Jack Higgins - Wrath of the Lion

Guyon went into the saloon and Mallory inhaled deeply on his cigarette with a conscious pleasure. Everything was going to be all right, he was certain of that. Sometimes one got these feelings. The wind had freshened even more and spray spattered against the shattered windows of the wheel-house. He pulled down the helmsman’s seat and sat.

Some time later Guyon came in with sandwiches and hot coffee and Mallory switched to the automatic pilot. “Want me to take over?” Guyon asked.

Mallory shook his head. “In these conditions it should only take us two hours at the most to get there.”

It was perhaps half an hour later that he became aware that they were slowing perceptibly. His attempts to adjust the controls met with no success and he switched to automatic pilot and went below.

Guyon was lying on one of the saloon divans, his head on his hands, eyes closed. As Mallory entered, he opened them and sat up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“God knows,” Mallory said, “but we’re losing speed badly and she isn’t answering to the wheel like she should."

The Fleur de Lys heeled to starboard and there was a great rushing of water beneath their feet. He dropped to one knee, pulled back the carpet and peered inside. When he looked up his face was grave.

“There must be two dozen bullet holes along the waterline. We’re leaking like a sieve. No wonder the damned thing’s slowed down.”

They went on deck quickly and into the wheelhouse. The electric pump was housed in a cupboard in one corner and the condition of the doors, splintered by bullets, told him what he would find.

He surveyed the smashed and twisted metal briefly, then turned, his face grim. “You’ll find a hand-pump aft of the main engine housing. Do the best you can with that. Stick it as long as you can and I’ll spell you.”

“I see,” Raoul Guyon said. “Things look bad, eh?”

“Only if L’Alouette catches us in this condition,” Mallory said grimly.

Guyon moved out along the deck without a word and a moment later Mallory became aware of the harsh, rhythmic clangour of the hand-pump. He looked out of the window at the brownish-white stream of water gushing across the deck, took over the wheel and waited for Fleur de Lys to lighten.

when Fenelon first caught sight of Fleur de Lys his mind froze, refusing to accept for the moment what he knew to be an impossibility. The graticules misted over, temporarily obscured by a wave, and he raised the periscope a little more.

Fleur de Lys jumped into view, her familiar lines quite unmistakable. He said quickly to the rating at his side: “Fetch Monsieur Jacaud here. Tell him to hurry.”

Jacaud arrived a few moments later. “What’s going on?”

“Take a look.”

The big man gripped the handles of the periscope tightly and lowered his head. When he turned to look at Fenelon a muscle twitched in his right cheek.

“I wonder what went wrong?”

Fenelon shrugged. “Perhaps you damaged her engines with the machine-gun, or even holed her. Does it matter?

Shall I surface? We should be able to board her with very little trouble.”

Jacaud shook his head and something glowed in the cold eyes. “I’ve got a better idea. Remember the Kontoro?You said that one torpedo was all it would take. Let’s see what you can do.”

Fenelon felt the blood surge to his temples and his heart pounded wildly. “My God, it’s perfect! They won’t even know what hit them.”

“I don’t mind that,” Jacaud said, “as long as there’s nothing left afterwards.”

L’Alouette carried two twenty-one-inch torpedoes, both mounted in the bow. Fenelon took a deep breath, pulled himself together and started to issue firm, crisp orders.

“Enemy’s bearing, one-two-five. Course, one-three-one. Speed, six knots. Range, one thousand five hundred.”

These facts, fed into a complicated electrical device, provided the angle of deflection, enabling the torpedoes to be aimed the right distance ahead of the target so that both should arrive in the same place at the same time.

A moment later the petty officer called, “Deflection, one-three degrees right, sir.”

Fenelon raised the periscope handles, his face pressed to the rubber eyepiece. “Stand by both tubes.”

“Both tubes ready, sir.”

Fenelon could feel the sweat trickling down his face and his heart seemed to leap inside him. So often he had heard of this moment, had it described to him by men who knew. But for him this was the first.

“Stand by to fire.”

Fleur de Lys seemed to leap into focus, every line of her clear and clean. His hands tightened on the handles. “Fire one.”

The submarine lurched as the missile shot away and the hydrophone operator reported, “Torpedo running,”

“Fire two.”

Again the submarine shuddered. “Torpedo running. “

Fenelon turned to Jacaud. “Care to watch?” The big man pushed him roughly to one side and bent to the handles.

On board Fleur de Lys, Guyon still sweated at the pump and the boat ran on, the automatic pilot in control while Mallory stood on top of the wheelhouse and swept the sea with a pair of glasses.

That L’Alouette’s would catch up with them now was certain. They were making no more than six knots and barely holding back the water. Submerged, the submarine had three or four knots on them. They were well out of the main shipping lane, he knew that. Their only hope was the chance of an odd fishing boat putting in an appearance, hardly likely considering the weather.

He swung the glasses again in a wide arc and stiffened as something lifted out of the water to starboard. It was a periscope, the tell-tale bow wave giving it away, and then he saw the great, surging streak of foam boiling under the surface of the water as it ran towards them.

“Torpedo!” he cried, and jumped to the deck, losing his balance and rolling over. He picked himself up, scrambled into the wheelhouse and grabbed for the wheel. He spun it round desperately, and slowly she started to turn. Guyon appeared beside him, adding his weight, shoving the wheel over, and then a great swell, rolling in from the west, gave them the final push.

Mallory left Guyon at the wheel and rushed to the rail. He was just in time to see the wash of the torpedo passing to starboard. A few seconds later it was followed by the second.

In the submarine Jacaud gave a growl of rage, turned and grabbed Fenelon by the jacket. "You missed, damn you! You missed!”

“But that’s impossible.”

Fenelon bent to the periscope and Jacaud pulled him away. “From now on I’m giving the orders. Take her in close and surface. I’m going to finish Mr. Bloody Mallory off personally.”

On the Fleur de Lys Mallory was back at the wheel and Guyon worked the pump furiously. But it was no good. The boat rolled heavily, waves breaking across her prow, the weight of the water inside holding her down.

L’Alouette had fired both her tubes and no additional torpedoes were carried by Type XXIII submarines,, Mallory knew that. He looked out of the window, watching the fog roll in again in patches. There was no other vessel in sight, and his heart sank. Under the circumstances Jacaud’s next move seemed obvious.

Somehow there was still a shock of surprise as the sea boiled in a great cauldron no more than fifty yards away and L’Alouette broke through to the surface. Even as the water still spilled from her plates Jacaud appeared in the conning tower. A rating came up beside him and they started to mount the heavy machine-gun on its firing-pin.

Guyon stood in the doorway, the revolver ready in his right hand. “Now what?”

“I think that’s obvious,” Mallory said flatly. “If I’m going to go I’m taking him with me. It’s been nice knowing you.”