‘If you think so, sir.’ Wolfe sounded unconvinced. ‘But if I was his commanding officer…’

  The strain and responsibility of the past two weeks tore at Jermain’s reserve like a steel barb. He stepped closer to the other man, his voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Until that time, Number One, I suggest you try to keep a sense of proportion!’

  He swung round as the messenger said breathlessly, ‘Lieutenant Drew reports that the drill took fifteen seconds, sir!’

  Jermain found that his hands were shaking from the sudden burst of anger, but he managed to control his reply. ‘Good. Now we’ll carry out the second part of the exercise.’

  He strode to the intercom. ‘Shut off for depth-charging! We will now carry out an emergency dive!’ He heard the click of controls and the gentle hiss of compressed air, then he said, ‘Right. Take her down to six hundred feet!’

  Mayo said, ‘Six hundred feet, sir! That’s equal to our record dive on trials!’

  The deck tilted very slightly, and with all the watertight doors and hatches slammed and clipped shut the air seemed suddenly flat and lifeless.

  Jermain counted the seconds, his eyes fixed on the big depth gauges above the helmsman’s head. Perhaps this extreme dive would help to drive out some of the stupid and petty irritations, he thought. Wolfe’s sudden and unexpected outburst had been as unnerving as a mechanical failure, even more so because there was nothing in his face to show the reason for it. He seemed to have momentarily forgotten Colquhoun, he thought. Anyway, he was watching the diving operations and showed no sign of either anger or resentment. He had changed. How he had changed!

  ‘Two hundred feet, sir I’ The planesman’s voice sounded taut.

  Down, down, deeper into a sea which must have already lost sight of the sun and the calm sky above.

  ‘Three hundred feet, sir!’

  Jermain glanced at the clock. ‘Increase to fifteen knots.’

  In his mind’s eye he could picture the Temeraire’s great bulk gliding down like a graceful whale, a shadow growing in the darkness. Gone would be her fat, even humorous surface outline. Down here she was in her true element. A hunter. A killer.

  ‘Four hundred feet, sir!’

  It was incredible to realise that only twenty years earlier, when men like Colquhoun’s father had stalked enemy shipping, the diving depth had rarely gone beyond two hundred feet, and usually it had been half that amount. At this great depth their hulls would have been crushed, then burst apart by the mounting pressure. And the Black Pig could do better. Much better.

  ‘Five hundred feet, sir!’

  ‘Very good. Increase to twenty knots.’ The greater thrust from the big screw would give the planesman an easier task as he guided the massive hull downwards.

  Mayo coughed. ‘It’s a weird feeling! Apart from the dials we might be at periscope depth!’

  The deck gave a slight quiver, and from beyond the chart-room came a dull, drawn-out groan of metal under pressure.

  ‘Six hundred feet, sir!’

  ‘Good.’ Jermain could feel his shirt clinging to his back. ‘Check all compartments!’

  He looked across at Wolfe’s stiff shoulders. ‘After this we’ll return to cruising depth and give the men a break.’

  The messenger said, ‘Chief Engineer on this telephone, sir.’

  Jermain took it quickly. ‘Well, what is it? And why don’t you use the intercom and save time?’

  Ross sounded far away. ‘You’ll not be wanting a full broadcast, sir. I’ve just finished my check down aft, sir. I’m not happy.’

  Jermain felt the eyes of the others on his face, reading his lips like blind men.

  Ross continued, ‘Below the generator room there’s a definite seepage. My lads are checking again now, but I’m pretty sure.’

  Jermain stared at the handset. ‘Do you mean a fracture in the hull itself, Chief?’ He heard Mayo gasp and saw one of the seamen put his hand to his mouth.

  Ross sounded firm. ‘I can find no other reason, sir.’

  Jermain bit his lip and tried to form a mental picture of the small, box-like compartment just aft of the reactor room. A small leak was to be expected at this stage and under these conditions. But a flaw in the hull! He felt his mouth go dry.

