Understrike (18 page)

“
You’re a bloody fine advertisement for Dartmouth aren’t you?” Boysie seemed to be deliberately needling him. The Commander stared—eyes fixed and chilly. The look had a cutting edge.

“
D’ye know, believe I am. The Country. The Service. Never been the same since the war. No guts. No drivin’ power. No discipline. To me it’s as though the whole British nation’s been wallowing in a hot bath. All velvet, mixed up with leather, nylon underwear and cheap plastics. Vitality sapped. Affluence run riot. Everyone’s an expert. No one’s expert. All teach yourself, the free libraries, night school and the short course. England’s an adaptation from an original country. All genuine imitation. No discipline.” The voice was hard with belief. This was the political dogma of Communism translated into shining faith and misapplied. The Commander hated his own country and her political leanings like a saint loathes the very idea of sin. “No discipline.” He repeated. “Only one country got it. Only one country to admire these days. Wonderful how they’ve pressed on. Had to of course. Still pioneers.” He shook his head firmly. “England? Finished. Good God, man, you must see that. No goal. Not any more. Nothing to pioneer. Finished. Done for. New kind of colonialism now. Got to be ruthless to save mankind from itself.”

“
So you’ve left the sinking ship.”

“
Sensible thing to do. Never believed in going down with something that has become worthless. Got to progress. Got to search for a true and decent way of life.”

Boysie
tried to move himself into a more comfortable position. The Commander’s hand dropped to the gun butt.

“
It’s all right. Just shifting.”

Braddock-Fairchild
looked at his watch. “Haven’t got long to wait anyway. Ten minutes. Fifteen at the most. But of course you don’t really know what it’s all about do you?”

“
Nobody’s had the courtesy to tell me.”

“
Shame. I put your mind at rest? Be in the best fictional tradition eh? Minutes slipping away while villian explodes evil plot.” Braddock-Fairchild was smiling again. Then the man’s features went suddenly grave, as though someone had pulled a switch. “Well! The Prime Minister’s getting the chop to begin with.”

Silence.
To Boysie it seemed a remote thought. Remote and absurd.

“
What d’ye think about that?”

“
There’d be some who’d say you were doing the country a service.”

The
Commander nodded agreement. “Yes. Quite. That’s why he’s only an incidental factor.” A smile like a rasher cut on number five of the slicer. “Did you listen to any of Admiral Fullenhaft’s briefing, or were you asleep all the time?” He did not expect an answer. “Much of what he said was accurate. Too accurate. Didn’t mention, of course, that they’ve got the hulls laid down for seven
Playboy
Class
submarines. Didn’t mention that
Trepholite
is ready to go into full production. D’ye remember he said the
Playboy
-
Trepholite
complex gave the Americans the edge on any navy in the world? Well, that’s the truth. The literal, exact truth. And in this game of the nuclear balance of power it is a factor of vital importance. Y’see?” Boysie shifted again. The hard old hand tightened round the automatic. The voice never faltered. “Real advance is this miniature warhead.
Dies
Irae
. Remarkable. Size of warheads always been a problem. All the major countries been working on them. All want high-powered rockets with warheads no bigger than a walnut producing Hiroshima plus 1000 bang. Well, Americans have gone ahead in that race.” An almost furtive grin moved across the weathered face. “But it seemed a pity—when I was right on the spot—to let them
keep
ahead. Original plan was to disrupt the trials and dispose of a lot of people concerned with the
Playboy
-
Trepholite
project. Redirect
Playboy’s
Trepholites
, on a low-angle trajectory, at a couple of targets on North Island. Then blow
Playboy
. Without warheads could still’ve knocked out lots of the top men. Two of the things—with boosters going—crashing into the Control Room back at the Base. Make a rousing accident. Nasty mess.”

“
Yes,” said Boysie without enthusiasm. He could imagine the small-scale havoc two runaway missiles would cause.

“
But that was before the Prime Minister and his travelling companion. ‘Bout a fortnight ago. Changed all plans. Moscow went mad. Then you turned up as well. That was a mistake. Complicated the issue.”

“
Oh?” Boysie’s arm seemed to have become less painful. Or his senses were getting used to the throbbing.

“
You keep abreast of politics, Oakes? Or is the political scene something you choose to ignore—like most of the British ostriches?”

Boysie
kept his mouth closed. Braddock-Fairchild hardly stopped for breath.

“
If you read the newspapers—which I doubt by the look of you—you will know that your Minister of Defence is at present having talks with the President of the United States of America. You’ll also know that the PM’s recently taken it into his head to make unscheduled visits to consult with the President. Some say he can’t make a decision by himself.”

Boysie
nodded. “Others say he’s trying to keep his left hand from knowing what his right hand is doing.”

“
Twelve weeks ago. Three-day conference in Washington. Nothing announced until the PM was safely back in Downing Street.”

Boysie
knew all about that one. VIPSEC (a sub-section of the Department of Special Security which dealt with the co-ordination of other departments regarding security measures for British VIPs) had been going wild about the Prime Minister’s cloak and dagger operations. Mostyn had been called in to do a lot of oil pouring.

“
Couple of weeks ago,” the Commander went on, “he arranged another of these clandestine meetings. A big one. Only a handful of people in the know—security, airline, and, of course, the organisation which employs me. We planted a man close to the present Head of State years ago. When he was only one of the bright, rising boys. Just on the off chance. Years ago. Long before I saw the light. Fellow’s paid dividends.”

“
Proper little Co-op,” muttered Boysie.

“
And this time. For this visit—our man with the PM tells us—he’s bringing a little friend with him. Bunch of the North Island boffins flying off to meet them after the trials.”

“
Well?”

“
Ever heard of Dr Lund?”

