Hunter Killer

6 SAYADEMALHA

Peters snatched up an intercom. Captain in the controlroom, sir!'

In a moment Peace, pulling on a shirt, joined us at the diving-stand. The sleep seemed to have evaporated from his eyes in the few short moments it took him to get from his cabin to the Control Centre.

Peters explained the situation briefly. Peace nodded.

Ahead one-third,' he ordered.

Six hundred feet,' chanted the diving officer.

Bring her up-four hundred feet, handsomely,' went on

Peace.

The strong sound of the pumps-the diving officer was careful not to blow the vents for a too rapid rise through water of unknown salinity and temperature-filled the Control Centre.

Sonar?'

Contact now bears zero-nine-zero true, confused background echoes.'

Is it moving?'

No, sir. Steady range and bearing.;

Come right to one-two-zero,' ordered Peace. He swung

Devastation's bows away to point at an oblique angle. The sonar-man said in his flat voice, Contact steady on zero-six-zero. Confused background noises.'

What the hell is it?' I asked Peace.

These are seas with coral formations,' he replied. Theoretically, there should be a gradual shelving approach towards land, or shoals like the Saya de Malha.' He swung round. Depth?'

' Four hundred.'

The fathometer sounding read 1800 fathoms under our keel, and on Peace's orders Devastation lost way, hanging in mid-ocean. The diving officer stood with his eyes glued to the ballast-control panel, trimming, adjusting, holding her delicate balance.

The sonar-man reported, 'Contact now bears zero-fiveseven, ten miles.'

Without warning, Devastation rocketed upwards, caught by some formidable power combination of current and salinity. '

Flood her down-emergency!' roared Peace. My ears clicked and clacked as scores of tons of high-pressure water poured into the tanks.

Then-Devastation plunged downwards in the opposite direction. The men in the Control Centre hung on to the trolleystraps.

` Blow negative to the mark!' rapped the diving officer.

With a roar like an express train, high-pressure air creaked against the cork insulation lining the control-room dome.

` Blow secured, negative at the mark!' came the answer.

' Shut the flood, vent negative, pump auxiliaries to sea!'

Jenkins, Geoffrey

Hunter Killer

My stomach righted itself as we pulled out of the unexpected dive. Beads of sweat stood out under Peters's eyes. Peace, at the raised periscope stand, glanced round with narrowed eyes. There was an indefinable atmosphere of fear. John, it can't be coral,' said Peace.

Limuria! I saw it so clearly that I could have laughed. Limuria had died a million years ago, not by volcanic upsurge-which would have meant customary coral formations – but by subsidence, by falling into the sea! The huge obstacle barring our way-was it the high rim, the ancient boundary of Limuria, a giant rock soup-plate resting on the ocean bed, the inside of it being the Saya de Malha? My idea would account for the lack of shelving and the shallow, unknown, broken waters extending over 12,000 square miles of treacherous ocean.

I told Peace quickly what was in my mind. Before I had finished he ordered, ' Make your depth two hundred feet.'

I was becoming more accustomed to the swift, deft responses of the planesinen and the ballast control.

' By God, John!' Peace exclaimed, after giving the order. '

The only person with the guts to run these shoals was old Surcouf, the French corsair.'

Surcouf logged an island two hundred years ago somewhere off the northern extremity of Saya de Malha. He named it Roquepiz. Today it's supposed not to exist.' I indicated the fathometer. ' But Surcouf didn't run like a bull at a gate at his shoals.'

In my mind's eye I saw the picture, straight ahead the drowned land of Limuria, a giant rim, probably volcanic, the wall of a vast plateau on which the ancient continent had stood. Our sonar showed that the rim lay in a broad arc across our bows. Inside that rim-what? Few except some eighteenth-century pirates had ever ventured to Saya de Malha on the surface; beneath the ocean, we were the first. What was under that narrow slot, shown on the charts 70 as lying between the main mass of Saya de Malha and my

Disney elephant's head?

' Captain, sir!' It was the sonar-man.

Peace and I joined him for'ard.

' Listen to this doppler effect, sir.