  Even with every possible care such things could happen. Other nuclear boats like the Dreadnought and the Resolution had been docked with hairline cracks in their hull structures. But they had been in good hands, and their faults had been contained, if not completely cured, in dockyards equipped to deal in such matters. But out here, thousands of miles from any proper aid and attention, Temeraire had no such advantage.

  Ross said suddenly, ‘I suggest you reduce speed to twelve knots, to cut vibration, but keep at this depth for another twenty minutes or so. Then I’ll come and tell you what I think.’ A small pause. ‘But if you want my advice you’ll go up top and make a signal that you’re returning to base!’

  Jermain put down the handset and walked to the centre of the control room. He felt the content of Ross’s report like a pain, as if the Temeraire’s very arteries had been injured and the extent of her damage was finding its way to him.

  He looked at Wolfe. ‘Open up the boat, Number One. I’m afraid those watertight doors will not keep this rumour under control!’

  4

  Sword and Medals

  Vice-Admiral Sir John Colquhoun, Flag Officer Commanding the Far East Inshore Squadron, marched into the cool interior of his wide reception room and stood for a few moments to regain his breath. Normally he would have felt the old exhilaration of Sunday morning with the firm traditions of parades and divisions, but on this particular day he seemed unable to control his irritation and sense of annoyance.

  Forrest, his elegant but harassed flag lieutenant, followed him into the room and made a quick gesture to a waiting steward who was hovering near the window which ran the full side of the far wall. The steward skilfully rolled up the blinds so that the glittering expanse of Singapore anchorage was displayed like a framed panorama, the moored warships and shimmering white buildings beyond pinned down by the sun’s persistent glare, and made unreal by its intensity.

  The admiral sighed and plucked quickly at his crisp white uniform. Beneath it his body felt dry and prickly from standing too long in the sun while the marine band went through its repertoire and the long ranks of sailors waited for inspection and the final ordeal at the mercy of the base chaplain. But Sunday was Sunday, and neither weather nor any of his other problems were allowed to alter the admiral’s set routine.

  He unbuckled his sword and threw it on to a chair. The steward was already pouring gin into an iced glass, and the flag lieutenant was shifting from one foot to the other as he waited for his master’s next possible demand.

  Sir John Colquhoun was a compact, impressive figure in his well-cut uniform, and the pale, steady eyes which gazed out over the harbour gave little indication of his uncertainty and anger. He stared steadily at the empty buoys directly opposite his new headquarters and thought back over the past months, so that without difficulty he could picture the old but impressive bulk of his flagship, the aircraft carrier which had sailed so recently on her last voyage to the breaker’s yard.

  Far away in London, a stroke of a pen, a unanimous decision at government level had changed life for him, and indeed for many others. The empty buoys seemed to symbolise his sense of isolation and loss as much as the sterile building over which his flag now flew. The thought of being tied to a desk, with all the clutter of charts and meaningless wall graphs, made him feel his age and awoke the old bitterness like some nagging illness.

  He snapped, ‘Is the Temeraire alongside?’

  The flag lieutenant read the signs and said carefully, ‘She passed Beaulieu Point just before this morning’s parade, sir, She picked up her moorings an hour ago.’

  The admiral crossed to the open window and swung the giant telescope on its tripod until it settled on the squat, grey outline of the submarine depot ship. There was a sense of anticlimax in what he saw. The nuclear submarine was just another black shape. In the old but powerful lens he could see the slime on her hull, the signs of endurance of nearly five weeks underwater. All the same, it was an impressive achievement, he thought. The speed of her voyage from Scotland would have been thought impossible to a point of fantasy in the submarines of his day.

  He said slowly, ‘Did you tell the depot ship that I want the Temeraire’s captain over here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He has to pay his respects to Captain S/M and the Admiral Superintendent and so forth, but he should be here in a few minutes.’

  ‘Good. We’ll see if our important visitor is impressed!’

  The flag lieutenant sighed and held the iced glass limply in his hand. He could not start his first drink of the day before the admiral, and the sight of the ice cubes already melting in the humid air filled him with gloom. The important visitor to whom the admiral referred with such open scorn was not the Temeraire’s captain, but the man who had been given the full honours only two hours previously.

