Understrike

by John Gardner

  “So it must have been Boysie, not Vladimir, who came on down here,” she said. “Boysie was the only one who knew about Max in New York. Vladimir had never heard of him. Yet I distinctly remember him saying ‘Call Max when you get back to New York.’ It must have been Vladimir who was killed in the bed.” She was still near the hysterical fringe—the voice uncontrolled in the higher register.

  Then something else struck her. She had not bothered to mention her sexual adventures—not in any detail that is. But Mostyn, having that sort of mind, had worked out a fairly accurate picture for himself.

  “That bastard, Boysie,” thought Chicory. “He must’ve changed places. Geez, no wonder I thought they were so much alike. The rat!”’

  Mostyn said, “You all right, Miss Triplehouse? You look a bit flushed.”

  Mostyn hoped that she was right about Boysie, for, though he caused the 2IC more agony than any other member of the Department, Boysie was his particular creation. Out of a lump of provincial clay, Mostyn had moulded this man; breathed the breath of life into him; dressed him in fine raiment, and set him to work. Any psychiatrist would have also told Mostyn that he did not want to lose Boysie because it was through Boysie he could release the most sadistic and power-ridden facets of his personality.

  Birdlip, who had been very quiet until now, broke into the conversation. “Colonel Mostyn, don’t you think that we should really do something about Playboy? No matter if it’s the Commie or your man on board.”

  “There is only one thing to do—as I have been repeatedly telling you, old Birdmouth…”

  “. . Lip.”

  “…Lip. Playboy will have to be recalled. Game postponed owing to heavy machinations and an agent provocateur on the pitch. Should have thought you’d have already done something about that. Time like an ever-rolling stream and all that jazz.”

  Birdlip braced himself. “I think, Colonel, it would come better from you.”

  “What would?”

  “The news ... That the trials should be cancelled. Admiral Fullenhaft ain’t going to be too ...”

  “Pleased. No. I’ll bet: and you don’t want to be at the receiving end of his just wrath, old Bird ...”

  “lip ...”

  “Yes.”

  Chicory was left in the Guard Room, happy with three very tall and manly Marines, while Mostyn and Birdlip jeeped it up to the Main Control Centre, from which the Playboy-Trepholite trials were being directed.

  During the past twenty-four hours, Mostyn had been given a lot of time to think. He had approached the problem from every angle, and still intuitively felt that there was something of sinister importance about the whole affair. He could not settle for plain healthy sabotage, or the theft of Playboy. Just behind his conscious thoughts lurked the Coelacanth, the missing link, which would not come to the surface.

  The Control Centre was a long airy room with a wide glass wall reaching high to the ceiling and looking out to sea. About a hundred men and women, engaged in a complicated multitude of duties—from watching radar scanners to checking computers—were working with concentrated efficiency. At a central dais, above a vast chart of the Californian coast and the immediate Pacific, sat Admiral Charles Fullenhaft. Initially the Admiral was pleased to see Birdlip and Mostyn. This stage of the operation was routine and boring. Admiral Fullenhaft was a great one for ‘company’. But as Mostyn talked, so the Admiral became uneasy. From uneasiness his face became grave. Before Mostyn could finish his appreciation of the situation, the Admiral took action and picked up his hand microphone. The voice came deadly over the Control Centre loudspeaker system.

  “Admiral Fullenhaft speaking. Commander Stenway, will you recall Playboy: action immediate. This operation is postponed. And look, George, don’t have any truck with that son of a bitch O’Hara. Just get him back here. Tell him to surface and come home pronto. All sections relay that.”

  Commander Stenway, in charge of Communications—way down the room to their left—looked startled and then began talking fast to his underlings. Fullenhaft turned to Mostyn.

  “That satisfy you, Colonel?”

  “I think it’s the only thing to do, sir. I won’t be satisfied until Playboy’s back and my boy’s face to face with me.”

  “My, God, it’d better be the only thing to do. I’ll be the laughing stock of the United States Navy—not to mention the Submarine Service—if it isn’t.”

  Mostyn was watching the Communications Section across the room. There seemed to be a good deal of activity going on. Far more than was warranted by a simple recall order. He saw Commander Stenway pick up his microphone.

