Stalemate (The Red Gambit Series) (25 page)

“The engine is your’n now, Cap’n, but I won’t guarantee her o’er six knot.
The bearing’s repaired, for the now, and I have Young Crouch refurbishing the broken section as we speak.”

Higginbotham was an old woman when it came to his precious engine, so Boothroyd automatically added two knots. Sequoia could only steam at twelve knots at the best of times, so eight knots was a reasonable result, especially when the graunching sound had seemed so terminal.

“Thank ye, Chief, and pass that on to your crew there. There’ll be an extra tot for your boys when the sun is over the yardarm.”

The
conversation was interrupted by the return of the excited boy, complete an old Lee-Metford rifle, closely followed by Lieutenant Clark, the ship’s Number One. He had kept the ammunition tightly in his hand until he understood what exactly the breathless boy had been on about.

“Carry on
, Chief,” the friendly order about as formal as things got onboard Sequoia.

“Ah
, Number One, give the boy some bullets there, and let him have a bash at yonder mine. But first, pass the word to the lads, let ‘em know what’s occuring. Don’t want ‘em wetting themsel when it goes bang, do we?”

Clark nodded and blew done some voice pipes, quickly announcing what was about to happen.

Gesturing at the port side, Boothroyd nudged the quartermaster.

“Ahead one third
Jacko, steer,” he paused for a second, checking out both the mine and the signs of the sea, “Steer 0-0-5,”

“Ahead one third, steer 0-0-5, aye aye
Cap’n.”

The ringing of the telegraph pro
vided a backdrop to the sound of a magazine ramming home into the rifle. The boy, proud of the responsibility he had been given, scurried to the portside bridge to set himself to the task.

“What the hell was that?”

Yanninin asked the question, his ears glued to one side of the headphones.

“Sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil, Comrade Captain.”

He had been there himself, heard the sound before, so he saw the surface vignette with the utmost clarity in the fraction of a second.

“Steer starboard 90, set speed for five knots.”

The sonar operator silently sought an explanation from his commander.

“You use a rifle to shoot at a mine. I think they are trying to...”

The words became unnecessary, as a huge explosion rocked the boot, firing its sound straight into the left ear of the unfortunate sonar operator, the drum instantly ruptured.

‘
Mudaks, that’s my fault’
, Yanninin chided himself, placing his hand to the mouth of the moaning man.

The shock waves of the explosion came next, jarring the boat.

In the torpedo room, the sound came as a surprise, as did the following shock wave.

One young seaman filled his pants, so complete was the surprise and savage the effect.

“Midships, set speed for three knots, silent running.”

At the front of the boat, the torpedo room commander, a Chief Starshina on his
twelfth patrol, braced himself quickly. Grabbing for solid support, he wedged himself between the starboard lower torpedo tube and the firing assembly, setting himself firmly in place.

The rocking subsided, the faint echoes of the explosion now gone.

Sighs of relief overcame the sounds of fear, the first comments about their unfortunate comrade starting.

The Chief was otherwise pre-occupied, examining his wet hand and the recently welded door, a metallic clicking sound noticeable with every rise and fall in the roiled water.

The experienced Warrant Officer drew a visual image of the area and quickly realised what had happened.

The errant outer door had come loose in the shock wave but, in the course of trying to close it earlier, the system had been strained, leaving a little play.

It was this play, twelve millimetres of movement in total, which was producing the clacking sound as the waters moved the door in a steady rhythm.

Without waiting for orders he grabbed the winding control
, and commenced closing the outer door, an act that commenced smoothly, indicting his guess had been right.

The door came shut with a low sound as the two metal surfaces married around their rubber seals.

Checking he had completed the closing procedure, the Chief Starshina contacted the Control room, reporting the change.

Yanninin accepted the report from the Senior Midshipman, the most experienced Warrant officer on the 307, one of his problems solved by accident, although the welding of the tube meant
that it would be unavailable until they had time to inspect it from inside and out.

Shch307 moved on silently.

A voice tube whistled, interrupting Boothroyd’s congratulations, the boy openly proud that he had hit the target with every shot and that the third .303 had ignited the floating mine.

It was an incredible feat of marksmanship but one Boothroyd realised he could not overly publicise, lest the thirteen year old was removed from service on his ship.

He pulled the plug on the voice pipe, identifying himself brusquely.

“Captain Sir, I think there is something below us. I definitely heard clear metallic sounds but now they have gone.”

The apparatus lost efficiency when dealing with targets immediately underneath the vessel.

Boothroyd considered the man on the other end of the pipe, putting his pipe to his lips, tapping his teeth in an indistinct rhythm.

Charles Maitland, very much a ‘hostilities only’ new navy man, a Sub-Lieutenant recently out of naval school system, trained up to run the ‘garfangled box of tricks’ and thrown aboard the Sequoia to learn his trade.

A trade he had mastered in spades by all standards the crew and himself applied.

None the less, he had to question further.

“Come on
there, Subby, give me more than that.”

“Sir, there was a low but regular metallic sound, which was then replaced by a single deeper sound, also metallic in nature. My belief is we are sitting on a submarine.”

Boothroyd had not asked for his guess, but he accepted it in any case.

