Mayo opened his mouth to speak but stopped with his jaw hanging down as the sound suddenly penetrated the stillness.

  It was very faint, but regular, a stealthy, gentle tapping along the hull.

  Jermain made himself stare down at the plot table, but his ears strained towards the threatening sound. He was reminded of his childhood and reading Treasure Island for the first time. Of old Blind Pew’s stick tapping up the dark street towards the inn and the frightened boy inside.

  The petty officer adjusted his headphones and shifted in his seat. ‘Bloody hell!’

  Jermain glanced at him. ‘Worried, P.O.?’

  The man grimaced. ‘Just the thought of all them torpedoes up in the bow, sir. We could blow this lot of rubbish to kingdom come and hardly notice the difference!’

  Jermain smiled. ‘I know how you feel. But we have to let them think they’re the hunters. Otherwise we’ll bring the whole fleet down on our ears!’

  The petty officer grinned ruefully. ‘Next time I go to the dogs back home 111 be rooting for the poor bloody hare, sir!’

  ‘Nine thousand yards, sir,’ Oxley seemed entirely absorbed. ‘Mixed transmissions from green two five to green six zero.’

  The plot table began to vibrate as the information was fed into it. Mayo said, ‘It’s a pattern, sir. It looks like the same little group as before.’

  The tapping along the hull was louder now, and without a break. It preyed on the eardrums and seemed to blot out everything else. Yet still the unseen hunters retained their course and speed, as if the Temeraire was merely part of the imagination.

  Drew looked over his shoulder anxiously. ‘They’re going to pass us, sir. Maybe they’re not fooled after all!’

  Jermain did not answer him. He was waiting for the next move.

  It was almost a relief when Oxley called, ‘Ships have altered course, sir! Bearings coming in now!’

  The lights on the plot winked malevolendy as the approaching ships swung lightly towards the Temeraire’s line of approach. They were still in perfect formation, the three leading vessels about six miles apart.

  Mayo breathed, ‘Come into my parlour…’

  ‘H.E. is speeding up, sir! Range closing! All vessels have increased revolutions!’

  Jermain wiped his forehead. The game had started. ‘Alter course. Steer one zero zero.’

  Mayo cocked his head. ‘I can hear ’em now!’

  Heads tilted. Eyes stared at the curved steel overhead. ‘Schoo … schoo … schoo …’ Like the beat of powerful locomotives. It mingled with the tapping, driving down into the hull, remorseless and without pity for the listening men.

  A signalman clasped his hands across his ears, his mouth quivering with fear. The messenger who had earlier incurred Jeffers’ anger began to polish the torch on his trousers as if it was the most important thing in the whole world.

  ‘Increase to fifteen knots. Alter course to zero nine zero.’ Jermain watched the gyro and then snapped, ‘What is the estimated range of the nearest ship?’

  Mayo said, ‘Six thousand yards, sir. That’s the centre ship at bearing green nine zero.’

  ‘Well, keep me informed. I’m not a mind reader!’ Jermain peered at the table. The three ships had retained their pattern, but were swinging outwards from the central craft like tie arms of a trap. Temeraire’s sudden alteration of course had brought their well-rehearsed drill into full swing, like troops on a parade ground.

  ‘Estimated speed is twenty knots, sir. Still closing.’

  Jermain bit his lower lip. ‘Increase to eighteen knots. Alter course to zero eight zero!’

  Oxley reported, ‘All ships are reducing speed, sir!’

  Jermain gestured towards the plot. ‘Keep checking. I think they’re settling down to follow us in comfort.’

  Mayo said, ‘They’ll wait for us to turn south away from the side of the deep channel, sir. Or they can just let us run into the shallows.’

  ‘Faint H.E. bearing red one one zero, sir. Range twelve thousand yards!’

  Jermain rubbed his chin. ‘That follows. They must have had another single patrol to the north. Just in case.’ He listened to the steady flow of bearings and watched the pattern closing in around him, three ships blocking the southern escape route, and a fourth content to tag along on a parallel course to northwest.

  Drew scratched his hair noisily. ‘All roads lead to Rome! God, I’m as dry as a boot!’

