As he strode aft to the control room he heard Sawle say, ‘Two eggs, sir! Be ready in a jiff!’
It must be marvellous to be like Sawle or the messenger with his fanny of tea.
‘Revolutions for six knots. Silent routine.’ Ainslie glanced at the panel clock. It would be pretty dark up top. He half listened to the whispered commands, the fading whirr of the motors.
It had been a bad day, submerged for most of the time, rising just when necessary for a quick look round.
Ainslie was very conscious that they were getting closer to the enemy-occupied coastline. Several times Soufrière’s ‘ears’ had reported fast-moving vessels in the vicinity, anti-submarine patrols most likely. Once, during one of his brief searches of the sea and sky Ainslie had seen an aircraft, a flying boat of some kind, circling abeam, as if it had already seen them. They had dived as deep as possible, waiting for depth-charges or the sounds of fast-moving screws as a destroyer was homed in for a kill.
Soufrière would not be hard to see from directly overhead, he thought. Even below periscope depth she might be visible. A harder shadow. The beast. Maybe the Japs knew already and were waiting until she was in such a position where there was no escape.
If only the wind would get up to make the surface choppier, alive with broken wavelets to hide the periscope’s eye.
Forster’s quiet voice broke through his thoughts. ‘Time to alter course, sir. Course to steer is zero-three-zero.’
Ainslie nodded. ‘Very well.’
He allowed Quinton and the burly coxswain to swing the submarine just those few extra degrees, and tried to picture the location, translate the lines and landmarks from the chart into rock and earth, trees and rivers. Before midnight they would be nearing the Mekong River Delta, but standing well out to sea to stay in deep water and avoid the inshore currents.
Quinton said, ‘No HE, sir. All clear.’
‘Very well. Periscope depth, please.’
The same young stoker was waiting to work the switch, his face shining with sweat, as Ainslie crouched by the periscope well.
Quinton watched the hydroplane tell-tales and the depth gauge, while Halliday and his men checked the sudden change of buoyancy as they pumped compressed air into the tanks.
‘Fourteen metres, sir.’
Ainslie rubbed his palms on his hips. ‘Tell the W/T office to stand by.’
He looked at the stoker and realized he must have been staring at him. He forced a grin, the effort bruising his mouth. ‘All ready, Tamlyn?’
The youth nodded. ‘Aye, sir.’
Ainslie controlled the impulse to yawn, knowing what it would mean to the others near him. Fear, uncertainty, gripping at his guts like claws.
He raised his hand slowly. ‘Now, Tamlyn. Nice and easy.’
He slithered like a crab around the well, ignoring the scratches to his knees and ankles as he studied the confined perimeter of his vision.
Dark and misty, but still no wind.
Without taking his eyes from the small, misty picture he asked, ‘Still quiet?’
‘Yes, sir. Asdic is making a full sweep. Nothing, unless –.’ Quinton checked himself.
Ainslie twisted one of the grips, watching the faint stars, a feather of cloud as the lens probed upwards. Unless. Unless there was a patrol vessel up there, her engines stopped, waiting for the off-chance of a victim.
He snapped the handles inwards and stood up fully. ‘Stand by to surface.’ He signalled to the lookouts below the conning tower. ‘Be ready.’
Five minutes later he was on the streaming bridge, his body shaking with unexpected chill as he searched through the shadows for a possible enemy.
The big carrier was probably heading down towards him right now, her escorts making a lethal arrowhead of steel in her path.
It would need every skill he had seen in others and had learned in each command since. A full fan of torpedoes, there would be no second go.
He thought suddenly of Natalie Torrance and wondered what she was doing. Going to bed, or reading to the child who never spoke? Perhaps Granger had put her aboard a ship already.
‘Control room to bridge.’ It was Quinton. ‘Signal. Most immediate.’
‘Read it, please.’