  “Stenway, sir. We cannot raise Playboy. They seem to have gone off the air.”

  The Admiral gave Mostyn a quick glance of alarm.

  “When did you last have them?”

  “Fifteen minutes ago. The normal quarter-hourly check.”

  “OK. Radar?”

  The officer in charge of radar had already been in puzzled conference with his staff.

  “We’re getting a mighty odd reaction here, Admiral. Looks as if Captain O’Hara’s got the HK5 operating.”

  “What’s the HK5?” Mostyn whispered to Birdlip.

  “Radar Beam-Bender.”

  Another voice came over the speaker system.

  “Both the Grumman Trackers report heavy radar interference consistent to HK5 device, Admiral.”

  “Hell!” said Fullenhaft, looking at Mostyn. “What d’we do now, sonny?” It was a long time since Mostyn had been addressed as ‘sonny’. He didn’t much care for it.

  “It looks as though we’re too late, sir.”

  “Yes.” The Admiral was on the brink of big decisions. “What subs have we on standby?” he asked his ADC.

  The ADC, true to that breed, had things at his fingertips. “Scabardfish and Seacat, sir.”

  “Make me a signal. Admiral Fullenhaft to Director Naval Operations Pacific Fleet. Request Scabardfish and Seacat, under way immediate. Surface, course due West at speed and await orders.”

  “Shall we move in some of the PT-Boats, sir? They’re nearest,” said the ADC.

  Mostyn followed the Admiral’s eyes down to the chart. Playboy’s position was marked by a blue plastic submarine which looked as though it had come out of a cereal packet. Other ships and aircraft were similarly marked. Mostyn could see that eight of the fast little PT-Boats were deployed in a circle of about three miles radius around Playboy.

  “No,” said the Admiral. “For God’s sake keep the firing area clear. Put a stop to that target aircraft and notify the helicopters to maintain their position. We don’t want the choppers moving over the area. If they do happen to loose off a Trepholite and there’s a ‘copter on top, the meeting ain’t going to be a happy one.”

  There it was. The click in Mostyn’s head at the words ‘top’ and ‘meeting’. Topmeet. The Prime Minister. “Ye Gods!” said Mostyn looking at the date inset on his watch. That figured. It was just possible. In his mind, Mostyn was doing some simple arithmetic involving flight times, speeds and altitudes.

  The Admiral was speaking to him.

  “We’ve got a flight of missile interceptors, ‘bout a 100 miles North West of Playboy’s firing position. I’m going to move them in just in case we get a Trepholite going astray. Though I doubt if they will be able to stop one. That missile’s pretty foolproof.”

  “It’s not armed though, is it?” asked Mostyn, as coolly as the tension would allow.

  “No, but if one happened to go astray inland it could plough up a mighty big patch of real estate.”

  “And if it hit an aircraft?”

  “Write off. Impact would blow an airplane right out of the sky. Why?”

  “Oh nothing.” Casual: Mostyn did not want to start a panic. For one thing he did not know who was supposed to be appraised about Topmeet. “Admiral, d’you think I could possibly have a scrambled line to your security boys in San Francisco?” Mostyn hoped that he did not sound too worried.r />
  *

  There was a snake around his arm. A mammoth Mamba coiled from his wrist. It was biting high up near the shoulder. Boysie lashed out with his left hand. The pain was like a white-hot twisting branding-iron. Boysie moaned and opened his eyes. Then he remembered. The pain was real enough. The top of his arm throbbed with great regular punches—juddering stabs to a steady beat. The back of his throat felt dry, and a Black and Decker power drill seemed to be easing its way through his frontal lobes. Boysie screwed up his eyes—as though trying to swill the pain from behind them. Slowly he raised his lids again, lifting his head. He was propped against the bulkhead. A more definite focus returned. He could see a pair of shoes—too heavy, with large rounded toes. A square, thought Boysie. His eyes moved upwards. Commander Braddock-Fairchild RN was sitting in the Captain’s chair, swivelled round to face him, the automatic pistol lying on his lap. The old pirate was smiling.

  “Glad you’ve wakened up, Oakes. In time for the fun, eh?” said the Commander, the smile changing to a leer.

