Understrike (16 page)

“
We are putting in a call to London now.” Birdlip was the essence of good manners. “And a squad car is on its way to the Sleepy Bear.”

Mostyn
sighed. At last he was getting a little action.

*

It was early evening in London. In St Paul’s Cathedral the Bishop of Scunthorpe was preaching on the text, “Jerhurun waxed fat, and kicked” (Deuteronomy XXXII:15). It had been a warm day for a change. The Chicken Inns and coffee bars were crowded; Hyde Park was littered; there had been a protest in Trafalgar Square; in Bayswater a girl called Hazel Plunket had lost her virginity (together with approximately 200 other girls in the London area that day); there had been seven fatal accidents, and the Queen was spending Sunday at Windsor. Unknown to the Press and general public, in Number 10 Downing Street the Prime Minister was preparing to fly secretly to the United States for a meeting with the President. Precautions had been taken by the Department of Special Security, who had labelled the trip
Topmeet
. Its classification was
Clandestine
.

Susan
Boowright—on the switchboard at the Whitehall headquarters of Special Security—took the incoming transatlantic call from San Diego, and passed it straight through to Lieutenant Peach, the day’s Duty Officer. Peach covered the receiver with his hand and spoke to the duty secretary, a sad willowy girl with a halitosis problem.

“
Number Two isn’t out of the country, is he?” asked the puzzled DO.

“
Don’t think so. Anything in the Movements File?”

“
No. US Navy Base at San Diego say they’ve got a bloke there claiming to be Colonel Mostyn. Better call the Chief.”

The
Chief’s private number did not reply. He was spending the weekend, with Mrs Chief, at a house party in Hampshire and had, characteristically, neglected to inform the DO of his whereabouts.

The
DO rang Mostyn’s private number. The phone burred in an empty flat.

“
Sorry,” said the DO to the caller far off in sunny San Diego, “I’m afraid I’ve no note of Colonel Mostyn’s movements, but we’re pretty certain he hasn’t left the country. We’ll call confirmation as soon as possible.”

He
made a note on his preliminary report card: “19.00 hours, telephone link with North Island Base (Navy), San Diego, California, USA; regarding Colonel Mostyn’s movements. Possible impersonation. Pending.”

Mostyn
had done as he was commanded, and left in a hurry. The Chief had promised to pass on his action to all sections of the Department. The Chief had done nothing. It would wait until Monday.

*

“I’ve got news for you.” Birdlip replaced the telephone receiver and regarded Mostyn with steady severity. “One of my officers just called London. British Special Security say that as far as they know, their Colonel Mostyn is still in England.”

“
But ...” Mostyn was raging. “But there must be ... this is... this is ridiculous. Let me speak to them ... call them again ... I
am
Mostyn ... Hang it, everyone knows
me
…”

“
I think I should tell you something else ...”

“
This is quite outrageous ...Heads will roll...What?”

“
The Special Security man, Oakes, is already on the Base. I’ve rechecked his credentials. Everything tallies. He’s Oakes all right. Photograph. Everything.”

“
Look, Hairlip...”

“
Birdlip.”

“
... or whatever your damn name is. I saw the man dead I tell you. I’m not mad ...” Again the telephone rang. Birdlip answered. The conversation was brief and monosyllabic. When it finished, Birdlip once more gave Mostyn the disparaging eye.

“
That was Captain Boyle, San Diego City Police Department. There is no corpse in room 30 at the Sleepy Bear.” Sulphurically: “The occupant checked out. Manager says he was a bit drunk and friends came for him. Bill paid in full. Now, buster, where did you get that passport and ID card? And where did you get the information about the
Playboy
-
Trepholite
firing trials?” Birdlip, Dooley and the two shining Marines seemed to close in on Mostyn.

Mostyn
could not remember a time when he was more livid.

*

“Dive! Dive! Dive!”

The
urgent caw of the klaxon alarm.

“
Angle of descent 25 degrees.”

“
25 degrees, sir.”

“
Check descent ... Full pressure.”

“
Take her to one hundred fifty feet.”

“
One ... Five ... Zero feet.”

“
Check angle of descent.”

The
bulbous shape of
Playboy
disappeared smoothly under the calm blue water of the Pacific, leaving a white broil of foam which spread gurgling in great whirlpools, eddied, then finally settled leaving no trace. On the Observation Deck, Boysie felt as fluttery as when sitting in an aircraft on take-off. They had come aboard just before six—a small picket boat bouncing them over the Bay to the Depot ship, lying alongside the submarine, surrounded by a small flotilla of light craft ready to accompany her, on the surface, out to the firing area. The American Army Major had looked as though he was going to be sick. The British Army Major had been. Both seemed all right now.

The
Observation Deck was larger than Boysie had anticipated: an area about twenty-four feet long, with a surprising amount of space to move between the central bank of radar scanners and TV monitors: the decor dark grey, lit by pinkish strip lighting. The observers sat in deep bucket seats bolted to the stanchions against the hull: four on either side: Americans to port, British to starboard—segregation to the end. Boysie, in the forward seat, next to Braddock-Fairchild, could see through the open bulkhead door on to the Control Deck where Captain O’Hara sat—in a comfortable swivel chair—facing the angled, switch and dial strewn desk which curved in a half-circle below a battery of apparatus. To the Captain’s left sat the Navigation Officer. The Ballistics Officer (in charge of the
Trepholite
launching equipment) was on the right. Just inside the bulkhead, Boysie could glimpse the back of the Communications’ Control Officer, a Lieutenant weighed heavy with the responsibility of maintaining contact with the world above them. On the far left was the Coxswain, hands held loosely on the polished wheel, no bigger than that of an automobile: sitting like the driver of some supersonic bus. Somewhere, out of sight, there was an Electronics Officer. The whole Central Deck crew were lost in concentration as they methodically took
Playboy
through the diving routine.

The
young Radar Officer, assigned as wet nurse to the observers, strolled the length of the deck, smiling and giving pleasant nods calculated to put the tyro submariners at ease during the unique experience of being dropped below the oceans’ surface. Boysie shifted in his seat. They seemed to have been busy doing nothing for an awfully long while—and they were not even allowed to smoke. Boysie found this kind of inactivity disturbing. There was nothing he could do; nothing he really understood about the submarine; no action he could take. He was even more disturbed by the fact that, at this late stage, he was still on his own. No trace of the opposition agent, or of the plan which was
Operation
Understrike
, had come to him. He put back his head, closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to push down the apprehension which nagged at him like a poisoned foreign body throbbing and biting into his stomach wall. Uninvited, a childhood memory came flitting back—Christmas and being taken to see Santa Claus in Davy Jones’ locker at a big store. The lift had been done up like a submarine, he was frightened by the paper octopi and squirming fish attached to the walls of the basement. They had taken him out and he had not even got his gift from Santa’s waterproof sack. The present dilemma returned. In a few hours they would be preparing to fire the
Trepholite
. Something would happen soon. Boysie wished heartily that he was back, crying, in that big store basement.

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?”