Understrike (17 page)
Boysie
nodded. He would have to see this through. Before putting the fix on Braddock-Fairchild, he would have to go along with him—as far as he was able. At least he had to find out the object of the operation. He did not even dare denounce the Commander. Lord knew who else was working for the opposition—in here or on the Control Deck. Braddock-Fairchild was whispering rapidly.
“
You’re here to assist with the take-over. O’Hara will collapse ...” (Perhaps O’Hara was in it as well, thought Boysie) “…When he does, I’ll deal with the radio and close the bulk-head. You get the Navigation Officer and anyone else you can. It’ll probably be a free-for-all. We’ll have to move fast. Just stand by me, and remember—ruthless!”
Boysie
nodded unhappily. This was really playing it by ear. “You are an opposition agent ...You are an opposition agent ... You are an opposition agent ... Think like one ...Act like one...You are…” Boysie silently tried to motivate himself into his part.
*
Everything seemed relaxed and easy on the Control Deck when they stepped through the bulkhead.
“
Good day, Commander. Good day, Mr Oakes. Happy to see you aboard.” Captain O’Hara shepherded them towards the centre of the curved control desk.
“
So this is where you press the button?” Braddock-Fairchild did not appear to be in the least bit nervous. Boysie could feel his own thighs shaking.
“
Well, Commander, it’s not so much a question of pressing buttons.” They were standing directly behind the Ballistics Officer now. “Our first shot, as you know, will be on the aircraft. In the centre here you’ll see the ICD Mk IV Homer setting control.” In the middle of the Ballistics Officer’s section of the desk, set apart from the other instruments by an inlaid circle of metal, was a small knob below a quarter-curved panel graded with numbers from one to five. The knob operated a sharp black and white needle. The needle pointed to the number four. “The setting is child’s play,” continued O’Hara, “In fact the ICD Mk IV could be operated by a five-year-old—as I am often telling Jimmy here.” Jimmy, the Ballistics Officer, laughed like a man who has had the same joke made about him many times before. O’Hara went on.
“
There are five corresponding series on which the Homer can operate. One to five marked on this dial, The Homer in the target aircraft is—we hope—set to number four. So ours is also set to four. When we get notification that the aircraft is on course, Jimmy here switches on to the pre-selected countdown,” the switch was marked in brilliant red above the ICD panel. “From there on the firing is automatic and nothing on this earth can stop it. When the Homer in
Trepholite’s
nose picks up the corresponding Homer we get a winking light up here.” His hand moved high above the desk. Boysie could distinguish the small red bulb among the regimented dials. “When that starts blinking you know that blast-off will occur within sixty seconds. And I’m not even going to try and explain how…”
“
Please don’t. There are times when I feel I would have been happier in Nelson’s navy.” Braddock-Fairchild smiled warmly: the look of one who eternally muddles through. “What about the guided shot?”
“
Yea, well, I was just coming to that. It’s more complicated, of course ...”
“
Before you start, do have a ju-jube, Captain. I know they’re your weakness ...” Braddock-Fairchild was holding a small plastic bag. There was a laugh from the Navigation Officer.
“
Well, thank you, Commander.” O’Hara reached forward. “They’re my Navigation Officer’s weakness as well.”
“
You have one too.” Braddock-Fairchild offered the bag to the Navigation Officer. “Anyone else?”
“
I don’t mind. Thank you,” from the Ballistics Officer. He took a third sweet and popped it into his mouth.
Boysie
could do nothing to stop what happened next. Braddock-Fairchild dropped the bag and stepped back. Boysie reached for the Makarov in his slacks pocket. The move was instinctive. In a second something was going to blow. But he had no idea what he was going to do about it. A choking sound came from the Captain who had both hands up to his throat. The Navigation Officer was trying to get out of his seat, gulping for air. Now the Ballistics Officer. O’Hara bent double and fell. There was a shout from the far end of the control desk. The Electronics Officer was moving. The Navigation and Ballistics Officers were both down now, writhing on the deck, next to their Captain: all three making noises like young pigs in an abattoir. Boysie heard a clang as Braddock-Fairchild closed the heavy bulkhead door; then a violent crash and the smell of cordite; then two more. Boysie had no chance to look round: the Electronics Officer and the Coxswain were diving at him. Out of self-defence, Boysie had his gun up. He tried to shout, but the Electronics Officer was nearly up to him. Boysie side-stepped; the man tripped and Boysie brought his pistol butt down hard. The Electronics Officer gave a winded “Hu!”, and fell across the Ballistic Officer’s legs. The Coxswain had passed Boysie, making for Braddock-Fairchild. There was another shot—sounding, in the confined space, like a bazooka shell. Boysie turned to see the Coxswain lurch forward grabbing at his stomach. He ended up in a heap by the Communications Officer’s seat.
