Strike from the Sea (1978) by Douglas Reeman Page A

right. They had seen and done too much together. ‘I’m going to my cabin to complete my report.’
    He saw Lucas come through the after bulkhead and checked himself. It was often like this in the control room. It was a constant reminder to any commander that his eye, his brain, his judgement alone could keep the submarine and crew in one piece.
    He walked across to the slightly built French lieutenant and said, ‘You have done a fine job.’ He saw the dullness leaving the Frenchman’s eyes as he added, ‘I think I even saw the Chief smiling just then!’
    Lucas took the mood and glanced over to Halliday. ‘Oh, what a shame, sir! I must have missed it!’
    Ainslie turned and walked towards his cabin, seeing the grins and the nudges, essential parts of their special, exclusive world.
    In the cabin he closed the curtain and sat down at the desk.
    So it looked as if
Soufrière
was going nearer home after all. Just as Poulain had always wanted.
    He gave a sigh and picked up his pen.
    ‘Up periscope.’
    Ainslie gripped the handles and pressed his forehead against the rubber pad. A cat-nap, a good shower, and a surprisingly good breakfast – considering the cook had barely time to get adjusted to the galley – had worked wonders.
    He watched the spray parting around the lens, saw the glitter of small stars on long, undulating curves of dark water. It made him feel like a predator, an intruder.
    Around him the
Soufrière
breathed her own special sounds, the echo sounder, the occasional whirr of pumps as Quinton trimmed the boat, a man humming softly to himself as he waited to carry a message, or make some more tea.
    ‘We’ll remain at fourteen metres, Number One. Tell the W/T office to make contact and report our ETA at the base.’ He glanced at the control room clock. ‘We’ll stand offshore until dawn. I don’t want to barge through a bunch of local fishermen and have to pay for a lot of nets!’
    Someone laughed.
    Quinton moved nearer, his face in shadow. ‘She handled well, I thought. Better than I believed possible with all the top-hamper of guns and the blessed seaplane hangar.’
    Ainslie nodded. He felt at home. As if he had been aboard for months instead of days.
    ‘The first real emergency may tell us more.’
    Lieutenant Ridgway, the torpedo officer, who was in charge of the watch, said, ‘W/T on the phone, sir. PO Vernon requests to speak with you.’
    ‘Not like him at all.’
    Ainslie hid a sudden uncertainty from the others. But it was not like Vernon. He was very competent and disliked asking advice. He took the telephone from Ridgway’s hand, turning his back to the control room.
    ‘Captain. What’s the trouble?’
    ‘Urgent signal, sir.’
    Even on the wire Ainslie could sense his anxiety.
    ‘Singapore under bombing attack after RAF report of unidentified aircraft approaching the city. Return to base forthwith and await orders. End of signal.’
    Ainslie looked at the submarine’s curved side. So it had happened. Just as Critchley had predicted.
    He said quietly, ‘Acknowledge, Vernon. Then no further transmissions.’ He handed the telephone to Ridgway and said, ‘Singapore has been attacked. It’s my guess that it’s just a start, a taste of things to come.’
    Quinton breathed out noisily. ‘Jesus, Us against the whole world, eh?’
    Forster, who was still leaning on his chart table, exclaimed, ‘It’s hopeless!’
    Like a house of cards Ainslie could see his command falling apart. The first optimism and excitement of their capture had been smashed almost before they had got used to it.
    He said, ‘Lay a course to base, Pilot. We’ll surface and proceed at full speed when you’re satisfied. Number One, pass the word, we’ll go to action stations in ten minutes. I’ll speak to the lads on the tannoy before we surface. After that . . .’ He shrugged.
    Ainslie’s words to his company were brief. The small respite was over. They were going back to war.
    As the submarine