“Light it up
, Subby, active search.”

Turning to the bridge crew, he did what was necessary.

“Action stations depth charge, Number One.”

The ship’s bells rang immediately, the Lieutenant having readied himself, knowing what was coming.

“Full speed ahead, Jacko.”

The bridge was suddenly filled with the sound of asdic returns, drowning out the quartermaster’s response, bouncing back from something solid, something that
should not be there.

Boothroyd already knew there were no friendly submarines in the area, his search area considered a weapons-free zone.

“Talk to me Sub.”

“Contact dead ahead Skipper, range four hundred yards, depth one-fifty feet, identify as definite submarine.”

Instant decision.

Moving to another pipe, he blew and received an immediate response, the depth charge crews still at their posts following the drill session.

“Thompson, get ‘em set for one-fifty, and do it fast. We are almost on top of the bastard. Two and two, Sub, two and two.”

“Aye aye
, Skipper.”

“Subby, the old lady can’t make full speed. You understand, lad?”

The reply was slightly delayed, but none the less, firm.

”Understood, Skipper. Good luck, Sir.”

‘And to thee, young ‘un.’

Sequoia’s crew were top notch, despite the air of informality and relaxation that so exasperated the ‘real’ Navy men, marking her and her crew as a target for career naval officers ashore.

The Number One was now on the voice pipe, receiving information from Maitland, passing on the relevant parts as the excited young officer brought the trawler down on the unsuspecting submarine.

“Lost signal
, Skipper!”

A
sure sign that the undersea killer was beneath their keel.

“Very well,
Number One.”

Standing by the ship
’s horn, Boothroyd calculated all the factors in the equation.

‘Wait.’

The tension on the bridge was extreme.

‘Wait.’

The boy coughed, the strain apparent as he cradled the rifle to him, seeking its comfort and support
.

‘Now.’

He pulled the small handle, summoning a single blast of the ship’s horn, spurring the depth charge crews into action. The system also had the advantage of giving the rest of the ship’s company advance warning of what was about to happen.

Thompson, at the rear of the vessel, counted off the first d
epth charge, watching it roll down the metal frame and drop into the sea beneath the stern.

Not trusting his
free counting, so watching his timepiece closely, he counted down, raising his hand on a count of six and dropping it on the nine.

The second depth charge followed suit.

In the water were four type D charges, each containing three hundred pounds of deadly amatol explosives.

On the bridge, Boothroyd decided to stay silent. No use in troubling the boy
, and the others all knew that the depth charges were going to be too close at their reduced speed, and would probably mortally wound them too.

The Number One made the only possible comment.

“Brace yourselves!”

“Commander! Splashes in the water, close by!”

Yanninin acted immediately, trying to picture the surface vessel and its movements.

“Emergency speed, steer starboard 20, make depth one hundred.”

It was a good effort, but ultimately, a wasted one.

Three of the charges exploded in as many seconds, the first two causing nothing but boiled water, either side of the 307.

The third charge detonated six feet behind the port propeller, bending the blades. The shockwave rammed the bent shaft back into the stuffing boxes and gears, causing catastrophic damage to the port engine.

Water started to pour in through ruined seals, immediately making the boat rear-heavy.

The secondary shock waves sprung the main air intake valve, adding to the inrush of the sea.

Yanninin knew his ship was dying.

“Blow all tanks, surface, gun action surface.”

His words were punctuated by another huge explosion, this time the charge detonated off the port bow.

The remaining bulbs shattered, plunging the control room into temporary darkness, swiftly dispersed by torches.

The damaged bow cap gave way, not totally, but enough to permit an inrush of water.

The partially drained torpedo tube offered a space for the water to build momentum, the mass striking the welded tube door hard.

The Senior Starshina understood he was watching his doom unfold, the pinpoint high-pressure leaks springing around the failing door weld.

The following shock waves caused the door to fail and the tube was opened to the sea.

None of the torpedo room personnel had any time to do anything but scream as the cold water rushed over them.

In the control room, things went from bad to worse, the first officer virtually trepanned when he smashed into the periscope stand. Yanninin was trying to ignore his broken wrist, snapped in an instant as he had reached out to steady himself and missed.

Others also lay dead and bleeding, victims of the two charges.

Shch307 would not rise, the bow now heavier than the stern.

The depth gauge, functioning as it was designed, steadily altered, showing their
accelerating fall into the depths.

The charts indicated a depth of roughly three hundred and thirty metres under their keel, a
distance well past the crush depth of their hull.

Calls to the torpedo room were not answered
, and the survivors started to understand that their deaths were but a few heartbeats away.

At two-hundred and
ninety-eight metres, the damaged hull gave up the struggle.

Thompson was dying. The fourth and nearest shockwave displaced
a ready-use depth charge, which rolled into him, crushing him against the ship’s side and almost severing his legs.

Two members of his depth charge gang had already gone to meet their maker, dashed against unforgiving hard surfaces by the blasts. The rest were unconscious.

Sequoia would not long survive her vanquished foe, the leaks so severe in her propeller shaft and engine spaces that Higginbotham had quit the boiler room without permission, saving most of his gang by the skin of their teeth.