by J. S. Law
They walked on in silence for a while.
‘Can we get straight on to the ship now? I’m sure I just saw her coming back in.’
‘Boat,’ John said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Submarines are boats, not ships.’
‘Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said with an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
She turned towards him, not stopping. ‘You know, John, I feel like you have an issue with me and I do wonder if it would have been better if you had declined this assignment.’
‘Planned to,’ replied John. ‘Tried to.’ His voice was matter-of-fact. He watched the pavement directly ahead and made no move to face her. ‘Commander Blackett called me directly, would have me and only me.’
Dan turned to look at him as she walked. ‘He asked you before me, knowing I was going to be the lead? Told you it would be me?’
John nodded.
Dan pursed her lips and felt her cheeks go red. ‘And?’ she questioned.
‘And he’s a Commander and I’m a Master at Arms. He said I had to do it and so I had to do it; that’s how it works in the Royal Navy. It’s a very hierarchical environment.’
Dan shook her head again, making no attempt to hide it this time. She just felt powerless to fire. A comment about how he might adhere more closely to the hierarchy and show a little more formality jumped to mind, but she knew full well that he was a professional investigator in his own right. He had been trained and nurtured to operate in a strict rank structure, but to think for himself, to recognise and respect other people’s views, opinions and skills. Pulling rank on a senior Master at Arms would do little more than set him against her more firmly.
A young female sailor was walking towards them and Dan accepted her salute, returning it.
‘Phone away, young lady,’ boomed John, ever the policeman.
The sailor looked sheepish and slipped the phone that had been carefully concealed in her left hand into her pocket.
‘I don’t want to see that again, please,’ he added. ‘The call can wait until you’re in your cabin. Understood?’
‘Yes, Master,’ said the girl, and turned, almost marching now as she carried on up to her accommodation.
Dan swallowed as they walked on, annoyed at John for this and not really sure why. It was his job to maintain discipline and order and his authority as a Master at Arms stretched across all naval real estate.
Ahead of them now, illuminated by street lighting around the exclusion zone, the conning tower of HMS Tenacity began to rise into view.
Dan knew it had to be Tenacity, the only Trafalgar-class submarine currently alongside, the other six elsewhere or decommissioned to make way for the new Astute-class submarines that would shortly be in service.
‘Who’s on board?’ she asked, as they neared the submarine exclusion area.
John stopped and held out a hand for her to do the same.
‘That’s the exclusion zone,’ he said, not looking at her and obviously refusing to acknowledge her tone. ‘Like a security perimeter. We need to wait here and be signed in.’
He walked over and showed his ID card to the Health Physics Monitor.
They spoke for a few moments before he returned.
‘The Commanding Officer is on board, Commander Melvin Bradshaw,’ he said. ‘He’s going to meet you. He has the Marine Engineering Officer with him too, and the Coxswain is bound to be there somewhere. The engineers should finish off shutting down the plant soon, but the boat will still be busy, so we might have to wait a while.’
Tenacity’s tall black conning tower was the only clearly visible part of the boat. It was rocking gently with the ebbing tide, the remainder of the submarine hidden below the dockside wall.
Dan knew enough about submarines to know that the masts sticking out of the tower were likely to be communications masts, tall enough to penetrate the surface whilst the submarine remained dived and out of sight. A smaller mast at the back looked as though it was shooting out a pressurised jet of steam.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, gesturing to John, conscious not to sound too sharp.
‘Diesel exhaust mast. Sometimes they run diesel generators to give extra electrical supplies when the reactor’s shutting down. They should have shore-side electrical power,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘Must be a problem with the shore supply for it to be taking this long.’ He pointed to three thick black electrical cables that ran across the jetty and disappeared over the side.
He stepped forward into the exclusion area and nodded to the Health Physics Monitor, assuring him that they wouldn’t go too far.
Dan followed.
A cluster of hats came into view towards the back end of the submarine. Around them, people were moving about on the submarine’s casing, out of sight from those outside the exclusion zone.
To Dan’s left and past the conning tower, a number of sailors appeared near to the forward gangway. Dan watched them line up atop the black casing.
‘Do you know what they’re going to do?’ John asked, still without looking at her.
Dan pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘Strange bunch, all of them,’ she said.
He chuckled, sounding genuine, and nodded. ‘They are that. I’m one.’ He pointed to the set of gold dolphins that were pinned to his shirt above the left pocket.
All of the submariners wore them on their white shirts or dress uniform. The submarine insignia: a gold badge showing two dolphins facing each other with their snouts meeting below a crown. Submariners wore it on their belt buckles and their lanyards, it was on T-shirts and even watches. To a man, they seemed to covet this badge and wish for everyone around them to know they’d earned it.
‘Something needs to be a little bit different about someone who spends months locked away in one of them. No daylight, no news, no contact with families or loved ones,’ John was saying. He paused as he watched the men on the casing quickly arrange themselves into a straight line.
A voice command, barely audible in the wind, brought them to attention as a short, fat man, the Commanding Officer, Commander Melvin Bradshaw, judging by the gold braid on the peak of his uniform cap, climbed up the ladder that led from within the submarine and stepped onto the casing. A tall, wiry Senior Rate with a slight limp followed him as he walked towards the line of young sailors.
