by John Gardner
The Radar Officer was now handing out waxed paper cups of coffee, obtained from a streamlined automatic dispenser near the rear bulkhead. The coffee burned through the paper cup and Boysie upset half—soaking the right knee of his slacks. The sound of orders, leisurely transmitted, came from the Control Deck.
“Operational depth.”
“On, sir.”
“Forward sonar operating.”
“Clear ahead.”
“Thank you. Check me clear on sonar every five minutes, please.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“Full ahead.”
“Full ahead, sir. On. Maintaining full ahead.”
“Course set and constant.”
“Aye-aye, sir. Course set and constant.”
Below Boysie, the seat quivered to the ostinato rhythm of the turbines. The big air-conditioning ducts along the starboard side—above the two curved doors marked in red “Escape Tubes One and Two”—whirred efficiently. It was all very professional, ultra precise, thorough, steady and deadly, thought Boysie. But something was going to happen. Soon it would come. Death? Destruction? Anti-climax? Soon.
*
The cheif did not get into his office until after eleven on the Monday morning. He was in a filthy temper and bilious (the food had been good and rare in Hampshire). Consequently, the Chief did not do his usual scan of the DO’s week-end reports until the late afternoon. Even then it was only by chance that his eye happened to catch the note about Mostyn and San Diego.
“Strewth!” exclaimed the Chief grabbing for the telephone.
There was an hour’s delay for transatlantic calls—even on the closed line.
“Well, cut me in or something, you stupid whore,” he bellowed at the operator—who happened to be a devout Roman Catholic with two brothers in the priesthood and an aunt who was next in line for Mother Superior of an enclosed order of nuns near Leatherhead. “This is Top-Top-over-the-bloody-Top Priority.” The Chief, always concerned for his neck, was almost at panic stations.
*
It was twelve noon; seventy fathoms down, approximately forty-five miles due West of San Diego. The big motors were stopped and Playboy was lined up in the firing position. The US Navy observer and Rondinelli, the Security man, were returning to the Observation Deck after completing their guided visit round Captain O’Hara’s domain.
“Next two, please, sir,” said the Radar Officer.
“You go first, Oakes and I’ll follow in the rear,” said Braddock-Fairchild, smiling at the Army Major and ‘Tiger’, the Wing-Commander.
“Just as you like,” said the Army Major.
“OK by me,” said the Wing-Commander.
The Radar Officer wandered across to the American observers and started chatting to Rondinelli about the boredom of life in the Submarine Service.
Braddock-Fairchild leaned back, his lips an inch from Boysie’s left ear.
“You know what to do, don’t you?” said Commander Braddock-Fairchild, RN.
The question came so casually that it took Boysie a moment to realise its implications. Then the shock caught hold of his system. He felt like a badly made Gelée Hachée. This was impossible. Ridiculous.
“I beg your pardon?” said Boysie shakily.
“I said, you know what to do, don’t you?”
It was not impossible. The old salt was his opposition contact.
“No,” answered Boysie, the reply coming out like a catarrhal cough—a knotted ball of tension building up, strangling guts, windpipe, the lot. He still had not really grasped it. Priscilla’s Pa on the other side? No. But yes. And Boysie still had not the faintest idea what Operation Understrike entailed.
Braddock-Fairchild was alert, worry flecking his eyes. “Didn’t Gorilka brief you?”
“Yes ... I mean no ... You’re with ...?” Boysie groped for the correct words, re-thinking himself into the role of opposition agent. “... You’re with us?”
“Of course. Didn’t he even tell you that?”
“Said someone would contact me. What’s it all about?” Boysie was speaking in his normal voice.
“Keep it down, you fool. Oh God. Bloody oaf, Gorilka,” hissed Braddock-Fairchild. “Suppose it’s all Khavichev’s fault. Whenever he gets a new toy he has to play with it. No patience. That’s why we’re stuck with you. Well, quickly, listen to me. You’re armed, I hope?”
