Эдвин Грей - Diving Stations

HAMILTON WAITED until the hands of the control room clock settled exactly on 11-59, before easing himself out of his canvas chair and moving to the center of the compartment. The heat and humidity inside the submarine was unbearable and, in spite of his earlier warnings to the crew, his hooked fingers scratched relentlessly at a patch of inflamed and itching skin around his waist. He felt tired and dirty, and was acutely conscious of the unpleasant odour of the stale sweat clinging to his unwashed body.

Despite the personal discomforts, however, Hamilton was still optimistic and he was well satisfied with the efforts of Rapier’ s crew. Even Villiers, the young fourth hand, had turned out to be an unexpected asset. During a recent tour of duty with the Diplomatic Corps in Tokyo, he had made frequent trips to the Japanese island of Kuro to observe and learn the secrets of the pearl divers◦– and it was this knowledge which Hamilton had made good use of.

With Villiers’ ability to dive and remain underwater for upwards of two minutes at a time with no more specialized equipment than a heavy stone and a primitive nose-clip, it had proved possible to repair the damage to the fuel tank while the submarine lay stopped on the surface during the night. Admittedly with the tools available, it was a rough and ready job◦– canvas and a wooden plug◦– but it was adequate for the purpose. And as a result Hamilton had been able to reach the pre-arranged rendezvous without forcing Rapier beyond her normal cruising speed. With fuel supplies dwindling by the hour, economy was an all-important consideration…

‘12 o’clock, sir,’ Scott reported from the chart tables. ‘We should be in exactly the right position according to the DR plot.’

‘Well done, Pilot. Up periscope!’

The men in the control room watched expectantly as Hamilton carried out a quick preliminary sweep of the horizon, and waited quietly while he worked his way slowly around the full circle. It was apparent from the tension in his hands and the set of his shoulders that the rendezvous vessel was nowhere in sight; but the expression on his face gave nothing away as he closed the steering handles with a decisive snap and stepped back from the column.

‘Down periscope!’ He turned to Scott. ‘Are you quite certain of our position, Pilot?’

‘Yes, sir. I took some star sights an hour before dawn.

Even allowing for an unexpected alteration in the wind, I’d guarantee we’re within a mile of the position you gave me yesterday.’

Hamilton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Despite his outward skepticism, he had complete faith in Scott’s ability as a navigator. So, for the moment, he could only assume that Album’s supply vessel had not arrived. Unless◦– and he tried to keep the suspicion out of his mind◦– something had happened to it.

‘What direction is Macao, Alistair?’

Scott checked the chart. ‘North-east by east, sir.’

Hamilton waited for five minutes, raised the periscope again, and drew another blank. He was certain that Alburra would not let him down, but where the hell was his ship?

‘Stand by to surface. Duty Watch to close up◦– negative deck party.’ He glanced at Scott apologetically. ‘It’s not that I doubt you, Alistair, but I want another sun sight.’

Scott grinned understandingly and reached for his sextant. Then, moving across to the conning tower ladder, he waited to follow the duty watch up on deck.

‘Surface!’

‘Up helm ’planes! Blow main ballast and close all vents!’

‘Ten feet, sir.’

Hamilton started up the ladder, unclipped the upper hatch, and pushed it open. The normally clean-tasting sea air seemed slightly tainted with oil fumes but he put it down to the fuel leak from the damaged bunker and, dismissing it from his mind, hauled himself up on to the bridge. Picking up his glasses he carried out a quick preliminary sweep of the horizon, while the look-outs hurried to their positions on the port and starboard sides of the conning tower.

‘What do you make of the oil slick, sir?’ Scott asked casually, peering over the side as he lifted his sextant from its case.

Hamilton glanced down at the sea. The surface of the water was streaked by oil and, for a few moments, he assumed it must be coming from Rapier’s own damaged tank. A more careful examination, however, revealed that the rainbow tinted trail stretched well ahead of the submarine’s beam. So it couldn’t be leaking fuel from the bunker. At first he thought it must mark the grave of a recently sunken ship, but the slick was too long and narrow◦– and the oil seemed fresh rather than dirty. He called Scott over for a discussion.

A detailed search with their binoculars revealed that the slick was spreading over a wider area to the south, rather than to the north and, significantly, it seemed to be thicker on the surface ahead of the bows where it had apparently had less time to disperse. Having compared notes, they agreed that the slick was following the direction of the wind which was blowing astern and from the south. Consequently, the source lay somewhere to the north. Any further speculation was abruptly ended by a sudden shout from the port look-out.

‘Ship hull down and dead ahead, sir!’

Hamilton put the binoculars to his eyes and saw the ungainly sails of a large junk peeping coyly over the rim of the horizon.

‘Full ahead together! Deck parties to stand by.’

But even as Rapier increased speed towards the distant vessel Hamilton could feel his optimism slowly evaporating. The oil on the surface boded bad news and the fact that the junk was drifting before the wind and away from the rendezvous position suggested that something was seriously wrong.

By the time Rapier had drawn close to the drifting vessel, the black slick polluting the surface was thicker and the acrid fumes rising up from the sea was making the eyes of the men on the bridge of the submarine smart and sting. Streaks of oil were now clearly visible down the sides of the junk and the flapping rudder showed she was not under control.

‘Foredeck party topsides at the double.’

By the time Morgan’s men had emerged from the gun tower and assembled on the foredeck, less than a hundred yards of oil polluted water separated the two vessels. Rapier was lying broadside on to the wind and Hamilton had to brace himself against the motion of the submarine as his binoculars scanned the abandoned junk for signs of life. But the decks were empty and the scattered oil barrels clattering noisily against the bulwarks and sliding from one side to the other as the boat rolled in the swell, warned him that disaster had already struck.

The deserted junk posed no apparent danger, but Hamilton knew the value of caution. It was tempting to assume that the abandoned vessel was harmless◦– but he remembered the Royal Navy had often employed a similar ploy during the Kaiser war when their deadly Q ships hunted Germany’s U-boats to death by masquerading as innocent merchantmen. And, despite the evidence of his own eyes, he wanted to make sure he was not walking into a trap. Bending over the voice pipe he ordered the helmsman to circle the junk at half-speed.

Rapier moved slowly across the stern and started to pass down the lee side of the abandoned vessel, while Hamilton continued to search the deck and upperworks for some sign of the crew.

‘Christ Almighty! What the hell’s that …?’

Hamilton broke off his examination of the poop as he heard Scott’s shocked exclamation. A chilling undertone of horror in the navigator’s voice sent an involuntary shiver down his spine and he turned his attention to midship section of the junk. The blood drained from his face as he saw the reason for Scott’s incredulous shout.