  Boysie tried to muster energy, then realised that he did not care very much. Someone had once told him that dying from severe injuries, or a serious disease, was easy. You were too weak and tired to care. He looked at his arm. This is stupid, he thought, beginning to live a little. It’s only a flesh wound; you’re not going to die from that. Then he remembered the Commander’s last words before unconsciousness: “It might be better for you to go with the rest of them when Playboy explodes.” As memory returned so did fear; and with it Boysie realised a terrible hatred for Braddock-Fairchild.

  “I suppose your precious Priscilla’s in on this?” Was all he could think of.

  The Commander stopped smiling—a squall among the heavy lines above his eyebrows. “No. Afraid Priscilla’s never taken to her father. Knows very little about me really. Mother’s girl. I never got on. Never got on with her mother come to think of it. But then nobody did.”

  “You’re a bloody fine advertisement for Dartmouth aren’t you?” Boysie seemed to be deliberately needling him. The Commander stared—eyes fixed and chilly. The look had a cutting edge.

  “D’ye know, believe I am. The Country. The Service. Never been the same since the war. No guts. No drivin’ power. No discipline. To me it’s as though the whole British nation’s been wallowing in a hot bath. All velvet, mixed up with leather, nylon underwear and cheap plastics. Vitality sapped. Affluence run riot. Everyone’s an expert. No one’s expert. All teach yourself, the free libraries, night school and the short course. England’s an adaptation from an original country. All genuine imitation. No discipline.” The voice was hard with belief. This was the political dogma of Communism translated into shining faith and misapplied. The Commander hated his own country and her political leanings like a saint loathes the very idea of sin. “No discipline.” He repeated. “Only one country got it. Only one country to admire these days. Wonderful how they’ve pressed on. Had to of course. Still pioneers.” He shook his head firmly. “England? Finished. Good God, man, you must see that. No goal. Not any more. Nothing to pioneer. Finished. Done for. New kind of colonialism now. Got to be ruthless to save mankind from itself.”

  “So you’ve left the sinking ship.”

  “Sensible thing to do. Never believed in going down with something that has become worthless. Got to progress. Got to search for a true and decent way of life.”

  Boysie tried to move himself into a more comfortable position. The Commander’s hand dropped to the gun butt.

  “It’s all right. Just shifting.”

  Braddock-Fairchild looked at his watch. “Haven’t got long to wait anyway. Ten minutes. Fifteen at the most. But of course you don’t really know what it’s all about do you?”

  “Nobody’s had the courtesy to tell me.”

  “Shame. I put your mind at rest? Be in the best fictional tradition eh? Minutes slipping away while villian explodes evil plot.” Braddock-Fairchild was smiling again. Then the man’s features went suddenly grave, as though someone had pulled a switch. “Well! The Prime Minister’s getting the chop to begin with.”

  Silence. To Boysie it seemed a remote thought. Remote and absurd.

  “What d’ye think about that?”

  “There’d be some who’d say you were doing the country a service.”

  The Commander nodded agreement. “Yes. Quite. That’s why he’s only an incidental factor.” A smile like a rasher cut on number five of the slicer. “Did you listen to any of Admiral Fullenhaft’s briefing, or were you asleep all the time?” He did not expect an answer. “Much of what he said was accurate. Too accurate. Didn’t mention, of course, that they’ve got the hulls laid down for seven Playboy Class submarines. Didn’t mention that Trepholite is ready to go into full production. D’ye remember he said the Playboy- Trepholite complex gave the Americans the edge on any navy in the world? Well, that’s the truth. The literal, exact truth. And in this game of the nuclear balance of power it is a factor of vital importance. Y’see?” Boysie shifted again. The hard old hand tightened round the automatic. The voice never faltered. “Real advance is this miniature warhead. Dies Irae. Remarkable. Size of warheads always been a problem. All the major countries been working on them. All want high-powered rockets with warheads no bigger than a walnut producing Hiroshima plus 1000 bang. Well, Americans have gone ahead in that race.” An almost furtive grin moved across the weathered face. “But it seemed a pity—when I was right on the spot—to let them keep ahead. Original plan was to disrupt the trials and dispose of a lot of people concerned with the Playboy-Trepholite project. Redirect Playboy’s Trepholites, on a low-angle trajectory, at a couple of targets on North Island. Then blow Playboy. Without warheads could still’ve knocked out lots of the top men. Two of the things—with boosters going—crashing into the Control Room back at the Base. Make a rousing accident. Nasty mess.”