Boysie nodded. He would have to see this through. Before putting the fix on Braddock-Fairchild, he would have to go along with him—as far as he was able. At least he had to find out the object of the operation. He did not even dare denounce the Commander. Lord knew who else was working for the opposition—in here or on the Control Deck. Braddock-Fairchild was whispering rapidly.
“You’re here to assist with the take-over. O’Hara will collapse ...” (Perhaps O’Hara was in it as well, thought Boysie) “…When he does, I’ll deal with the radio and close the bulk-head. You get the Navigation Officer and anyone else you can. It’ll probably be a free-for-all. We’ll have to move fast. Just stand by me, and remember—ruthless!”
Boysie nodded unhappily. This was really playing it by ear. “You are an opposition agent ...You are an opposition agent ... You are an opposition agent ... Think like one ...Act like one...You are…” Boysie silently tried to motivate himself into his part.
*
Everything seemed relaxed and easy on the Control Deck when they stepped through the bulkhead.
“Good day, Commander. Good day, Mr Oakes. Happy to see you aboard.” Captain O’Hara shepherded them towards the centre of the curved control desk.
“So this is where you press the button?” Braddock-Fairchild did not appear to be in the least bit nervous. Boysie could feel his own thighs shaking.
“Well, Commander, it’s not so much a question of pressing buttons.” They were standing directly behind the Ballistics Officer now. “Our first shot, as you know, will be on the aircraft. In the centre here you’ll see the ICD Mk IV Homer setting control.” In the middle of the Ballistics Officer’s section of the desk, set apart from the other instruments by an inlaid circle of metal, was a small knob below a quarter-curved panel graded with numbers from one to five. The knob operated a sharp black and white needle. The needle pointed to the number four. “The setting is child’s play,” continued O’Hara, “In fact the ICD Mk IV could be operated by a five-year-old—as I am often telling Jimmy here.” Jimmy, the Ballistics Officer, laughed like a man who has had the same joke made about him many times before. O’Hara went on.
“There are five corresponding series on which the Homer can operate. One to five marked on this dial, The Homer in the target aircraft is—we hope—set to number four. So ours is also set to four. When we get notification that the aircraft is on course, Jimmy here switches on to the pre-selected countdown,” the switch was marked in brilliant red above the ICD panel. “From there on the firing is automatic and nothing on this earth can stop it. When the Homer in Trepholite’s nose picks up the corresponding Homer we get a winking light up here.” His hand moved high above the desk. Boysie could distinguish the small red bulb among the regimented dials. “When that starts blinking you know that blast-off will occur within sixty seconds. And I’m not even going to try and explain how…”
“Please don’t. There are times when I feel I would have been happier in Nelson’s navy.” Braddock-Fairchild smiled warmly: the look of one who eternally muddles through. “What about the guided shot?”
“Yea, well, I was just coming to that. It’s more complicated, of course ...”
“Before you start, do have a ju-jube, Captain. I know they’re your weakness ...” Braddock-Fairchild was holding a small plastic bag. There was a laugh from the Navigation Officer.
“Well, thank you, Commander.” O’Hara reached forward. “They’re my Navigation Officer’s weakness as well.”
“You have one too.” Braddock-Fairchild offered the bag to the Navigation Officer. “Anyone else?”
�
��I don’t mind. Thank you,” from the Ballistics Officer. He took a third sweet and popped it into his mouth.
