A line of blue-shirted seamen stood swaying on her casing, and as she passed the American flagship McKelway heard the shrill twitter of pipes as a last respect was paid.

  The officers’ white caps looked like small flowers at the tip of the Temeraire’s fin, and McKelway guessed that one of them was Jermain.

  Across the anchorage a tug hooted. It was a mournful sound, and McKelway suddenly felt helpless and old as he watched the submarine turn slightly and head towards the lazy rollers of the waiting sea. He lowered his glasses and walked back to the operations room. There was nothing he could do now, but wait.

  14

  Into the Valley

  Baldwin, the senior wardroom steward, whipped the breakfast tablecloth over his arm and took a quick glance around the assembled officers before vanishing into his pantry.

  Without speaking, Jermain unrolled his chart and spread it on the empty table. He was conscious of the silent, watching officers and of Vice-Admiral Colquhoun who sat at the head of the table, his fingers interlaced across his stomach. For a moment longer he stood looking down at the chart as he assembled his words and listened to the muffled movements from the control room and the subdued murmur of fans.

  The deck was quite motionless beneath his feet. There was nothing to betray the fact that the Temeraire was cruising at a depth of four hundred feet, her noiseless power thrusting her at a slow but steady ten knots. It would have been better if there was some sort of sensation, he thought vaguely. It had been four days since they had left the Nanlien Inlet, and for the last thirty-six hours they had been creeping slowly north west, listening and probing along the Pyramus’s ordered course, not knowing what to expea. Not even knowing if there was anything to find.

  Sir John Colquhoun had seemed remarkably relaxed and affable when he had come aboard within minutes of sailing. Again he had insisted on taking a spare berth in the wardroom, and when not asleep could usually be found, as now, like a bemedalled buddha at the table.

  When the Temeraire had dived for the first time and the complicated checks had been completed, he had joined Jermain in his cabin. He had come straight to the point ‘I’ve been attending a top-level SEATO conference, Jermain. Otherwise I would have-flown down earlier. Much earlier.’ He had tapped his fingertips together as he had watched Jermain from beneath lowered brows. ‘When I heard about the Malange incident I was shocked, naturally. Not so much about Conway, although his death has obviously been a great loss.’ His tone had hardened slightly. ‘I think your own behaviour and general handling of the situation was lacking in many aspects. I’ll go further, it was nothing short of madness.’

  Jermain had not replied. But the effort of holding his words had cost him a good deal.

  ‘You’ve a lot to learn. Such action would not have been tolerated in my time in submarines.’ He had sighed. ‘However, that part is now over. I can only thank God that we now have this opportunity to prove the Temeraire’s worth to the doubters and the critics!’ He had added, as if to dismiss the matter, ‘There are some senior officers who would have had you flown home immediately. It had even crossed my mind to do so. As you know, Jermain, the Board has selected Wolfe for command status. He would be quite capable of taking the boat back to the U.K. without you.’

  There had fortunately been an interruption by way of Lieutenant Drew reporting that all tubes had been reloaded with homing torpedoes as instructed. The admiral had been content to keep his distance since that meeting. But his presence was constant, like a threat.

  Jermain cleared his throat. ‘Well, gentlemen, this is the picture. We will carry on along the Wantsai Valley, making a complete copy of the Pyramus’s usual procedure. As you can see from the chart, the Valley ends at a point some forty miles south of Linden Point, or Kokko Kutchi as it’s shown here.’

  They all craned forward to look at the coast’s ragged outline which sprawled diagonally across the chart. All except the admiral, who continued to stare into space, as if his mind was on a higher plane.

  ‘We are now passing through the area where the Pyramus should have made her safety signal.’ He looked up as Kitson stirred uneasily. ‘Do you want to say something?’

  Kitson said awkwardly, ‘I understood that no nuclear boats ever sent radio signals at sea, sir.’

  ‘This is an exception. Due to the nature of the area and the complex grid layout of the patrol lines, the Polaris boats send up a radio-buoy at this point.’ He rapped the chart with his pipe stem. ‘It is timed to send a shorty ten-second signal. After that it floods and sinks. The American’s have a series of highflying reconnaissance aircraft which cover the whole area. They fly from Japan and to within sight of the North Korean coast before they turn and fly back. The schedules are timed so that these buoy signals can be recorded and reported immediately.’ He pressed back the chart’s folding edges.

