Dominic Conlon - Silent Warpath

The shock wave from the torpedo explosion radiated outward from the centre like an expanding ball. Cetus had little time to manoeuvre or prepare but it managed to face the wave front before it engulfed the submarine.

The effect on Cetus was similar to being hit on the nose: it was slammed back and the aftershocks buffeted it further. Its sonar receptors would have been damaged beyond repair if the overload protection circuit hadn’t kicked in and shut them down the instant before the compression wave hit.

Cetus recovered quickly and re-balanced its sonar sensitivity. Somewhere out in the darkness another torpedo was homing in.

Fifty milliseconds later Cetus boosted power to its electric engine and called the evasion package for another course change. The operating systems driving Cetus acted in full defensive mode. It determined the sub needed to put as much distance between itself and the source of the threat. The preferred course took it directly into the path of the previous explosion, saving it from certain extinction.

Demanding full power from the nuclear reactor plant, the sub put a hundred metres behind it as the second torpedo exploded well to the rear. By the time the wave front from this explosion caught up with the fleeing sub it had covered another 20 metres. It caused the sub to tumble through the water but no lasting damage was caused.

HMS Astute wasn’t faring so well. The flagship submarine of the British Navy was on her way to the bottom.

‘All fire parties to their stations! Blow remaining tanks. Call out depth!’ shouted Commander Roger Thwaite.

There was a flurry of activity as men ran to their stations and started to report damage.

‘500 metres and descending!’ shouted out Ship Control.

At least the vibrations caused by the unknown enemy had stopped. The Commander turned to his second officer. ‘Check how the team are dealing with the hull breech will you? Anything else they need, make sure they get it.’

‘550 metres’ called out Ship Control.

Although the Commander knew that the maximum operational depth of the boat was 550 metres, no-one really knew what the crush depth was. Thwaite didn’t want to find out either — his life and the lives of the 98 men on board were at stake.

‘Reverse screw.’

‘Reversing screw’ echoed the throttle control-panel operator.

They were still heading down bow first. The Commander calculated that the drag created by reversing the propeller at the stern might slow the descent.

‘580 metres’ sang out the Ship Control.

Was it his imagination or was the rate of descent becoming less? Even so compression noises from the hull were increasing.

The speaker crackled. ‘Executive Officer reporting. Team have breech under control. Water is still entering but it will be contained in the next 10 minutes.’

‘Thank you XO’ replied the Commander. ‘Try to make it sooner rather than later.’

‘600 metres.’ The speaker could not quite eliminate the fear in his voice.

‘Increase revolutions.’

A judder ran throughout the length of the boat and the noise from propeller cavitations could be heard.

‘620 metres’ called out Ship Control. Sharp cracks could be heard as the outer hull compressed under the weight of water.

Commander Thwaite looked aft as his XO arrived back on station. He raised an eyebrow.

‘Water ingress has stopped sir and we’ve patched the breech for now.’

‘Thank you Smithy’ said the Commander dispassionately.

‘630 metres’ called out the Ship Control.

‘Any other suggestions?’ asked the Commander quietly.

The XO thought for a moment. ‘Maybe if we reduced the cavitations we might get a better reverse thrust?’ he said hopefully.

The Commander knew that cavitations were pockets of air created by the propeller thrashing the water too quickly. By slowing its rotational speed the Executive Officer hoped for greater reverse thrust as the propellers increased contact with the surrounding water.

‘I’ll try anything right now,’ said the Commander as he picked up the mike.

‘Reduce revolutions to prevent cavitations.’

‘Reducing revolutions to prevent cavitations’ echoed the throttle control-panel operator.

‘638 metres’ called out the Ship Control.

There was a particularly sharp crack. Some ratings ducked their heads, afraid that the hull was about to implode under the pressure of the ocean depths.

‘640 metres’ Ship Control called out. ‘Descent halted!’

After Sean had gone Natasha ran a bath. Waiting for it to fill, she wondered if she could trust him. He had appeared just before Ben died, claiming to be his friend. How did she know he was what he claimed to be? Natasha shook her head. No, whatever Sean said he was, he wasn’t a killer. She was sure of that. The timing of his appearance must be a coincidence.

Natasha felt the water temperature, added some more hot water and got in. There was something else that kept nagging at the back of her mind. When the warm water found the grazes she had received she bit her lip. She soaped her elbow where the skin had been rubbed raw during the sniper attack. She touched her bruised jaw where Sean had driven her face into the dirt.

The way that Sean had moved so quickly had taken her completely by surprise. Although everyone was easy prey to the sniper he was the first to realise the danger and take command of the situation. He had tried to save her first and she was grateful for that because she was sure that this time they would succeed in their quest to kill her.

But the speed at which he’d reacted told her that this was a man who had been under fire before. That thought led her to think about his job. If he worked for the British Security Services then Sean’s appearance around the time of Ben’s death might not be the coincidence he claimed it was. If he really belonged to the Service then maybe he was not really Ben’s friend at all? The thought chilled her despite the warmth of the bath. She noticed her hands beginning to shake again. She closed her eyes trying to calm the feeling of panic and helplessness.

Another thought rose unbidden. Suppose it was Sean, not her, who was the object of the sniper attack? The two attacks might not be connected. Surely if Sean were some kind of agent then he was much more likely to be a target. After all what did she know compared to someone who was, frankly, a professional? Thoughts swirled around her head. She decided she was too exhausted to think any further. She put on her bath robe, towelled her hair dry and got into bed.

Two minutes later she was fast asleep.

After five hours Natasha woke with a jerk. It was completely dark. For a moment she was not sure where she was. With a great deal of effort she pushed the remnants of a bad dream away. She got out of bed and made a cup of tea but it didn’t have the normal restorative effect. Natasha felt a familiar sense of sadness return in the pit of her stomach.

She wondered over to the window and pulled the curtain back a little to look out. She couldn’t see any police cars about. Perhaps they had popped out for a meal somewhere? That decided it: she was going to go away for a few days.

Natasha looked at the clock. She would ring work later and leave a message for Stan. She began to pack a few things into a suitcase and made a sandwich with some leftover salad. As she collected the final few items for her trip she began to feel better at last.

A few minutes later she locked up the apartment and went down to the car. Thankfully there was no-one about but she did wonder why the promised squad car hadn’t returned. She would ring them tomorrow.