Understrike (15 page)

“
The bleep settings will be checked and corrected from the Control Deck fifteen minutes before firing; but I intend to show you the firing procedure on the spot tomorrow,” continued O’Hara. “Last, a word about safety. When we are fully operational, the Control Room and Officers’ Quarters—your Observation Platform—are sealed off from each other and the three decks immediately below: that is, the crew’s quarters, galley, electric space and store rooms. The only access to these decks is through the main hatch in the Control Room which, on this occasion, will be closed before we sail. The Control Deck bulkhead door—which is your link with me and my staff —is made fast from inside the Control Deck. Tomorrow I’m going to leave the Control Deck bulkhead door open until forty-five minutes before firing, so that you can see how we operate the craft underwater. It’s a bit cramped, of course, so we’ll have you up on the Control Deck in pairs. In the event of damage or accident, both the Control Deck and Officers’ Quarters are fitted with two escape tubes. You may know that it is not normally the policy of the United States Navy to make provision for escape tubes in submarine design. We rely on the McCann Rescue Bell, which will be carried in our Depot ship—accompanying the surface craft at the firing point tomorrow. But, as this is a prototype vessel we have been experimenting with a form of escape tube that we consider an advance on both the British Davis method and the Twilltrunk escape hatch. You will be issued with P50 escape apparatus—there’s a breathing mask which will take you up to the surface with very little discomfort. You’ll be instructed on the use of the escape tubes and the P50 this afternoon.”

This
was something Boysie had not anticipated. He was almost always sick in aeroplanes. What if he discovered, too late, that he had an allergy to submarines? Some dreadful claustrophobic twitch which made him run berserk, claw at the bulkheads and scream to be taken to the surface. He became so absorbed in the possibilities of this new anxious terror, that he missed the final part of Captain O’Hara’s briefing.

In
the afternoon, a US Marine sergeant and two slick submariners put them through the safety drill; showed them how to slip on the frogman-like mask, step into the cramped gun barrel of the escape tube, check the hatch fastening, inflate the life-jacket, pull the red switch, watch the dial and wait until the pressure in the tube equalised with the external pressure before throwing the green lever which would shoot you from the sub-marine—sending the escapee flying to the surface like an Alka-Seltzer bubble. They also pointed out the terrible results of pulling the green lever too soon; and taught the observers how those still within the craft could reset the tube for the next escape.

At
five o’clock they assembled—with what seemed to be the entire manpower of the US Navy—in the huge briefing room. It was here that Boysie lost contact with the whole affair, becoming an innocent among the technocrats. Weather experts talked about pressures; navigation officers went away into little worlds of their own—bounded by minutes, degrees, latitudes, longitudes and drifts; charts were rolled and unrolled; people talked about Red Zones, Pink Zones and Green Zones. It just went on and on until Boysie was only conscious of the Numb Zone around his buttocks.

Boysie
was still playing his waiting game, and nobody had even hinted that they were the opposition’s man on North Island. But, as he stood outside the briefing room, trying to make up his mind about the direction of the wardroom, a grim, beautifully turned out US Navy officer tapped him on the shoulder.

“
Mr Oakes?” He was an intense man with huge hands and a habit of wrinkling his nose before he spoke—as if every word wasn’t using Amplex.

“
Yes.”

“
British Special Security?”

“
That’s right.”

“My name’s Birdlip: Senior Intelligence Officer for this base. Sorry to trouble you, but we’ve had a nut in the brig all day says he’s the Second-in-Command of your outfit.”

Boysie
’s heart did a couple of tricks that would have pleased Joe Morello. Birdlip went on.

“
I’ve been on to London, but they don’t seem to know anything about him. Would you mind having a look. Checking for us? Just to make sure. Could be a Redland try-on because his passport and ID card look like they’re OK. Personally, I think the guy needs mental treatment. Gave us a lot of trouble this morning.”

They
took Boysie to a bleak stone building near the main gate, and down a narrow passage, between regularly-spaced solid cell doors. Somewhere an off-white voice was singing “Just a wearyin’ for you.” At the end of the passage they stopped, and Birdlip indicated a peep-hole set in the door of the last cell. Boysie closed one eye and squinted. There, looking as though he would explode with rage, sat Mostyn—confined and solitary. Boysie’s bowels leaped. He could not do with Mostyn at this stage. For all he knew, Birdlip might even be his opposition contact. Boysie was playing at being a double agent. Intuitively he knew Mostyn’s advent would only mean trouble.

For
a moment he hesitated. Then, almost perversely—remembering all the times that Mostyn had caused him pain and embarrassment—he made up his mind. Mostyn would just have to sweat it out. “Never seen the fellow in my life,” lied Boysie with a blank face.

*

Mostyn had made it from room 30 to the road at a rate of knots.

“
Taxi!” he yelled at a passing cab. Mostyn always cultivated the English-abroad technique when in the United States. It gave him a sense of one-upmanship and the locals seemed to like it.

“
Where to, bud?”

“
North Island Naval Base, and hurry.” He was into the cab and bouncing around the rear seat as the driver performed a U-turn with his foot down. Mostyn’s one thought was to get to the Base and solicit for official help.

“
You from England?” He had picked a talkative cab-driver.

“
Yes.” Mostyn was in no mood for the barber’s shop routine. His mind had turned into a cold, ruthless spot. An operative under his command lay dead. He would like to know why? He wanted revenge: Mostyn was a devout eye-for-an-eye man.

“
Thought ya was from England. London?”

“Yes.”

“I gotta sister-in-law in London. Mabel Scherwtzeobber. Ever hear of her?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“
In the rag trade—clothing business. Meddlesome old bat. Wants ta come over ta visit next fall. It’s my boy Humie’s
Bar
Mitzva
, see. Big day in a boy’s life. Well, we got family troubles. Nothin’ worse than family troubles, Mack. Take my word for it. I know. Family troubles can really do for a man.”

