"Elton," I said softly, and he froze. He turned swiftly and faced me. There was a half sardonic grin on his face which triggered off the accumulated tension of hours of nerve strain within me.
He opened his mouth, but he never said what he intended to. I hit him across the side of the neck, a savage blow meant for a street fight, a muscle-ripping, cruel lunge with the edge of my forearm. He sagged like a rag doll and sat down with a heavy thump, his senseless eyes rolling back with fear.
Bissett looked aghast and did the sensible thing by concentrating on his job. I felt sick, and deeply ashamed of myself. The savagery of my pent-up feelings had mute witness in the sorry picture half propped against the bulkhead. I felt his pulse. Well, I hadn't killed him.
Suddenly a ripple ran through Bissett, like a pointer sighting his game.
"Sir! sir!" he whispered urgently.
"What is it, man?" I rapped out.
He didn't hear me. His whole being was listening.
"Confused noises bearing red one-five," he said slowly. "Getting stronger."
I could barely utter the words. "Is it the same…?"
He nodded.
He looked up and smiled.
"Coming this way all right, sir. Lot of ground echoes, but quite clear. Same as last night."
I snatched an earpiece and listened. Yes, there it was, the same deadly thump, like a man dragging a leg.
I knew all I wanted to know.
I shot through to the control room.
"Continuous readings," I snapped as I left him.
"Group up, slow ahead. Revolutions for four knots. Stand by all tubes. Plot? Firing angle? Range? Enemy course? Speed?"
Trout was galvanised. The attack routine went into deadly, efficient action.
"Thirty feet," I said. That would give me the opportunity to fire either by periscope or on the hydrophone hearing, although I preferred the former.
"Slow ahead." I'd close the range as near as I dared in the shallow water. There was the danger that Trout might break surface if I fired a full salvo.
The planesman spun his wheel and the water blew.
Trout rose silently off the sand and glided upwards.
Then it happened.
The inclinometer went mad. Trout's bows lifted like a mad thing and she spun half on her side, throwing John and myself together in a heap under the "fruit machine."
"God's death!" I swore. Davis was fighting like a maniac with the planes, but Trout bucked and kicked like an untamed broncho. He was cursing, softly, but with horrible fluency. If Trout's bows reared out of the water — it would be the end of us.
Then her nose dipped and the compass card swung madly. With a sick realisation I knew that the tide-race had us inexorably in its grip. My attack plan had gone haywire in a matter of seconds.
"For Christ's sake!" I screamed at Davis. "Get her under control! Keep her bows steady…"
Loose things fell about the conning-tower and I kicked away with savage anger a pair of shoes which seemed to materialise and try and attach themselves to me. The inclinometer bubble swung beserkly.
"God's teeth!" I raved and screamed, all my nerves shot to hell. NP I in my sights and Trout's trim so impossible that I simply couldn't fire!
"Blow the main tanks," I shouted. "No, belay that."
I knew I was beaten. There was only one thing to do. Get down on the seabed and try and sort things out while the deadly foe went on his way — unharmed. But at least I would have a look at him.
"Up periscope." I gripped the handles.
The tip burst wildly through the water and for a moment my eyesight reeled before a drunken, swinging vista of sky and white water. With that up top, it was scarcely any wonder that Trout was behaving like a madman below, in the shallow water. The periscope lifted fifteen feet out of the water in a horrid swaying arc, and I prayed silently that the look-outs on NP I wouldn't spot it. Through the white water and blue sky, deepening in the coming evening, I caught a glimpse of NP I. The narrow conning-tower stood up frail and delicate like an aircraft wing, and in that split moment I saw how lovely her lines were. She headed unwaveringly towards the entrance to Curva dos Dunas.
"Down periscope," I ordered briefly, calm now that the great moment was passed.
"Take her down," I said briefly. "Eighty feet."
The Skeleton Coast had won. NP I had got away — almost in my sights. As the water poured into her tanks, Trout steadied up a little and then, almost magically below sixty feet, regained her composure. The boat was a shambles.
"Take her down," I said, almost abstractedly. "Clear up this bloody mess."
Bissett's voice came through clearly.
"Stop that bloody row!" I snarled. What he could tell me would be of no use to me now. I knew where NP I was headed.
Trout subsided with a faint thump, like a breathless athlete.
"Take over," I said to John. I wanted time to plan a new course of action. "Break off the action. Crew to normal stations."
"Aye, aye, sir," came the reply.
I went to the cubbyhole which passed for my private cabin. I sat down wearily, and as I did so the fetid smell of sweat came up. The sweat of fear. Yes, I was frightened; that delicate, airy conning-tower of NP I had struck the fear of God into me. For a split second I felt almost glad that the Skeleton Coast had intervened and prevented my firing the death-dealing salvo. I pushed the thought aside. I had missed my big chance — through no fault of my own — and now the odds would be twice what they were. Bitterly I cursed the tide-race and the variable density of water which had sent Trout rocketing about. I had never reckoned on it.
Anyway, there was nothing I could do about that now. What I had learned was that the Skeleton Coast always laughs last.
I took old Simon's inset chart of Curva dos Dunas and laid it before me on the minute scrap of wood which passed for a table. Mines! I could slip back to Simonstown and load with mines and finish off NP I. It would mean leaving Curva dos Dunas unguarded, but then, either inside or out on a cruise, NP I would sink herself in the channel. Neat and easy, and no danger to Trout. I had almost sold myself on the idea of mines when I remembered the tide-race. No, it would be quite impossible to lay mines in the channel with the race sweeping out seawards. Trout would blow herself up — since they would sweep down on her as she laid them. To lay them from the inside would be equally impossible, as Trout would then be bottled up by her own mines.
The Skeleton Coast had won again.
I glanced at my watch and I took the decision which I had, through fear, kept rigidly at the back of my mind.
I would take Trout in after NP I.
I felt unutterably weary. I shuddered as I glanced at those fearful whorls on the chart, guarded by the remorseless sand-bars. Peering at the welter of soundings and curl annotations, I suddenly found myself amused. Before the final whorled channel into the anchorage in the centre was marked "Galleon Point." And, minutely under it in the faded Indian ink, "spar shows at low water. Five fathoms." A galleon! The thought was too much for my tired mind. I laughed to myself and the laughter, like a balm, soothed my failure and crystallised my new attack plan. It was almost dark now. I had two choices: I could try and take Trout in on the surface and risk discovery and almost certain sinking by NP I — there was no room to manoeuvre — or go in at periscope depth, using Simon's Rock, the three-topped hill and another high hill to the north to steer her by. My heart sank when I looked at the channel. A misjudged order, one mistiming, a swing of the tide-race, and Trout would be jammed against the sand-bars and wolfish breakers. It would be moonlight. I'd take Trout in, even if it killed me. Once in the inner anchorage, NP I would get her delayed salvo of Trout torpedoes, although I' hoped the explosion wouldn't damage Trout as well, the distance was so small. Anyway, that problem could wait. If I could take Trout safely in, it would be the most fantastic piece of navigation I had ever attempted. I would also have to bring her out again. And, I thought, the Skeleton Coast alone knows what the water densities are in that channel, sweeping in from warm, shallow water to the cold South Atlantic outside. The only other alternative had already been lost — to have tried to follow NP I in on hydrophone bearings. I would have had to take Trout so close behind, however, that she must have heard us. Here goes, I thought grimly. I laughed as I tossed down the dividers.