'What do you propose, then?'
'As soon as the weather's okay, they'll let go two anchors close to you. Their divers and the two bells are jacked up, ready for lowering.'
'When are they starting? What's required of us?' Coombes was cooling down: they were doing their best up top and, if they were quick about it, it would still be more prudent to accept a bell escape, than to chance a free ascent.
'They have two six-man bells, commander, with an escape hatch fit.'
'Wait one, please.'
This time he'd rely upon no one's but his and his officers' judgement.
Since then, for the past three hours, Safari had been waiting, waiting while Coombes sat at his cabin desk trying to pass the painful hours. Number One was installed in the control-room chair, completing his patrol report. At 2245 they heard the first Russian anchor rattling to the bottom close alongside.
Coombes tried to ignore the excruciating ache pulsing in his forehead as he did his best to marshal his erratic thoughts. Breathing was a painful struggle: the deep inhalations of oxygen-starved air to the depth of his lungs were giving less and less relief- and he began to wonder whether he'd left it too late for a rush escape. If he hadn't stupidly exhausted the HP air during the emergency plunge, at least they would have had longer to live by using the emergency breathing system through the HP air ring main.
His own thinking was becoming hazy, so how about the others, those who'd put in more demanding physical effort? he'd endure another hour, then order a rush escape, before it was too late. Better to die under the open sky, sliced up, perhaps, by the ice than to snuff it out in this grisly fashion. He slashed a final line across the bottom of his patrol report: FOSM would have all the evidence, anyway — and now Trix, bless her, deserved the few lines he was determined to write her, just in case…
He supposed historians might pronounce that Operation sow was significant in the scheme of things: but was the loss of his men and perhaps Farge, too, a price worth paying? His moustaches twitched with a sardonic smile. He didn't know whether this sinking of the Typhoon had convinced the Kremlin that their game was not worth the candle. The operation was somewhat of a confidence trick, anyway, wasn't it? And he slumped back in his chair, worn out, sick of it all, caring no more for the follies of the distant world above. He and his men were at the sharp end: if the West had woken up earlier, would Safari be stricken here in 297 feet of water, crippled and dying? Coombes wondered whether, through the mystery of divine planning, the ideals of the multi-lateral disarmers could now be realized?
He slumped towards his desk, picked up his pen again and began to write:
Monday, 19 May
Trix, my darling wife, By the time you get this, you will be recovering and longing to leave hospital. How I wish I could be with you to welcome you home with the children!
But I'm afraid it's not to be, as I'm otherwise engaged at the moment, as you know. I've been pretty busy so haven't been able to write my few daily lines to you — nor the children. Try to explain to Luke why I haven't been able to draw him his usual picture of Safari! This, dear Trix, is a difficult letter to write — and if you receive it, you'll know that (as we once talked together) I'll be waiting for you on the 'other side'. We've had a wonderful marriage. And you'll have the sprogs to comfort you during the first difficult years — Luke is already proudly looking after you when I'm away, even now, isn't he? But I must get back to my work…
Thank you, darling. May God bless you and our children and a great big hug for Sarah and Luke too.
He signed his letter with a flourish, sealed it in an envelope and carefully buttoned it into the hip pocket of his trousers. And now it was time to talk to his men. He reached up and extracted the small book from the shelf above his desk.
When the crunch came, every man called upon his God — Christian, Moslem, Buddhist, the lot — yes and probably the Soviet communist submariner as well. Coombes flicked the pages of the Naval Prayer Book: Forms of Prayer to be Used at Sea. He'd begin: 'Thou hast promised that when two or three are gathered together,' then read the General Confession. He'd read the traditional prayer: 'Oh Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rulest the raging of the sea; who hast compassed the waters with bounds until day and night come to an end…' The powerful, majestic words, solemn splendid prose, fashioned by men who really placed their faith in God, would lift the men's spirits, and he'd finish with the Lord's Prayer.
Coombes canted back on his chair and called through to the scow in the control-room.
'Inform the First Lieutenant and the ship's company that I'll be talking on the broadcast in five minutes' time.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Coombes let the curtain drop back into place and wearily climbed to his feet. Knackered though he was, he'd bloody well fight this terrible lassitude to the end. By God, we're not done yet: perhaps He would see them through, if it was His will.
He tightened his tie and shuffled across the few yards of the deck to his customary position between the periscopes.
He reached for the mike, heard his men gasping as, silently, they struggled to their feet. Robinson was at his place in front of the CEP; Number One, silent, head bowed; Bull Clint, by the planesman's seat, was leaning forward because of the curving hull; the wrecker stood in front of his panel. Coombes switched on the intercom.