Boysie
’s first reflex was to pump every bullet in the Makarov’s magazine at Braddock-Fairchild, who was leaning, panting, against the tightly-shut bulkhead. But common sense somehow held his trigger finger. The Control Deck looked like the final act of a bad Elizabethan drama. O’Hara, and the Navigation and Ballistics Officers lay dreadfully still. The radio equipment had been shattered by two bullets and the young Communications Officer was slumped forward on the desk. There was a lot of blood round his neck. The Coxswain was certainly dead, and the Electronics Officer was going to be out for a long while. Boysie stupidly hoped that he had not hit him too hard. He felt horribly cold. Shock would not yet let him think about the terrible part he had automatically played in this carnage. He willed himself to think about essentials. He had to find out what Braddock-Fairchild had been instructed to do. The Commander was over on the starboard side now, fiddling with something high above the escape tubes, which were positioned as on the Observation Deck.
“
Well done, Solev,” he was saying. “We were lucky, I didn’t expect three of ‘em to take the cyanide sweeties.” He seemed to have found what he was looking for. “This is the one, I think. Yes.” Boysie came up close behind him. The Commander was removing a small inspection hatch cover—quickly unscrewing the four small butterfly nuts that kept it in place.
“
Air conditioning,” said Braddock-Fairchild. He had the hatch cover off.
“
Hold it, will you; and give it back quickly when I shout.” Boysie, still stunned by the sudden slaughter that surrounded them, obediently took the small oblong of metal.
“
Quickly! Close the vents.”
Boysie
looked around. Fuddled.
“
Oh, all right you fool. Do it meself.” Braddock-Fairchild stretched up to an hexagonal knob above the air conditioning vents and turned it in a series of sharp jerking movements. The ventilator flanges began to close. None of the air piped throughout the ship would be pumped into the Control Room.
“
Don’t want the stuff bowling us over in here. Plenty of air to last until we leave.”
The
Commander’s hand dipped into a pocket, bringing out a tubular plastic container about an inch long and quarter of an inch in diameter. Unscrewing the cap, he tipped two round glass phials into the palm of his right hand. Dropping the container to the floor, the Commander pushed his hand through the air conditioning hatch. Boysie heard a crunch as the phials broke on the inside of the pipe.
“
Quick. The cover.” The Commander replaced it—screwing the nuts tightly in place. “Right, that’ll fix anyone else living and breathing on board. Right through the whole system. Be sprayed out of all the vents.”
“
What ... What was it?”
“
Not quite sure. Mild nerve gas of some kind. Gorilka provided it. Now, we’ve got a lot to do, Solev. A lot.” He was over at the Captain’s position on the control desk. Searching. “Here we are. HK 5 off.” The hand slammed down on the two Beam-Bender switches. “HK 5 on. Good. Now they won’t get an accurate fix on us.”
B
oysie could stand no more of this, the shock was wearing off. If Gorilka had provided it, the odds were that the gas now being pumped through
Playboy’s
air conditioning ducts was lethal. He had stood by—no, assisted—while five men had died in here. Now he had helped to kill his colleagues behind the bulkhead door—and lord knew how many crew. Everything had happened so fast. If only he had thought about it: anticipated. He should have realised that Braddock-Fairchild was the only opposition agent on board. And he had let this happen. Just stood there incapable. Incompetent. Impotent.
“
Oh Christ!” moaned Boysie internally.
He
lifted the Makarov pistol and pointed it unsteadily at the Commander’s back.
“
Just turn round from there and get your hands up,” he said, surprised that his voice sounded so calm.
Braddock-Fairchild
stiffened. He did not turn or attempt to move, but just stood there, his big brown hands resting on the control desk.
