Spy Story

It was after the second round of drinks that MacGregor came into the back room laughing. 'I've just seen a remarkable sight,' he said. We turned to look at him, for he was not a man who was often surprised. And even less likely to admit it.

'A hearse — driving past like a mad feller.'

'A hearse? Where was he going?' said Ferdy.

'Where was he going,' said MacGregor. 'Hah. I'd like to know the answer to that one myself. He was driving up over the high road. There's nothing along that way.'

'Except the submarine base,' I said.

'Aye, except the submarine base. It would be a detour of fifteen miles for him to go that way to the Glen, or any of the villages.'

'Some kid stealing a ride home,' said Schlegel. He had not even looked up from his drink.

'At this time of day?' said MacGregor, 'Coming back from some local night club you mean?'

'Something like that,' said Schlegel, unabashed at MacGregor's sarcasm. 'What else, I'd like to know?'

'A burial at sea,' I offered. MacGregor gave a great booming laugh as though I'd made a fine joke.

'Did it have a body in it?' asked the ever-practical Ferdy.

'Well, it had a coffin in it,' said MacGregor.

We ate in the front bar that night. We sat on the stools and faced Mac across his highly polished bar counter. It was a good stew — a man's cooking: great chunks of beef with whole potatoes and beans, too. And Mac's best beer to go with it. And as we finished eating, the sky threw a handful of snow at the window, and the wind rapped twice so that we couldn't fail to notice.

Chapter Eighteen

… history does not prove games wrongs anymore than games prove history so.

'NOTES FOR WARGAMERS'. STUDIES CENTRE. LONDON

THE NAVIES of the world have decreed that, although I submarines are called boats, nuclear submarines are ships. To see one of these monsters, well over a hundred yards long, weigh anchor and creep out to sea, is to understand why. Inch by inch we moved through the anchorage, past pale grey mother ships and the tiny conventional submarines alongside them. We passed through the anti-submarine booms, nets and anti-frogman, barrier, thankful for the brief snatches of bright sun that shone from a cloudy sky and reminded everyone aboard that we were heading into the continuous Arctic night.

The U.S. submarine Paul Revere was a huge vessel by any standards, space to spare for laundry rooms, cinema, library and a comfortable lounge. Just a perfunctory tour of the ship took over an hour. No sooner had we changed into U.S.N. khakis than,

Schlegel was off, investigating every nook and cranny. We heard his progress through the departments, making jokes, poking fingers, shaking hands and introducing himself, 'Colonel Chuck Schlegel, U.S. Marine Corps, buddy, and don't you forget you've got a gyrene on this tub. Ha, ha.'

These intelligence submarines did not have the usual banks of sixteen missiles. Instead, the amidships section was crammed with electronic counter measures (E.C.M.) arid radio monitoring and recording apparatus. Certain recorded intercepts were taken back to stucen and fed into the computer. Thus we could array on the Games Table up to date 'dilemma assessment' which is the pre-game stage of each simulated conflict.

In a corner of the lounge, there was the ship's doctor, laying down the cards for a complicated bridge game that he claimed he could play all by himself.

'What's it like up there?' he said. He was a worn-out little man with balding head and heavy-lidded eyes.

'Bright sunshine, but we are running into sea mist.'

'How about taking a bridge hand?'

I shook my head. 'I promised my mother,' I said.

The great submarine, threaded its way out through the Sound. The Seal Beach lighthouse bellowed at us, and a sea mist clamped down upon the gap between the northern end of Ardvern and the tiny island of Lum, that sticks its black head out of the water like an inquiring seal, its neck garlanded with a ruff of white water.

It was radar weather after that. The skipper came down from the sail. Schlegel had been up there with him. When he came into the wardroom his face was blue with cold, in spite of the big U.S. Navy anorak he was wearing.

He slipped the anorak off his shoulders. 'Oh boy!' said Schlegel.

The doctor looked up from his bridge game. Schlegel was wearing his old Marine Corps sun-tans: short sleeves, rank insignia and pilot's wings, and starched like a plank.

I was standing by the coffee machine and I poured him some.

'Jesus, it's pretty scary,' Schlegel said. 'We came past that damned reef so close I could have snatched a sea-gull off the fore-shore.' He looked around to where Ferdy was sitting, feet on the table and half asleep, over a copy of The Brothers Karamasov.

'You guys haven't seen what's happening upstairs. That skipper slides this office block through the water like a dune buggy.' He gulped the hot coffee. He pulled a face as it burned him.

'Be careful,' said Ferdy. 'That coffee is very hot.'

'You should go up on the sail sometime,' said Schlegel. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.

'Not me,' said Ferdy. 'Not after seeing what it's done to you, Colonel.'

Schlegel put his anorak into a locker and poured himself some iced water.

'What was the skipper saying about oranges, Patrick?'

'We usually put a couple of crates aboard, Colonel. It's the first thing they run low on. And that way, we don't have to feel guilty about giving them three extra mouths.'

'Now I've got to chip in on that,' said Schlegel.

'Whatever you want to do,' I said. I saw the Engineering Officer pass by the door on his way to the Manoeuvring Room. There was a double blast on the diving-klaxon. 'Hold on to your ice water, Colonel,' I told him.

The floor tilted suddenly. 'Holy Moses,' said Schlegel. The floor's angle increased, and the strip lunged forward as the bow wave, which had been resting on us like a wall, streamed over the deck. Schlegel nearly lost his balance, and put out a hand to grasp the overhead piping. He smiled to show us how much he was enjoying it. After we passed a hundred feet the ship levelled off.

At a writing-desk in the corner of the lounge the doctor slammed his hands on to the cards to stop them sliding.

'Does that happen often?' Schlegel askecL

'It'll happen again within an hour,' I said. 'When, we're past Muck, Eigg and Rhum and into the Minches, he'll take her down to four hundred feet. That's cruising level. After that there's nothing to do except watch Ferdy reading; Brothers Karamazov: just as he's been doing the last three trips.'

'I can't remember their damned names,' said Ferdy.

I wouldn't get too settled in,' said Schlegel. 'This trip is likely to be more active than usual.'

Neither of us answered.

Schlegel said, 'I'm going to the Control Room if anybody wants me.'

Ferdy chortled after Schlegel had gone. 'If anybody wants him,' said Ferdy. 'Where's he think he is, the Playboy Club?'

I was wrong about the Captain waiting until we got to the Minches. The klaxon sounded and the floor tilted again. From the far end of the ship I heard a cry of pain from Schlegel as he fell and slid across the polished deck.

'Good on the skipper,' said Ferdy.

* * *