T h e o p e r a t o r t u r n e d u p t h e s o n a r s c o p e v o l u m e o n t h e sound reproducer. Even with the primitive instruments I had been schooled in, I had been able to recognize the change in pitch of the echo which comes back to a listening sub from a target or underwater obstacle. Devastation's sona' was sophistication itself. The doppler effect was clear through the transducer. We were converging on a solid object in our path.

The searching sound went out as a long purr-purr impulse. but it returned with a faint break in it.

' Land?' Peace, too, was puzzled.

' Aye aye, sir-but more-seems something solid is standing out, sort of, from the land.'

' Hill?'

' No, sir. You can hear yourself. Regular, all round the, clock. Waves, too, sir.

I caught the faint crunch of water on the transducer. Peace shook his head. ' Water, not waves.'

' Could be, sir,' replied the sonar-man. ' Tide-race against these unidentified objects.'

My mind was out in front, in Devastation's sonardrome where hyper-sensitive instruments probed ahead through water where sunlight never penetrated, parallelling the dark dreadful night of the spirit when all is lost. I shuddered. We were deeper than man had ever been before over the detritus of a once-great continent which had fallen victim to the sea. I' was afraid.

Peace's voice broke the oppressive silence. ' Navigator!

What is our position?'

W i t h o u t w a i t i n g f o r a r e p l y, h e s t r o d e o v e r t o a g l a s s t o p p e d t a b l e u n d e r w h i c h m o v e d a n e e d l e p o i n t o f l i g h t. striking up through a chart folded over it. The navigator marked its path towards the opening between the two great banks of Saya de Malha. He gestured, unspeaking.

The sonar-man chanted formally. ' Contact evaluated as land, with confused echoes, may be surf.'

Peace watched ' the bug ', as the needlepoint of light is called, move across the dead-reckoning tracer. Then he went to another instrument console to watch the nervous whip of the precision depth-recorder stylus on its sensitized paper, sketching, with frantic haste, it seemed, every sea-bed undulation. He walked slowly back to his raised stool at the periscope stand, glancing half-left beyond the attack periscope to the depth-gauge and course-indicator. The crew were tense, over-attentive to every sound. This sort of waiting game is the test of the submariner.

Peace said softly to me, There's a temperature or salinity barrier blocking the sonar return-I think.' He paused. ' I don't think it's land.'

Then, as if ashamed of his confession of uncertainty, he ordered: Left fifteen degrees rudder. Come left to course zerofour-five. Decrease speed to ahead one-third.'

Peace had swung Devastation's nose in towards the barrier. Would he dare go in at this depth? Unconsciously, I turned to the person next to me. It was Adele. I whispered: Keep quiet!'

Ease her up-two-fifty feet,' said Peace.

I breathed again. With his deadly instinct, Peace was easing up on his target-whatever it might be. Rig for ultra-quiet!'

A pall of silence fell on all, on every machine not vital to the running of the sub. From the sonar-repeater came a curious, fogged thump like the sound of a distant diesel. Peters's eyes were wide with anxiety. The thump was followed by a sharp whining swish and a noise like brown paper being crumpled.

Possible goblin contact bearing one-zero-zero,' came the sonar-man's chant.

Goblin! Only a hostile submarine is called a goblin. Catandmouse-but Devastation had the edge, for she had gone ultraquiet first. The disembodied voice went on. ' Range twelve thousand yards. Approximate course zero-two-zero degrees, speed fifteen knots.'

A cold thrill of excitement passed through me as I watched Peace's hand reach out for the general alarm-button. He unhooked his command microphone with the other.

An unidentified submarine was passing across our bows at less than seven miles! We knew there were no friendly subs in the area.

Then came a faintly apologetic note in the sonar-man's voice. 'Contact now evaluated as giant ray.' He said to Peace, Sorry, sir, at first I thought it might be a one-thirty r. p.m. fish, but there was that extra something I couldn't account for'

Fish are a sonar-man's nightmare. The brown paper crum72 piing noise we had heard was probably a school of small fish and the sonar-man could be forgiven for being ultracautious. The operator went on, ' That doppler effect is still there, sir. It was clearer now, a curious sort of measured echo coming back to the transducer. The precision depth-recorder showed a steep shelf leading to the entrance slot.

