Thunderball (19 page)

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The Manta, coming with infinite caution up-channel, had none of the greyhound elegance of the conventional submarine. She was blunt and thick and ugly. The bulbous metal cucumber, her rounded nose shrouded with tarpaulin to hide the secrets of her radar scanner from the Nassavians, held no suggestion of her speed, which Leiter said was around forty knots submerged. "But they won't tell you that, James. That's Classified. I guess we're going to find that even the paper in the can is Classified when we go aboard. Watch out for these Navy guys, Nowadays they're so tight-lipped they think even a belch is a security risk.''

"What else do you know about her?''

"Well, we won't tell this to the captain, but of course in C.I.A. we had to be taught the basic things about these atom subs, so we could brief agents on what to look for and recognize clues in their reports. She's one of the George Washington Class, about four thousand tons, crew of around a hundred, cost about a hundred million dollars. Range, anything you want until the chow runs out or until the nuclear reactor needs topping up--say every hundred thousand miles or so. If she has the same armament as the George Washington, she'll have sixteen vertical launching tubes, two banks of eight, for the Polaris solid-fuel missile. These have a range of around twelve hundred miles. The crews call the tubes the `Sherwood Forest' because they're painted green and the missile compartment looks like rows of great big tree trunks. These Polaris jobs are fired from way down below the surface. The sub stops and holds dead steady. They have the ship's exact position at all times through radio fixes and star sights through a tricky affair called a star-tracker periscope. All this dope is fed into the missiles automatically. Then the chief gunner presses a button and a missile shoots up through the water by compressed air. When it breaks surface the solid-fuel rockets ignite and take the missile the rest of the way. Hell of a weapon, really, when you come to think of it. Imagine these damned things shooting up out of the sea anywhere in the world and blowing some capital city to smithereens. We've got six of them already and we're going to have more. Good deterrent when you come to think of it. You don't know where they are or when. Not like bomber bases and firing pads and so on you can track down and put out of action with your first rocket wave.''

Bond commented drily, "They'll find some way of spotting them. And presumably an atomic depth charge set deep would send a shock wave through hundreds of miles of water and blow anything to pieces over a huge area. But has she got anything smaller than these missiles? If we're going to do a job on the Disco what are we going to use?''

"She's got six torpedo tubes up front and I dare say she's got some smaller stuff--machine guns and so forth. The trouble's going to be to get the commander to fire them. He's not going to like firing on an unarmed civilian yacht on the orders of a couple of plainclothes guys, and one of them a Limey at that. Hope his orders from the Navy Department are as solid as mine and yours.'' The huge submarine bumped gently against the wharf. Lines were thrown and an aluminum gangplank was run ashore. There was a ragged cheer from the crowd of watchers being held back by a cordon of police. Leiter said, "Well, here we go. And to one hell of a tad start. Not a hat between us to salute the quarter deck with. You curtsy, I'll bow.''

20.

Time for Decision

The interior of the submarine was incredibly roomy, and it was stairs and not a ladder that led down into the interior. There was no clutter, and the sparkling paintwork was in two-tone green. Powerlines painted in vivid colors provided a cheerful contrast to the almost hospital decor. Preceded by the officer of the watch, a young man of about twenty-eight, they went down two decks. The air (70º with 46% humidity, explained the officer) was beautifully cool. At the bottom of the stairs he turned left and knocked on a door that said " Commander P. Pedersen, U.S.N. ''

The captain looked about forty. He had a square, rather Scandinavian face with a black crew-cut just going gray. He had shrewd, humorous eyes but a dangerous mouth and jaw. He was sitting behind a neatly stacked metal desk smoking a pipe. There was an empty coffee cup in front of him and a signal pad on which he had just been writing. He got up and shook hands, waved them to two chairs in front of his desk, and said to the officer of the watch, "Coffee, please, Stanton. And have this sent, would you?'' He tore the top sheet off the signal pad and handed it across. "Most Immediate.''

He sat down. "Well, gentlemen. Welcome aboard. Commander Bond, it's a pleasure to have a member of the Royal Navy visit the ship. Ever been in subs before?''

