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

bang. The fourth torpedo had missed, but under the circumstances Ainslie was satisfied.
    ‘Periscope depth.’
    He saw Ridgway reaching out to pat his assistant on the back and could imagine the sweating torpedomen in the fore-ends, already preparing to reload the empty tubes.
    Walker reported, ‘HE has stopped, sir.’
    When the periscope broke surface Ainslie was just in time to see the patrol vessel’s bow as it started to slide down in a great welter of boiling foam, above it the stain of the explosion hung across the sky as if it would never move.
    Quinton called, ‘Well done, sir. Just like old times.’ They were all grinning like schoolboys.
    A handset buzzed in its case like a trapped bee, then a messenger said, ‘From W/T, sir. Signal.’
    Ainslie beckoned Quinton to take his place by the periscopes. He reached for the handset, finding time to marvel at the petty officer telegraphist who had used his radio receiver while the boat was so near to the surface. Despite the grim preparations and then the explosions he had gone on with his own job.
    ‘Captain.’
    Vernon sounded tense. ‘It was just a garble, sir. Probably a short-range army job.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘The
Prince of Wales
and the
Repulse,
sir. Both sunk. Just now, while we were doing our attack.’
    ‘Thank you.’ He replace the handset and looked at Quinton and the rest. ‘Force Z has been wiped out.’ He watched their faces freeze, their smiles disappear. Against such a disastrous loss their own small victory was pitiful.
    Quinton was the first to speak. ‘They could be wrong. Some idiot getting his wires crossed.’
    They looked at each other, each knowing in his heart there was no mistake.
    ‘Resume course and depth, Pilot. Fall out diving and action stations.’ Ainslie glanced at Halliday. ‘Your people did well, Chief. Steady as a rock.’ Just words, bloody words. Part of the game. The necessary pretence.
    He moved to the centre of the control room, half watching, half listening. The news Vernon had intercepted would soon be across the whole world. In the twinkling of an eye Force Z had been destroyed. Maybe they had run into a more powerful squadron and had gone down fighting. Whatever had happened the result was the same. The whole balance of naval power had shifted in the enemy’s favour. The essential shield had been found wanting and had paid the full, awesome price.
    Later as he toyed with some food in his cabin he thought of the two great ships. The
Prince of Wales
was a new one with little history to remember, other than she had been witness to the
Hood
’s destruction under the guns of the German
Bismarck
.
    But the old battle cruiser
Repulse
he did know, as did almost every sailor in the fleet. She had been part of the tradition and the myth, and with her gone it was one more sign, one further threat to their very existence. He sighed and lay down on his bunk, the food congealing on its plate.
    He wondered if he would see any changes when he took the submarine back to Singapore. There might still be time to act, to hold the enemy until the forces in Malaya had been reinforced.
    ‘Captain in the control room!’
    He threw his legs to the deck, his heart beating faster.
Here we go again
.
    The
Soufrière
’s wardroom was unusually quiet. Alongside thedepot ship once again, and with most of her company on local leave, she gave the impression of resting.
    Lieutenant Farrant, the gunnery officer, was sitting in a corner, utterly engrossed in a month-old copy of
Lilliput.
Lieutenant Forster, who was officer of the day, was re-reading the letter which had awaited
Soufrière
’s return to Singapore. It was from Daphne. A frightening, rambling letter, made worse by the sense of distance and helplessness. She would have to tell her mother about it. And when her husband came home . . . There had been splashes on the ink. He could see her crying as she had penned the last part.
If there’s no other way, I shall kill