The Burning Shore - Smith Wilbur (электронную книгу бесплатно без регистрации .txt) 📗

The three torpedo tubes were loaded and under compression, and the spare torpedoes were stacked in the narrow space; their long shiny bulk almost filled the entire cabin and made any movement difficult. The torpedo men would be forced to spend much of their time crouched in their tiny bunks, like animals in a her of cages.

Kurt patted one of the torpedoes. We'll make more room for you soon, he promised them, just as soon as we mail these little parcels off to Tommy It was an antique joke, but they responded dutifully and, noting the timbre of the laughter, Kurt realized how those few hours on the surface in the sweet desert air had refreshed and enlivened them all.

Back in the tiny curtained cubical which was his cabin, he could let himself relax at last, and instantly his exhaustion overcame him. He had not slept for forty hours, every minute of that time he had been exposed to constant nervous strain. Still, before he crawled laboriously into his narrow, confined bunk, he took down the framed photograph from its niche above his desk and studied the image of the placid young woman and the small boy at her knee, dressed in Lederhosen.

Goodnight, my darlings, he whispered. Goodnight to you, also, my other son, whom I have never seen.

The diving klaxon woke him, bellowing like a wounded beast, echoing painfully in the confines of the steel hull, so that lie was torn from deep black sleep and cracked his head on the jamb of the bunk as he tried to struggle out of it.

He was aware instantly of the pitch and roll of the hull.

The weather had deteriorated, and then he felt the deck cant under his feet as the bows dropped and the submarine plunged below the surface. He ripped open the curtains and burst fully dressed into the control centre, just as the two lookouts came tumbling down the ladder from the bridge. The dive had been so swift that seawater cascaded down on to their heads and shoulders before Horsthauzen could secure the main hatch in the tower.

Kurt glanced at the clock at the top of the brass control panel as he took control. I8.23 hrs. He made the calculation and estimated that they must be loo nautical miles offshore on the edge of their patrol area. Horsthauzen would probably have called him in another few minutes, if he had not been forced to make this emergency dive.

Periscope depth, he snapped at the senior helmsman seated before the control panel, and used the few moments of respite to rally his senses and orientate himself fully by studying the navigational plot.

Depth nine metres, sir, said the helmsman, spinning the wheel to check her wild plunge.

Up periscope, Kurt ordered, as Horsthauzen dropped down the tower, jumped off the ladder and took up his action station at the attack table.

The sighting is a large vessel showing green and red navigation lights, bearing o6o degrees, he reported quietly to Kurt. I could make out no details.

As the periscope rose up through the deck, the hydraulic rams hissing loudly, Kurt ducked down, unfolded the side handles and pressed his face into the rubber pads, peering into the Zeiss lens of the eyepiece and straightening his body to follow the telescope up, already swinging it on to the bearing marks o6o degrees.

The lens was obscured by water, and he waited for it to clear.

Late twilight- he judged the light up there on the surface, and then to Horsthauzen, range estimate? Sighting is hull down. That meant she was probably eight or nine miles, but red and green navigation lights indicated that she was headed almost directly towards the U-32. That she should be showing lights at all indicated the vessel's supreme confidence that she was alone on the ocean.

The lens cleared of water and Kurt traversed slowly.

There she was. He felt his pulse leap and his breathing check. It never failed, no matter how often he saw the enemy, the shock and the thrill was as intense as the very first time.

Bearing mark! he snapped at Horsthauzen, and the lieutenant entered the bearing on the attack table.

Kurt stared at the quarry, feeling the hunger in his guts, the almost sexual ache in his loin as though he were watching a beautiful naked and available woman; at the same time he was gently manipulating the knob of the rangefinder with his right hand.

In the tens of the periscope the double images of the target ship were brought together by the rangefinder.

Range mark! Kurt said clearly as the images coalesced into a single sharp silhouette.

Bearing 075 degrees, said Horsthauzen. Range 7,650 metres! and entered the numerals into the attack table.

Down periscope! New heading 34o degrees! ordered Kurt, and the thick telescoping steel sections of the periscope hissed down into their well on the deck between his feet. Even at this range and in the bad light Kurt was taking no chances that a wary lookout might pick out the plume of spray thrown up by the tip of the periscope as it cut the surface, turning on to an interception course into the north.

Kurt was watching the second hand of the clock on the control panel. lie must give Horsthauzen at least two minutes before he made his next sighting. He glanced across at his first officer and found him totally absorbed in his calculations, stopwatch in his right hand, left hand manipulating the tumblers of the attack table like a Chinaman with an abacus.

Kurt switched his attention to his own calculations concerning the light and the surface condition of the sea.

The fading light favoured him. As always, the hunter needed stealth and secrecy, but the rising sea would hamper his approach; breaking over the lens of the periscope, it might even affect the running of his torpedoes.

Up periscope! he ordered. The two minutes had expired. He found the image almost instantly.

Bearing mark! Range mark!

Now Horsthauzen had his references, elapsed time between sights and the relative ranges and bearings of the submarine and its target, together with the U-32's own speed and course.

Target is on a heading of 175 degrees. Speed 22 knots, he read off the attack table.

Kurt did not look away from the eyepiece of the periscope, but felt the thrill of the chase in his blood like the flush of strong spirits. The other ship was coming straight down on them, and its speed was almost exactly that to be expected of a British battle cruiser making a long passage. He stared at the distance image, but the light was going even as he studied the shadowy superstructure just visible between the pinpricks of the navigational lights and yet, and yet, he was not absolutely certain, perhaps he was seeing what he wished to see, but there was a vague triangular shape against the darkening sky, the sure tripod mark of the new F-class battle cruiser.

Down periscope. He made his decision. New heading 3 5 5 degrees, the head-on course to intercept the target, designate the target as the "chase". That was the intimation to his officers that he was attacking, and he saw their expression turn wolfish in the subdued light and they exchanged eager gloating glances. The chase is an enemy cruiser. We will attack with our bow tubes. Re art battle stations. In quick succession the reports came in assuring him of the instant readiness of the entire ship. Kurt nodded with satisfaction, standing facing the brass control panel, studying the dials over the heads of his seated helmsmen, his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his pea-jacket so that their trembling did not betray his agitated excitement, but a nerve jumped in his lower eyelid, making him wink sardonically, and his thin pale lips trembled uncontrollably. Each second seemed an eternity, until he could ask, Estimated bearing? The seaman with the hydrophones over his ears looked up. He had been closely monitoring the distant sound of the chase's propellers.

Bearing steady, he replied, and Kurt glanced at Horsthauzen.