He kept his glasses to his eyes as he listened to Quinton’s words. ‘Aircraft carrier Sudsuya is still in harbour. Will be further delayed. Imperative that she is destroyed. Situation critical. End of signal, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
Ainslie lowered the glasses and straightened his back. They had been wrong about the carrier’s damage. A few more days and she would be at sea again. But he could not keep Soufrière patrolling up and down, waiting for tit-bits of intelligence, deaf and blind to the real facts.
Situation critical. It said it better than any emotional encouragement.
Soufrière must engage at all costs. Even though it would mean entering a heavily defended area, with little or no chance of survival.
He lowered his face to the voice-pipe. ‘Tell Pilot to open the intelligence pack on the Cam-Ranh Approaches.’ He thought he heard Quinton’s quick intake of breath. ‘This will have to be done damn carefully.’
Cam-Ranh Bay was described as one of the finest harbours on the coast, with a good anchorage for every sort of ship all year round. Also it was likely to be one of the best protected.
‘Asdic reports faint HE at red nine-oh, sir.’
Quinton’s voice brought him down to earth with a jerk. They might not even reach Cam-Ranh Bay.
‘Clear the bridge. Dive, dive, dive! Take her down to thirty metres!’
As the lookouts scuttled below and he groped for the locking wheel of the upper hatch, Ainslie looked at the stars, feeling the urge to stand where he was until the sea roared over the screen and plunged him into oblivion.
Then with a gasp he jumped down two rungs and slammed the hatch above his head.
He did not have the choice. Only obligations.
13
Target
ALL THROUGH THE final night before Soufrière reached her intended destination Ainslie was forced to keep his command submerged. The Asdic compartment reported one vessel after another, and although it was more than likely that most of them were coasters or fishermen, it only needed one to be a warship.
The air throughout the boat was heavy and stale. They had been on silent routine for most of the time, with fans and unnecessary ducts switched off. The rounded sides were wet with condensation which poured across the paintwork and misted the dials, while the watchkeepers and unemployed men sweated in much the same fashion.
Ainslie had gone over his proposed attack twice with Quinton and his other key officers. Observation. Method. Conclusions. But that was all on paper. Course and speed, depth and current, sunrise and angle of light. All parts of an intricate pattern to be settled before Ridgway had a single item to feed into his fruit machine.
It was difficult for most of the company to tell night from day. Watchkeepers from the engine and motor rooms came and went, crossing the paths of the control-room staff and the torpedo crews, an ever-changing complex, like creatures in a steel burrow. It made tempers brittle and nerves edgy. If you tried to snatch an hour’s sleep behind the damp curtain of your bunk, some idiot would need to squeeze past or below you to get his tea before going on watch.
And all the while they were conscious of the motors’ muted hum as the boat carried them through the unseen water towards their objective.
It was almost a relief to get started, or to believe that you were actually beginning to complete the job.
As the order was relayed through every compartment the officers and ratings went quietly to their stations.
In the control room Ainslie handed his empty cup to Sawle and glanced at his watch. He could sense the boat gaining strength as her company took their positions.
Quinton looked at him. ‘All closed up at action stations, sir.’ He tested his mood again and then said, ‘Happy New Year
, sir.’
The fat coxswain turned in his steel seat and muttered, ‘Gawd, is it, sir?’
They all stared at one another, the realization that it was the first day of another year moving through the boat like a rumour.
Ainslie smiled gravely. ‘I’d forgotten.’
Halliday looked up from his panel. ‘A Scot, too! That’s best kept a secret, sir!’
Walker, the senior Asdic operator, because of his headphone unaware of the brief humour, reported stolidly, ‘All quiet, sir.’
Ainslie tugged his shirt away from his chest. It was like a wet rag.
‘Let’s take a look, Number One. Periscope depth, please.’
Using all his skill, Halliday brought the great submarine close to the surface with barely a vibration to show any difference.
Ainslie dropped to his knees by the periscope. How many times had he done it before? Amongst ice-floes, off the North African coast. In the bitter Atlantic. Always the stomach-wrenching fear. The expectation of death.
‘What bearing, Pilot?’