  Between his hands the Sea of Japan looked empty and impersonal. But in his mind’s eye Jermain could picture it as a great submarine mountain range, with the Wantsai Valley running north west through the main part of it. Giant, unknown ridges and deep, plunging crevasses which hid their secrets in perpetual darkness. Maybe there was marine life which men’s minds could never understand or discover. He pictured the submarine’s slow-moving bulk gliding between the towering sides of the Valley, safely guided by her sensitive navigational systems, Below her keel die bottom dropped away for another ten thousand feet. It did not seem possible.

  He continued, ‘No such buoy was released or recorded, so we have to assume that the Pyramus was damaged in some way. She could have lost control, or the diving planes might have jammed. As you know, at these extreme depths, and at the boat’s slow patrol speed, any such trouble might be too swift to rectify.’ He looked around their faces. ‘However, I am more inclined to believe otherwise. I know that this particular submarine was a well-tried boat. She was recently overhauled, and her crew are extremely competent.’ He saw the admiral’s eyes swing round and settle on him. ‘My guess is that she made some sort of contact, either accidental or planned, with another vessel.’

  The admiral wagged his finger and smiled. ‘I’m not interrupting, but I should explain to your officers that this is only a guess.’

  Jermain checked the anger which hovered at the back of his mind. ‘Do you wish to add something, sir?’

  ‘Just this. The Pyramus is probably sunk. She quite likely made a sudden and unavoidable dive straight to the bottom.’ He spread his hands. ‘If so, she’s scattered for half a mile like so much scrap!’ He looked at the shocked expression on Luard’s face. ‘If so, we can only locate her whereabouts and return to base. There’s nothing anyone can do about it.’ He looked at the chart. ‘As for the theory that the Pyramus was intercepted in some way, well, of course, we must all be prepared for any eventualities. For that reason I suggested that the tubes were loaded with homing torpedoes.’ He smiled innocently. ‘We don’t want any more enemy submarines to escape, do we?’

  Jermain watched him, his mind suddenly calm. The admiral was actually enjoying it all. But at least he had shown his hand. He said abruptly, ‘We shall continue the search until we find her. The American intelligence log suggests one further possibility.’ He pointed at the end of the deep soundings on the chart. ‘Just here, at the end of the area normally used by the Pyramus, the sea bottom is quite flat. From the coast itself the bottom deepens in steps, so that soundings change suddenly and at regular intervals.’ He looked hard at each officer in turn as he spoke. ‘Just try to picture it. It’s like a small plateau, at the end of which the bottom drops away with a jump, down to eight thousand feet. The plateau is at a depth of only two hundred feet, and it was selected as a possible setting-down spot for any submarine in temporary trouble.’

  His glance moved across Wolfe’s face, but the first lieutenant immediately dropped his eyes to the chart, but not before Jermain had seen the bright intentness in them. ‘So if the Pyramus has survived a disaster, she might well make for this place. Her captain could put her down on the bottom in comparative safety to effect minor repairs within the hull!’ Again the inner pictures of his mind swept up to mock him like a clouded nightmare. Lying for ever, a rusting tomb for her crew, the Pyramus would be better to plunge over the edge into the Wantsai Valley. At least the end would be quick.

  Drew said slowly, ‘Suppose we locate her and we can’t do anything to help her, sir?’

  Jermain had been expecting it, yet it was still a shock. ‘We have to find her first.’

  Drew looked doubtful. ‘Nasty. Wouldn’t care to be in their shoes!’

  Jermain felt, drawn and tired. He had hardly found a moment to relax since leaving harbour. Yet he wanted to share his secret with these men. Or was it only to involve them and spread his own sense of shame at what he might have to do?

  Oxley, sleek and alert. It would be his sonar which would find the missing Pyramus. The invisible waves which reached out from his sensitive devices would search her out, and decide her fate.

  Drew, with his rugged Australian face deep in thought. His torpedoes would be the ones. His would be the final voice to urge them on their assassin’s journey.

