Sea Leopard

'Can you check beyond the breaks?'

'Maybe.'

'Can you see the socket and the box?'

'Yes.'

Clark peered into the hole. He tidied the sheared and twisted wiring to one side and looked again. The wires reached the fibre optics converter box on the underside of the outer hull.

'Remove it complete,' Quin instructed. 'Fit a new one. And Clark—'

'Yes?'

There is a second plug, for the fibre optics. A bayonet fitting. Be careful. The first has forty pins, and it fits only one way.'

'Right.'

Clark looked at his watch. One minute since the door had slammed. He reached in, pressing his cheek against the hull, feeling the activity within the submarine as a slight vibration. His fingers flexed in the narrow space, snagged and cut on the exposed, shorn wires, and then his fingertips had hold of the upper section of the box. He pulled. Nothing happened. He pulled again, surprise on his face. The converter box would not budge.

'It's jammed,' he said. 'Jammed.'

The door slammed. Marching boots, double time, the voice of the michman savagely drilling the two replacement guards. Clark clung to the nylon line and the converter box and prayed for the fifty-fifty chance to work in his favour.

The boots clattered down the starboard side of the Proteus. He had a moment or two yet —

'Have you got it? Can you see what's wrong?' Quin was frightened.

Clark heaved at it, curling his fingers round the edge of the converter box. Nothing moved. One finger touched the clip — clips, strap, he'd forgotten the clips and the strap securing the box — he flipped open the catch with his thumb, felt it loosen, and then gripped the box again. He gritted his teeth and strained. His arm shot out of the hole and he wriggled on the nylon line, holding on to the dangling wires and the box as the velocity with which he had jerked them free threatened to make him drop them. The michman's voice snapped out orders to the new guards. In a moment, they would appear on the port side —

He ripped open one of the two thick packs and drew out a replacement converter box already wired to the transducer. He fed the complete unit into the hole as carefully as he could. He pushed it forward. Then he let go of the rope, dangling by its tight, cutting hold on his armpits, and shone his lamp. The michman had stopped shouting. He was watching the two guards' doubling on the spot. Push — no, slight adjustment — push, get it into the clips — push home, feel for the strap ends, yes — hook them over, clamp the catch. He fitted the fibre optics plug, then fastened the transducer into place, and fitted the locking ring to holding it. The michman had ordered them to stop doubling.

Clark's arms felt lifeless and weak. He heaved at the nylon line, but his body hardly moved. His feet scrabbled on the smooth hull. The michman ordered the second new guard to follow him. It was like a yelled order to Clark. He clambered back up the line. Fifty feet to the hatch. Seconds only.

He ran. He heaved open the hatch, not caring any longer whether or not he had been seen, and tumbled into darkness, the hatch thudding softly shut on its rubber seals behind him. He lay breathless and aching and uncaring in the safe, warm darkness of the escape chamber, every part of his body exhausted.

* * *

'Well done, Quin,' Aubrey offered, and watched the slow bloom of self-satisfaction on the man's face. He was difficult to like, but Aubrey had ceased to despise him. Quin was back in the land of the living, as it were. Flattery, cajolement, even threat had all played a part in his rehabilitation. Finally, however, Aubrey had seen the danger to his invention, his project, overcome and prompt Quin. The man would not surrender 'Leopard' without some effort on his part.

Thank you,' Quin returned. Then his face darkened, and he shook his head. 'It's almost impossible,' he added. 'I don't know whether Clark has the necessary concentration to keep this up —'

'I understand the strain he must be under,' Aubrey said, 'but there's no other way.'

'I'm — I'm sorry — stupid behaviour earlier — apologies —' Each word seemed wrenched from Quin, under duress. Aubrey respected the effort it was costing the cold, egotistical man to offer an explanation of himself.

'Quite all right.'

'It's just that, well, now I don't want them to get their hands on it, you see —'

'Quite.'

'It is the only thing of importance to me, you see.' He looked down at his hands. 'Shouldn't say that, but I'm afraid it's true.' He looked up again, his eyes fierce. 'Damn them, they mustn't have it!'

'Mr Aubrey?' There was something trying to force itself like a broken bone through Eastoe's frosty reserve.

'Yes, Squadron Leader?'

'We have some blips on the radar. Four of them.'

'Yes?'

'Coming up rapidly from one of the airfields on the Kola Peninsula. Not missiles, the trace is wrong for that. Four aircraft.'

'I see. Range?'

'Not more than thirty miles. They'll be with us in three minutes or even less.'

'With us? I don't understand.'

'They' ve already crossed into Norwegian airspace, Mr Aubrey. They didn't even hesitate.'

Chapter Thirteen: CONCEALMENT

They were MiG-23s, code-named Flogger-B, single-seat, all-weather interceptors. Four of them. Even Aubrey could recognise them, in a moment of silhouette that removed him more than forty years to basic aircraft recognition tests at the beginning of the war. A vivid streak of lightning to the north, and the brassy light illuminating the night sky, outlined the nearest of the MiGs. Slim, grey, red-starred on its flank. One wing-tip rose as the aircraft banked slightly, and Aubrey could see the air-to-air missiles beneath the swing wing in its swept-back position.

Immediately, Eastoe was talking to him. 'Mr Aubrey, they're MiG-23s, interceptors. The flight leader demands to know our mission and the reason for our invasion of sensitive airspace.'

'What is their intention, would you say?' Quin was staring out of the window of the Nimrod, watching the slim, shark-like silhouette that had begun to shadow them.

'Shoo us away.'

'What course of action do you —?'

'Just a minute, Mr Aubrey. I' ve got the Norwegian flight leader calling me. Do you want to listen into this?'

'I don't think so,' Aubrey replied wearily. 'I am sure I already know what he wishes to say.'

'Very well.'

The headset went dead, and Aubrey removed it. It clamped his temples and ears, and seemed to cramp and confine thought. He did not like wearing it. Quin did not seem disappointed at Aubrey's decision.

There was another flash of lightning, streaking like bright rain down a window towards the sea. The blare of unreal light revealed the closest of the Northrop F-5s turning to port, away from the Nimrod. Their Norwegian fighter escort had been recalled to Kirkenes. Norway's unwritten agreement, as a member of NATO, with the Soviet Union was that no military exercises or provocative military manoeuvres were undertaken within a hundred miles of the Soviet border. Evidently, the Russians had registered a protest, and their protest had been accepted.

Aubrey replaced his headset. 'Has our Norwegian escort gone?'

'Yes, Mr Aubrey. We're on our own.'