  “Yes,” said Boysie without enthusiasm. He could imagine the small-scale havoc two runaway missiles would cause.

  “But that was before the Prime Minister and his travelling companion. ‘Bout a fortnight ago. Changed all plans. Moscow went mad. Then you turned up as well. That was a mistake. Complicated the issue.”

  “Oh?” Boysie’s arm seemed to have become less painful. Or his senses were getting used to the throbbing.

  “You keep abreast of politics, Oakes? Or is the political scene something you choose to ignore—like most of the British ostriches?”

  Boysie kept his mouth closed. Braddock-Fairchild hardly stopped for breath.

  “If you read the newspapers—which I doubt by the look of you—you will know that your Minister of Defence is at present having talks with the President of the United States of America. You’ll also know that the PM’s recently taken it into his head to make unscheduled visits to consult with the President. Some say he can’t make a decision by himself.”

  Boysie nodded. “Others say he’s trying to keep his left hand from knowing what his right hand is doing.”

  “Twelve weeks ago. Three-day conference in Washington. Nothing announced until the PM was safely back in Downing Street.”

  Boysie knew all about that one. VIPSEC (a sub-section of the Department of Special Security which dealt with the co-ordination of other departments regarding security measures for British VIPs) had been going wild about the Prime Minister’s cloak and dagger operations. Mostyn had been called in to do a lot of oil pouring.

  “Couple of weeks ago,” the Commander went on, “he arranged another of these clandestine meetings. A big one. Only a handful of people in the know—security, airline, and, of course, the organisation which employs me. We planted a man close to the present Head of State years ago. When he was only one of the bright, rising boys. Just on the off chance. Years ago. Long before I saw the light. Fellow’s paid dividends.”

  “Proper little Co-op,” muttered Boysie.

  “And this time. For this visit—our man with the PM tells us—he’s bringing a little friend with him. Bunch
of the North Island boffins flying off to meet them after the trials.”

  “Well?”

  “Ever heard of Dr Lund?”

  “Adolph Lund?” Complete uncontrolled anxiety.

  “Adolph Lund,” repeated the Commander.

  Boysie certainly had heard of Dr Adolph Lund. It was Mostyn himself who had supervised the German nuclear physicist’s spiriting from East to West Berlin. The protection of Adolph Lund had been on the Top Priority list ever since. Boysie had even done a short stint with the security staff who kept the doctor in his scientific cocoon—surrounded by barbed wire and guard dogs—deep in the heart of Essex. Boysie had been forced to leave that particular duty after only two days, following an unfortunate incident with one of the guard dogs with whom he had inadvertently tangled. Animals always seemed to spot the timid side of Boysie. But Lund, a scientific recluse, was said to be Britain’s most valuable spoil from behind the Curtain. Single handed he had resolved the early teething troubles of the Frobisher Tracker Rocket. And Boysie thought he remembered hearing something about a project for scaling down nuclear warheads. Braddock-Fairchild was talking again.

  “Lund, you know, is the real reason why America has gone ahead in the race for the effective small warhead. Lund was working on it behind the Curtain before he decided to play traitor and run to the West. Put my friends months behind, while America got the answer—in spite of the fact that your people kept Lund in purdah. But we’ll catch up with America. Soon we’ll catch up. Lund left a lot of papers behind. Only a matter of time. Matter of months.” He paused to swallow noisily. “Not the point now. Dr Lund, we hear has already dated Trepholite. Claims to have the basic design for a warhead only half the size, and twice as powerful, as Dies Irae. See what that means? Puts the West two jumps ahead instead of one. Can’t have that. Oh no.” He began to speak very slowly and distinctly. “And Adolph Lund, who never moves, who is never seen, who is guarded more closely than the Crown Jewels, is coming out of his shell—travelling with the Prime Minister to meet the President. Obvious why. England again. He’s the most astute scientific brain in the field and can’t afford to develop any of the brain’s products ...”