“
So,” said the Commander. “You’re defecting again are you, Solev. Gorilka told me to be careful with you. He warned me.”
“
I’m not Solev. Gorilka’s boys got the wrong man. My name really
is
Oakes.” He felt as though a column of red ants were marching up his spine—shod in snow-drenched boots. He heard the Commander’s intake of breath. Over-confident, Boysie lowered his gun and started to move forward. There was a flurry of movement and a violent roar. Boysie felt himself being spun round against the hull. The Makarov was whisked out of his hand and he was going dizzy, clutching at his arm. Braddock-Fairchild had been quick, the automatic was still dribbling smoke. Boysie, down on one knee, could feel the blood trickling out of the wound high in his right arm. The old boy had been reasonably accurate.
“
I should really finish you off now,” said the Commander. Strange, thought Boysie, through the pain and haze, his voice still had that very English upper-crust quarter deck growl. You did not associate that kind of voice with Commie sympathisers.
“
But I think it might be better for you to go with the rest of them,” continued Braddock-Fairchild. “When
Playboy
explodes. It will be far more terrifying for you. And probably much more painful. Just desserts. Oakes, Just desserts.” Boysie’s vision was going—grey, then the black nothing of unconsciousness.
*
They got Birdlip out of the Main Control Centre, to take the transatlantic call, at about the same time as the police car —siren wailing—came bucketing up to the Main Gate of North Island Base. In the back of the car, white, haggard and tired, next to Police Captain Boyle, sat Chicory Triplehouse.
Birdlip was a man in anguish. In the very centre of his conscience he knew that he had done the right thing. All available information had led him to mistrust the Englishman, Mostyn. Birdlip morbidly reflected that he had practiced the techniques of mental cruelty on Mostyn. He had brow-beaten him with words; sneered at him; been sarcastic; bullied and cajoled him. Then, in a matter of minutes, the world of Rupert Birdlip crumpled. A telephone call from England told him that this was
the
Mostyn—2IC of Special Security. To add to his woe, a peachy dame corroborated Mostyn’s story about the body in Room 30 at the Sleepy Bear motel. Birdlip just did not know where to look. He was, in fact, looking at the top of his desk. Mostyn, still exuding an air of deep injury, sat to his left. Across the room was lovely Miss Chicory Triplehouse. (“An amateur,” Mostyn had said, “employed by our New York man as an occasional courier. Didn’t really know what she was letting herself in for.”) She had told her story—from the moment that she was assigned as Boysie’s escort, until the previous night, when the police had picked her up uncommonly plastered in the bar at San Diego airport.
Chicory
had, of course, disobeyed Boysie and gone to look at the cadaver. The experience had closed the circuit, causing mild shock; and on reaching the airport, Chicory had done nothing about getting herself a seat on a New York flight. Instead, she had gone to the bar and consumed highball after potent highball. First she had become maudlin, cried a little, and called the bartender “Joe”. But when—rather late on the Sunday night—she had started to remove her stockings, as a prelude to even more revealing divestiture, the barman had called the cops.
Chicory
had awakened, late and uncomfortable, in the drunk tank at the City Jail. In the cold light of a hot hangover, she yelled for a policeman and babbled about a dead man in Room 30. Chicory’s statement was startling—particularly as the entire San Diego police force had spent a good deal of time laughing over the nut who had sent their Captain trailing after a nonexistent body. Now, telling her story to Mostyn and Birdlip, she thought of something else.
“
So it must have been Boysie, not Vladimir, who came on down here,” she said. “Boysie was the only one who knew about Max in New York. Vladimir had never heard of him. Yet I distinctly remember him saying ‘Call Max when you get back to New York.’ It must have been Vladimir who was killed in the bed.” She was still near the hysterical fringe—the voice uncontrolled in the higher register.
Then
something else struck her. She had not bothered to mention her sexual adventures—not in any detail that is. But Mostyn, having that sort of mind, had worked out a fairly accurate picture for himself.
“
That bastard, Boysie,” thought Chicory. “He must’ve changed places. Geez, no wonder I thought they were so much alike. The rat!”’
Mostyn
said, “You all right, Miss Triplehouse? You look a bit flushed.”