Peace committed Devastation.

The ship was still rigged for ultra-quiet. Peters whispered, Bottom shaliowing rapidly, sir.

Peace went to the precision depth-recorder. I saw the twitch of his jaw muscles and his look of surprise. John, come over here, will you!'

The stylus had given up its St Vitus' Dance movements.

Instead, it was moving up, across, down, up, across, in regular patterns.

It's packed up,' I said briefly. No sea-bed ever looked like that.'

Peace shook his head. No. There are other instruments monitoring this one. It's okay.'

I peered closer. Traced on sensitized paper were a number of small rectangular blocks, followed by an intersection, and then the small blocks began again. When the stylus came opposite the next intersecting line, Peace gave an order and Devastation swung along the course of the plainly demarcated line. The stylus traced it straight, unfalteringly. We had 600 feet of water under our keel.

Peace then reversed course, and Devastation glided over the straight line being traced by the stylus. Then the precision depth-recorder started to rise vertically.

All stop! Rudder amidships!'

Speed zero,' reported the navigator.

The needlepoint of light under the chart was still. The planesmen sat quiescent in their red leather-backed bucket seats. There was a faint splash of water down the leaking periscope gland. All eyes were on Peace. At the ballastcontrol panel, the petty officer might have been a statue, hands extended to the multiplicity of switches in front of him.

Bring her up to five hundred feet-handsomely,' commanded Peace. Slowly, now. Stop her there.' The first mechanical noise I seemed to have heard in hours brought reassurance-the purr of a ballast pump. Like a Navy dirigible hanging over a suspect contact, Devastation drifted slowly upwards. Twenty feet, thirty feet. The stylus levelled off. 73

` Secure!' said Peace.

Devastation hung, a masterly example of touch-and-go. Whatever it was, was right under our keel. The pointer outlined a big flat slab.

Ahead one-third, one minute!'

The 15-foot propeller bit, turned, slowed. The stylus fell away, showing a gully, or way, about 25 feet in depth. The pattern on the sensitized paper was now one of big rectangular blocks divided by channels some 50 feet wide. Ease her down. Take it very easy.'

Again the quick purr of the pump, and a slight thump as

Devastation settled on the sea-bed.

Peace went to the periscope. His face was strained. By his skill he had already undertaken a manceuvre so delicate and so dangerous that few men afloat could have matched it. I remained, at the precision depth-recorder. What could those rectangular blocks be? They looked like fashioned pieces of concrete used for building breakwaters, except that they were ten times the size. Among the rectangles were bigger and smaller ones; only a few were square.

Up periscope!'

The periscope jockey flicked the control-lever and with a hiss like a spitting cat the long tube rose up, slowly, lethargically, thrusting against the outside sea-pressure. The leaky gland gave a spurt. The eyepiece with its double wooden handles emerged from the well. With the gesture I knew so well, Peace snapped down the handles and fiddled with the focus-lever. He gestured to me.

I put my face to the soft rubber eyepiece. I swung round. Darkness. Nothing.

At my elbow, Peace ordered, ` Turn on the sail floodlight.

Active television eye.'

I was still at the instrument. Automatically I put my eyes to the periscope.

I looked straight into the carving of a ship.

It lay, in sharp focus, in the middle of a carved pediment. The spotlight illuminated a small area. Carved pedimentbuilding-a city!

I knew then. I was looking at the ancient drowned city of Limuria.

The rectangular blocks were buildings, some big, some small. The channels between were streets.

Limuria!

My thoughts raced to something which had stuck in my mind from Mauritius. The Mauritius Institute recorded that when the first explorers set foot on the island-the Portu74 guese, about 450 years ago-they had found carved tablets in wax, inscribed with lettering which they thought to be Greek. Hands trembling, I swung the eyepiece round. Above the dim ship outline-could it be lettering?

I snapped up the handles and turned to Peace. The iv screen showed nothing beyond a murk of water. A city.. All eyes in the control room were on me. How could one tell?

