Lieutenant Robert Simpson was the supply officer on board HMS Retribution. He found it odd walking through the empty passageways of the submarine when half the crew were on shore leave. The lower-ratings’ recreation area was almost deserted, and whole compartments of bunks had not been slept in that night. It reminded him uncomfortably of one summer during his childhood, when he had had to spend the half-term holiday on his own at his boarding-school because his family had been abroad.
Today would be busy for Simpson; he had to complete his inventory of foodstocks and other supplies, and place orders for the rest of their voyage, allowing a generous reserve for emergencies. Known in naval jargon as the ‘Pusser’ or Purser, his job was more like that of an hotel manager than a sailor.
In the galley the leading chef handed over his list of the most urgently needed food items, and asked Simpson how many of the officers would be at lunch that day. Simpson told him that six were on shore leave, but there would be two visitors on board.
As he headed back towards the middle of the submarine, where lay the control room and the officers’ accommodation, he began to wonder about those visitors. At breakfast in the wardroom that morning, the captain had refused to be drawn on the purpose of their visit. Simpson had resented the look of cold dismissal in Carrington’s eyes when he had asked. It was as if the captain did not consider him a real officer, and certainly not one who could be trusted with secrets.
The visitors were due aboard soon after 8 am, and Simpson was loitering close to the forward hatch then. For Robert Simpson was not just the ship’s ‘Pusser’; he had a personal mission of his own to carry out, one that he had been planning and dreaming of for a full five years.
He had been a member of Retribution’s crew for less than a year, so did not recognise Peter Joyce as he climbed down the ladder. One of the petty officers did, however, and remarked within Simpson’s hearing that the stranger was ‘that bloke from Aldermaston’ who had been on board the previous autumn.
Simpson followed, as casually as he could, while the visitors were escorted by Lt. Commander Phil Dunkley towards the stern. But, in the passage leading to the missile chamber, he saw his way would be blocked by the unusual presence of an armed sentry, and so he turned back.
‘Curious!’ he muttered to himself. ‘Never seen that before.’
The submarine crew had been told they were to perform a routine missile test within the next few days, but Simpson knew from hints dropped in the wardroom that the test was to be far from routine – the missile in question being the first to be fitted with the new Skydancer warhead system. He had also read the news summary from Britain which came through to the submarine by telex, and which included a report on the missing Polaris papers in London. With the sudden clandestine arrival of the scientists on board, he began to divine a connection here.
Peter Joyce was not feeling his best after a night of little sleep. He removed the jacket of his light-grey suit and hung it on a hook next to the launcher control panel, whose lights and dials would reveal whether the missile gyros and arming mechanisms were operational when the weapons were fired. Hanging from the same hook was an old baseball bat, to be used as a cudgel by the missile technicians in case any member of the ship’s company suffering from mental derangement or troubled conscience should ever try to interfere with the countdown.
‘Let’s check those boxes, Jill,’ Joyce said, looking to see that the seals had not been broken overnight. His assistant ticked off the contents against an inventory.
As Peter turned to the Polaris Systems Officer to explain what they had to do, he spoke directly, aware that Dunkley was one of the few members of the crew of HMS Retribution who had been trained in the workings of the new warheads.
‘I’ll need my assistant with me for this,’ Dunkley said soberly after Peter had described the task ahead. ‘We operate a two-man rule when doing anything to the missiles. It’s in the regulations. It avoids mistakes as well as keeping the security people happy.’
Peter nodded. On the side of each of the sixteen launch tubes was a circular access hatch about two feet in diameter, secured tightly to withstand the colossal pressure inside from the gas used to eject the missiles at the start of the launching process. With his assistant watching his every move, Dunkley wrenched at the two-handed brass key that released the securing bolts, and swung the hatch open. The curved skin of the missile with its matt-grey radar-absorbing paint could be seen inside.
‘Have you got the tray there?’ Dunkley asked. They had to take great care when the hatch was open so as not to drop anything down between the missile and the side of the tube. The assistant PSO passed him a tray which bridged the gap precisely.
The task which Peter had outlined was complex. After opening the launch tube, the PSO had to unscrew a second panel on the missile itself, uncovering the rotating ‘bus’ on which the warheads were mounted. Each re-entry vehicle in turn would have to be rotated in line with the opening, so that a printed-circuit memory board could be withdrawn from its internal computer for reprogramming. The components would then need to be replaced with the greatest care.
It was half an hour later before the engineer handed over the first board of microchips to the scientists. The magnetic bubble memories on the card looked like miniature tablets of Swiss chocolate. Jill Piper slotted the board into a test socket mounted on a programmer, which in turn was connected to one of the microcomputers they had brought with them from Aldermaston. Her fingers flew expertly across the keyboard, and row upon row of data rolled across the screen, signifying that the circuitry was functioning correctly. With a few more deft key-strokes, she ordered the equipment to erase the data in the memories and replace it with the programme written on the flight over from Britain.
After comparing a printout of the new data with the original, Peter Joyce was satisfied, and returned the board to the engineer for fitting back into the warhead. Six times this process was repeated before the scientists could make their final check. They connected a lead to a test socket on the ‘bus’, fed in electronic instructions, and read on the computer screen the responses from the individual warheads.