‘They’re getting their dolphins today,’ said John, and smiled.
Dan looked at him out of the corner of her eye. It was late in the day and she could see his thick black stubble shadowing across his face. She knew he would continue to talk to her now; she’d received many of his friendly monologues in the three years they had worked together, before she’d caught Hamilton. John was always willing to share knowledge and experience, and was unable to sustain any kind of hostility towards anyone for long, a man that thrived off the team around him.
‘The Old Man – that’s what they call the Commanding Officer of a submarine – he’ll give them a speech about what it means to be a submariner. Then the Coxswain gives them each a measure of rum. Their dolphins are at the bottom of the glass. They have to down the rum in one and catch the dolphins in their teeth. Then they’re in.’
‘They’re in?’ she asked.
He turned to look at her. ‘They’re in,’ he agreed.
‘Drink rum and catch a badge in your teeth and you’re in. All sounds reasonable,’ she said, slowly, sarcastically.
Dan watched the men on the casing. She saw the Old Man talking to them, but wasn’t able to make out what he was saying. Then she saw the rum being poured, the gold pin that bore the dolphins being dropped into each glass, and one being handed to each of the young sailors in turn.
In a single coordinated movement, they threw back their heads and downed the rum.
Dan stood in silence, waiting.
A chuckle escaped from John’s lips, raspy from smoking.
One of the young sailors fell to his knees, clutching at a hastily p
rovided bucket.
John’s laughter grew louder as the sound of the sailor vomiting rose above the noise of the wind.
‘Will he still get to keep the dolphins?’ asked Dan.
She watched Granger laugh for a second more and shake his head, not saying no, just enjoying being part of it again, even from a distance.
‘He’ll get to keep them,’ he said, and then cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Well done, Deeps,’ he bellowed.
The Commanding Officer and the Coxswain turned to see who had shouted. They seemed to recognise John, the Coxswain raising his hand in greeting, before both turned away quickly, shaking hands with all of the sailors.
Then, the ceremony over, the Coxswain climbed back down into the darkness of the submarine while the Old Man walked along the casing, heading aft. He disappeared from view, skirting around the base of the conning tower.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be allowed to go round the side of the conning tower,’ Dan commented. ‘It looks pretty narrow.’
‘There’s a handrail and enough space for your feet,’ John said.
‘And if you fall in?’
‘Then either you, or someone else that sees you fall in, calls Man Overboard. Then all hell breaks loose. The Queen’s Harbour Master gets called in, butts get kicked and names get taken and hopefully someone drags you out before you drown,’ said John. ‘So it’s just best if you don’t.’
Dan frowned. Then she looked around and walked closer to the submarine.
‘Dan,’ said John, surprised. ‘Ma’am,’ he corrected quickly, conscious of people around them.
‘It’s ma’am like jam, not ma’am like smarm,’ said Dan, flashing a smile, and then she turned away, walking towards the edge of the jetty.
On the casing a number of sailors, mostly in blue overalls and black berets, appeared to be pulling at the black cables and shouting instructions down into the submarine through another open hatch.
Standing off to the side, a few feet from the conning tower, was a cluster of three men. One of them was dressed in blue overalls, as the many sailors around him were, but his sleeves were rolled up and his beret was in his pocket. Next to him was a face that Dan recognised, but couldn’t immediately place. The man was dressed in filthy white overalls and had also removed his beret; he looked as though he was in deep conversation with the Commanding Officer.
‘Hello, ma’am. Hello, Master.’
The voice came from behind and Dan turned to see that John Granger had followed her, albeit at a distance.
A few yards away from them both she saw a short, slightly overweight young sailor standing with a dishtowel in one hand. He used the towel to finish drying his hands and then offered Dan a relaxed salute.
‘I’m Able Seaman Ben Roach, ma’am,’ the sailor continued in a flowing cockney accent. ‘I’m the Old Man’s steward. Met you before, I think, Master?’ he said, gesturing towards John, but not pausing. ‘The Old Man is expecting you, asked me to take you down into the wardroom and get you a nice cup of tea.’
‘I think I’ll just go over and introduce myself first,’ replied Dan, already starting towards the aft gangway.
‘With respect, ma’am, the Old Man said to take you straight down.’
Dan ignored Ben and continued to walk towards the aft gangway that would take her from the jetty across to the submarine casing and allow her access to Commander Bradshaw. As she approached, she could see that the Old Man was on the phone. She began to hear his booming voice as it carried above the sound of the wind and waves.
‘I don’t care how short of dockyard workers we are; I don’t care who’s on strike or who’s not paying for overtime. I want my shore supply working and my boys out of here and in the bar by twenty-one hundred, is that absolutely clear?’
She could see that all of the men who were working on the cables were also half listening, smirks apparent on a few of their dirty faces.
Bradshaw used his free hand to firmly end the call and turned to the mass of blue overalls.
‘You finish this up, men. There’ll be a team down from inboard to sort their side out within the hour.’
