by John Gardner
‘Something you ate?’ Boysie chirped.
‘Cor, me guts.’ Griffin was doubled up in his chair. ‘Cor. Screamin’ hell. Cor.’ Still bent double, he made a swift exit.
‘That walk,’ commented Mostyn ruthlessly, ‘reminded me of Charles Laughton playing Quasimodo.’
‘Better see if he’s okay,’ said Boysie lightly.
‘Yes. Mind you, I think old Griff is a shade faster than Laughton was.’ Mostyn could have been perfectly serious.
On the boat deck observation platform all was still and quiet. A silence more penetrating than that of the previous afternoon when Boysie’s initial reconnaissance had been aborted. In fact the silence now seemed to permeate the whole ship. Boysie began his journey down to the hold. Silence everywhere. A ghost ship? No, there was the usual crew noise coming from number one deck. Boysie used the same route down. Towards the bottom of the stairs he was conscious that the engine noises became louder. Now they were accompanied by low groans which seemed to be coming from the metal walls of one of the passages leading to the heavy bulkhead doors of the hold.
Boysie crept forward. The groans increased in volume. He could now pinpoint their position. They came from behind a three-quarter companionway door set in the wall of the passage. The door was neatly labelled Crew Toilets.
‘The jalap goes around and around, oh-oh-oh, and it comes out here,’ warbled Boysie softly, making for the bulkhead door.
The handle was heavy and difficult to move, but after a couple of heaves it came up with a hard metallic click. Slowly Boysie pushed the bulkhead door which opened easily. A moment later he stepped through into a blaze of arc lights and a hold which looked twice the size of the Albert Hall. Several men were working about a hundred yards away and Boysie only had time for a quick glimpse of the main features before a thick-necked, bull-like seaman turned and saw him. There was a second of indecision, then a cry of ‘Intruder’.
All hell broke loose with the ringing of alarm bells. In momentary panic, quite reasonable when one considered that three seamen with the physiques of heavyweight champions, were fast heading in his direction, Boysie took off and hoofed it for the companionway.
Going up was always more difficult than coming down, but Boysie negotiated the turns in the stairs like a mountain goat. His mind was reacting like a mountain goat’s as well. Sheer self preservation sent him whipping up to the boat deck in the manner of a speeded-up silent movie. He didn’t stop until he was inside Mostyn’s cabin.
Mostyn looked up from his book. ‘Must you make all that noise?’
‘I’ve … hah … I’ve … hah … whoo …’ Boysie struggled to get words out through the laboured breathing
‘You smoke too much, laddie. Your wind’s gone.’ Mostyn was stretched out on his bunk fully clothed and with a copy of The Wind in the Willows which he was nonchalantly trying to hide.
‘I’ve … whoo … been … hah … with you … hah … all the … evening … hah … right?’
‘Not if your breathing hasn’t improved by the time someone comes to ask, Oaksie. They’ll think it thumping strange if you’ve been with me all night and you’re sitting at the table there acting like a landed trout.’
‘Tell … hah . . . them it’s my … hah … asthma.’
‘Get quietly knotted, boy. You nearly got caught, didn’t you?’
There was a banging at Mostyn’s door. He slid the copy of Wind in the Willows down the side of his bunk, nicely out of sight.
‘I’ll tell Griff and Chicory what your … hah … bedtime reading is … hah … if you don’t … hah … alibi me … whoop,’ Boysie hissed out.
Mostyn opened the cabin door. A young officer stood there; behind him two hard seamen were having a lurk.
‘Yes?’ asked Mostyn sounding like a dowager duchess about to fob off some tradesman pressing for his bill.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but we’re trying to account for passengers’ movements during the last half an hour. I wondered …’
‘Passengers,’ shrieked Mostyn, ‘I’m not a bloody passenger, man. Neither’s my colleague here. Mr. Oakes. We’re both employed by the firm that pays you.’
‘Yes, sir, I know but …’
‘But me no buts, lad. Anyway, Mr. Oakes and myself have been discussing our company policy since dinner.’
‘I see, sir.’ The officer looked dissatisfied. ‘You wouldn’t know where the occupant of number three cabin is would you, sir? A Mr. Griffin?’
