Submarine

Начало книги

The coastguard officer replaced his cup to add another tannin circle on the battered tray. His keen eyes had detected through the early mist what he had been expecting, but he picked up the binoculars to confirm his sighting. He glanced at the brass clock on the wall: yes, that must be her, HM Submarine Orcus. She was dead on time, an indistinct blur where her fin floated in the haze sealing the sky to the glassy sea. The stream was easing as the time of high water approached and tide lines snaked mazily upon the mirror-like surface of the muddy bay of Hilpsford Point: the morning was turning out to be one of the few decent days of spring since the equinoctial gales which had struck so late this year.

In the circle of his binoculars he could see her better now, the black outline of her casing showing when she turned at the buoy. The after edge of her fin, sticking up like a matchbox on end, was slightly raked, and he could make out her periscopes and masts. Her square fore-planes were turned in and stuck upwards like the dorsal fins of a fish. Her fine lines were spoilt by the ugly bulb on her bows — presumably her sonar. A light, tinged red in this dawn mist, was blinking from her bridge: that was her, flashing her identification now that wartime radio restrictions were in force. The coastguard picked up his lamp and, moving outside to the small parapet, flashed back his acknowledgement. He returned to the warmth of the room and picked up the telephone.

Читать дальше →