Twenty Trillion Leagues Under the Sea (2 page)

2

THE CAPTAIN’S LAST SUPPER

Almost as soon as the
Plongeur
was underway, Captain Cloche requested the presence of both Indian scientists in his cabin. The men entered a little awkwardly, unused to negotiating the confined spaces of the craft.

‘Messieurs,’ said Cloche, without further preliminary. ‘There are few situations in which a robust chain-of-command matters as much as it does upon a submarine. We are not presently at war, but nevertheless. At one thousand metres below the surface of the sea, the slightest mistake is death. I trust I need not labour this point.’

‘Indeed not, Captain,’ said Amanpreet Jhutti.

‘I have studied, as far as my capacity permits me, the operation of the engine that powers this craft. I do not pretend to understand it entirely. I do not need to. As captain, my study must in the first instance be
people
. I have confidence in my crew. But I will say frankly to you, messieurs, that I do not know you; and I do not know your Monsieur Lebret either. I appreciate that he has been posted here by the direct authority of the minister of National Defence; and I understand that he has been supervising your work …’

‘Say, rather,
liaising
,’ said Jhutti. He spoke French fluently, although with a slight accent.

The captain was not used to being interrupted. He cleared his throat, thunderously. ‘So he is not, in effect, your superior officer?’

‘Not at all,’ said Ghatwala.

‘I have no disobliging impulses as far as Monsieur Lebret is
concerned,’ said the captain. ‘But I do not know him, and cannot pretend to be happy that he has been parachuted into my crew at the last moment. I am prepared to tolerate the presence of you two, messieurs, since this experimental “atomic” drive is clearly beyond the technical capacity of ordinary naval engineers. But I must insist that you operate under
my
authority at all times. I request an assurance from you, in short, that there shall be no conflict between my orders and those of Monsieur Lebret.’

‘We understand, Captain,’ said Jhutti, gravely.

‘Good. At any rate, I invite you all to join me for supper, this evening at seven. My
lieutenant de vaisseau
Monsieur Boucher will also be there. I suppose our Government “observer”, Monsieur Lebret, will also attend.’

‘You have no excess of love for your present Government I think, Captain,’ said Jhutti.

‘I avoid all political complications,’ said Cloche, with a severe expression. ‘Of whatever stripe. I only wish that political complications would similarly avoid me, and my work. But the presence of Monsieur Lebret suggests that this will not come to pass.’

‘If it settles your mind at all, Captain,’ said Jhutti, glancing briefly at his countryman, ‘I do not believe that Lebret is here in a political capacity.’

‘You know who his uncle is?’

‘I do not.’

‘Pierre Lebret, the very same. Through this relative, our “observer” has a personal relationship with the Minister of National Defence, de Gaulle.’

‘I do not see—’

But the captain put up his hand, and shook his heavy head. ‘Until this evening, messieurs.’

As the scientists turned to leave the cramped cabin, the captain spoke again. ‘Since we have broached the subject of politics,’ he said, ‘you might gratify my curiosity on one subject.’ Messieurs Jhutti and Ghatwala turned back to face him. ‘You are Indian nationals. I commend the advances your nation has made – certain
advances in atomic technology. I can see why you might wish to develop these advances aboard a craft of a more advanced Western nation, rather than one of the as-yet rudimentary Indian navy. But I
am
curious why you brought your technological expertise to
my
nation? Would not the British Royal Navy have welcomed you enthusiastically?’

‘Perhaps they would,’ said Jhutti, drily.

‘So?’

‘Captain,’ said Jhutti, again giving his compatriot a brief, queer look. ‘You are, perhaps, aware of the reputation of Pierre Loti?’

‘Loti? The sailor? Of course!’

‘He
was
a celebrated naval officer,’ agreed Jhutti. ‘But also a writer of genius. Fifty years ago he published a book called
L’Inde sans les Anglais – India without the English
. Reading that book as a young man had – shall we say, a profound influence upon me.’

