Эдвин Грей - Diving Stations

‘Where to now, sir?’ Mannon asked in an attempt to change the subject and to direct Hamilton’s mind towards other matters. Brooding would only make things worse. ‘O’Brien says we’ve less than half capacity in the bunkers. If we can’t get hold of some more fuel our maximum surface range will be down to two thousand miles at the most.’

Hamilton nodded. Although his expression had lost none of its grimness he seemed to be thinking rationally again.

‘We’ll make for Charlotte Island to begin with, Number One. The TGM reports only four torpedoes left so we’ll have to go to the island to load up the spares. And at the same time, we can top up our water and stores. After that we go hunting for a tanker.’

‘But supposing the Japs have already found the island, sir?’

‘I doubt that they have, Number One. Only Rapier’s officers know about it…’ He paused for a moment as he remembered. ‘And of course, my Portuguese friends.’

‘They might have forced the girl to tell them,’ Mannon suggested.

Hamilton’s face blazed in anger. He swung round as Mannon put the question and, for a brief moment, the submarine’s executive officer thought that the captain was going to strike him. Hamilton controlled his fury with superhuman effort.

‘If they had forced her to talk she would have told them about the rendezvous and we would have walked straight into an ambush. The fact that the Japs merely threw the oil overboard and then left the area shows she kept her mouth shut.’ Hamilton shivered as he recalled what Chai Chen had suffered to protect Rapier and her crew. His shoulders bowed suddenly and, without another word, he turned on his heel and made his way to the privacy of the wardroom to be alone with his thoughts….

‘Charlotte Island dead ahead, sir!’

Hamilton made his way forward to take over the periscope for the final approach and he carefully focused the low wedge of land in the center of the upper lens. The island resembled a saddle placed astride the blue rim of the horizon. The hummocked hill at the western end formed the pommel, while the gradual upwards slope to the east, ending with abrupt suddenness in the cliffs at Mi Lim Point, completed the illusion. To the south, and nearest to the submarine, the encircling arm of the palm-studded sandspit elbowed the sea aside to enclose a fine natural harbor within its protective grasp.

‘Stand by Diving Stations. Slow ahead both motors.’ He checked the bearing of the hill against the gyro repeater. ‘One point to starboard.’

It was a familiar routine. At least once a week for the last two months Rapier had nosed her way past Taichee Rock into the secluded bay and then slid under the camouflage nets covering the tiny inlet on the west side of the lagoon, to begin unloading the torpedoes and stores which Hamilton had carefully spirited out of Hong Kong in readiness for a situation such as this.

A line of red painted floats marking the fishing net suspended beneath, was clearly visible as Rapier edged within three miles of the island◦– innocent enough at first sight but, in fact, deliberately laid by the submarine’s crew during their first survey visit to mark an area of treacherous shoals to the southeast of the island.

Hamilton carried out a standard sky-search for hostile aircraft and then moved back from the ’scope. ‘Take over the watch, Sub,’ he told Villiers. ‘I want a few words with Roger in the wardroom. Give me a shout as soon as you see the starboard channel marker.’ He grinned. ‘You’ll find it on the north shore of the entrance◦– it looks like a pile of stones with an empty barrel on top.’

Despite the seemingly carefree way in which Hamilton had selected and prepared Rapier’s secret hiding place he had, in point of fact, tackled the scheme with considerable thought and a surprising attention to detail. Scott and his two assistants had used the submarine’s rubber dinghy to survey the anchorage on Rapier’s first inspection visit to the island and, on returning to the boat, the navigator had drawn up an accurate chart complete with cross bearings and depth soundings. Then, in consultation with Hamilton, an approach course was plotted and where the natural features were non-existent, artificial navigation marks had been put down◦– an untidily piled heap of stones on the beach or perhaps a section of bark carved from an old palm tree lying in a prominent position close to the shoreline.

Villiers took his place at the periscope and watched the island sliding past on the port side, while Hamilton rifled through the chart-table drawers in search of the maps he needed for his Council-of-War with Mannon, Scott and O’Brien.

‘Can’t see Betty Grable coming down the beach to welcome us ashore,’ the young reservist joked to pass the tedium of Rapier’s slow approach. ‘I hope you blokes remembered to bring the map showing where the treasure was buried.’

The men on duty watch in the control room grinned. Villier’s casual attitude made a change from the skipper’s customary dour concentration or Mannon’s pedantic attention to detail.

‘As long as you can’t see Errol Flynn swinging about in the trees I don’t mind, sir,’ Venables retorted from his seat at the diving panel. ‘I don’t fancy having any competition when I meet all them hula-hula girls!’

Villiers winked broadly at the chief ERA and then returned to his solitary vigil at the periscope. Suddenly something caught his attention and he flicked the lever of the high magnification lens.

‘Hey! Scotty! I thought you said those two volcanoes were extinct?’

Hamilton looked up sharply. ‘They’re as dead as dodos. I’ve been up and inspected the craters myself. Why?’

The grin on the sub-lieutenant’s face faded. He stared through the lens again to make sure he wasn’t mistaken. ‘There’s black smoke coming up in the direction of the more northerly one, sir.’

Hamilton put the charts down on the table and took over the periscope. He stared at the smoke, scanned along the length of the island, and then returned the lens for a more detailed examination of the northern sector. Villiers’ report◦– and it was a natural enough error◦– had been wrong in locating the smoke as rising from the extinct crater of the squat volcanic hill dominating the lagoon on the left hand side of the island. It was, in fact, coming from a wooded area at the base of the hill and less than half a mile from the north shore itself. It was impossible to determine the exact location, because the fire was spreading rapidly through the dense undergrowth, but Hamilton felt his mouth go dry as he realized that somewhere in the midst of the smoke and flames, was Rapier’s carefully prepared base camp and storage depot. Was it just a spontaneous bush fire◦– or had the enemy discovered their secret?

‘Down periscope! Stop motors. Are you getting any HE, Glover?’

The hydro-phone operator slipped the pads over his ears and moved the knobs of his listening apparatus. He shook his head.

‘No HE, sir. Just the surf breaking on the beach.’

‘Try an Asdic probe.’

Glover swivelled his seat to the right and transmitted a series of sonar pulses that pinged sharply in the loudspeaker above his cabinet. ‘No contacts, sir!’

‘I reckon this is when we could do with one of these new-fangled radio location sets,’ Hamilton grumbled quietly to Mannon. ‘But I’m certain about one thing◦– if there is an enemy vessel in the vicinity it must be anchored or else we’d have picked up its engine noises on the hydrophone.’ He paused to consider his next move. ‘Slow ahead both motors. Stand by Torpedo Room. Up periscope.’