  Jermain stared at the clods. The Pyramus must be under way by now. Every minute was vital for her safety. ‘Right, we’ll dive to two hundred feet. That’ll give them something to think about. They’ll have to use their sonar buoys again, so their speed will be reduced for a while.’

  The needles crept round obediently, and Oxley called, ‘Still in contact, sir. Slight reduction of revolutions!’

  Then Oxley said, ‘Ship at red one one zero has increased speed, sir! Range now nine thousand yards!’

  Jermain nodded. ‘This is it. He’s going to make a run over us if he can while the others keep us plotted.’

  Mayo sounded hoarse. ‘Can’t we run deep, sir?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s too early, Pilot. They’d guess immediately that we are only shamming.’

  They all fell silent as the fourth ship’s propellers cut through the other sounds. ‘Schoo … schoo … schoo …’ Louder and nearer with each steady beat.

  ‘Range now seven thousand yards, sir!’

  Jermain did not reply. From the corner of his eye he saw the admiral running a finger around his collar and staring at the deckhead. Of all the people aboard he knows what to expect, Jermain thought coldly. He must be living again all the horrors, all the nerve-stretching agonies of that other war. But this time he was older, and was powerless to retaliate.

  ‘Watch the range, Pilot.’ He saw Mayo’s eyes gleam in the reflected lights. ‘Let this one close to four thousand yards and then increase speed to give us a slight lead on her. We must hang it out as long as possible.’

  Mayo grimaced. ‘We’ve only got another three-quarters of an hour, sir. Then we’ll have to lift over the edge of the Valley.’ He paused. ‘Or turn and face this little lot.’

  Jermain made himself walk the full length of the control room and back to ease the tension in his limbs. It was like some terrible dream. The powerful little ships above, goading and herding the submarine across the channel like dogs and a wounded bear. Except that Temeraire was the wrong target for their efforts. He, could well imagine what would have happened once these same craft had found the Pyramus. She would have been hunted and finally bracketed by depth-charges. Her captain would have had the choice of being pounded to fragments or surfacing to face surrender and worse. Jermain had little doubt which decision Hurtzig would have taken.

  The admiral joined him beside the plot table, his face white in the lamplight. Jermain asked, ‘Are you feeling all right, sir?’

  ‘I was just thinking back. All this seems like yesterday, Jermain.’ He waved a limp hand. ‘Except that we used to have little more than our wits to combat the enemy!’ He shuddered slightly. ‘I used to hate the depth-charging. We all did. My little S-boat used to operate off the Danish coast and through into the Baltic. Shallow water, and not too much of that either. I had a good first hand at the time. Young chap like Oxley, a real tower of strength. I remember when we were being hunted for a full day after tin-fishing a freighter off Flensburg, he said that it was like being chased by a blind maniac in a pitch-dark room. You never knew what or where he was going to strike next.’ He stared at the impassive dials. ‘Even now it seems much the same. All this complex gear, and it still comes down to the man in command. Matching his brains against those of the fellow above.’

  Jermain frowned. The admiral seemed incapable of remaining silent. He appeared unwilling to face the endless waiting alone.

  Jermain said gently, ‘I shall be looking to you later on, sir. My experience has all been learned in the training grounds. I’m not much of a judge when it comes down to the time to duck and run.’

  The admiral shook his head. ‘Not me, Jermain. I feel as old as the sea. It’s a new feeling for me.’ He looked round startled as Mayo said, ‘Range coming down to four thousand, sir.’

  Then Jermain ordered, ‘Increase to twenty knots.’

  Drew swayed about in his seat like an organist as he adjusted his controls and checked the gauges. Then he remarked harshly, ‘Much more of this caper and the bastard’ll be able to drop rocks on us!’

  Jermain walked into the chart-room and picked up the tannoy handset. ‘This is the captain speaking. So far we’ve made a very good job of drawing the hunt away from the Pyramus. In a short while now we shall make a sharp turn and head back to the centre of the channel.’ He tried not to think of the last time he had used this method of address. Of his men listening to the trapped and desperate Americans. And of the admiral’s cold eagerness to fire the torpedoes. He continued quietly, ‘There will almost certainly be some sort of depth-charging, but the Black Pig is built for this kind of game, and I have no doubt that she is as eager as we are to get back home, to England.’