Mostyn
hoped that she was right about Boysie, for, though he caused the 2IC more agony than any other member of the Department, Boysie was his particular creation. Out of a lump of provincial clay, Mostyn had moulded this man; breathed the breath of life into him; dressed him in fine raiment, and set him to work. Any psychiatrist would have also told Mostyn that he did not want to lose Boysie because it was through Boysie he could release the most sadistic and power-ridden facets of his personality.
Birdlip,
who had been very quiet until now, broke into the conversation. “Colonel Mostyn, don’t you think that we should really do something about
Playboy
? No matter if it’s the Commie or your man on board.”
“
There is only one thing to do—as I have been repeatedly telling you, old Birdmouth…”
“
. . Lip.”
“
…Lip.
Playboy
will have to be recalled. Game postponed owing to heavy machinations and an
agent
provocateur
on the pitch. Should have thought you’d have already done something about that. Time like an ever-rolling stream and all that jazz.”
Birdlip
braced himself. “I think, Colonel, it would come better from you.”
“
What would?”
“
The news ... That the trials should be cancelled. Admiral Fullenhaft ain’t going to be too ...”
“
Pleased. No. I’ll bet: and you don’t want to be at the receiving end of his just wrath, old Bird ...”
“
lip ...”
“
Yes.”
Chicory
was left in the Guard Room, happy with three very tall and manly Marines, while Mostyn and Birdlip jeeped it up to the Main Control Centre, from which the
Playboy
-
Trepholite
trials were being directed.
During
the past twenty-four hours, Mostyn had been given a lot of time to think. He had approached the problem from every angle, and still intuitively felt that there was something of sinister importance about the whole affair. He could not settle for plain healthy sabotage, or the theft of
Playboy
. Just behind his conscious thoughts lurked the Coelacanth, the missing link, which would not come to the surface.
The
Control Centre was a long airy room with a wide glass wall reaching high to the ceiling and looking out to sea. About a hundred men and women, engaged in a complicated multitude of duties—from watching radar scanners to checking computers—were working with concentrated efficiency. At a central dais, above a vast chart of the Californian coast and the immediate Pacific, sat Admiral Charles Fullenhaft. Initially the Admiral was pleased to see Birdlip and Mostyn. This stage of the operation was routine and boring. Admiral Fullenhaft was a great one for ‘company’. But as Mostyn talked, so the Admiral became uneasy. From uneasiness his face became grave. Before Mostyn could finish his appreciation of the situation, the Admiral took action and picked up his hand microphone. The voice came deadly over the Control Centre loudspeaker system.
“
Admiral Fullenhaft speaking. Commander Stenway, will you recall
Playboy
: action immediate. This operation is postponed. And look, George, don’t have any truck with that son of a bitch O’Hara. Just get him back here. Tell him to surface and come home pronto. All sections relay that.”
Commander
Stenway, in charge of Communications—way down the room to their left—looked startled and then began talking fast to his underlings. Fullenhaft turned to Mostyn.
“
That satisfy you, Colonel?”
“
I think it’s the only thing to do, sir. I won’t be satisfied until
Playboy’s
back and my boy’s face to face with me.”
“
My, God, it’d better be the only thing to do. I’ll be the laughing stock of the United States Navy—not to mention the Submarine Service—if it isn’t.”
Mostyn
was watching the Communications Section across the room. There seemed to be a good deal of activity going on. Far more than was warranted by a simple recall order. He saw Commander Stenway pick up his microphone.
“
Stenway, sir. We cannot raise
Playboy
. They seem to have gone off the air.”
The
Admiral gave Mostyn a quick glance of alarm.
“
When did you last have them?”
“
Fifteen minutes ago. The normal quarter-hourly check.”
“
OK. Radar?”
The
officer in charge of radar had already been in puzzled conference with his staff.
“
We’re getting a mighty odd reaction here, Admiral. Looks as if Captain O’Hara’s got the HK5 operating.”
“
What’s the HK5?” Mostyn whispered to Birdlip.
“
Radar Beam-Bender.”
Another
voice came over the speaker system.
“
Both the Grumman Trackers report heavy radar interference consistent to HK5 device, Admiral.”
“
Hell!” said Fullenhaft, looking at Mostyn. “What d’we do now, sonny?” It was a long time since Mostyn had been addressed as ‘sonny’. He didn’t much care for it.
