God, what a race there must be here! The thought shook me out of my nameless terror. I would take Trout outside Simon's Rock and make a reconnaissance of the so-called entrance to Curva dos Dunas: if the soundings proved to be the same as on the chart, I would follow my original plan. The part about Curva dos Dunas simply not being there — I'd forget it, for the moment.
"Slow ahead both," I ordered. "Give me continuous soundings. Tell Bissett to keep his ears skinned."
"Aye, aye, sir," came John's voice.
I eased Trout round and she made her way slowly through and over the wicked sand-bars only a few feet under her keel. Had the water been breaking, I thought grimly. Now we were in deeper water. The soundings suddenly deepened — from five and six to twenty-nine and then forty-seven and sixty-one. I breathed freely again, knowing we were safe for the moment but remembering what the bottom looked like in case we had to dive. Dive! I thought of NP I. With this coast under us, we would be like two men fighting between themselves and a third at the same time. Certainly the Skeleton Coast would give neither of us any quarter.
I brought Trout round in a shallow circle and ran in towards where the entrance to Curva dos Dunas should lie. Using Simon's Rock and the three-top hill like a man in a fog holding on to one patch of light, I brought Trout in.
"Bottom shallowing, sir," came John's report.
I blurred a spot on the chart with a pencil where Trout lay. Thirty fathoms here, said old Simon's handwriting.
"Thirty fathoms, sir. Hydrophone operator reports no transmissions. Three knots."
Dead right. I felt the sea catch Trout by the tail and as she swung I felt the correction. Someone was certainly on the job down below. But it showed there was a tide race. Thirty, twenty-seven, twenty-five, twenty-three, twenty-five read the chart.
"Thirty fathoms, sir, twenty-seven, twenty-three, twenty-five. Asdic reports obstructions port, starboard and ahead. Clear astern."
God! The old man was right!
Then I saw Curva dos Dunas.
I think it must have been the slight gust of wind from the south-west — sailors on this coast mutter south-west in their dreams, for from that quarter come the waves and the wind to drive you against the ruthless shore. A ripple spread across the calm surface of the sea. I saw a sudden flicker of white. A rapid whorl of white, convulsed and turning like a man's inner ear. I saw the sand-bars curve and twist like the charted lines. The wind had whipped the sea against the wicked, waiting sand for a moment.
Curva dos Dunas had revealed itself, a veil rent aside only for a moment.
I couldn't see the inner anchorage clearly, but what I saw told its own deadly tale. Here was an anchorage — the only anchorage for a thousand miles, and it lay behind a convolution of sand-bars, completely hidden in calm weather but visible in anything of a breeze, when any sailor worth his sense would shy like a frightened horse at spotting those lines of broken surf. I marvelled at the guts of old Simon Peace at taking a sailing-ship in there; at his courage at winding his way through those broken lines of surf, now snarling as the wind broke the water across their half-concealed fangs; at his tenacity at coming back again and again to chart it. No wonder he had screamed on his deathbed! Sand, bars of sand, every one of them death at the touch of a keel. To take any ship, even under diesel or electric engines, into what appeared a broken holocaust of surf, would require a heart as steady as the three-topped hill away to starboard now. I looked with grim satisfaction at my island, my only landed possession in the world. It was a gift worthy of the old dead sailor: surf on this coast is death, but an anchorage is life. He had shown me where I could find NP I, if she was to be found.
I changed course and cruised across the entrance. No Navy hydrographer could have done a better job than old Simon. The swirl of the tide must have kept it swept clean all these years, and was likely to do so long after I was dead. I checked my original plan and made for the southern side of the entrance where there was deep water. From there, I had planned, I would sink NP I as she entered the channel. Now, however, I changed my plan slightly. Sink NP I I would, but slightly farther away and not block the one safe anchorage on all this wild coast. If only they had given me a couple of mines! I could have mined the channel and simply sat back and watched NP I destroy herself. Or would I? I asked myself now. Would I have blocked the entrance when only her skipper and I knew of the existence of one of the best-guarded maritime secrets in the world? I didn't bother to answer myself. I hadn't the mines anyway.