“
Adolph Lund?” Complete uncontrolled anxiety.

“
Adolph Lund,” repeated the Commander.

Boysie
certainly had heard of Dr Adolph Lund. It was Mostyn himself who had supervised the German nuclear physicist’s spiriting from East to West Berlin. The protection of Adolph Lund had been on the Top Priority list ever since. Boysie had even done a short stint with the security staff who kept the doctor in his scientific cocoon—surrounded by barbed wire and guard dogs—deep in the heart of Essex. Boysie had been forced to leave that particular duty after only two days, following an unfortunate incident with one of the guard dogs with whom he had inadvertently tangled. Animals always seemed to spot the timid side of Boysie. But Lund, a scientific recluse, was said to be Britain’s most valuable spoil from behind the Curtain. Single handed he had resolved the early teething troubles of the Frobisher Tracker Rocket. And Boysie thought he remembered hearing something about a project for scaling down nuclear warheads. Braddock-Fairchild was talking again.

“
Lund, you know, is the real reason why America has gone ahead in the race for the effective small warhead. Lund was working on it behind the Curtain before he decided to play traitor and run to the West. Put my friends months behind, while America got the answer—in spite of the fact that your people kept Lund in purdah. But we’ll catch up with America. Soon we’ll catch up. Lund left a lot of papers behind. Only a matter of time. Matter of months.” He paused to swallow noisily. “Not the point now. Dr Lund, we hear has already dated
Trepholite
. Claims to have the basic design for a warhead only half the size, and twice as powerful, as
Dies
Irae
. See what that means? Puts the West two jumps ahead instead of one. Can’t have that. Oh no.” He began to speak very slowly and distinctly. “And Adolph Lund, who never moves, who is never seen, who is guarded more closely than the Crown Jewels, is coming out of his shell—travelling with the Prime Minister to meet the President. Obvious why. England again. He’s the most astute scientific brain in the field and can’t afford to develop any of the brain’s products ...”

“
And what the hell’s this got to do with
Playboy
? Here and now what’s it got to do with it?” Boysie cut in.

“
Ah!” Braddock-Fairchild looked happy. “Just so happens that today’s the day. Prime Minister’s flying with Lund to meet the President now. This very moment. Boeing 707 chartered from BOAC. Not direct London-New York or London-Washington either. Coming over the Pole to San Francisco. President and Minister of Defence flew down quietly last night. Big get-together. Large nuclear brain conference due in San Jose this afternoon. Point is, that the PM’s aircraft passes only 400 miles north of us. Very soon. Few minutes. Irreparable loss to the West. Great statesman and very great scientist. Priceless brace to bag in one afternoon, what?”

A
gut-somersault for Boysie. “And you’re going to…?”

“
Yes.
Trepholite
fitted with ICD Homer will home on the aircraft.” The Commander seemed almost complacent.

“
But how…?”

“
Have friends. Told you we have a man very close; Homer’s quite small you know. Planted nicely in the baggage before take-off. Set to number five. If you were able to come over here you’d see I’ve set our Homer to number five. Switched on preselected count-down. Nothing’ll stop it now. Prime Minister’s aeroplane’ll be in range any minute. Little red light’ll start blinking. Then whoosh! Won’t stand a chance.”

Boysie
was doing some mental overtime, urging brain and body into action. But he seemed to be helpless. The repercussions of this could be enormous. Lund’s death might well, within a month or so, drastically affect the delicate balance of power. He would certainly be a disastrous loss. Apart from that, there was the aspect of the Prime Minister’s mode of death. Flying to a secret meeting with the President of the United States and killed by a stray missile fired from an American submarine. Public feeling would run high. The whole business could cause a serious rift in the Anglo-American alliance, and a drag on the nuclear advance.

“
But what about you? How ...?”

“
Easy enough.
Playboy
has a scuttling mechanism. Blow the thing to tiny pieces. Call it the
Omega
Switch
. Very fond of names like that—the Americans.
Omega
Switch
. Had to rifle O’Hara’s body for the key, but it’s in there.” He pointed to a small drawer which had been pulled out from the under-side of the desk, between the Captain’s position and that which should have been occupied by the Ballistics Officer.

“
Time-fuse and switch in there. When
Trepholite
leaves us I set time-fuse to
Omega
minus thirty minutes. Press down on the switch. Put on my P50 mask. Into the escape tube and away.”

“
They’ll catch up with you. You can’t possibly ...”

“
Most of the contingencies’ve been taken care of. Originally had some problems because Lund and the PM weren’t going to fly until four hours later. Couldn’t afford to hang around in this state. At the mercy of the weather as well. Still. Gone very smoothly really. Not all clockwork. You for instance. Told Gorilka I didn’t like the arrangements with Solev. Khavichev’s idea, of course; felt he had to use Solev once they found you were coming down here. Idea was that Solev could take over if I got knocked out. Suppose Gorilka expected me to brief you. Khavichev’s slipping though, goes at things like a bull at a gate. That’s what they say about Khavichev—between you and me—has a tendency to waste men. Still, suppose if you were going to be in
Playboy
anyway, when the balloon went up, he would never have had any opportunity to use Solev. Pity Gorilka bungled that one.” He looked at his watch again. Getting nervous? Boysie wondered.

Then,
without warning, high up on the instrument panel, the little red light began to blink rapidly. The corresponding Homers had made contact. In sixty seconds or less,
Trepholite
would be streaking towards the Boeing 707 in which the Prime Minister of Great Britain was, at that moment, engrossed in reading a spy thriller—about an amateur secret agent: a solicitor with a passion for antique traction engines. Behind him, a small, grey-faced little man was half-way through Kierkegaard’s
Enten
-
Eller
. He seemed to be enjoying it.