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 y
ou 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 ...”
“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 cent
ral 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.