"I have,'' said Bond, "but only as a supercargo. I was in Intelligence--R.N.V.R. Special Branch. Strictly a chocolate sailor.'' The captain laughed. "That's good! And you, Mr. Leiter?'' "No, Captain. But I used to have one of my own. You operated it with a sort of rubber bulb and tube. Trouble was they'd never let me have enough depth of water in the bath to see what she could really do.''

"Sounds rather like the Navy Department. They'll never let me try this ship full out. Except once on trials. Every time you want to get going, the needle comes across a damn red line some interfering so-and-so has painted on the dial. Well gentlemen''--the captain looked at Leiter--"what's the score? Haven't had such a flood of Top Secret Most Immediates since Korea. I don't mind telling you, the last one was from the Chief of the Navy, Personal. Said I was to consider myself under your orders, or, on your death or incapacity, under Commander Bond's, until Admiral Carlson arrives at 1900 this evening. So what? What's cooking? All I know is that all signals have been prefixed Operation Thunderball. What is this operation?''

Bond had greatly taken to Commander Pedersen. He liked his ease and humor and, in general--the old Navy phrase came back to him--the cut of his jib. Now he watched the stolid good-humored face as Leiter told his story down to the departure of Largo's amphibian at one-thirty and the instructions Bond had given to Domino Vitali.

In the background to Leiter's voice there was a medley of soft noises--the high, constant whine of a generator overlaid by the muted background of canned music--the Ink Spots singing, "I love coffee, I love tea.'' Occasionally the P.A. system above the captain's desk crackled and sang with operational double-talk--"Roberts to Chief of the Boat''--"Chief Engineer wants Oppenshaw''-- "Team Blue to Compartment F''--and from somewhere came the suck and gurgle of a pumplike apparatus that sounded punctually every two minutes. It was like being inside the simple brain of a robot that worked by hydraulics and electrical impulses with a few promptings from its human masters.

After ten minutes, Commander Pedersen sat back. He reached for his pipe and began filling it absent-mindedly. He said, "Well, that's one hell of a story.'' He smiled. "And strangely enough, even if I hadn't had these signals from the Navy Department, I'd believe it. Always did think something like this would happen one of these days. Hell! I have to carry these missiles around, and I'm in command of a nuclear ship. But that doesn't mean that I'm not terrified by the whole business. Got a wife and two children, and that doesn't help either. These atomic weapons are just too damned dangerous. Why, any one of these little sandy cays around here could hold the whole of the United States to ransom--just with one of my missiles trained on Miami. And here am I, fellow called Peter Pedersen, age thirty-eight, maybe sane or maybe not, toting around sixteen of the things--enough to damn near wipe out England. However''--he put his hands down on the desk in front of him--"that's all by the way. Now we've got just one small piece of the problem on our hands--small, but as big as the world. So what are we to do? As I see it, the idea of you gentlemen is that this man Largo will be coming back any minute now in his plane after picking up the bombs from where he hid them. If he's got the bombs, and on what you've told me I'll go along with the probability that he has, this girl will give us the tip-off. Then we close in and arrest his ship or blow it out of the water. Right? But supposing he hasn't got the bombs on board, or for one reason or another we don't get the tip-off, what do we do then?''

Bond said quietly, "We follow him, sit close on his tail, until the time limit, that's about twenty-four hours from now, is up. That's all we can do without causing one hell of a legal stink. When the time limit's up, we can hand the whole problem back to our governments and they can decide what to do with the Disco and the sunken plane and all the rest. By that time, some little man in a speedboat we've never heard of may have left one of the bombs off the coast of America and Miami may have gone up in the air. Or there may be a big bang somewhere else in the world. There's been plenty of time to take those bombs off the plane and get them thousands of miles from here. Well, that'll be too bad and we'll have muffed it. But at this moment we're in the position of a detective watching a man he thinks is going to commit a murder. Doesn't even know for sure whether he's got a gun on him or not. There's nothing the detective can do but follow the man and wait until he actually pulls the gun out of his pocket and points it. Then, and only then, the detective can shoot the man or arrest him.'' Bond turned to Leiter. "Isn't that about it, Felix?''