Boysie could do nothing to stop what happened next. Braddock-Fairchild dropped the bag and stepped back. Boysie reached for the Makarov in his slacks pocket. The move was instinctive. In a second something was going to blow. But he had no idea what he was going to do about it. A choking sound came from the Captain who had both hands up to his throat. The Navigation Officer was trying to get out of his seat, gulping for air. Now the Ballistics Officer. O’Hara bent double and fell. There was a shout from the far end of the control desk. The Electronics Officer was moving. The Navigation and Ballistics Officers were both down now, writhing on the deck, next to their Captain: all three making noises like young pigs in an abattoir. Boysie heard a clang as Braddock-Fairchild closed the heavy bulkhead door; then a violent crash and the smell of cordite; then two more. Boysie had no chance to look round: the Electronics Officer and the Coxswain were diving at him. Out of self-defence, Boysie had his gun up. He tried to shout, but the Electronics Officer was nearly up to him. Boysie side-stepped; the man tripped and Boysie brought his pistol butt down hard. The Electronics Officer gave a winded “Hu!”, and fell across the Ballistic Officer’s legs. The Coxswain had passed Boysie, making for Braddock-Fairchild. There was another shot—sounding, in the confined space, like a bazooka shell. Boysie turned to see the Coxswain lurch forward grabbing at his stomach. He ended up in a heap by the Communications Officer’s seat.
Boysie’s first reflex was to pump every bullet in the Makarov’s magazine at Braddock-Fairchild, who was leaning, panting, against the tightly-shut bulkhead. But common sense somehow held his trigger finger. The Control Deck looked like the final act of a bad Elizabethan drama. O’Hara, and the Navigation and Ballistics Officers lay dreadfully still. The radio equipment had been shattered by two bullets and the young Communications Officer was slumped forward on the desk. There was a lot of blood round his neck. The Coxswain was certainly dead, and the Electronics Officer was going to be out for a long while. Boysie stupidly hoped that he had not hit him too hard. He felt horribly cold. Shock would not yet let him think about the terrible part he had automatically played in this carnage. He willed himself to think about essentials. He had to find out what Braddock-Fairchild had been instructed to do. The Commander was over on the starboard side now, fiddling with something high above the escape tubes, which were positioned as on the Observation Deck.
“Well done, Solev,” he was saying. “We were lucky, I didn’t expect three of ‘em to take the cyanide sweeties.” He seemed to have found what he was looking for. “This is the one, I think. Yes.” Boysie came up close behind him. The Commander was removing a small inspection hatch cover—quickly unscrewing the four small butterfly nuts that kept it in place.
“Air conditioning,” said Braddock-Fairchild. He had the hatch cover off.
“Hold it, will you; and give it back quickly when I shout.” Boysie, still stunned by the sudden slaughter that surrounded them, obediently took the small oblong of metal.
“Quickly! Close the vents.”
Boysie looked around. Fuddled.
“Oh, all right you fool. Do it meself.” Braddock-Fairchild stretched up to an hexagonal knob above the air conditioning vents and turned it in a series of sharp jerking movements. The ventilator flanges began to close. None of the air piped throughout the ship would be pumped into the Control Room.
“Don’t want the stuff bowling us over in here. Plenty of air to last until we leave.”
The Commander’s hand dipped into a pocket, bringing out a tubular plastic container about an inch long and quarter of an inch in diameter. Unscrewing the cap, he tipped two round glass phials into the palm of his right hand. Dropping the container to the floor, the Commander pushed his hand through the air conditioning hatch. Boysie heard a crunch as the phials broke on the inside of the pipe.
“Quick. The cover.” The Commander replaced it—screwing the nuts tightly in place. “Right, that’ll fix anyone else living and breathing on board. Right through the whole system. Be sprayed out of all the vents.”
“What ... What was it?”
“Not quite sure. Mild nerve gas of some kind. Gorilka provided it. Now, we’ve got a lot to do, Solev. A lot.” He was over at the Captain’s position on the control desk. Searching. “Here we are. HK 5 off.” The hand slammed down on the two Beam-Bender switches. “HK 5 on. Good. Now they won’t get an accurate fix on us.”
Boysie could stand no more of this, the shock was wearing off. If Gorilka had provided it, the odds were that the gas now being pumped through Playboy’s air conditioning ducts was lethal. He had stood by—no, assisted—while five men had died in here. Now he had helped to kill his colleagues behind the bulkhead door—and lord knew how many crew. Everything had happened so fast. If only he had thought about it: anticipated. He should have realised that Braddock-Fairchild was the only opposition agent on board. And he had let this happen. Just stood there incapable. Incompetent. Impotent.