‘I do believe we’ve done it!’ exclaimed Peter, grinning in triumph. He reached across and firmly shook the hands of the two submariners in turn.
‘I wish I knew exactly what it was I’ve just done!’ Dunkley joked modestly. ‘All I know is I’m damned glad I don’t have to tinker with the thing every time we launch a missile!’
Peter observed the look of expectant curiosity on the officers’ faces. ‘Look, I’d love to tell you what this is all about, but I just can’t. It’s extremely secret.’
‘Something to do with that spy business in London?’ Dunkley ventured casually.
‘You really mustn’t press me. I am sure you’ll make your own assumptions anyway. But it really would be best if you didn’t speculate too much, particularly not in front of any of your colleagues,’ Peter added.
‘Point taken. Now, how about a spot of lunch?’ Dunkley answered, putting an end to the conversation.
As they entered the wardroom, Lieutenant Bob Simpson slipped past them.
‘I’ll tell the captain you’re here, Mr Joyce,’ he announced.
‘Would you like a drink? I’m certainly in need of a pint.’ The PSO headed for a small cupboard in a corner and opened it to reveal a barrel of beer.
‘Excellent idea!’ Peter exclaimed, beginning to relax.
‘We don’t drink much when we’re at sea, but in harbour . . . well, that’s a different matter,’ Dunkley chuckled, handing out the brimming glasses.
‘Ah, Jill, did they find somewhere suitable for you?’ he inquired as Peter’s assistant was escorted into the wardroom.
‘Yes, fine thanks,’ she breezed. ‘I can’t remember having a guard when I’ve been to the loo before!’
‘Well, we couldn’t have any of our young sailors bursting in on you, could we?’ Dunkley snorted. ‘Drink?’
‘Just an orange juice, thanks.’
The young supply officer re-entered the wardroom.
‘The captain wonders if you could spare him a few minutes in his cabin, Mr Joyce,’ Simpson ventured. ‘He would like a quiet word before lunch.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Peter replied, placing his pint mug on the wardroom table.
When he had left the room, Simpson turned his attention to Jill.
‘We don’t often have the pleasure of having ladies visit the Retribution,’ he began awkwardly. He had a shy nature. ‘Been doing something special have you?’
For a moment her face froze at his outright enquiry.
‘Oh no, just checking the sparking plugs,’ she answered sweetly.
‘Just wanted to ask how things have gone this morning,’ Carrington questioned when they were alone, keen to know more but not wishing to pry beyond the areas of information he was entitled to know.
‘Yes, of course. Well, we’ve completed our work successfully, thanks to your excellent systems officers,’ Peter answered formally. ‘The warheads on the test missile have now been reprogrammed, and within a few days you will probably get your orders to launch.’
He paused, and studied the unsatisfied look on the captain’s face. He would have to tell him more.
‘In absolute confidence, I suppose I shall have to confirm what you are all guessing: this sudden crisis with the test missile is connected with that secret document found in a rubbish basket on Hampstead Heath.’
‘It did seem the most likely reason for your visit, I must say,’ Carrington’s thin face creased into a fleeting smile.
Peter puffed out his cheeks, then let out a long steady breath as he lowered his heavy frame into a small armchair covered with the yellow and green floral print that was standard issue for Royal Naval officers’ quarters.
‘It’s a weird business,’ he ventured in a half-whisper.
‘It’s serious, is it? We couldn’t tell from the news reports,’ Carrington responded in the same hushed tone. ‘The Russians presumably?’
Peter shrugged and shook his head.
‘That’s just the trouble; no one seems to be sure. At least they weren’t when I left England yesterday. But we’re having to assume the Soviets have got hold of some very sensitive information. Hence all these last-minute changes.’
For several minutes more they talked around the subject, with Peter increasingly careful not to reveal any details of the alterations to the missile warheads, nor of the precise purpose behind them. When Carrington stood up and suggested they return to the wardroom for lunch, he had realised he would learn no more.
The normal Royal Naval routine is for the captain to take his meals in his own cabin, but the tradition is different on a submarine, where there is a certain levelling of the ranks due to the lack of space and a dependence on the reliability of every individual for their joint survival under water.
Over lunch, a naval version of chop suey described on the menu as ‘Chinky Nosh’, Carrington led the conversation on to the harmless subject of the perils and pleasures of shore leave in Florida. Peter Joyce hardly noticed how the young lieutenant at the end of the table was staring at him with ill-concealed curiosity.
The conversation had not progressed far, however, when a signaller knocked at the wardroom door and handed in an urgent telex from London. It was addressed to Peter Joyce, and an awkward silence descended on the table as the naval men surreptitiously watched the scientist’s expression for some hint of what the message contained.
‘They want me back in London as soon as possible,’ he announced, frowning.
The rest of the meal was hurried and confused, as messages were sent to Patrick Air Force Base to alert the crew of his RAF plane that he must return to Britain that same afternoon.