"That's how it figures. And Captain, Commander Bond here and I are damn sure Largo's our man and that he'll be sailing for his target in no time at all. That's why we agreed to panic and ask you along. One gets you a hundred he'll be placing that bomb at night and tonight's the last night he's got. By the way, Captain, have you got steam up, or whatever the atom boys call it?''

"I have, and we can be under way in just about five minutes.'' The captain shook his head. "But there's one bit of bad news for you, gentlemen. I just can't figure how we're going to keep track of the Disco.''

"How's that? You've got the speed, haven't you?'' Leiter caught himself pointing his steel hook threateningly at the captain, and hastily brought it down again to his lap.

The captain smiled. "Guess so. Guess we could give her a good race on a straight course, but you gentlemen don't seem to have figured on the navigational hazards in this part of the ocean.'' He pointed at the British Admiralty chart on the wall. "Take a look at that. Ever seen a chart with so many figures on it? Looks like a spilled ants' nest. Those are soundings, gentlemen, and I can tell you that unless the Disco sticks to one of the deep-water channels--Tongue of the Ocean, Northwest Providence Channel, or the Northeast-- we've had it, as Commander Bond would say. All the rest of that area''--he waved a hand--"may look the same blue color on a map, but after your trip in that Grumman Goose you know darned well it isn't the same blue color. Darned near the whole of that area is banks and shoal with only around three to ten fathoms over it. If I was quite crazy and looking for a nice cosy job ashore, I'd take the ship along surfaced in ten fathoms--if I could bribe the navigator and seal off the echo-sounder from crew members. But even if we got a long spell of ten fathoms on the chart, you got to remember that's an old chart, dates back to the days of sail, and these banks have been shifting for more than fifty years since it was drawn up. Then there's the tides that set directly onto and off the banks, and the coral niggerheads that won't show up on the echo-sounder until you hear the echo of them smashing up the hull or the screw.'' The captain turned back to his desk. "No, gentlemen. This Italian vessel was darned well chosen. With that hydrofoil device of hers, she probably doesn't draw more than a fathom. If she chooses to keep to the shallows, we just haven't got a chance. And that's flat.'' The captain looked from one to another of them. "Want me to call up the Navy Department and have Fort Lauderdale take over with those fighter bombers you've got on call--get them to do a shadowing job?''

The two men looked at each other. Bond said, "She won't be showing lights. They'll have the hell of a job picking her up at night. What do you say, Felix? Maybe we'd better call them out even if it's only to keep some sort of a watch off the American coast. Then, if the Captain's willing, we'll take the Northwest Channel--if the Disco sails, that is--and bank on the Bahamas Rocket Station being Target No. 1.''

Felix Leiter ran his left hand through the mop of straw-colored hair. "Goddammit,'' he said angrily. "Hell, yes, I suppose so. We're looking fools enough already bringing the Manta on stage. What's a squadron of planes? Sure. We've just got to back our hunch that it's Largo and the Disco. Come on, let's get together with the Captain and whip off a signal that doesn't look too damned silly--copy to C.I.A. and to your Chief. How do you want it to go?''

"Admiralty for M, prefixed Operation Thunderball.'' Bond wiped a hand down over his face. "God, this is going to put the cat among the pigeons.'' He looked up at the big metal wall clock. "Six. That'll be midnight in London. Popular time to get a signal like this.''

The P.A. system in the ceiling spoke more clearly. "Watch Officer to Captain. Police officer with urgent message for Commander Bond.'' The captain pressed a switch and spoke into a desk microphone. "Bring him below. Prepare to cast off lines. All hands prepare for sailing.'' The captain waited for the acknowledgment and released the switch. The captain smiled across at them. He said to Bond, "What's the name of that girl? Domino? Well, Domino, say the good word.''

The door opened. A police corporal, his hat off, crashed to attention on the steel flooring and extended a stiff arm. Bond took the buff O.H.M.S. envelope and slit it open. He ran his eyes down the penciled message signed by the Police Commissioner. Unemotionally he read out:

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"PLANE RETURNED 1730 HOISTED INBOARD, DISCO SAILED AT 1755, FULL SPEED, COURSE NORTHWEST STOP GIRL DID NOT REPEAT NOT REAPPEAR ON DECK AFTER BOARDING.

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Bond borrowed a signal blank from the captain and wrote:

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