Understrike (20 page)

*

Two little yellow plastic submarines had been moved across the operations’ board and now lay in squares adjacent to the blue plastic submarine that was
Playboy
.

“
Scabardfish
and
Seacat
deployed five miles from firing area, sir.”

“
OK.” The Admiral was looking at the chart. “Send
Seacat
in submerged. Put a diver out to examine
Playboy
. And tell him to keep clear of the launching tubes unless he wants to take a short course in astronomy.”

“
Aye-aye, sir.”

The
tension in the Control Centre had passed its peak. Mostyn just hoped nobody was going to loose off the other
Trepholite
. He kept thinking of Boysie—if it was Boysie. For all he knew, Boysie was responsible for firing the bloody thing.

“
HK5 is off, sir. We’ve got
Playboy
clear on the scanner. Right in position—bull’s eye for the firing area.”

“
I give up,” said the Admiral. “What the hell’s going on down there?”

“
Seacat
submerged and going in, sir.”

The
Admiral nodded.

“
We’re getting some action from the PT-Boats. At the firing position, sir. PI045 reports PI486 out of station heading fast for firing area, sir.”

“
What the blazes is he doing? Get PI486. Tell him to hold station. And find out the Captain’s name.”

“
Aye-aye, sir.”

“
No radio contact with
Playboy
yet, I suppose?”

“
We’re still trying, Admiral. Nothing yet, sir.”

“
PI486 reports something on the surface near firing area. Investigating at his own discretion.”

“
Something like what?”

Pause.

“He says, something like a man in the water, sir.”

“
OK. Tell him to go in.”

*

“Go in ... go in ... go in . . closer.” Voices.

Hands
were lifting him upwards. More pain as his right shoulder bumped against something hard. More voices.

“
OK ... Steady with him ... He’s stopped a bullet ... Gently now ... lie him on the catwalk.”

Boysie
felt himself being stretched out on warm metal. Then a voice he seemed to know.

“
Turn away ... Out of here as fast as you can ... Full ahead. Come ... Fast.”

The
throbbing of engines and then a bumping sway. Boysie opened his eyes. Two men in sailor suits were trying to lift him. He saw a portion of catwalk and the scudding sea. Foam bubbling white from sharp bows. Then a hatchway. He was being lowered into a sitting position—into a chair. Consciousness came back with a quick flood. He shook his head—his body being buffeted against the chair. He was in the small, light forward cabin of a fast motor vessel skipping over the sea at speed. And, greatest joy, he was alive. He grinned, prepared to thank his rescuers.

“
What happened to the gallant Commander?” asked Gorilka dressed in the uniform of a Lieutenant of the United States Navy. Boysie, for the first time in his life, really wanted to die. This was double-jeopardy with a vengeance.

“
Are you all right, Solev?” asked Gorilka, sitting in the bucket seat next to Boysie. In front of him the sailor at the wheel turned and gave Boysie a nod. He was a big brute with a scar under the right eye. Boysie looked past Gorilka to another sailor. Or was it Death standing there in his summer rig? The young sailor had a skull-like face.

“
A proper little
memento
mori
,” murmured Boysie as though in a kind of delirium. Then he closed his eyes and feigned unconsciousness. He really could not cope with any more.

They
bandaged Boysie’s arm (“A nasty flesh wound,” said Gorilka). Now Boysie lay back in the bucket seat—a couple of feet from the sliding hatch leading to the starboard side of the PT-boat’s narrow catwalk. By continual lapses into fraudulent swooning, he had, so far, kept Gorilka from questioning him.

“
They’re still trying to call us up on the radio, boss,” said a tubby fake sailor sitting with his back to Gorilka, operating the transmitter. “Other PT-Boat’s reported we picked someone up.”

“
That is all right. Keep them happy. Tell them we have taken a survivor on board and that we are bringing him back to base. Say that he has told us
Playboy
is at the bottom of the ocean, badly damaged.”

“
You’re the boss, boss.”

“
Solev,” said Gorilka gently. “Come along, Solev. Did the Commander set the
Omega
switch.”

“
Uh?” said Boysie making a tired-eyes look. Then faintly. “
Omega
minus thirty minutes.”

“
Good boy. We shall have reached safety by then. Good. You have done well, Solev; done very well, Vladimir. You got the
Trepholite
away. We will read all about that in the newspapers tonight. There will be mourning in London. There were no hitches in launching were there?”

Boysie
lolled his head. “Homer working. OK. Worked OK.”

“
Good. Pity about the Commander. How did he go?”

“
Later,” said Boysie, weakly. “Tell you later.”

“
All right, Vladimir. Nearly over now.” Boysie cringed as he felt the podgy hand patting his knee. Then Gorilka started talking softly in Russian. Oh gawd, thought Boysie. Must rest and keep him from finding out that I am not Solev. “Later,” he repeated weaker than ever.

Gorilka
was back speaking English. “You just stay nice and quiet, Vladimir. We’ll soon have you safe. We head towards the harbour and then turn north at the last minute. We have cars waiting the other side of La Jolla. Within an hour we will be on our way to Los Angeles. Ah, the City of the Angels. Think of that, Vladimir, The City of the Angels.”

*

“Has that goddamned PT-Boat not reported yet?” The Admiral was getting hot and tetchy.

“We seem to have lost contact, sir. I can’t get anything from PI486.”

“
Well, call PI045 and ask if he’s observed anything.”