I gestured silently to Peace. He went to the eyepiece, looked and withdrew. Our eyes met. There, lying on the steep rim of the slot, was what must once have been a harbour and, with the cataclysmic collapse of the ancient continent, it had half-slid down the steep side of the undersea mountain plateau.

We'll plot this,' said Peace in a quiet voice. This was perhaps what was meant by " The Flood ".

Down periscope!'

The sleek tube hissed into the well. Secure from ultraquiet.' There was a subdued whispering among the officers. Peace picked up the control-stand microphone.

Captain here. We have just made what may be a major ocean-floor discovery. I am about to carry out a gridsearch.' He clicked off the instrument. Bring her up to four hundred feet, handsomely. Grid pattern search. Ahead onethird.'

The resumption of conversation eased the tension.

Call the depths,' commanded Peace.

' Five-twenty,' chanted the diving officer. Five hundred.'

We were now 50 feet above the level of the ancient city.

' Take a sweep round,' Peace told the sonar operator.

Without warning, the precision depth-recorder stylus gave a jerk and plummeted to 2,000 fathoms. There was a gigantic hole under Devastation! The patterned line of the houses and buildings fell away into abysmal depths.

The sound reproducer of the sonarscope, still fully switched up, which a few minutes ago had dominated everybody, now was relegated to the background by the steady flow of orders and the comforting hustle of machinery. Devastation was changed from the stealthy killer of the deeps to a ship tinder way and her men were human again, not hyper-tense listeners on whose acuity of hearing depended their salvation. Then the sonar beam swung round. Something hit me like an express train.

Deafening, pulsating, terrifying sound blanketed the control room-high-pitched, screaming, grinding, like a giant pencil being scratched across a giant slate. I saw Peace shouting an 75 order, but his words were lost in the crescendo. Devastation shuddered under an immense crash. I was thrown sideways across the Control Centre. The lights went out.

I and several others lay in a heap. A torch snapped on and I saw Peace, bleeding from a cut above the eye, crawl towards the diving-stand.

Emergency circuits!' he shouted.

The emergency lights flickered, disappeared in a flash of blue sparks. I dragged myself towards Peace.

Battle lanterns!' he rasped. Break out the battle lanterns, for God's sake!'

As the first dim light came on, I grabbed Adele and put my arm firmly round her shoulders.

The floor of the control-room canted sharply downwards.

The fathometer spun. We were racing for the bottom!

Eight hundred feet!' I yelled.

Men were crawling up the inclined deck to their stations stunned, bewildered, but training and discipline brought them back to their posts.

Peace snatched up the engine-room intercom. I heard his muttered Thank God!' as the emergency circuit came alive.

The control-room became dimly, eerily lit as one battle lantern' after another-battery-operated lighting independent of the main circuit-came on.

Eight-fifty,' I called. Devastation fell as if through air. Chief-'

Peace started to say, but his voice was drowned. The sonar screamed like a madman in his dreams.

Peace said, fear in his voice, She's still under power!'

Nine hundred!' responded the diving officer. He was back on the job, all right.

' Christ!' panted Peace. She's going for the bottom!' `

Bottom is twelve thousand feet!' I exclaimed. Devastation was designed to reach one thousand.

Bob Peters returned, hanging, as I was, on to one of the overhead grab straps. Devastation spiralled down, twisting like an aircraft in a spin. Peace crouched, jammed with one shoulder against the periscope operating gear.

Devastation was completely out of control.

Blow all ballast!' roared Peace. The burst of high-pressure air made me swaliow hard and my eyes watered. Emer gency! Ahead flank! Left fifteen degrees rudder!'

A planesman brushed a trickle of blood out of his eyes and yanked the control-stick. Peace was giving him every ounce of horsepower he could to get the planes on the sail to bite and pull her out of her death-dive.

' Sounding!'

Nine-fifty feet: falling fast.'

Blow all main ballast-blow again!'

Again the roar of air.

Sounding!'

' One thousand feet.'

There was fear in Bob Peters's voice. For the first time in Devastation, I smelled the smell of men who were afraid desperately afraid. The faulty packing gland on the periscope gave a vicious spurt.