  James Conway, known in the popular Press as ‘Big Jim’, had been in Singapore for over a week. As a Member of Parliament and the government’s trusted representative of the new Defence Commission, he seemed to symbolise, in the admiral’s eyes at least, all the stupidity and irrational behaviour of a government solely interested in destroying its own power overseas for all time. The flag lieutenant had had to bear the weight of his superior’s displeasure and was beginning to wonder if it would ever end.

  The admiral closed the telescope and ran his fingers over the worn engraving on its mounting. ‘Presented to Lieutenant Michael Colquhoun, 1898’. He wondered briefly what his father would have thought about the new Navy. He glared at the flat, burnished water and tried to picture it as it had once been. Battleships and cruisers, trots of rakish destroyers and all the countless attendant craft.

  Now, apart from two destroyers, the depot ship and her small brood of submarines, the anchorage seemed almost deserted. The main bulk of the Far East Fleet was made up in small patrol ships, minesweepers and the like. All excellent ships for hunting pirates and checking the flow of refugees and smugglers throughout the vast areas of the China Seas, but hardly suitable for showing the flag.

  When his carrier had been at her moorings there had at least been something visible. A hint of what could be expected if one or more of the uneasy hotchpotch of small nations which lived off the admiral’s command stepped out of line.

  He touched his glass with his tongue. ‘Where is our Defence expert at this moment?’

  The young officer glanced at his watch. ‘With the C.-in-C., sir. But he’ll be joining you for lunch in an hour.’

  The admiral groaned. ‘I suppose he’s bringing his bloody wife with him?’

  The flag lieutenant hid a smile. ‘I expect so, sir.’

  ‘I don’t know which of ’em is worse! Her with her good works, and her “My Jim works so hard, you know!”, or that bloody husband of hers.’ He glared at his glass. ‘What was he in the last war?’

  ‘I understand that he was a sergeant in the infantry, sir.’

  ‘God Almighty! And to think that a man like that can come out here and tell us what to do!’ He waved his hand vaguely across the window and the giant wall chart with its flags and coloured counters. ‘To listen to him you’d think that our main work was to keep the local Chinese in employment in the ruddy dockyard, rather than patrol and protect one of the most difficult and dangerous sea areas in the world!’

  The flag lieutenant said, ‘I believe he won the Military Medal, sir.’

  ‘So did thousands of others, Forrest! I hope you’re not suggesting that makes all of them fit for running the Royal Navy!’

  He warmed to his theme. ‘Have you seen the way he pandera to the locals? With his attendant photographers and whatnot. He deliberately takes off his jacket just to be seen talking in his braces to a lot of bloody dockyard workers! I think I’ll have a stroke if he stays here much longer!’

  An impeccable marine orderly stepped through the door. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. Commander Jermain is waitin’ to pay ’is respects.’

  The admiral’s eyes glinted. ‘Show him in!’ He grinned at his flag lieutenant. ‘We’ll show these ruddy humbugs, eh?’

  He wiped the smile from his face and stood quite still beneath one of the overhead fans as Jermain walked slowly into the room. In a quick appraisal the ádmiral noted the signs of strain and tiredness on his face, the white uniform which still showed traces of being too long in a metal case.

  The admiral realised just as quickly that some of his own tension had been caused by this anticipated meeting. He felt something like relief and said, ‘Good to have you here, Jermain!’ He held out his hand. ‘Now while we’ve having a drink I’ll try and put you in the picture before my other guest arrives.’

  The steward moved busily wkh the glasses, and the admiral continued evenly, ‘As you know, Jermain, your arrival is quite an event. But it means more than you can possibly imagine.’ He studied the other man’s grave features, noticing the lines of tension around his eyes. He hurried on, ‘I came out here to organise and control the Inshore Squadron.’ He pointed at the chart. ‘That covers about everything really. I’ve had patrol boats winkling out terrorists and gunrunners around Malaysia, and up north there are frigates and destroyers on the Japan run. There have been a few submarines, of course, but the Americans do most of the heavy work. They are, of course, better placed for the longer patrols.’ His voice hardened. ‘However, your Temeraire puts a different complexion on things. Even though you may work with the U.S. Fleet, you’ll be under my control. It’s absolutely essential that we can hold our end up, show the world that we are still capable out here!’