  And Wolfe. What went on behind his strange, empty eyes? Was he still brooding over Sarah? Or worse still, was he deluding himself with the promise of his own command?

  Jermain remembered his face when he had mentioned the signal from England. A boat of his own at last. And Sir John Colquhoun had mentioned it too, with something like pleasure. The cruel pleasure of a cat with a bird. The admiral at least must know the reality, Jermain thought savagely. That Wolfe could receive that final recommendation only from himself, his commanding officer. And that he could not do.

  It was more than a cold-blooded report, and greater than any passing personal assessment.

  Jermain had welcomed Wolfe’s coming to the boat from the bottom of his heart. It had been like a link with that old past. Someone to share the words of friends and rise above the rigid codes of duty and routine.

  But this Wolfe was a stranger. He seemed hard, yet brittle. And his attention to detail bordered on the small-minded rather than the trained and cheerful officer he had once been.

  He looked again at the admiral, but he seemed intent on the chart. If it came to an open clash within the boat it would not be difficult for the admiral to drive a wedge between himself and Wolfe. Between captain and crew. He felt a chill on his spine as he recalled McKelway’s words. ‘You’ll be on your own.’ Now he knew that he had meant more than just the submarine’s solitary search. The Temeraire’s captain would be quite alone. Whatever Sir John Colquhoun prescribed or suggested, whatever Wolfe and the others might think, his was the final decision.

  Abruptly he folded the chart and said, ‘That’s all, gentlemen. I would like every officer to read and examine the American intelligence reports as soon as possible. I want each one of yoii to get a clear understanding of what we are doing, and of what we can expect.’

  He walked out of the wardroom, and one by one the other officers returned to their duties.

  Only Wolfe stayed in his chair, his eyes on the door.

  The admiral stood up and stretched comfortably, ‘Well, Number One, I don’t suppose you’ve got any illusions about this job, eh?’

  Wolfe stared fixedly at the door. ‘Two birds with one stone.’ Then he seemed to pull himself together, as if he had imagined he was talking to himself. He smiled and said, ‘None at all, sir.’ He walked from the wardroom, the smile still frozen on his face like a mask.

  *  *  *

  Lieutenant Oxley ducked his head through the watertight door and peered quickly around the sonar compartment. The operators looked welded to their seats, their heads hunched over the instrument controls as they had been since the weary search had begun. They worked round the clock, two hours on, four off, with hardly a break to ease the strain of watching and listening.

  Colquhoun was sitting in his chair behind the operators, his eyes staring into space. He looked like death, Oxley thought. ‘AH right, Sub. You can lay aft for a bit.’ Oxley saw the younger man stir stiffly in his seat.

  Colquhoun said between his teeth. ‘It’s not time yet. There’s another half hour still to run.’ He turned his head, and Oxley was shocked to see the redness of his eyes, the deep lines around his mouth.

  Oxley snapped, ‘Take over the watch, Petty Officer.’ Then to Colquhoun he added quietly, ‘Come outside.’

  Colquhoun followed him obediently, his movements stiff and mechanical.

  Oxley lit a cigarette and watched him thoughtfully. ‘I’ve just been to the conference, Sub. The captain appears to think the American boat was interfered with by some sort of enemy action.’

  Colquhoun said flatly, ‘Is that so?’

  Oxley tightened his lips. He might just as well have remarked on the Test-match score, or the state of his bank balance. He glanced quickly around to make sure they were undisturbed. Above his head through an oval hatch he could see the sick-bay entrance where Victor had died. Where Conway had laid in a deep coma awaiting his own fate. The white curtains shimmered in the fanned air and there was a gentle strain of dance music from Griffin’s tape-recorder. It was hard to build up a sense of crisis. Harder still to believe that the submarine was in any sort of danger.

  He said, ‘Now look here, Max. I know you’re still brooding about that seaman’s death. Maybe you could have avoided it, and maybe you couldn’t. It’s not for me to say. But right now you’ve got a job to do. There’s no room for self-pity or recriminations now!’

  Colquhoun answered quietly, ‘I’m surprised you allow me to take charge down here.’ His tone was edged with bitterness.