“
It looks as though we’re too late, sir.”
“
Yes.” The Admiral was on the brink of big decisions. “What subs have we on standby?” he asked his ADC.
The
ADC, true to that breed, had things at his fingertips. “
Scabardfish
and
Seacat
, sir.”
“
Make me a signal. Admiral Fullenhaft to Director Naval Operations Pacific Fleet. Request
Scabardfish
and
Seacat
, under way immediate. Surface, course due West at speed and await orders.”
“
Shall we move in some of the PT-Boats, sir? They’re nearest,” said the ADC.
Mostyn
followed the Admiral’s eyes down to the chart.
Playboy’s
position was marked by a blue plastic submarine which looked as though it had come out of a cereal packet. Other ships and aircraft were similarly marked. Mostyn could see that eight of the fast little PT-Boats were deployed in a circle of about three miles radius around
Playboy
.
“
No,” said the Admiral. “For God’s sake keep the firing area clear. Put a stop to that target aircraft and notify the helicopters to maintain their position. We don’t want the choppers moving over the area. If they do happen to loose off a
Trepholite
and there’s a ‘copter on top, the meeting ain’t going to be a happy one.”
There
it was. The click in Mostyn’s head at the words ‘top’ and ‘meeting’.
Topmeet
. The Prime Minister. “Ye Gods!” said Mostyn looking at the date inset on his watch. That figured. It was just possible. In his mind, Mostyn was doing some simple arithmetic involving flight times, speeds and altitudes.
The
Admiral was speaking to him.
“
We’ve got a flight of missile interceptors, ‘bout a 100 miles North West of
Playboy’s
firing position. I’m going to move them in just in case we get a
Trepholite
going astray. Though I doubt if they will be able to stop one. That missile’s pretty foolproof.”
“
It’s not armed though, is it?” asked Mostyn, as coolly as the tension would allow.
“
No, but if one happened to go astray inland it could plough up a mighty big patch of real estate.”
“
And if it hit an aircraft?”
“
Write off. Impact would blow an airplane right out of the sky. Why?”
“
Oh nothing.” Casual: Mostyn did not want to start a panic. For one thing he did not know who was supposed to be appraised about
Topmeet
. “Admiral, d’you think I could possibly have a scrambled line to your security boys in San Francisco?” Mostyn hoped that he did not sound too worried.
*
There was a snake around his arm. A mammoth Mamba coiled from his wrist. It was biting high up near the shoulder. Boysie lashed out with his left hand. The pain was like a white-hot twisting branding-iron. Boysie moaned and opened his eyes. Then he remembered. The pain was real enough. The top of his arm throbbed with great regular punches—juddering stabs to a steady beat. The back of his throat felt dry, and a Black and Decker power drill seemed to be easing its way through his frontal lobes. Boysie screwed up his eyes—as though trying to swill the pain from behind them. Slowly he raised his lids again, lifting his head. He was propped against the bulkhead. A more definite focus returned. He could see a pair of shoes—too heavy, with large rounded toes. A square, thought Boysie. His eyes moved upwards. Commander Braddock-Fairchild RN was sitting in the Captain’s chair, swivelled round to face him, the automatic pistol lying on his lap. The old pirate was smiling.
“
Glad you’ve wakened up, Oakes. In time for the fun, eh?” said the Commander, the smile changing to a leer.
Boysie
tried to muster energy, then realised that he did not care very much. Someone had once told him that dying from severe injuries, or a serious disease, was easy. You were too weak and tired to care. He looked at his arm. This is stupid, he thought, beginning to live a little. It’s only a flesh wound; you’re not going to die from that. Then he remembered the Commander’s last words before unconsciousness: “It might be better for you to go with the rest of them when
Playboy
explodes.” As memory returned so did fear; and with it Boysie realised a terrible hatred for Braddock-Fairchild.
“
I suppose your precious Priscilla’s in on this?” Was all he could think of.
The
Commander stopped smiling—a squall among the heavy lines above his eyebrows. “No. Afraid Priscilla’s never taken to her father. Knows very little about me really. Mother’s girl. I never got on. Never got on with her mother come to think of it. But then nobody did.”