‘Griffin? Isn’t he in his cabin?’
‘We aren’t getting any answer.’
‘Well go in and try the bathroom. He’s not too well. You’ll nose him out somehow I’m sure. What’s the panic anyway?’
‘Slight breach in security, sir. Nothing difficult.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Mostyn had the door closed before the man could answer. He stood for a moment with his ear to the ventilation grille until he was satisfied the party had left. Then he turned to face Boysie.
‘You got your lungs under control yet?
‘Fine thanks. Fine.’
‘Well, what the hell happened?’
Boysie gave Mostyn a brief résumé of the incident. Mostyn looked thoughtful, then asked ‘Did you see anything?’
‘Oh yes. Quite a bit. They’ve completely stripped the interior. The roof, that would be the underside of the main deck, looks as though it’s been strengthened. I should imagine it opens with two leaves moving out and away from each other. There looked to be at least six hydraulic jacks along each side.’
‘They’ve cleared all the tanks out?’ Mostyn leaned forward in interest.
‘The lot. Now there’s a row of great metal cradles going right up the centre.’
‘Cradles?’
‘Big, half-circular things. From what I could see they stand on two legs, pivoted at the centre of the cradle. The legs are clamped to the deck and there are a couple of dirty great springs running from each side of the cradle to the deck.’
‘Stabilizers.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘How many? How many cradles?’
Boysie raised his eyes. ‘You’re joking. I was only in there a few seconds. Reckon I did bloody well.’
‘Better than nothing.’ Mostyn was admiring himself in the mirror. ‘But what does it tell us?’ He asked with a mind on his receding hairline rather than the cargo.
‘Dunno.’ Boysie looked blank. ‘Some bloody great aeroplane fuselage I suppose.’
‘A rocket?’ Mostyn turned. A schoolmaster confronting the class.
‘Why take a rocket to the UK? We haven’t got any launch sites for one thing.’
‘The ship would take a rocket though?’
‘I reckon so but …’
‘One of the big ones?’
‘Yea. But …’
‘Let’s wait and see. I wasn’t so worried about the cargo. We’ve put one over on the CIA that’s the main thing, lad. Well done. Well done.’
‘Bloody schoolboy tricks,’ said Boysie, not quite loud enough for Mostyn to hear.
*
Goldberg and Frankenstein did not make an appearance at lunch on the following day, even though the Warbash Admiral had changed course and was now moving steadily along the coastline which came into view around eleven-thirty.
Griffin returned to the fold soon after one in the afternoon, while Mostyn, Boysie and Chicory were leaning over the boat deck rail watching the activity which seemed to have suddenly activated the crew.
‘Feeling better, old lad?’ asked Mostyn giving Boysie one of his special roguish digs in the ribs.
‘Cor. Don’t want a go like that again,’ said Griffin. ‘Like a fleet of little minesweepers doing an operation on me guts. Terrible.’
‘A bug, I expect.’ Boysie, with one arm round Chicory, grinned.
‘Gather two of our CIA friends caught it as well,’ crooned Mostyn.
‘Oh. Is that why they weren’t at lunch?’ cooed Chicory who had been let into
the secret. ‘I saw Mr. Meyer just now in the saloon. He looked terribly tired.’
‘Hey,’ chipped in Boysie. ‘Is it my imagination or are we moving inshore?’
‘Hand me the telescope,’ muttered Mostyn.
The four watched as slowly the coastline changed. First, from a blue-grey blobby line into a more clearly defined land mass. They came closer and Boysie began to get the feeling that he had been there before. A spit of land jutted into the sea and, as they approached, one could make out strange skeletal shapes and geometric lines of white buildings.
‘Cape Kennedy,’ said Boysie.
‘No?’ Mostyn mocked. ‘We thought it was one of your beloved firework factories what with all those rockets. Wake up, lad, we’ve been looking at them for the past hour.’
‘Then we’re going to Port Canaveral. You might be right. A rocket.’
Mostyn looked at Boysie with the expression of one who is tired of holding his temper. ‘You doubted me?’
