Strike from the Sea (1978) by Douglas Reeman

Just a small humming sound, not even enough to make the massive hull quiver.
    A drop of sweat splashed on to his hand as he peered at his watch. Almost angrily he wiped his face with his wrist.
    ‘Group up. Slow ahead together.’
    He heard the snap of controls, feet shuffling as Halliday moved in more closely to watch his dials and winking lights.
    Ainslie took one more quick glance through the periscope. He could not get used to it, this leisurely drill and careful progress. In the Mediterranean and almost anywhere else it wasdeath to leave the periscope up for more than seconds. The diving bomber, the spectre in the lens. Oblivion. He checked his racing thoughts, feeling the sweat running down his spine, the shirt clinging to his skin.
    He steadied himself and said evenly, ‘Open main vents. Take her down to fourteen metres.’ He slammed the periscope handles into their upright position and a stoker sprang forward to send it hissing down into its great well in the control room deck.
    Ainslie looked at the depth gauge as the needle began to creep round. He listened to the surging rasp of water entering the saddle tanks and watched the planesmen, the tell-tales above their heads, gauging the slow dive, the
feel
of the big submarine around him.
    Quinton said quietly, ‘Easy, Packer.’ He, too, was watching the foreplanes’ dial, thinking perhaps of the man who had tried to sabotage them.
    ‘Steady at fourteen metres, sir. Periscope depth.’ Quinton looked over at him, his lips compressed in a tight smile.
    ‘Up periscope.’ Ainslie bent over and gripped the handles, rising to his full height as the lens broke the surface overhead. ‘Check all compartments.’
    How warm the sea looked, how close, as if he were swimming with just his eyes above water, and yet without feeling or sensation. Around him handsets and voice-pipes chattered back and forth until Quinton reported that every section was functioning as it should.
    ‘Very good, Number One. Down periscope. Steer zero-nine-zero.’ He blinked as spray splashed over the periscope as it started to slide down. ‘Take her down to twenty metres.’ He listened to the smooth purr of the motors, the regular ping of the echo sounder. A glance at Forster at the chart table showed him he did not have to worry. Forster was too watchful even to allow a faulty chart to put them on the bottom.
    ‘Steady on zero-nine-zero, sir. Twenty metres.’
    More reports and cross-checks. Like fibres reaching from the ends of the boat to the control room, to Ainslie’s mind.
    ‘All checked, sir. No leaks.’
    Ainslie looked round at the silent, intent figures, at the
Soufrière
’s crest, an erupting volcano, above which someone, probably Lucas, had hung a smaller emblem, the Free French Cross of Lorraine. They had done well, all of them.
    ‘Release smoke-float. That’ll tell the escorts they can go home again.’
    Halliday stood back from his panel, wiping his bony fingers with a piece of waste. ‘Just as well, sir. They’ve probably got an important cocktail party on tonight!’ But he said it without malice, and Ainslie knew he was too pleased about his motors and diesels to let anything spoil this moment.
    ‘Open up the boat, Number One.’
    As the order was passed and the watertight doors were unclipped throughout the hull, Ainslie picked up the tannoy handset.
    ‘This is the captain. Despite what you may have seen or heard since you took over, this boat is now on a war footing. Vigilance at all times. We shall live longer that way.’ He could see them in his mind throughout his command. Smiling at each other, pleased with themselves. Others would be saying,
what’s the matter with the skipper, then? Getting cold feet?
And a few, like himself, would be searching their thoughts, wondering how much more of it they could stand. He replaced the handset.
    ‘Fall out diving stations, Number One.’ He saw the concern on the Australian’s dark features. He would understand all