  He replaced the handset and stood listening to the silence. No cheers, not even a too-bright comment to break the tension.

  Mayo said, ‘They’re closing in for the kill, sir. They’ve probably signalled for reinforcements to cover the shallows towards the coast by now.’

  Jermain nodded. ‘Most likely. The more the merrier. It will leave Pyramus a nice clear run.’

  Mayo pulled at his beard. ‘Suppose the American was too far gone to surface, sir? All this danger will be for nothing!’ He looked around the compartment. ‘It could mean two boats sunk instead of just one!’

  Jermain retained a smile on his lips for the benefit of the men watching his face, but his reply was like ice. ‘I don’t expect to hear that sort of thing from you, Pilot. Just keep those thoughts to yourself.’

  He stared hard at the clock and then at the plot table, and the small, glittering lights which represented the eager hunters above. He could wait no longer. The Temeraire had been built to withstand a great deal of punishment, but his men were untried. The human mind could take just so much.

  He thrust one hand into his pocket and gripped the familiar shape of his pipe. ‘Very well, Pilot. Stand by to go about.’ He nodded to a watching petty officer who barked into the intercom, ‘Shut off for depth-charging! Damage-control parties stand by!’

  One last look round. There was no further chance. It had to be right.

  Then he said, ‘Hard a-starboard! Steer one seven zero!’

  The deck tilted steeply as the hull swam round obediently like a whale.

  ‘Take her down to three hundred feet!’ Throughout the hull he could feel the thud of watertight doors, the metallic click of hatches. This was the worst part. When men were shut off from their companions and friends. When the world was confined to the walls of a steel cell and the remorseless tap of the enemy’s transmissions.

  ‘Ship closing to starboard, sir! Green four five!’ The propellers thrashed nearer and nearer, drowning every other sound with their awful symphony.

  Jermain looked at the deckhead. ‘Hard a-port! Steer one one zero!’

  He tried to picture the depth-charges. Three hundred feet at fifty feet a second.

  The waiting was over. The time was now.

  17

  ‘I Am Not God!’

  The two depth-charges, fired from deck mortars, exploded beneath and well ahead of the submerged Temeraire. Their twin detonations came as one loud crack which lifted the submarine’s bows like a tidal wave and smashed against the toughened steel with a nerve-shattering roar.

  Lieutenant Oxley clung to the arms of his seat and held his breath as the sonar compartment tilted sideways and seemed to fall away beneath him. Signal pads and loose fittings slithered from shelves and tables, and from the deckhead the paint chippings floated down like confetti on to the heads of the crouching men around him. He felt the seat pressing into his buttocks as the boat heaved upwards against the enormous pressure of water, and then as his mind grappled to retain control of his shocked senses it slipped away again in a further sickening sweep.

  He vaguely remembered the harsh warning across the intercom and his own quick order to his companions. ‘Open your mouths wide!’ It was said to help withstand these underwater shocks, yet even at the realisation of what was about to happen he found himself considering the futility of his words.

  Petty Officer Irons pulled himself upright in his seat and groped for his controls. Aloud he muttered, ‘Jesus, I felt that!’

  Oxley stared down at the bright droplets of blood on his lap and realised with sudden anger that his nose was bleeding. As he felt for his handkerchief he heard the captain’s voice over the intercom. ‘Starboard fifteen. Steer one nine zero.’ Then in the same calm tone, ‘Not too close that time.’

  There was a sudden jangle of chains from above and Jermain added sharply, ‘Keep silent in the torpedo space! They can hear that row up top!’

  Oxley let his eyes move to the deck above. The whole forward space over the sonar compartment was given to the two torpedo sections. Right in the bows, behind the six torpedo tubes, was the loading bay and tube space. Astern of that, long and barren like a garage, was the stowage compartment where racks of spare torpedoes lined the sides of the hull in shining readiness. Now, as the submarine manoeuvred hastily to avoid a further attack, the two sections were separated by a closed bulkhead door, connected only by phone and the chattering intercom.