  Jermain felt the tiredness pricking the back of his eyes and allowed the gin to move across his dry throat. The long cruise was over. The bright sunlight and heady salt air had made him feel drank, like a man who has been too long away from natural living. From the very instant that the Temeraire had pushed her way into the anchorage, past the saluting warships, acknowledging the twittering pipes and lordly bugles, it seemed as if he had not found a second to stop and collect his thoughts.

  Almost dazedly he had stepped ashore, the unfamiliar sword dangling at his side, to pay his respects to Singapore’s chain of command. The Admiral Superintendent, the captain of the Submarine squadron, the captain of the base itself. The Commander-in-Chief had sent a brief but courteous welcome by messenger. He was known to be an understanding and competent admiral who no doubt was well aware that Jermain would be tired enough without adding to his ordeal by a long audience at this stage.

  Jermain half listened to what the vice-admiral was saying. None of it counted, he thought bitterly. The sooner he put a stop to it the better it would be.

  He said, ‘I had hoped that the Captain S/M would have contacted you, sir.’ He saw a glint of annoyance in the admiral’s pale eyes. ‘This has been a difficult trip, and, in my opinion, far too soon, before the Temeraire was ready for it.’

  Sir John Colquhoun eyed him coldly. ‘What do you mean?’

  Jermain tried again. ‘During a deep dive in the South Atlantic we found what may prove to be hull damage, sir. At six hundred feet there was a definite seepage.’ He felt the ache of despair closing in on him. ‘It’s all in my report. I was under radio silence, otherwise I would have requested permission to return to the U.K.’ The admiral stared at him. ‘Surely there must be some mistake?’

  Jermain shrugged. ‘We cannot be sure without proper docking facilities, sir. It would mean a complete infra-red analysis of the hull and dockyard services for this type of boat.’

  The admiral rubbed his chin, his eyes unwinking and bright.

  ‘But you only think it’s a fracture, Captain?’

  Jermain replied quietly, ‘My engine-room staff have carried out a full check as far as they are able, sir. There is a seepage at extreme depths. Of course, it could be a faulty welding which may be concealed behind one of the frames. But it’s far too risky to take chances.’

  ‘Six hundred feet, you say?’ The admiral walked to the chart. ‘But on the trials there was no trouble, I take it?’

  ‘Nothing you would not expea, sir.’ Jermain tried to imagine how the admiral’s mind was working. What did it matter about depth or what anyone else had seen? This was now, and vital.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief, Captain. You had me a bit worried there!’ The admiral laughed shortly, but his eyes were cold. ‘Six hundred feet in a brand-new boat must be expected to cause some teething troubles, after all! My God, when. I commanded a little S-boat in the last war I sank over forty thousand tons of enemy shipping without ever diving below one hundred feet!’

  Jermain said sharply, ‘This is different, sir. My command is too new for chances. I would suggest that I am ordered home immediately.’

  The admiral’s smile faded. ‘If I choose to do so, you will be the first to know, I can assure you!’ He calmed himself with an effort. ‘Some of you young officers forget the meaning of your training. The Temercdre is not just a plum command, it’s a responsibility, a means to an end!’ He pointed at the chart. ‘For months now the Chinese have been moving men and ships up to the north. To the Yellow Sea and beyond. Intelligence reports suggest more trouble in Korea, but whatever it is, we must keep every ship at first-degree readiness! My God, boy, a nuclear ship like yours is absolutely invaluable at the moment!’

  The flag lieutenant said quietly, ‘There have been Chinese submarines in the area too, Captain. We must be able to deteact and track them, before they start to interfere with our own traffic.’

  The admiral snapped, ‘When I want your information service I’ll ask for it, Forrest!’ He turned to Jermain. ‘These youngsters don’t understand the submariner’s mind, do they?’