“Oh Christ!” moaned Boysie internally.
He lifted the Makarov pistol and pointed it unsteadily at the Commander’s back.
“Just turn round from there and get your hands up,” he said, surprised that his voice sounded so calm.
Braddock-Fairchild stiffened. He did not turn or attempt to move, but just stood there, his big brown hands resting on the control desk.
“So,” said the Commander. “You’re defecting again are you, Solev. Gorilka told me to be careful with you. He warned me.”
“I’m not Solev. Gorilka’s boys got the wrong man. My name really is Oakes.” He felt as though a column of red ants were marching up his spine—shod in snow-drenched boots. He heard the Commander’s intake of breath. Over-confident, Boysie lowered his gun and started to move forward. There was a flurry of movement and a violent roar. Boysie felt himself being spun round against the hull. The Makarov was whisked out of his hand and he was going dizzy, clutching at his arm. Braddock-Fairchild had been quick, the automatic was still dribbling smoke. Boysie, down on one knee, could feel the blood trickling out of the wound high in his right arm. The old boy had been reasonably accurate.
“I should really finish you off now,” said the Commander. Strange, thought Boysie, through the pain and haze, his voice still had that very English upper-crust quarter deck growl. You did not associate that kind of voice with Commie sympathisers.
“But I think it might be better for you to go with the rest of them,” continued Braddock-Fairchild. “When Playboy explodes. It will be far more terrifying for you. And probably much more painful. Just desserts. Oakes, Just desserts.” Boysie’s vision was going—grey, then the black nothing of unconsciousness.
*
They got Birdlip out of the Main Control Centre, to take the transatlantic call, at about the same time as the police car —siren wailing—came bucketing up to the Main Gate of North Island Base. In the back of the car, white, haggard and tired, next to Police Captain Boyle, sat Chicory Triplehouse.
7 — ... STRIKE
Birdlip was a man in anguish. In the very centre of his conscience he knew that he had done the right thing. All available information had led him to mistrust the Englishman, Mostyn. Birdlip morbidly reflected that he had practiced the techniques of mental cruelty on Mostyn. He had brow-beaten him with words; sneered at him; been sarcastic; bullied and cajoled him. Then, in a matter of minutes, the world of Rupert Birdlip crumpled. A telephone call from England told him that this was the Mostyn—2IC of Special Security. To add to his woe, a peachy dame corroborated Mostyn’s story about the body in Room 30 at the Sleepy Bear motel. Birdlip just did not know where to look. He was, in fact, looking at the top of his desk. Mostyn, still exuding an air of deep injury, sat to his left. Across the room was lovely Miss Chicory Triplehouse. (“An amateur,” Mostyn had said, “employed by our New York man as an occasional courier. Didn’t really know what she was letting herself in for.”) She had t
old her story—from the moment that she was assigned as Boysie’s escort, until the previous night, when the police had picked her up uncommonly plastered in the bar at San Diego airport.
Chicory had, of course, disobeyed Boysie and gone to look at the cadaver. The experience had closed the circuit, causing mild shock; and on reaching the airport, Chicory had done nothing about getting herself a seat on a New York flight. Instead, she had gone to the bar and consumed highball after potent highball. First she had become maudlin, cried a little, and called the bartender “Joe”. But when—rather late on the Sunday night—she had started to remove her stockings, as a prelude to even more revealing divestiture, the barman had called the cops.
Chicory had awakened, late and uncomfortable, in the drunk tank at the City Jail. In the cold light of a hot hangover, she yelled for a policeman and babbled about a dead man in Room 30. Chicory’s statement was startling—particularly as the entire San Diego police force had spent a good deal of time laughing over the nut who had sent their Captain trailing after a nonexistent body. Now, telling her story to Mostyn and Birdlip, she thought of something else.