  Irons glanced at Oxley. ‘I’ll bet P.O. Mason is havin’ a time up there, sir!’

  Oxley twisted his mouth in a smile as he watched the flickering dials on the control panel. Mason was the petty officer in charge of torpedoes. It was a complicated task at the best of times. Now, under sudden attack, and with Lieutenant Trott as his immediate superior instead of the unflappable Drew, he must be suffering, Oxley thought.

  One of the operators called, ‘H.E. closing from red nine zero, sir!’ He craned his head forward intently. ‘Bearing steady!’

  Oxley watched the information being fed back to the plot in the control room and found time to marvel at the speed with which the attacking ship had gone about. Like a maddened dog after a rabbit, he thought angrily.

  He jerked himself out of his brooding thoughts and looked quickly around his men. Their faces were moist with sweat, their movements jerky and only half under control. He barked, ‘Stand by for the next attack, lads! Just stay in your positions, no matter what happens! I want to know exactly what everyone is doing!’

  Again without warning the depth-charges exploded on either side of the hull. This time the sound was even louder, and the men gasped with pain or rolled drunkenly in their seats. The lights flickered and died, but as the gasps changed to cries of fear they came on again, their bulbs dulled by the splintered paintwork and the humid breaths in the sealed compartment.

  The hoisting chains clanged once more through the deck plating and Oxley heard the quick stampede of feet as the torpedomen ran to quell the noise.

  Oxley placed his hands palms downwards on his knees and stared at them with fixed attention. He felt strained and physically sick, and he knew he had to draw on resources as yet unknown to control the shaking in his limbs. His own men were near breaking point. He knew each one of them well enough to realise what this strain was doing to them.

  Another pair of explosions rocked the hull sideways and threw two of the men into a yelling heap against the unyielding steel. Oxley could feel the boat sliding away in a downward sweep, and as his eyes sought the depth gauge he saw that the submarine had already dived to four hundred feet. He stared at the needle, mesmerised. In his reeling thoughts he could picture the hull spiralling through the dark water like a falling leaf, out of control, already lost.

  Jermain’s voice penetrated his shocked mind, as if from another world. ‘Hold her at four hundred. Steer one seven zero!’ Then, ‘Report damage!’

  Through the intercom Oxley could hear the squeak of telephones and the murmured replies from the control room. Jermain said, ‘Not bad at all, Pilot. Just a few more minutes and we’ll be through the worst.’

  Then a strange voice came across the intercom, and Oxley had to force his mind to dear completely before he realised that it was Lieutenant Trott, the new officer.

  ‘Captain, sir? If possible I would like permission to open up the rear door to the stowage space.’ He sounded nervous but tightly determined. Oxley could hear the petty officer’s gruff voice muttering in the background but could not make out what he was saying.

  Jermain’s voice was sharp. ‘You know the orders, Trott. We are still under attack, you know!’

  Trott tried again. ‘Number Three tube has sprung a leak in the bow door, sir. It must have been after the last attack. There is a definite seepage.’

  Jermain’s voice was calmer, as if he was using his last reserve of patience to still Trott’s worries. ‘Just keep the breech closed. We can write off Number Three until we get back to base!’

  Oxley gritted his teeth. Jermain must be run off his feet without Trott bleating his stupid head off!

  Trott said weakly, ‘The breech is open, sir. I discovered the seepage when I was checking for damage. I ordered the men to withdraw the torpedo ready for unloading, but I must have the rear door opened!’

  He sounded almost frantic, and for the first time Oxley realised the seriousness of his broken words. Each torpedo was too long to be unloaded without first opening up the two complete sections. Trott had half withdrawn this one, but the bulkhead door prevented its moving any further.

  Jermain said, ‘Repeat, please! Did you say you’ve withdrawn the torpedo?’

  Trott replied, ‘Yes, sir. And it’s jammed! I can’t get it back.’

  Petty Officer Mason’s voice took over the intercom. ‘It’s me, sir, the T.I.’ He sounded anxious. ‘It’s jammed like he says. The tube seepage is exerting some pressure in the bow. The pumps are coping with it for now, but we have to get the breech shut somehow!’