I manoeuvred Trout into position. I would lie on the seabed until I heard NP I and then sink her quickly. For the first time in days I grinned to myself. I reached for the voice-pipe. NP I might be almost upon us, but she wouldn't find Trout unprepared.
"Dive!" I ordered curtly. "Action stations."
The atmosphere in the control room was plain to me even as I clipped the hatch above me and received the familiar dollop of water as Trout slid under. John was meticulously correct and formal, and God help anyone under him who erred. But I could tell from young Devenish, the sub's, face, that the officers considered their skipper had gone round the bend — perhaps even now he was going up the creek by this apparently ridiculous order for action stations after a couple of hours of fooling around which would have caused any would-be officer to be sacked from his training course. The crew, battle-hardened, were alert and on the job, every man where he should be. If the officers thought I was crazy, heaven alone knows what the crew thought. Blast them all, I thought savagely, it isn't for them to think. I'm doing the thinking, and I'm carrying a burden of responsibility which may well decide the fate of the entire war at sea. They just have to sweat it out.
"What's the sounding?" I asked briefly.
"Fifteen fathoms — a shade more, sir."
"Steer three-five-oh," I ordered.
The helmsman spun his wheel and Trout swung her deadly snout towards the spot where I knew NP I must enter that fearful channel.
"Depth, eighty feet. Lay her gently on the bottom."
The planesman manipulated expertly.
"Torpedo settings for eight and ten feet," I continued. "All tubes to the ready."
"Down periscope." I had taken one last quick look round. The shallow settings on the torpedo were tricky, but I was working on the assumption that NP I would come in on the surface. I gave the plot for the attack and the fruit machine went into action. In my mind's eye I saw the whole situation. The old thrill of the chase and the consummation of the attack swept over me. The bastard, I thought without rancour.
"Course for a ninety-degree track?"
"Three-four-five degrees, sir."
Well, my rough estimate of three-five-oh had been near enough; good enough with a spread on the torpedoes.
Trout planed down to the hard, sandy bottom of the Skeleton Coast. There was a faint bump. The one and only time, I said to myself, that I hope to touch the sand of the Skeleton Coast. Trout lay with her nose, fanged now and waiting the venomous thrust of compressed air to lash its deadly cargo into life, pointing exactly where NP I must cross her path. The range was easy, and all we had to do was to wait. NP I would be a sitting duck — and she couldn't come in there at twenty knots, even if everything I had been told was true,
"Stop both," I ordered. "Silent routine." I gestured to John. "Tell them over the loudspeaker that I want absolute silence. Absolute. Do you understand? Their lives depend on it."
"Aye, aye, sir," he replied, but his glance was a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I know what he's bloody well thinking, I told myself. The skipper's imagining all this. He's fighting the old battles all over again. He knows the drill so well, you can't fault him. But the sea's empty and there isn't a whisper on the hydrophones. He's playing possum with his thoughts on some remote African beach; he's told no one where we are. They'll let him down lightly when this gets out because of his war record. But he's crazy; he is still in command.
I saw it all on his face.
A deathly hu
sh settled over Trout after the impersonal crackle of John's voice over the loudspeaker. All pumps and all machines were still, and not a man said a word. ()ne could almost hear the crunch of the hard sand under Trout.
Bissett's voice came muffled.
"Hydrophone operator reports no transmissions, sir," said John. His voice was almost a whisper.
"Unless there is something to report, tell him to keep quiet," I said. Blohm and Voss alone knows what listening apparatus NP I has. I couldn't afford to take one slightest chance.
I stood by the periscope, its clipped-up handles making it look vaguely like a spaniel with its ears tied back above its head. The operators stood by their unmoving dials, and in the immobile engine-room I could see Macfadden gazing, apparently with the vacancy of a lunatic, at the dead telegraphs. Mac was very much on the job, however, and I couldn't have hoped for a better engineer — or a more stable man under attack. Trout lay under the sea like the puff-adders lie in the desert sand — immobile, asleep, coiled, but quick as a dart when trodden on amid their dun surroundings. So Trout lay — waiting, listening for that strange bubbling, thumping noise which I construed to be NP I's engines.