Forster was peering at the chart, his hair flopping over his forehead.
‘Should be at about red four-five, sir. Three miles.’
Just like that. It was like a small miracle if you had time to think about it. Altering course and depth, back-tracking to avoid some threatening hydrophone effect, feeling their way by instruments and constant calculations.
And a whole lot of luck.
He nodded to the young stoker. ‘Ready when you are, my lad.’
The periscope rose with the same caution as the boat. Ainslie squinted at the brass ring above his head and turned the periscope on the estimated bearing. Easy now. Nice and smooth. He held his breath as the light in the lens strengthened and filled with tiny bubbles, like steel bearings, or those silver balls they used to decorate cakes. Then came the sky, bright and clear, as the lens broke surface with barely a ripple.
He clicked the periscope to full power, seeing the nearest headland loom larger in response, as if the boat had leapt bodily through the water.
Between his teeth he said, ‘Southern headland on the port bow. Well done, Pilot.’
He moved the periscope very slowly in a full circle. The sea was very bright, like thin silver foil, moving, breathing in the slight swell.
It was very still. Seven o’clock in the morning. He turned his attention back to the headland, trying to count the seconds, the lengthening risk.
The only sign of life were a few tiny sailing craft near the headland, like moths on the water in the harsh light.
He moved the grips very carefully. Then he said, ‘There’s a ship of some kind just around the point. Seems to be anchored. Could be a boom vessel or blockship.’ He stood up fully. ‘Down ’scope.’
He walked to the table and rubbed his chin. The Sudsuya must be hidden by the headland. According to the American intelligence pack, the carrier had been hit by at least one bomb from a force of five aircraft. All but one of the American planes had been shot down in the attack, and the survivor had not been close enough to determine the exact damage, other than it was right aft.
The fact that the Japanese captain had brought his ship this far without tugs pointed to some very localized damage, most likely the steering mechanism or rudders.
It had to be something he and his company could repair without going into dock. Otherwise he would have struggled up one of the tortuous river channels to Saigon further south.
Aloud he said, ‘She’ll probably be well moored, with a stream anchor out aft to stop her swinging too much. It would make her easier to protect with anti-torpedo nets and steadier in the tides for the work to be carried on without interruption.’
In his mind’s eye he could see her exactly, all twenty-seven thousand tons of her. She was known to carry sixty strike aircraft and probably more on a war footing. She could decimate Granger’s refugee convoys like a man swatting a fly.
‘We must get closer. I want another look. Alter course to close with the northern headland. Revs for six knots.’
He listened to the responding clicks and rattles, Gosling’s acknowledgement of the new course to steer.
Ainslie was still thinking, his mind alert now that it had a problem to cope with. The entrance to Cam-Ranh Bay was extremely wide, marred here and there by some small islands and reefs. Once through the headlands the bay narrowed before opening up again to its full extent, a large, safe anchorage where the depth was rarely less than forty feet. It had saved many a ship from storm and attacker alike.
He said, ‘I think the carrier will stay in the outer anchorage.’
Forster was watching his plot, gauging their movement through every foot of the way. ‘Maybe the brute’s put to sea already, sir, and we’ve missed her in the night?’
Quinton said, ‘Wishful thinking. A ship that size, to say nothing of the bloody escorts, Christ, you’d hear ’em all the way to Darwin!’
Ainslie studied the chart as Forster’s pencil made another small cross.
‘Another look.’
He moved to the periscope. This was so important he would have liked to raise the second periscope so that Quinton could confirm what he saw. He dismissed it instantly. There might be some powerful glasses trained on this patch of water right now. The small, barely raised periscope would be hard to spot, but two, with the additional feathers of spray to betray them, were not worth the risk.
He nodded to the stoker. ‘Now.’
Even in the minutes which had passed it looked different. He could see the hill on the northern headland, shivering from side to side in some haze, like a giant jelly on a plate.
The little sailing boats were nearer now, creeping out from the land and more scattered. Probably fishing, he thought.