‘Well …’
‘Doesn’t do to have doubts about your uncle Mostyn, lad. Should’ve thought you’d have learned by now that when I say turn …’
‘We all turn,’ chorused the others.
‘Quite,’ said Mostyn.
They tied up in Port Canaveral just before two-thirty, and for the next three hours the GRIMOBO team, now joined by the CIA trio, watched the incredible scene as the Warbash Admiral was loaded with her supercargo.
The cargo itself lay placid in three sections on low rail trucks by the dockside. Three long, huge cylindrical objects, cocooned in what looked like a soft grey rubber.
The ship vibrated slightly as the whole deck opened up from the centre, the long hatch gently lifted by hydraulic jacks leaving the ship ripped open and exposing its entrails.
Down the centre of this great metal womb ran the line of cradles, arms reaching up to embrace the cylinders. Next followed the slow and precise business of winching each section up and on the creaking gantry crane which had slid into position, bridging the ship.
Then the lowering, so that the cylinder dropped gently into place, held securely by the cradle arms. After this the upper sections of the cradle had to be swung out, piece by piece, lowered, and clamped into position.
It was just before six o’clock that the technicians waved to the bridge and the hydraulic jacks came into play again, sealing off the Warbash Admiral’s innards.
At six-thirty the diesels started up, and, within the hour, they were at sea once more. At ten, the public address system crackled into life. By this time Boysie was snug in Chicory’s cabin, but the Captain’s voice held off pleasure.
‘This is your Captain speaking. Captain Bone. I am now authorized to inform all of you that, having opened the sealed orders under which we are sailing, we are making all possible speed to Milford Haven, England. Our cargo is, as most of you will have already gathered, a Saturn V rocket, together with an Apollo capsule. We are on a very special mission. One that all Universal Circle personnel should be proud to be concerned with …’
‘Get on with it,’ muttered Boysie.
‘Doing what I can, darling, but you’re not helping much,’ smooched Chicory.
‘Not you. Cap’n Flint up there.’
The Captain was still telling the Universal Circle personnel that this was their special way of serving the country they loved and its President.
‘It’s not very nice is it?’ said Chicory. ‘Like being watched by someone you can only hear.’
‘The object of “Operation Star” is purely peaceful and to maintain the bond of friendship between the peoples of the United States and Great Britain …’ continued Bone.
‘It says here,’ commented Boysie.
‘This Saturn rocket and Apollo capsule will be taken to London, there to be displayed as a memorial to the achievements of the United States Space Administration.’
‘Silly twits. A whole Saturn V on display in London. There’ll be protest marches all over the place.’
There was a tap at the door and Mostyn walked in.
‘Yow,’ cried Chicory, covering herself.
‘Hey, you can’t just walk in …’
‘Never mind about that,’ said Mostyn. ‘Just keep still while I’m talking to you.’ He looked at the couple with disgust. ‘You heard that?’
‘Mmm.’ Boysie and Chicory shook their heads affirmatively.
‘Good. Well you’ll realize that we must play our part in seeing the wretched thing gets safely to Milford Haven. No more mucking about with the CIA chaps and …’
‘It was you that did the mucki …’
‘AND,’ Mostyn bellowed, ‘be on your guard. Constantly. Right?’
‘Right,’ repeated Boysie and Chicory.
‘Be on your guard,’ repeated Boysie when Mostyn left. ‘Who the hell wants a bleeding great piece of space hardware like a Saturn V. Everyone knows the details. Anyway. Me, I’m for an enjoyable cruise.’
CHAPTER FOUR
SWITCH
The commonest and cleanest cold-deck switch is pure sleight of hand. The sharper slips the cold deck out of his pocket into his lap. Drawing the pack on the table towards him for the deal, he drops it tidily into his lap, in the same motion snapping the cold deck into its place at the table’s edge.
SCARNE ON CARDS
Boysie never really knew what sea sickness was until their third day at sea after leaving Port Canaveral. The nagging jitters now lay behind him. What was there to fear from a docile Saturn V asleep in the hold? Time now to relax and get that sea cruise feeling. Time also to sensuate with Chicory. The next few days seemed bright and beautiful.