With the air-conditioning machinery switched off — for what it was worth — the sweat started to trickle down the back of my neck. John's face glistened in the high humidity. The clock hand moved round. Silence. A great silence, only broken by the occasional soft thump as Trout nuzzled the unfriendly sand under her. An hour passed. I was almost startled to see one of the crew move silently to request permission to visit the heads — he had removed his shoes and socks and was padding about barefooted. In the engine-room men had stripped off their shirts, and the sweat ran in runnels from their bare, browned torsos — legacy of the cruising days in the sun. Let them sweat it out, I thought unfeelingly.
Two hours. Three hours. We stood to action stations without exchanging a word. The heat was becoming very oppressive. No one had eaten anything since the call to action stations. I called John and gave him instructions to have bullybeef sandwiches served all round.
"Tell the cook," I added, "that if he so much as drops a knife, he'll stop right away and no one will get a morsel."
"Aye, aye, sir," John said formally.
The sandwiches provided a welcome break in the long vigil. It was now past noon. The smell of humans, mixed with oil, so characteristic of submarines, hung heavy in the staling air. My own sweat stank rank; it stank of fear. You can smell a frightened crew, but this one wasn't. But their commanding officer was — terribly, frightfully afraid.
As the afternoon wore on, the fears which had gone underground since I had actually located Curva dos Dunas raised their heads, each one with two more heads attached to the original one. Suppose I had smelled out NP I's lair — was there any guarantee that she would return soon, even reasonably soon? With her apparently unlimited cruising range, she might be away weeks. I swore to myself that if I had to wait a week, or even two, I would do so. I had waited before. The French saying came to my mind: "Patience is bitter, but its fruits are sweet." In the balance of my doubts, I had the one great concrete fact: I had found a hide-out capable of being used by a marauding submarine which no one knew about. That it was navigable, I had only old Simon's charts to rely on, but they had proved themselves accurate enough. And there had been the strange noises which Trout had followed — I was still convinced, almost to her doom.
We waited.
Another hour ticked ponderously by. John stood like a statue, and the others might have been hypnotised into frozen flesh, except that they were sweating more heavily now. Once I caught a fleeting exchange of glances between the sub at the "fruit machine "and the navigator. They still thought I was crazy, maybe even crazier after a silent action stations vigil of more than six hours. Up above the sun must be starting to sag towards St. Helena. For hours I studied the small inset chart of Curva dos Dunas, until I think I knew every fathom mark, every obstruction, every sandbar. I glanced at the clock. After five! Weary with the long inactivity, I decided to speak to Bissett myself. After hours at the hydrophones, even his sensitive ears — and they were the keenest in the boat — would be deadening. I edged into his cubicle. My rubber-soled shoes made no noise. Elton was lounging next to Bissett.
I caught his whispered words before he saw me.
"… crackers. Up the creek. Reckon Jimmy the One thinks so too. You've been listening for eight hours — for what? A farting whale. If that isn't plumb crackers…"
"Elton," I said softly, and he froze. He turned swiftly and faced me. There was a half sardonic grin on his face which triggered off the accumulated tension of hours of nerve strain within me.
He opened his mouth, but he never said what he intended to. I hit him across the side of the neck, a savage blow meant for a street fight, a muscle-ripping, cruel lunge with the edge of my forearm. He sagged like a rag doll and sat down with a heavy thump, his senseless eyes rolling back with fear.
Bissett looked aghast and did the sensible thing by concentrating on his job. I felt sick, and deeply ashamed of myself. The savagery of my pent-up feelings had mute witness in the sorry picture half propped against the bulkhead. I felt his pulse. Well, I hadn't killed him.
Suddenly a ripple ran through Bissett, like a pointer sighting his game.
"Sir! sir!" he whispered urgently.
"What is it, man?" I rapped out.
He didn't hear me. His whole being was listening.
"Confused noises bearing red one-five," he said slowly. "Getting stronger."