Two thousand miles south of Cape Canaveral, in the steamy heat of mid-Atlantic, the 21,000-ton Soviet ship Akademik Sergey Korolev dropped her speed from the seventeen knots at which she had been steaming for most of her journey from the Black Sea. She had reached her ‘station’ now, and would simply have to wait and watch, training her massive radar and telemetry antennae on the segment of the upper atmosphere used by the US Navy’s Eastern test range.
It had taken two weeks to sail from Sevastopol in the Crimea, down through the NATO-controlled narrows of the Bosporus and Gibraltar and out into the Atlantic. It was a journey the ship had undertaken many times in the past, with her alternate missions of observing and listening in to the latest Western missile tests or of acting as a tracking station and data relay terminal for her own country’s extensive activities in space.
Her departure from her home port had been very rushed this time, though, triggered by a message that had originated in Scotland.
At the moment when the Retribution had submerged beneath the waters of the Clyde, heading out for the Atlantic, and had escaped the attentions of a Soviet submarine, the Korolev had been steaming slowly past the Golden Horn of Istanbul. Her passage had been reported by Turkish naval officers to NATO’s Southern naval intelligence headquarters to Gaeta in Italy, and the information had been fed into the central files of Alliance intelligence data, to which the British Royal Navy had access.
A few days later, as the Korolev was passing under the eyes of British observers on the Rock of Gibraltar, she had received a coded signal from Moscow reporting the dates that HMS Retribution had been allocated on the American missile range off Florida. This had given her little time in which to reach the area of the Atlantic where the missile warheads would splash down into the sea, and where she would be able to observe them with accuracy.
Kapitan Karpov sat in his cabin with his feet up, smoking a cigar. He was happy to have arrived on station on time, and not to have missed the ‘party’, but the ship’s maintenance reports that he was studying did not please him. Most of the air-conditioning plant was unserviceable, and what was left of it had to be used to keep the temperature down in the massive racks of electronics that powered the gigantic dish aerials on the upper deck. He hoped desperately that the British would get a move on with their missile test, so he could steam north again to a climate that was not so uncomfortably hot and humid.
As the pale grey RAC VC10 sped back across the Atlantic carrying its two passengers, Peter Joyce stared absently out of the window at the streaks of cloud below, tinted by the setting sun.
The world was such a miraculous creation, still able to withhold many of its secrets. How strange, he thought, that people should devise two totally opposing concepts of how to prevent it from being destroyed. Particularly strange since both concepts claimed to base themselves on an understanding of human nature.
He had argued this issue so often with Belinda – until the time had come when they could no longer discuss the subject because of the stress it placed on their relationship.
Though Peter admired the eloquence with which Belinda made her own anti-nuclear case, he still could not accept it. There was a logic to both their arguments, but he was convinced his was the stronger. To his mind there was only one nation that posed any real threat to Britain’s survival, and that was the Soviet Union armed with tens of thousands of nuclear weapons. But he was not a ‘hawk’ and did not believe, like so many of those he met in Western military circles, that Russia was hell-bent on world domination. He did consider, however, that the Soviet Union was led by opportunists who would seize anything to their advantage given the chance. So the Western possession of nuclear weapons should prevent the big chance from ever arising.
As the VC10 headed east, away from the sun, the sky darkened rapidly, and Peter began to adjust his mind forward five hours, trying to attune to the fact that it was late evening in Britain.
He had lost track of the days, and had to do some thinking to work out it was Wednesday. He swore quietly when he remembered he was due to attend a parent-teacher meeting at the children’s school that very evening. He was active on the fund-raising committee, but he hoped Belinda would h
ave gone in his place.
It was odd this being called back to Britain at such short notice and with no explanation. Something else must have happened, some further development in the investigation. It could not be anything very positive, though, or they would have commented about his work on the missile and whether it was still necessary.
He thought again of Mary Maclean, and could not dismiss from his mind the fear that she could somehow be responsible for this crisis. The memory of the last time he had really talked to her still caused pangs of remorse. He felt he had handled it badly, but he knew of no easy way to end a love affair.
Soon afterwards he had taken his family on holiday to the Lake District, where they had sailed and gone walking on the fells. For Peter it had been like a period of rehabilitation; he’d concentrated wholeheartedly on getting closer again to Belinda and his children. He had found extraordinary pleasure simply being in their company, and he had achieved a certain peace of mind that week, an acceptance of how things must be from then on. But now that peace had been shattered by a dread suspicion which verged on paranoia.
Both women had the motive and the means to betray him. Peter winced at the realisation of how careless he had been.
Three months earlier when he had been to London to explain the Skydancer project to the ministers, he had carried the blueprints with him to Mary’s flat on the night he had ended their affair, then taken them to the Ministry, and then to his own home afterwards. Two major security lapses in forty-eight hours.
He told himself he had to stop the drift of his thoughts and try to concentrate on sleep. They would be landing back in England in the small hours of the morning. He looked across to the seat opposite where Jill Piper was dozing. The girl had been disappointed at the brevity of her first visit to America, but was oblivious to the complex reasons behind it.
Skydancer Page 10