‘Fifty years ago!’ said the captain. He sniffed. ‘Very well. I do not wish to initiate a political discussion. I care only for loyalty.’

‘Loyalty,’ said Jhutti, ‘is a political word.’

But Cloche had turned his face away, pretending to busy himself with his log book. The men left the cabin.

The day was spent in simple manoeuvres; dives to a hundred feet or so, and resurfacings. Surfacing is more of a problem for submarines than many people realise; or to be precise, the problem is in surfacing
too rapidly
, for too eager a buoyancy can propel a submarine salmon-like into the air, to crash back down again. In such a circumstance the blow places unhealthy strains upon the superstructure, and can disarrange the pattern of hull plates, which in turn can provoke catastrophe when the vessel resubmerges. Indeed, after the loss of the
Plongeur
, the official enquiry specifically considered whether initial manoeuvres had caused any such flaw to appear in the skin or ballast tanks of the craft. But there was no evidence of anything out of the ordinary; and the last two messages received from Captain Cloche reported his perfect satisfaction with both the ongoing exercises and the health of his vessel.

Eventually the day’s exercises were completed. Since the seas were calm – and since it is difficult for even the most sophisticated submarine to maintain horizontal trim whilst underwater – the
Plongeur
surfaced for the night. Tables were laid for the evening meal. The captain’s nook, compact as a wall-set table in an underground café, was crowded. Cloche himself was there, of course; as well as Boucher, and the taciturn engineer Castor, and the two scientists Jhutti and Ghatwala. In addition, the government ‘officer’ Lebret was present. Matelot Pannier served the food.

‘Eat as much as you can,’ said Pannier, stacking empty soup bowls along his left arm whilst distributing the plates for the next course with his right. ‘The torpedo racks are stuffed with grub.’

‘With what, Monsieur Pannier?’ asked the captain.

‘Food, sir.’

‘I gave no such order! Are you sure?’

‘As eggs,’ confirmed the cook.

‘And you signed off on this?’ gloomed Cloche, bunching his brows. ‘Without my authority?’

The cook opened his eyes very wide, and wiped his chin with his white apron. But before he could answer, Monsieur Lebret spoke up.

‘The space would otherwise be empty,’ he said. ‘Since we had no brief to carry weapons on a test mission, I authorised the arsenal spaces to be filled with extra supplies.’

The captain’s face drew upon itself in contained fury. ‘We will be at sea a mere two weeks, Monsieur,’ he observed. ‘Our complement of supplies will be more than sufficient.’

‘It seemed to me, Captain,’ said Lebret, affably, ‘that useful ballast – such as tins and bottles – must be preferable to useless lumber.’

All eyes were on the captain. Everybody knew that this was a matter not of commissioning extra supplies, but rather of circumventing the authority of the captain. Perhaps Lebret hoped to sell this surplus requisitioned food through the black market upon the return to port.

‘I am entitled,’ Cloche said, in a soft voice, ‘to know what is happening on
my
boat, M’sieur.’

Lebret met the captain’s gaze without flinching. He was a man in his early forties, with a round, almost childlike face and a wispy beard like the hairs of a coconut sprouting from his chin and cheeks. But there was something olive-pit-hard about his eyes. ‘Naturally,’ he replied.

‘It may be the
case
,’ the captain said, his ire increasing incrementally with each word. ‘That you are
unfamiliar
with the way things are ordered upon a vessel of the French navy. Permit me to inform you: the captain’s authority is absolute, and must be consulted in every question, no matter how trivial. Do you understand this principle? More importantly do you
accept
it?’

‘Like you,’ said Lebret, ‘I am accustomed to the exercise of authority, and have grown used to others deferring to me. Nevertheless, I am confident we will be able to maintain a détente during the short period we must spend together.’

This evasive answer, of course, caused the captain’s ferocity to focus. ‘No, M’sieur!’ he said forcefully. ‘No. Not
like me
. You may be accustomed to ordering others about, but your experience is not
like mine
. You did not fight for the Free French, risking death every day in the black waters of the winter Atlantic. You were not shipwrecked three times, clinging to wreckage in a sea of spilled oil amongst the corpses of your comrades!’