I could barely utter the words. "Is it the same…?"
He nodded.
He looked up and smiled.
"Coming this way all right, sir. Lot of ground echoes, but quite clear. Same as last night."
I snatched an earpiece and listened. Yes, there it was, the same deadly thump, like a man dragging a leg.
I knew all I wanted to know.
I shot through to the control room.
"Continuous readings," I snapped as I left him.
"Group up, slow ahead. Revolutions for four knots. Stand by all tubes. Plot? Firing angle? Range? Enemy course? Speed?"
Trout was galvanised. The attack routine went into deadly, efficient action.
"Thirty feet," I said. That would give me the opportunity to fire either by periscope or on the hydrophone hearing, although I preferred the former.
"Slow ahead." I'd close the range as near as I dared in the shallow water. There was the danger that Trout might break surface if I fired a full salvo.
The planesman spun his wheel and the water blew.
Trout rose silently off the sand and glided upwards.
Then it happened.
The inclinometer went mad. Trout's bows lifted like a mad thing and she spun half on her side, throwing John and myself together in a heap under the "fruit machine."
"God's death!" I swore. Davis was fighting like a maniac with the planes, but Trout bucked and kicked like an untamed broncho. He was cursing, softly, but with horrible fluency. If Trout's bows reared out of the water — it would be the end of us.
Then her nose dipped and the compass card swung madly. With a sick realisation I knew that the tide-race had us inexorably in its grip. My attack plan had gone haywire in a matter of seconds.
"For Christ's sake!" I screamed at Davis. "Get her under control! Keep her bows steady…"
Loose things fell about the conning-tower and I kicked away with savage anger a pair of shoes which seemed to materialise and try and attach themselves to me. The inclinometer bubble swung beserkly.
"God's teeth!" I raved and screamed, all my nerves shot to hell. NP I in my sights and Trout's trim so impossible that I simply couldn't fire!
"Blow the main tanks," I shouted. "No, belay that."
I knew I was beaten. There was only one thing to do. Get down on the seabed and try and sort things out while the deadly foe went on his way — unharmed. But at least I would have a look at him.
; "Up periscope." I gripped the handles.
The tip burst wildly through the water and for a moment my eyesight reeled before a drunken, swinging vista of sky and white water. With that up top, it was scarcely any wonder that Trout was behaving like a madman below, in the shallow water. The periscope lifted fifteen feet out of the water in a horrid swaying arc, and I prayed silently that the look-outs on NP I wouldn't spot it. Through the white water and blue sky, deepening in the coming evening, I caught a glimpse of NP I. The narrow conning-tower stood up frail and delicate like an aircraft wing, and in that split moment I saw how lovely her lines were. She headed unwaveringly towards the entrance to Curva dos Dunas.
"Down periscope," I ordered briefly, calm now that the great moment was passed.
"Take her down," I said briefly. "Eighty feet."
The Skeleton Coast had won. NP I had got away — almost in my sights. As the water poured into her tanks, Trout steadied up a little and then, almost magically below sixty feet, regained her composure. The boat was a shambles.
"Take her down," I said, almost abstractedly. "Clear up this bloody mess."
Bissett's voice came through clearly.
"Stop that bloody row!" I snarled. What he could tell me would be of no use to me now. I knew where NP I was headed.
Trout subsided with a faint thump, like a breathless athlete.
"Take over," I said to John. I wanted time to plan a new course of action. "Break off the action. Crew to normal stations."
"Aye, aye, sir," came the reply.
I went to the cubbyhole which passed for my private cabin. I sat down wearily, and as I did so the fetid smell of sweat came up. The sweat of fear. Yes, I was frightened; that delicate, airy conning-tower of NP I had struck the fear of God into me. For a split second I felt almost glad that the Skeleton Coast had intervened and prevented my firing the death-dealing salvo. I pushed the thought aside. I had missed my big chance — through no fault of my own — and now the odds would be twice what they were. Bitterly I cursed the tide-race and the variable density of water which had sent Trout rocketing about. I had never reckoned on it.
A Twist of Sand Page 12