Peace snapped: ' Ahead flank-emergency!'

The planesman's reply was mildly reproachful. ' Answers, ahead flank, emergency, sir!'

Then what the hell-'

As if in answer, the long mournful wail of the oversteam alarm burst through.

Blow main ballast tanks! Again!'

Again the desperate rush of high-pressure air.

Sounding!'

Eleven hundred feet!'

There was a crack in the planesman's even voice. ' Can't hold her, sir!'

Devastation's nose pointed twenty degrees down.

Peters called, Eleven hundred and fifty! Slowing!'

I saw the prickle of sweat on Peace's upper lip. In my heart I blessed whoever had built that extra two hundred into her. The hull gave an ominous creak. A fountain spurted down the periscope barrel under the immense sea pressure. Peace had given the planes their chance to save us. They had failed. Now, the engines. But even if we pulled out now, there would be the mushing ' effect of a full-power downangle nose-dive, which would mean we would travel another 100 feet deeper. Devastation's hull was already past the point of no return.

Blow secured, negative at the mark!' reported ballast control. We had blown every ounce of sea-water out of her

– still we went down.

' Trim her a little, for God's sake!' urged Peace.

Then he addressed himself to the planesman, as if he were the only person there. He spoke slowly and distinctly. All stop! Back emergency!'

The planesman leaned forward and turned the engine-room annunciator.

He said quietly, Answers, all stop, back emergency, sir!'

Suddenly the floor tilted almost horizontal, a further sickening movement, and Devastation was on an even keel. 77

The diving officer's face was grey. Something-something turned us like that, sir! It wasn't us.'

Something!' I exclaimed.

Sounding!'

I felt the massive power-bite of the screw racing astern. The oversteam alarm whooped and bayed like hounds of death.

Inclinometer reads zero,' said Peters.

Devastation hung in her death-dive, held against the massive downward force by the reverse thrust of her screw. Now it was as dangerous to break loose as it was to be forced down, for if released the sub would shoot to the surface like a cork.

Peace spoke into the engine-room intercom. ' Chief.. He paused. Main circuit shorting, blowing every time? Can something-' he glanced round= be outside?'

The thunder of water racing past the cracking hull matched the braying of the alarms. _

Adele was close to me. Is it very bad?'

' We're holding our own-just. The hull may go at any moment.'

Eleven seventy five,' reported Peters. We had gained 25 feet!

Adele said, I think it's a devil-fish.'

Peace, half-hearing above the din, extended the trolley-strap to the full to join us.

What did you say?'

Devil-fish,' she repeated loudly. The fishermen of

Agalega think of them as gods. At night you see them glowing hundreds of feet down.'

' The electrics!' murmured Peace. That explains the, short-circuits. What size is this thing?'

Very big. The fishermen say, like an islet. The biggest of all big rays.'

What else do you know?'

Island cutters-big ships-have been pulled down by them.

They are from deep-deep.'

Eleven hundred!'

`You won't hold her if she frees, Geoffrey!'

Peace's face became set over the strong line of his law. '

I'm going to try something,' he said. If this is a devilfish, it may be a natural depth. I'll flood her to regain trim, and try to shake it off.'

I gestured hopelessly. He slid back along the trolley-strap to the control-stand.

`Stop all! Rig for ultra-quiet.' He turned informally to the petty officer who had remained so stoically at the ballastcontrol panel. ' Trim her as best you can, will you? If she shakes free, flood her down, see?'

Flood her down, aye aye, sir!'

The ghastly cacophony of braying alarms stopped. With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach I felt the strong backward thrust of our propeller cease. The silence was as ominous as the previous racket.

Devastation hung suspended between life and death at 1,100 feet below the surface, nose down.

The second planesman, stunned in the first violent dive, rose and staggered to his seat. He automatically felt the control. He turned to his companion. There was a note of hysteria in his voice.

This bitch has got lead in her tits.'

The other laughed. Lead! Christ! It's broken right through her flippin' bra!'

A sharp hissing, like water on a fire, came from outside the hull. The angle of the deck changed.

