Sea Leopard

On the tiny television monitor in the Grishka, receiving pictures from the camera in the nose of the torpedo, there was nothing more than a weakly illuminated rush of grey water, almost like a heavy, dull curtain being continually whisked aside. Then there was a blur of darker water, then the grey, whale-like shape of the Proteus as the British submarine began her turn. The torpedo seemed to dip towards the submarine, strangely hesitant, and the proximity fuse detonated the reduced warhead. The television screen at which the captain of the Grishka stared went blank, making him wince as if the flash of the explosion had been visible and had startled, even blinded him.

'Target acquired, Captain! Hit, hit, hit!'

'We' ve got her?'

'Direct hit, Captain!'

There was cheering, which he immediately silenced.

Torpedo room, load Two. Multiple warhead torpedo, set range at nine thousand. Manual guidance, direct search track.'

'Tube Two ready, Captain.'

'Fire Two!'

* * *

'Planesman, check that roll!'

' — can't hold the turn —'

'Emergency lights — cancel —'

'Can't hold the trim, sir!'

'Trim responding, sir.'

'Engines down one-fifty revolutions.'

'The dampers aren't controlling the oscillation, sir.'

'All stations — immediate damage report.' Lloyd wiped a hand across his forehead, his eyes riveted on the forearms of the two planesmen as they struggled to right the trim of the Proteus. The muscles flexed and strained, veins standing out, the tattoo of an anchor and chain livid on one of the arms. The whole submarine was oscillating wildly, like a bicycle out of control. A child in the saddle, feet unable to reach the pedals. The lights had come back on. His arms felt nerveless and weak as his thoughts churned like his stomach, over and over, and fused into a circuit. The Russians had fired on them, fired on them… Thurston crossed the vibrating control room towards him and lurched against the periscope housing, where he clung unsteadily. 'Christ, John — they fired on us!'

Thurston's face confirmed the inadmissible. Enemy action.

'Chief engineer, sir,' Lloyd heard over the control room speaker.

'Yes, Chief?'

'Initial damage report suggests external impact, sir. Pressure hull okay, outer plates and aft ballast tanks ruptured. Planes and rudders misaligned, but responding, sir. The vibration we're experiencing is linked to our revs, so there must be prop damage. Or maybe it's the shaft. Or both. The main shaft bearings are heating up.'

'Can we still remain under way, Chief?'

'I think so, sir. We'll have to try various rev settings to find an optimum for remaining under way with least vibration and some degree of control. We may be lucky, if the bearings don't get too hot. They're in the orange now, sir.'

'Very well, Chief. In your hands.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

* * *

The multiple-warhead torpedo tracked down the wake of the Proteus, following the range and bearing instructions fed into its tiny computer. It, too, was armed with a proximity fuse. The Red Navy's experts had concluded that a reduced warhead, although capable of damaging the Proteus, might not have sufficient stopping-power to render the British nuclear submarine immobile, which condition was essential to the success of the operation. Therefore, an experimental multiple- warhead, code-named 'Catherine Wheel', had been hurried through its last stages of development and its laboratory and sea trials, to fulfil the preliminary work of the reduced-warhead torpedo that would cripple, but not ensnare, the Proteus.

The TV camera switched on at an instruction from the torpedo room operator, and the light came on at the same moment. On the tiny screen, the Russian captain watched the swirling rush of water, and thought he detected the bubbles and general disturbance of the Proteus's wake. He tensed himself, almost as if he had been riding the torpedo like a horse, then the grey-black, whale-backed shape of the submarine emerged from the darkness of the sea. He imagined — saw? — the damage to the rudder and the hydroplanes, and bent his head and cocked it to one side in order to perceive the outline of the stern more easily. Then the warhead detonated, and to his intense disappointment the TV screen went blank. Memory continued the succession of images.

He had seen the 'Catherine Wheel' in operation on an old sub during trials. The film had been poor, grainy and cut-about, but the images had been stark, vivid, deadly. When the separate warheads split from the body of the torpedo, they would whirl and spin and weave outwards in a net-like circle. Some of them carried small explosive charges, some barbed hooks of super-strengthened steel, some suction caps or magnets. Twelve in all, each of them trailed a length of toughened steel cable, whipped into a frenzy of whirling movement by the spinning-top effect of the small warheads. Two, three, four or more of these would make contact with the hull and rudder and hydroplanes of the Proteus and, as the submarine moved forward under power, the trailing, whipping steel cables would slash at the hull, be dragged with it, and would fasten and entangle the propellers, twisting tighter and tighter like strangling cords.

It would take no more than seconds, and little more than a minute to halt the submarine, her propeller bound and made immovable by the entangled steel cables.

He closed his eyes, seeing the drama on an inward screen, himself seated in the darkness of the briefing room as the film was shown. He did not hear, did not need to hear the exultant cry from the torpedo room, nor the cheering in his control room. He awoke when his first-lieutenant shook his elbow, startling him. The young man was grinning.

'Direct hit, sir. Another direct hit!' he bubbled.

'Good,' the captain said slowly. 'Well done, everyone.' He stood upright. Already, the British submarine would be slowing, her crew terrified by the vibration as the cables tightened against the revolutions of the propeller, strangling it. 'Very well. Send up an aerial buoy. Transmit the following message, Lieutenant. Message begins TOLSTOY, followed by target impact co-ordinates. Message ends. Direct to Murmansk, code priority nine.'

'Yes, sir!'

'Retrieve the aerial buoy as soon as the transmission ends.'

* * *

'It's no good, sir,' Lloyd heard the voice of the chief engineer saying, 'that second impact has either damaged the prop even further, or we're entangled in something.' Lloyd was shuddering with the vibration, and the noise of the protesting propeller and shaft was threatening to burst his skull. It was impossible to stand it for much longer. The submarine was slowing, the prop grinding more and more slowly. The Russians had done something, caught them in a net or some similar trap, choking them.

'Very well, Chief.' He could not utter the words clearly, only in an old man's quaver because of the shudder in the hull which was worsening with every passing second. He shouted his orders above the noises. They were in a biscuit tin, and someone was beating on the lid with an iron bar. 'First-Lieutenant.' Thurston nodded, holding on to the depth indicator panel, his legs as unreliable as those of a drunk. 'John. I want a reading of the bottom as soon as we're over the plateau. If we find a flat bit, set her down!'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

The tension in the control room, even though it remained filled and shaken by the increasing vibration, dispelled for a moment. He'd done what they expected of him, demanded of him. The two planesmen struggled with the increasing difficulty, veins proud like small blue snakes on their skin, muscles tight and cramped with the strain. They had to slow down, stop.

'Captain to all crew!' he yelled into his microphone, which jiggled in his hand. 'Prepare for bottoming and