Then, on the second night, Captain Bone ordered all moveable gear to be lashed down, warning them that the Warbash Admiral would be passing through some ‘choppy water’ during the early hours and most of the next morning.
To begin with it was not too bad. Boysie following his usual routine, left Chicory’s cabin around four in the morning, and made his way around the boat deck observation platform, back to his own cabin.
He had just slid into the welcoming bunk when the first choppiness hit them. He slept, however, and even ate the breakfast brought by a chirpy steward in the morning.
The trouble began when he tried to get up. Boysie swung his feet on to the floor just as the ship bucked slightly. His head reeled without warning, while a preliminary rush of nausea hit his guts. The only answer was to stretch out on the bunk again and groan — with feeling.
Around noon, Boysie attempted to rise for the second time. He staggered, half-dressed, through the companionway on to the observation platform which, by this time, seemed as stable as a roller coaster. The sea was not running unduly high, but Boysie had the unpleasant sensation of being pitched about at an alarming angle.
On looking back, he seemed to recall seeing other ships bearing down upon them out of a less distracted sea. A head-cleaving pain ploughed into the core of his brain and he felt the nausea begin its vertical rise.
Sweating heavily, and anxious not to make a public exhibition of himself, Boysie wrenched his way to the cabin and into his bathroom. He even managed to lock the door before giving himself up to the miserable whirling world of sea sickness. Through it all he imagined that he could hear voices calling outside. The bathroom spun. Stomach corkscrewed. There was something unusual about the ship’s stability. His whole digestive tract was being turned inside out. Colour. Blotches of brilliant colour flashing on and off against the shower curtain. More nausea. Retching. Oh God, I want to die. Retch. Oh. Retch. Colours. Pounding in the head. Someone was running up a jet engine inside the skull. Retch. Pain. Colour.
It was a good hour and a half before Boysie returned to what might be termed a right state of mind.
Weak, and still miserable, he washed, groped his way into the cabin, put on a shirt and slacks and then made his way on to the observation platform for a much needed breath of fresh air. They were moving quite fast, the sea now flattened and calm.
‘Hold it. Stand perfectly still.’ The voice came, authoritatively, out of nowhere. Boysie whirled towards it.
Standing well forward on the observation platform was a tall young man in the uniform of the United States Marine Corps.
‘Now look …’ Boysie began, puzzled. He had not seen any Marines on board before.
‘No looks about it, buddy. Just come up to me. Come slow and easy like.’
Boysie decided that it was best not to argue. Especially as the Marine was holding an M15 carbine with the wicked eye of its muzzle staring unblinkingly at Boysie’s uneasy stomach.
*
The events which placed Boysie in his new predicament had begun shortly before noon. Mostyn was now in the habit of visiting Captain Bone around the noon hour, the Captain having a very superior brand of whisky at his disposal.
Mostyn was never sick at sea. Or if he was, he made certain nobody knew about it. Just before midday, he was holding forth, at some length, on the psychological facets of seasickness, when the Captain’s squawk box let out its nervous raspberry.
‘Captain here.’ Bone pressed the speak button while Mostyn lapsed into an aggravated silence. James George Mostyn disliked being interrupted, especially by a gadget.
‘Bridge here, sir. Officer of the watch. Three vessels and helicopter escort approaching us. Bearing Red, three-three-zero.’
‘Military vessels?’
‘Look like ocean-going cutters, sir. Like the Dallas, Hamilton and Sherman.’
‘Out this far?’
‘That’s what they look like, sir.’
‘Okay, I’m coming up.’ The Captain rose. ‘Seems we got company. Care to join me on the bridge, Colonel?’
Mostyn nodded his thanks and followed the bulky Captain out of his cabin, marvelling at the way in which he swung his large girth around with such ease in so small and confined an area.
The officer of the watch turned out to be the young man who had disturbed Mostyn while he was sheltering Boysie on the night of the jalap. ‘They’re over there, sir.’ He spoke rapidly to the Captain, pointing towards the three growing blobs scurrying towards them off the port beam. The blobs gave off white spews of foam as they pressed forward. Above them a brace of helicopters maintained station.