He smiled, his particularly bushy eyebrows rising into a large ‘M’ as he did so.
There was a small cheer from some of the men as they carried on about their work.
Dan continued to approach, paused to step up onto the gangway, and watched the eyebrows drop into a furrowed frown as she did so.
‘Steward Roach, I asked you to take our guests to the wardroom,’ shouted the Old Man, completely ignoring Dan.
‘I did try to do just that, sir,’ replied the steward. ‘But ma’am was intent on meeting yourself right away, sir.’
Commander Bradshaw glowered at his steward.
Dan shouted into the wind. ‘I’m Lieutenant Lewis, SIB. Thank you for offering to support us while we’re here.’
The Old Man didn’t even look at her.
‘I asked Steward Roach to take you below and for you to wait in the wardroom,’ he said. ‘I will see you down there when I’m ready.’
With that he turned back to the small group of men again and began talking.
‘Dan,’ whispered John Granger from next to her left shoulder. ‘Let’s just go.’
‘Actually, sir, I understand that this investigation is time sensitive and so I’d like to get going straight away. Perhaps we could discuss an interview location and one of your crew could help me to draw up a list of who’s on board now. It would also be very useful if the crew—’
The Old Man spun around and glared at Dan. He took several paces across the small gangway, stopping a few feet away from her.
‘Ship’s company, Lieutenant Lewis; fishing trawlers have a crew. Her Majesty’s Submarines have a ship’s company.’
Dan could see that the men who had overheard the phone call a few moments ago were now listening to this exchange. She paused for just a moment, feeling like a scolded child.
‘Yes, sir, I’m—’
‘And my men have spent months at sea. We’ve had only this week in base-port in over four months and it hasn’t gone very well. Have you ever been on a submarine, Lieutenant Lewis?’
The Old Man didn’t wait for an answer.
‘No, I thought not. My men need to go home, or go to a bar, have a well-deserved shower, a beer and some food. Then, when they have done that, you will be able to book some time with them to ask what questions you need to ask. Is that clear?’
Dan became aware that the men on the submarine casing were no longer just listening; all work had stopped and all of the faces, most with smears of black, like soot or dark grease, were turned towards her, watching the exchange.
Her hands began to tremble with fury and her jaw, the barometer of her emotions, clamped tight shut. She looked around at the men, noting that none of them turned away from her, and took a deep breath.
‘I’ll wait for you, sir,’ she said, in a calm voice. She stepped back, saluted, and without waiting for the salute to be returned, turned away.
Steward Roach signed them in quickly and they began to walk towards the forward gangway.
Dan could see that this gangway was larger than the one at the aft end of the submarine. It led across from the jetty to the casing and touched down forward of a small blue hut that looked as though someone had mistakenly placed it on the submarine’s hull, the flat blue sides and square form-factor clashing with Tenacity’s black curves and smooth lines. Dan hadn’t seen one before, but knew that it was a bulletproof security box that was placed over the main access hatch, the main entry point to the submarine.
Steward Roach jogged a few paces to get in front of them and began to lead the way, talking immediately.
‘First time on a submarine then, ma’am? No problem. We don’t use the aft gangway very much; it’s only there in case we have an emergency on the nuclear plant, so that people can get off from either end without having to pass above the reactor compartment.’ He held out the
dishtowel and pointed towards the boat. ‘Those red marks there,’ he said, turning to look at Dan and pointing to some red lines painted onto the submarine’s casing. ‘They’re the marks that show you where the reactor compartment is, see?’
He led her across the gangway, seemingly unaware that she wasn’t really taking part in his impromptu tour. He entered the blue security box, which sat over the hatch to the submarine like a small shelter over a deep well.
The ladder that led down from the main access hatch was vertical and made of polished silver steel. An extension was fitted to the top of the ladder, allowing it to protrude up above the level of the casing, so that personnel could easily step onto the top rung and climb down into the belly of the submarine.
‘You’ll have to leave your laptop and phone up here, please, ma’am,’ said the steward, pointing at Dan’s bag and the obvious laptop compartment within it. ‘The Upper Deck Trot will keep an eye on it,’ he added, pointing to a sailor in green combats with a naval provost armband wrapped around his right wrist. ‘Just stick it in the corner of the Trot-Box – like a bulletproof Tardis, these things, and with your very own armed guard,’ he said jokingly, this time pointing to the other sentry, who was cradling an SA-80 rifle across his chest. ‘Can’t get no safer than that, I don’t reckon.’
Dan nodded and pulled the laptop out of her bag, her eyes never leaving the hole that led down into the submarine. She placed the laptop in the corner of the ‘Trot-Box’, peering into the boat as though looking down over a sheer cliff face.
‘Ready?’ asked John.
She turned to him quickly when he spoke, startled out of her thoughts.
‘Should we grab an office up in the squadron building to do this?’ she asked. ‘It’d be easier to be out of everyone’s way.’
John looked confused. ‘We’d be waiting hours for them to get off the boat; the Coxswain and the MEO might be here all night. If you want to get going, then it has to be here.’ He shrugged as if everything he had said was painfully obvious.