“
Aye-aye, sir.”

Mostyn
was feeling the strain of inaction, sitting close to the Admiral who also looked as though he would prefer to be out and about. Birdlip just looked sad and was secretly hoping that everyone had forgotten him.

“
PI045 reports PI486 has picked up a man from the sea, sir. Says they have just passed him, heading for base at speed. They waved at him.”

“
Well, ain’t that dandy? Did he wave back?”

“
Didn’t say, sir.”

“
Radar?”

“
Yes, sir, we have them on the scanner. Moving at speed about thirty-five miles out.”

“
Well, keep trying to raise I486.”

“
Message from
Seacat
, sir.
Playboy
in position and steady. No visible signs of damage.”

“
Just raised P1486, sir. Say they’ve picked up a survivor from
Playboy
and are bringing him in. Survivor reports
Playboy
badly damaged and gone to the bottom after premature firing of
Trepholite
.”

“
Does he now?” The Admiral was going through some hand-clenching and unclenching exercises. Then, firmly, “Take over, Stenway, I’m goin’ out to see that survivor myself. My helicopter ready?”

“
Aye-aye, sir.”

“
You coming?” The Admiral turned to Mostyn as he got out of his chair.

“
If I may, sir.”

“
Good.”

As
they were leaving the dais, a small, experimental voice piped over the speaker system. “Admiral, sir? Budge speaking —in charge of Surface Light Craft. Sir, we have not got a PI486 out there.”

“
So now he tells mel” The Admiral glared at Mostyn as though it were all his fault. “Come on.” And to Stenway who was taking over at the dais. “Guide my helicopter to that damn PT-Boat. And get that flight of Voodoos within striking distance. Out of the sun!”

“
Aye-aye, sir.” Stenway, all efficient, was full of himself and his sudden, exalted command.

“
And don’t balls it up, George. Please,” said the Admiral.

*

Mostyn and the Admiral did not talk as the big HOK-I helicopter chopped its way over the sea. To Mostyn’s discomfort, and anxiety, the Admiral insisted on having the large sliding doors open, so there was no protection between the occupants and the open air falling away to dazzling sea. 500 feet below.

“
How long?” yelled the Admiral to the naval rating sitting up front with the radio transmitter.

“
’Bout five minutes, sir. Green Flight report, in position, sir. In the sun.”

Mostyn
looked out at the placid water and wondered about Boysie.

*

Boysie was getting the crawling fears again. What would they do when they found he was not Solev—as they surely must? Would he be shipped back to Russia with them? Or (more likely) would the wretched Gorilka devise some ghastly torture leading, remorselessly, to Death.

A
sailor-suited thug appeared in the hatchway.

“
There’s a chopper headin’ for us from the shore, boss.” Boysie felt Gorilka move nervously. “All right. We have been successful so far. All will be well.”

*

They came down to about twenty feet above the sea, sweeping alongside the fast-moving PT-Boat. The Admiral exchanged his binoculars for a hand loudhailer. Mostyn took the binoculars as the helicopter drew in close again. He adjusted the glasses and put them to his eyes. The central section of the PT-Boat came into focus. There, lying back, just inside the cabin hatch, face turned upwards looking like a trapped rabbit, was Boysie Oakes.

“
It’s my lad, Admiral. They’ve got my laddie down there. Can we go get him?” He saw, behind the Admiral, another naval rating was loading a heavy sub-machine gun.

They
went down again, running with the boat, the Admiral leaning forward half out of the doorway, the loudhailer to his mouth.

“
PI486, heave to,” he shouted. “We will take off the survivor. Heave to. We have a hammock coming down. D’ye hear me?”

*

Gorilka swore—in English.

“
Whaddamytado, boss?” The man at the wheel was still letting the craft snarl through the water at full speed.

“
Slow down ... No ... Do as he says ... Heave to ... When they come in close I will give you the word ... Not until I say ... Then blast them ... Blast them and run for it ... straight for La Jolla.”

Boysie
groaned. He wondered if he really was delirious. There might be a chance though. It was only a couple of feet to the hatch and the catwalk. Boysie moved his legs under him and hoped.

The
PT-Boat’s engines ran down to an idling grumble and she was still, swaying on the water. The helicopter had come round again making its approach from the stern; nearly over them now, down very low, the rope rescue hammock slung out of the wide hole in the side of its vulnerable belly.

“
She’s too low,” muttered the scar-faced man at the wheel. “Blow up on top of us if we blast her from here.”

“
Wait for it,” said Gorilka quietly. “Wait for it. Patience.” Boysie had not worked out how many were aboard the PT-Boat, not what weapons they intended to use. His eyes were fixed on the hatch. The shadow of the HOK-I lay right over them now—the hammock brushing against the catwalk and the whirlpool of wind from the rotors flecking the sea and blowing into the cabin. Now it was level with the hatch—three feet, at the most, from Boysie. Biting his lip and holding his right arm to protect the wound. Boysie pushed with his feet, twisted and leaped straight through the hatch, sprawling across the hammock. There was a shout from behind him, then a jerk as the helicopter swung away and upwards. Boysie’s stomach descended about thirty feet. He was flying, spread-eagled over the hammock, swinging in an arc, almost bumping the top of the cabin. They were rising fast in a terrifying whirl of noise and shouting. Boysie closed his eyes. Something whined past him thudding against the underside of the helicopter.

“
They’re shooting, for Chrissake…” a voice from above.