Submarine

Then the submarine was through and into the open water where lay the channel to the Inner Sound. The panorama opened before him: to the north-east, the distant mainland sprawled, mauve and silvery-blue with mist where it merged with the far mountains. He lined up Orcus between the Crowlin Isles and the islet of Longay, which passage was the final gateway to the Inner Sound, North Minch and the Arctic oceans beyond.

Again Farge felt the twinge of apprehension, once more the weight of the secret he was carrying. He could tell them all on Friday off Loch Cairnbawn; he would drill them silly there, the last opportunity before the real thing. Today, the vital trials lay before them: the deep dive to check that the leak round the after hatch was cured, during the forenoon; in the afternoon, bottoming drills, then back to the anchorage in Loch Alsh, to give night leave.

'Open up for diving,' he passed down over the mike. 'Diving stations in three-quarters of an hour's time. Secure the anchor for sea.'

He watched the cable party, Woolf-Gault supervising, while Parry, the lanky, black-bearded second cox'n and the hands secured the anchor. The precocious sub-lieutenant, Halby, had fallen sick at the wrong moment, and Farge had to accept that Woolf-Gault was the obvious replacement.

Orcus was steadying nicely between the islands: up ahead lay the long whale-shaped island of Raasay, sloping towards its northern tip. To the westward behind the island, the Cuillin Hills of Skye formed a breath-taking backdrop, powder-blue with distance in the purity of this soft, clear air from the Atlantic. Scalpay lay close to port; and due south the islet of Pabay where, north of the wreck of the World War II ammunition ship, Safari would anchor tomorrow at the end of the day. She too, as part of the deception plan, would give normal leave. Woolf-Gault was standing beneath the fin and yelling upwards:

'Anchor and casing secured for sea, sir.'

'Fall out specials.' Farge nodded at the lookout, 'Go below.' He picked up the mike:

'Diving stations in ten minutes' time. Navigating officer, report when I'm in my diving position.'

The last man of the special sea-dutymen was disappearing through the fin door. 'Carry on below, Sims,' Farge ordered his officer of the watch.

'Bridge — control: boat opened up for diving, sir,' the MEO reported. 'Boat shut off for going deep. Q tank empty.'

Up ahead were the fleet tenders, waiting in position to keep the exercise area clear. The crofts were distinguishable, huddling along the shore at the northern end of Raasay. When the cottages were abeam, he would dive. He would take her down slowly to the deepest patch off the kyle between Rona and Raasay. He could dive to a thousand feet there, but he'd have to watch his navigation. Vickers had carried out a pressure test on the hatch, but there was nothing like the real thing to create confidence.

'In diving position, sir,' Murray called. 'Good fix.'

It was peaceful without the coughing of the diesels, while the submarine glided ahead on her electric motors. A pair of gulls dived angrily upon the periscope rearing behind him; he watched them peeling off, screeching furiously towards Raasay. He glanced round the horizon, yanked out the mike and leaned over the voice-pipe:

'Group up, half ahead together. Open main vents.'

The boat trembled to the added power as the screws threshed at her stern. Plumes of spray spouted upwards as the vents opened. Her stern came up; the bows dipped. He crossed to the upper lid, the soles of his boots feeling for the rungs of the ladder. This was to be a deep diving test, but it was the final trial for Woolf-Gault. If he cracked, Farge would put him ashore before Orcus sailed in two days' time — whatever officialdom decreed, and by force if it had to be. He pulled the hatch shut over his head and slammed on the long-handled clip.

'First clip on!' he shouted. 'Take her down, periscope depth.'

Lorna thought he raised his hand to her, when the submarine slid past the slipway of the Kyleakin ferry. The black fin looked so close, the men on the bridge recognizable, as they concentrated on guiding their sinister submarine through this narrow channel. Her white ensign fluttered proudly, and at the front end of the boat, sailors and an officer were standing by the anchor. The submarine made no noise: just the hissing of the water along her waterline and the bubbling of her wake. And then she was moving away up Loch Alsh to anchor.

One of the ferry crew pushed past her to throw the mooring rope. The engines rumbled and the ferry was off, ploughing across the kyle to the mainland. She'd wait for Julian at the top of the hard where she couldn't miss him.