He turned again towards the motionless vessel. There was a power boat crossing her bows, her progress marked by a great moustache of white foam.
He lost more time as he searched around and above for other vessels or aircraft, but the place looked dead. Although it was still early morning it was probably like an oven up there, he thought. He brought the periscope back again, blinking as spray spattered playfully over the glass.
Ainslie said, ‘There’s another ship inside, coming this way, I think. Freighter, one funnel, ’bout a thousand tons.’
Ainslie heard Ridgway’s yeoman writing these brief notes in his log.
Walker said, ‘Nothing yet, sir.’
Quinton murmured quietly, ‘No. The freighter’s probably masked by the headland.’
‘Right.’
Ainslie was about to signal for the periscope to be lowered when he saw something in the corner of his picture, like an error in a painting. He twisted the grip to full power again and trained it on the first, unmoving vessel. Around her was a lot of trapped mist and haze, with a green hillside beyond that. But right on the limit of his vision was a rigid grey line. It was either the bow or the stern of the biggest carrier he had ever laid eyes on.
‘Down ’scope.’ He looked at Quinton. ‘Thirty metres.’
To Forster he said, ‘Lay off a course to take us six miles south-east of this point.’ To Ridgway he added, ‘I saw the Sudsuya, or her bloody twin sister.’
Forster said formally, ‘Course to steer is one-five-zero, sir.’
‘Got that, Number One?’ He waited as the deck settled again at the new depth. ‘Bring her about, will you?’ To the control room at large he added, ‘I think I saw a patrol vessel coming out astern of the freighter. We won’t be able to get nearer at this stage.’
With Soufrière set on her fresh course away from the coast Ainslie brought Quinton and Forster together at the chart table while Ridgway took over the watch.
He said quietly, ‘This will go on all day. Regular patrols, but nothing special until it’s time for the carrier to leave with her escorts. Then, you may be sure they’ll have the whole area covered, aircraft as well, I would imagine.’
Quinton looked dully at the chart. He
was probably thinking the same as Forster. Six miles out meant the same back again, and every cable covered either by patrol vessels or listening devices from the shore.
The carrier would not be left at risk for a minute. Any navy which could sink two British capital ships within an hour would have learned the all-important lesson of vigilance.
‘She’ll have booms, nets, the lot,’ said Quinton gloomily. ‘It’d take us too long. We shall have to wait.’
‘And wait for her escorts, Number One?’ Ainslie watched him, trying to conceal his sense of finality, or total commitment.
‘What else?’
‘We had planned for an early daylight attack, today or dawn tomorrow.’ He could feel his limbs trembling, the sudden rawness in his throat. ‘It would take too long, you’re right about that. We’re too large a target for a normal approach.’
A trickle of condensation ran across the table’s edge and quivered in the small vibration.
Quinton stood back, his hands on his hips. ‘God damn it, sir, you’re going in surfaced!’
Ainslie looked from him to Forster, the latter suddenly pale.
‘Can you suggest anything else, apart from getting the hell out of here altogether?’ He watched them considering it. ‘Surfaced we have speed, with some element of surprise to back it up. If we go in at dusk, we stand an even better chance.’ He ticked off the points on his fingers. ‘We’d lose most of our tin fish in their nets, even if we got that far, with a normal approach. This way we can cut the booms, illuminate the target with star-shell and throw in some eight-inch bricks for good measure. What d’you think?’ He looked at Quinton.
Quinton licked his lips. ‘If you weren’t my commanding officer I’d say you were losing your marbles.’ He nodded very slowly. ‘It’s worth a go.’
Forster said huskily, ‘Peter Farrant will be pleased, anyway.’
Quinton grinned. ‘Peter? That his name? I always thought it was Jesus Christ.’
Ainslie watched them, stunned at his decision and their acceptance. It was like a madness, an uncontrollable urge to destroy, and be destroyed.
‘All we have to do is keep out of trouble.’ He saw Halliday and Lucas looking over at him. ‘Until this evening.’
Strike from the Sea (1978) Page 21