Lebret’s eyebrows rose, but his expression settled almost at once back into its serenely insolent mask. ‘Perhaps I understand your animosity, Captain Cloche. You have, I suppose, heard of my work for the Vichy administration?’

‘I have heard the rumours,’ said the captain, directing his attention to the food on his plate.

‘Ah, but
rumours
,’ said Lebret easily, ‘may not be trusted. Appearances, you see, can trump reality. And since you claim familiarity with my past, captain, let me say: I know a great many things about
your
career, too. I may even be better placed to assess which of us has more truly served France.’

‘You dare not compare our experiences!’

‘I report directly to the chief of National Defence, de Gaulle himself. You think he would be happy having me working under him if he were not satisfied with my war record?’

‘The ministry of National Defence,’ Cloche returned, ‘is under the joint command of Messieurs de Gaulle and Guillaumat. How do I know which of the two is your true master?’

Lebret pushed his plate away. ‘My true master is France,’ he replied, complacently.

‘I insist,’ the captain retorted instantly, ‘that you agree to submit to my authority during this voyage!’

‘I concede you
are
the captain of this vessel.’

Cloche glowered at the shoreman, his broad beard trembling as he chewed. But he said no more.

A gloomy mood settled over the table. Boucher, a red-faced, jolly-mouthed fellow whose small eyes were overroofed by a great white dome of bald forehead, tried to lighten the mood.

‘So,’ he said, perkily. ‘Can anyone explain the why this atomic pile must be so large and heavy? It seems counterintuitive, since atoms themselves are the smallest of things!’

‘Our pile is one of the smallest yet made,’ replied Ghatwala. Then, looking at the ceiling, he added: ‘I appreciate that you spoke in jest, Monsieur.’

‘Top secret,’ grumbled Castor. ‘And more than half of what I knew about engines thrown in the incinerator!’

‘That,’ said Lebret, is one reason why we have the pleasure of Messieurs Jhutti and Ghatawala’s company.’

Castor, the engineer, had a snouty, swarthy face; and a tendency to snuffle into his own sinuses. He glanced at the scientists, sitting awkwardly about the captain’s narrow table, and scowled. ‘There’s
some
will hate a man for a black face,’ he announced, to nobody in particular. ‘But not I.’ Something about the way he said this did not inspire confidence.

For several long seconds nobody spoke.

‘Come!’ said Lebret, suddenly, lifting his wine glass. ‘We are sailing in open sea in the most advanced submarine France has
yet seen! We have stolen a march on the USSR, on the British, even on the US Navy! Let us not sour the mood.’

Everyone at the table raised their glasses.

‘Tomorrow,’ said the captain. ‘We shall take her down to a thousand metres, and see how well she stands the force of deep water.’

‘I am confident,’ said Amanpreet Jhutti, ‘that she will surpass your expectations.’

‘Speaking of rumours,’ said Castor, although nobody had been. ‘The chatter below decks is that this technology has been, shall we say,
appropriated
from the Russians.’

Jhutti shook his head, rapidly. ‘Is this what the crew believe? Why would they think so?’

‘Come, come,’ said Castor. ‘With any respect due to you, M’sieur, and so on, and so forth. But whoever heard of an Indian designing a submarine?’

‘The inventor and captain of the
Nautilus
, Jules Verne’s celebrated submarine, was an Indian,’ observed Ghatwala.

Castor jerked in his seat and sat up straighter. ‘By no means,’ he snapped. ‘A Pole.’

‘I assure you, Monsieur,’ Ghatwala began to say; but Castor spoke across him. ‘Captain Nemo, the hero of a novel I know
very well
– written by a countryman of mine after all, and not yours – Captain Nemo was a
Polish
aristocrat.’

The Indians exchanged glances, and returned quietly to their meal.