The planesman jiggled the control column.

' Answers now, sir!'

The sonar shrieked momentarily as it was turned up.

Contact not evaluated,' said the operator laconically.

In the tomb-like silence of ultra-quiet, every face was turned towards Peace. What would-could-he do? Tons of weight lay across our forward topside casing and bows. Could Peace take the risk of startling the creature to clamp itself again across the controls? Could he risk another massive electrical discharge like an outsize electric eel?

Again, the sharp sizzling hiss. The monster moved slightly

– placated by the silence, perhaps.

Peace must make the captain's decision-a decision which would take a hundred men to a bottomless ocean grave, or back to life in Limuria's soft air. He reached for the microphone.

' Rig ship for hydrobatics!' he rasped. ' Right full rudder!

Ahead flank! Six hundred feet smartly!'

Hands clutched the trolley-straps in anticipation of the violent movements to foliow. In terms of aircraft, Peace meant to go stunt flying, to shake the creature free.

The planesman turned the dial. The diving officer's knuckles were white on the back of his seat

' Answers, ahead flank!'

Secure from ultra-quiet!'

Peace knew there was no reason now to keep silent. He had cast the die.

The propeller bit full thrust. The control-column went hard over. I gasped and hung on. Devastation swung into a snap roll and her bow came up. Another sharp slithering hiss. Devastation gave a wild lurch and her bow came up. but the weight held it from the swift movement which would shake the creature free.

Depth?'

Eight hundred!'

The bow dipped. Would she dive, never to come up again? Peace said, Man battle stations torpedo!'

The heavy alarm for general quarters pulsed through the ship, striking at my chest like a drum. Peace would lighten Devastation by firing her bow torpedoes!

Men hung on, trying to get some sort of attack discipline.

He ordered, We will fire six. Speed high. Depth maximum.' '

Speed high-depth maximum.'

Make ready tubes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6. Open outer doors.' '

Torpedo-room-tubes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 ready in all. respects! Outer doors open!'

Set!'

' Shoot!' Peace stood balanced.

' Shoot,' came the repeat.

– Fire!' There was a faint jerk. A torpedo was on its way. ' One fired electrically!'

`Set!'

Shoot!'

Fire!'

Two fired electrically!'

'Set!'

Shoot!'

' Fire!'

' Three fired electrically!'

Peace said, Left full rudder, ahead flank, six hundred feet smartly!' He turned Devastation into a full-speed 30-degreeangle turn in the other direction as he emptied her torpedotubes.

`Set!'

' Shoot!'

Fire!'

Four fired electrically!'

The bow jerked upwards. Outside there was a savage hiss like steam blowing and at the same time a heavy movement.

' Blow all the main ballast-handsomely now!' commanded Peace. The burst of high-pressure air drowned the firing orders. 80

As it roared into the tanks, Peace whipped out, Right fifteen degrees rudder! Back emergency!'

Devastation shook her head, like a crocodile's jaws savaging a great fish to death-a lash and whip from side to side. The propeller gripped, gathered sternway. There was a heavy rending and crackle outside.

Devastation leapt free.

Peace shouted: ' Hold her, Bob! Don't let her go!'

The submarine spiralled upwards, a wild angle on the floor. Flood her down-emergency!' roared Peace.

Again the choking burst of air pressure as tons of water boiled into the ballast tanks.

A fusillade of helm, diving and trimming orders brought the great sub on to an even keel. As if to crown our escape, the main lighting came on. Control-room routine was reestablished. The turbine reduction gears and hydraulics hummed. We sauntered along, safe. Peace climbed on to the diving-control stool.

Sonar, any contacts?'

He's running like a bat out of hell-beg pardon, sir!'

Bob,' said Peace. I'll take the conn. You get aft and have a spot of sleep.' He added briskly to the operators: Keep that fathometer and precision depth-recorder going. And send me some coffee, will you?'

We went, dead with fatigue and strain. At the bulkhead door I looked back. Peace in his turtle-necked sweater sat tireless, commanding, devoted-to what, I asked myself. I found the answer as my head touched my pillow. The sea. Peace belonged to the deep sea.