“
I’m sure.” Mostyn made the right noise.

“
Sure. I know. I’m tellin’ ya. Family troubles I got, mister, but right. This Mabel, she wants ta come for Humie’s
Bar
Mitzva
. Well, my old lady, she hadda fight with her. Years back. They even forgot now what they wus fightin’ about. She says, now, that Mabel ain’t settin’ a foot inside my door. You can choose, she says, it’s either her’n me… ”

Mostyn
had ceased to hear. The cab-driver’s domestic crisis flowed over him—an unavoidable irritation, like bees at a picnic. Mostyn was thinking about Boysie,
Playboy
and
Trepholite
.

At
the main gate, he paid off the cab and walked over to the Marine guard, a tall smartie inflated with brief authority. Mostyn flashed his Special Security card.

“
Colonel Mostyn. British Special Security. I must see your Commanding Officer immediately.”

The
guard rubbed one side of a very smooth jaw with the white truncheon which hung, sinister, from his wrist.

“
No can do.”

“
I beg your pardon?”

“I said, no can do!”

Mostyn
waited. The guard looked at him, his face set and suspicious.

“
I must see your Commanding Officer. This is an emergency. Vital importance to your country’s security.”

“
And I said, ‘no can do’. President himself couldn’t see the Old Man today. Base is closed tighter’n a badger’s. Closed to everybody. But everybody.”

“
Look,” said Mostyn, carefully enunciating, as a tourist explains cricket to a Bulgarian peasant. “I am the Second-in-Command of British Special Security—a post not without some weight ...”

“
Yea?” The guard left no doubt as to his disbelief. Under his breath, he said, “Bet ya never even seen that Christine babe.

“This is my identity card and this is my passport,” still carefully enunciating. “If you cannot take me to your Commanding Officer at least have the good manners to call your immediate superior.” Even in the rising heat, Mostyn felt cold. His tact hung precariously by a hair.

“
You got trouble, Irwin?” A Marine sergeant was leaning round the guardroom door.

“
Guess so, sergeant. Better get Lootenant Dooley down here.” He gave Mostyn a nod. “Ya’d better come into the guardroom ... sir.” The ‘sir’ was added with a flavour of facetiousness.

Mostyn
sat in the guardroom, for half an hour, while they located Lieutenant Dooley. No one spoke to him, though all who passed by looked him up and down as though viewing a freak at a fair. Dooley turned out to be what the Chief would have called “an officious young cub.”

“
I understand you have demanded entrance to this Base, sir,” he said, solemnly.

“
I ...” began Mostyn controlling his ire with a supreme effort of will.

But
Dooley blithely talked over him.

Nobody
is allowed entrance to this Base without a permit issued by the State Department of the United States of America, counter-stamped by United States Naval Intelligence. I understand you have produced no such pass. In any case, this Base is closed to everybody today.”

“
Have you quite finished?” Mostyn gave him the glare treatment. Dooley nodded calmly, “Good. Then let me tell
you
something. My name is Mostyn. Colonel Mostyn. Colonel James George Mostyn. I am Second-in-Command of British Special Security. One of my operatives should be here. On this base. At this moment. Being briefed for the firing trials of your missile
Trepholite
from the submarine
Playboy
. That operative is not on this base because I have just found him lying dead, in bed, at the Sleepy Bear motel room 30. His code designation is ‘L’. His name is Oakes. Brian Ian Oakes. And these are my credentials.” He held out his card and passport.

Dooley
’s expression did not alter. He took the documents from Mostyn and gave them a quick going over. This guy, he thought, was either big and for real, or right off his curly little nut.

“
Guess you’d better wait a minute.” Dooley had a hurried and stealthy conversation with one of the Marines, then disappeared into an inner office. The guard did not take his eyes from Mostyn. After five minutes Dooley returned.

“
Our Senior Intelligence Officer will be down in a while. Would you like to step in here?” Mostyn followed him into the office—grey, airy and seemingly dust-proof. He was kept waiting for a further three quarters of an hour. By the time Dooley reappeared with the SIO, Mostyn had reached a state of internal seeth akin to Vesuvius at eruption minus two.

“
Commander Birdlip,” introduced Dooley. “Commander Birdlip, this is Colonel ... Mostyn.” He stressed the ‘Colonel’.

“
Colonel Mostyn,” nodded Birdlip crisply. “You quite comfortable in that chair? Just relax, hunh?”

Mostyn
boiled over.

“
This is not the time for comfort or bloody relaxation. I have been sitting in jet-propelled aeroplanes for the last ten hours. I have come to your God-forsaken, pre-packed, hygienically-wrapped, mint-flavoured country because I thought one of my men was in trouble. This morning I arrived at this wretched watering place and found my man dead. I have reason to believe that his death is linked with the
Playboy
-
Trepholite
firing trials which, even you must know, are being held here. Will you bloody do something about it?”

“
I don’t think you need raise your voice. We are already doing something about it.” Birdlip spoke like a nurse buttering a lid-flipped patient. “I have already checked on you.
A
Colonel Mostyn
is
Second-in-Command of British Special Security, but I’m afraid we have no signal from London intimating that we are to expect his arrival here. Therefore, sir, I must view you with suspicion—in spite of your documents, which Lieutenent Dooley tells me he has inspected.”

Mostyn
raised his eyes to heaven and counted ten as slowly as the burning temper would allow.

“
Well, why, old boy,” he said on a note of shimmering frostiness, “don’t you call London for confirmation, and send somebody down to the Sleepy bloody Bear motel ...”