  Oxley said calmly, ‘I don’t have much option, do I?’ He laid a hand on his arm and added wearily, ‘Look, Max, we’re all getting clapped out, but it can’t be helped. Just try to think of all of us, trapped and waiting for outside help.’ He gestured to the curved hull. ‘Try and imagine it like that. It’s easier to keep control that way.’

  Colquhoun shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And another thing, Max.’ Oxley’s voice was cautious. ‘Don’t try and avoid your father all the time. When you’re not actually on duty you scuttle off to your cabin like a hunted dog. You can’t run away for ever.’

  Colquhoun seemed to jerk himself out of his thoughts. ‘Just stay out of my affairs, will you? How the hell can you know what it’s been like for me? Do you know what he said to me when he came aboard?’ He was starting to shout. ‘Well, do you?’

  Oxley eyed him coolly. ‘Tell me, if it makes you feel better!’

  ‘He said that he was surprised I had lasted so long without killing someone! He told me that he had let his judgement as a father overrule his duty for once and that he had managed to hush up any official enquiry!’ He stared at Oxley’s serious features. ‘Can you imagine that? You’d think I killed Archer to spite him!’ His eyes suddenly flooded with tears. ‘My God, he wants to get his ounce of suffering out of me!’

  Oxley looked away, unaccountably embarrassed. ‘Pull yourself together! If it’s any consolation, I don’t hold much brief for the admiral either.’ He shrugged. ‘But, like God, he’s always with us nowadays.’ He became suddenly serious. ‘And try to think of the men under you, Max. They’re not bloody puppets. They’re human beings! Right now most of them don’t know if they’re on their arse or their elbow. It only needs the officers to start bickering and the whole outfit wifi come apart at the seams.’

  Colquhoun wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘Well, that doesn’t apply to me, thank God. Hardly anyone ever speaks to me now, let alone listens to what I have to say!’

  Oxley said sharply, ‘Well, go and have a lie down. I’m taking over the watch, so do as I say!’

  He slammed through the door, and Colquhoun leaned bad; against the cool bulkhead, his eyes tightly closed. Why couldn’t he be like Oxley? Never ruffled, always self-assured. He had tried so hard to be different from his father’s mould, to believe that his own outlook could be transferred into a life he had been too timid to reject. Now, before his eyes, his whole personality seemed to be disintegrating into shame and failure.

  By failing to conform to the old and tried codes of wardroom life he had built up a barrier between himself and his contemporaries which he seemed helpless to dislodge. Even Luard who shared his cabin had changed towards him. Whenever they were in the cabin together Luard was either asleep or quick to find an excuse for leaving.

  He had tried to use understanding and friendship in his handling of the men, and that too had turned sour. It was as if they mistook friendship for weakness and incompetence.

  It was strange that the one person he could talk to was now avoiding him, too. Lightfoot, the boy from the Battersea slums, must be too proud to be soiled by any sort of relationship with him!

  Overhead the tannoy squawked. ‘Senior hands of messes muster for rum. Damage-control parties will exercise at 1430.’

  Colquhoun pounded his fist against the steel door. That’s right, he groaned. Carry on as if nothing had ever happened. Routine and drill. Calm, stupid normality, no matter what disaster is waiting for us!

  There was a step on the ladder and Lightfoot stood beside him, an enamel jug of tea in his hands. He stared fixedly at Colquhoun’s face and then laid the jug carefully on the deck.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, sir?’

  Colquhoun could not speak, any more than he could control the stinging tears in his eyes which made Lightfoot swim like a mirage.

  The boy fumbled in his pocket and brought out a watch. It was a large, old-fashioned one with a thick chain. He was speaking quickly and urgently, as if he could not control the flow of words. ‘I forgot to give you this, sir.’ He held it out. ‘The mate of the Malange give it to me when we fished him out of the water. It belonged to the ship’s captain.’ He clicked open the back of the watch and added breathlessly, ‘It’s got the ship’s name and the date it was launched engraved on it!’ He pushed it into Colquhoun’s limp hands. ‘The mate wanted you to have it, sir. He said you tried to save his ship. Tried to help.’ He dropped his eyes and ended, ‘So you did, too!’