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than the Admiralty ones. We land a lot of cargoes there. And those armoured cruisers have a deep draught, missy. They need about twenty-six feet of water. If we flush our ballast and put out the outriggers we can run on the surface in six feet of water. And at twenty-five we're below water level.”
    â€œNot by much,” said the first mate, heavily. “They could see us from the air.”
    â€œBut they'd have to come hunting us in shallower draught ships, and the skipper is a canny old bird,” said the lieutenant, taking his hat and leaving them with a sketch of a salute.
    So they were left to go back to their tiny cabin again and to worry and to fret.
    The submarine touched sand with an odd sugary grating sound a few times, but they kept moving.
    And then they stopped.
    A little later, the “all quiet” light came on.

T im was off-watch and asleep when the submarine stopped. It was enough to wake him. “Wazzup?” he asked sleepily of the other sailor in the locker below the bed. It was Big Eddie, who used the bunk Tim was sleeping in during alter-shift. Eddie was one of the two divers aboard, as well as a junior steersman.
    â€œI've got to go out and pull the camo-sheet over her. So if you're feeling like getting wet, you can come for a swim, lad,” said Eddie, with a laugh.
    Tim shuddered. He could swim. Sort of. You had to as a tunneller. But Under London water was likely to digest your clothes, or the eels might get you. There was supposed to be a giant killer pike up near Wandle. There'd even been a crocodile from Africa in a flooded tunnel once, he'd heard tell.
    â€œAnd then?” Tim asked.
    â€œAnd then we lie still until dark and I take it off again,” said Big Eddie, setting off for the escape hatch in the bow, in a thick Arran pullover and heavy woollen breeches and thick socks.
    He came back a little later, to get back into his normal clothes, before Tim had properly got back to sleep. “Not too bad out there for this time of year. Mind you, the Fens are fairly buzzing with boats. They're hunting this woman hard.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Tim. She looked like, well, an ordinary top-side modern lady in a flouncy skirt. He'd seen a few when he'd been out with the bloods top-side London at night, before his mam had found out and put a stop to it. The woman didn't say much, not like MissPrisms-and-Prunes-snippy, the daughter. That girl had even cheeked the captain. And he'd laughed.
    â€œI dunno,” said Eddie. “Go back to sleep.”
    So Tim had done so. But his dreams had been full of the explosions and his mam.
    He woke up when they got under way again. Obviously Big Eddie had come and gone again. The camouflage sheet had been taken in, and they were feeling their way through the sandbar waters before heading out into the deeper water. Tim went and had breakfast and reported for duty. This morning that duty was cleaning officers' cabins and making beds. He was in Lieutenant Ambrose's cabin when they struck. It wasn't so much of an impact, as a slowing…and then a stop. And then a twang that reverberated through the boat. And then all was still. Then the engines fired again, and they pulled backwards briefly. Another twang, and they stopped again.
    Tim could guess what that meant. Submarine fouling nets were laid in London's drowned streets too. Divers cut them, or made panels that could be opened.
    Big Eddie and his mate Albert would have to go out in the cold dark water, in their waterproof canvas diving suits and helmets again, and cut them free.
    Only, a few minutes later Tim found it wasn't them that would be doing that.
    It was him.
    And there would be no diving suit either.
    He was called to the bridge. That was alarming enough. “Barnabas,” said Captain Malkis with no further finesse. “You're the smallest of the crew. The escape hatch is tangled in the net and can't open. We can see it with the periscope. There is a whole