Understrike

by John Gardner

  As the car hummed through the hot streets, it struck Boysie that he could do nothing but play at being a double agent. The opposition—he knew from Gorilka—had at least one operative planted inside the Base: probably even taking an active part in the Playboy-Trepholite trials. To most people, Boysie would be Brian Oakes, British Special Security observer. But to one, maybe two, or even three men, he would be Vladimir Solev, there to assist in Operation Understrike—whatever that may be. Boysie dared not open his thumping heart to anybody. There was nobody he could trust. This, he argued to himself, was one of the reasons for leaving Chicory so quickly.

  “It’s all very difficult,” he said to himself, wrapped in acute depression,

  The hangover, the ugliness, the shock of death, and the decisive call to action had, until now, sublimated the more noisy facets of Boysie’s shrieking fear. Alone, in the back of the car, the trembling and cold sweat of continual apprehension slushed over him. Outside the car, the world was quiet and content. The great American way of life rolled smoothly by on plastic runners. The Moms were raiding the supermarkets and arguing over the way to keep from getting pregnant again, or how to avoid domestic maladjustment within the family unit; the Pops were in their offices slaving away for the status symbol of an ulcer or a nervous breakdown; the teenagers were living it up on 7-Up, kookie and kinky, shaking to the Blue Beat or Country and Western; the kids were munching Hershey bars and getting sick off soda pop; the old timers were amazed at the speed of life in the space age. Crooks were crooking; junkies were junking; lovers were loving; rapists were raping; TV stars were showing their teeth; regular guys were being outwardly regular, while inwardly they thought about seducing their neighbour’s wives or—if they had passed middle age—their neighbour’s daughters. People were just going about their quite everyday tasks—taking sleeping pills and tranquillisers, going to bed with their sisters, getting hooped up, killing people, having babies out of wedlock, lying, cheating, stealing. God was in orbit: all was well in the land of the free: Ma’s apple pie tasted great. And Boysie Oakes was isolated, right slap bang centre in a bullseye which marked the middle of a plot angled to add a little chaos to democracy. Boysie Oakes was not happy. He longed for a change of scene: a new job even.

  The car pulled up at an intersection, stopped by traffic lights, Boysie had that unnerving feeling that someone was watching him. Another car had drawn level with them—a shining black 300SE limousine. At the wheel sat a pugilistic man with a small scar below his right eye. Boysie looked into the back of the car. The tiny eyes of Dr Vassily Georg Gorilka stared back at him, expressionless. Gorilka inclined his head towards Boysie, after the manner of royalty. The lights changed and the two cars leaped forward. At the next cross roads the 300SE turned right. The US Navy Chevriolet went straight on, carrying Boysie Oakes towards North Island Base.

  *

  Mostyn had the right mentality for security work—sneaky. He had arrived in San Diego incognito: Unheralded and as anonymous as the father of an artificially inseminated child. In spite of his lack of immediate credentials, one telephone call to North Island Base had produced the information that the British Security officer called Oakes had arrived and was staying at the Sleepy Bear motel. That was a bit easy, thought Mostyn, should have their guts for that: chivvy the darlings; could have given Boysie’s address to any Tom, Dick or Boris—not good enough (he smiled at the bad pun). So Boysie was here in San Diego. That was a relief. But what had Boysie been doing en route? If the Chief was right, and their lad had been giving way to concupiscence ...! Mostyn burned at the very idea. I will have his genitals for breakfast—he threatened silently—with tomatoes. As the cab rattled him towards the Sleepy Bear motel, Mostyn allowed himself the luxury of a short daydream concerning Boysie in excruciating agony.

  Mostyn arrived at the motel just before nine-fifteen. The morning was warm and clear: the palm fronds and bougainvillaea trembling a little to the mild breeze.

  “Either 29 or 30 depending which one ya want,” said the manager in answer to Mostyn’s polite request for Boysie’s room number. This was confusing, but Mostyn always found himself being confused in the United States.

  “The dame just checked out—‘bout ten minutes ago.” added the manager.

  So Boysie had been leching it across the States. From the start, Mostyn had not liked the sound of FEMALE ESCORT mentioned in the cables. By the time he reached room number 30, the Second-in-Command of British Special Security was deep in a mood of icy sadism. The Do Not Disturb sign swung daintily from the handle.

  “I’ll do not disturb him,” murmured Mostyn rapping hard on the door. “Come along, old boy. I know you’re in there. Surprise. See who’s come all the way from London on the wild goose fun!” He knocked again, the lock slipped and the door swung open. Mostyn blinked twice, and made it to the bed in a single bound. The sneer turned to a look of revulsion.

  “Godl” he breathed, staring down at the body of Vladimir Solev. “What have they done to you, old boy? Poor old Boysie, what have they done to you?”

  6 — UNDER ...

  “Class conscious heap of capitalists,” muttered Boysie surveying his fellow observers with acid animosity. From the moment Commander Braddock-Fairchild took him into the wardroom, where they were gathered for coffee before the day’s work, Boysie felt out of his depth—not the happiest way to begin a submarine trip under the Pacific Ocean. On top of the other anxieties, Boysie was getting an inferiority kick.

  The special representatives had been chosen from Navy, Army, Air Force and Security services of both Great Britain and the United States; and Boysie instantly recognised the British Army Major and the Air Force Wing-Commander as Eton-Oxford embassy-attaché-type wet snots.

  “Don’t see why we’re here at all,” the Major drawled, sleek and polished next to Boysie in his casuals. “Just to sit in a damned submarine. American flamboyancy that’s all it is. What sort of report we goin’ to be able to write, eh? Won’t even see the missile go up, eh, Tiger?”

  “Typical,” was all that Tiger—the Wing-Commander—could contribute.

  Braddock-Fairchild bumbled (stupid old duffer, thought Boysie) and introduced the Americans. Their security man—a diminutive Texan called Rondinelli—said “Hi!”; the Naval, Army and Air Force officers just stared, nodded and went back to their private argument about the last Army/Navy game. At the far side of the room, about thirty US Navy Officers—who were to watch the trials the easy way—on the monitors set up in the operations room, safe ashore—clustered together, making like a surburban cocktail party: all chat and teeth. Landlubbers, thought Boysie.

  After standing with a fixed grin, and speaking to nobody for ten minutes, Boysie took his coffee into a corner and opened the leather folder presented to each of them on arrival. One thing was sure: the opposition had not planted their man among the eight special observers. They were all as obsolete as the halberd, was Boysie’s ultimate decision.

  The leather folder had ‘Most Secret’ embossed in the top right-hand corner. But its contents yielded little that security could classify as risky. First, a list of the official observers—Boysie’s name misspelled as ‘Oaks’. Seven pages of biographical details, capsuling the service careers of senior officers taking part in the exercise, a short history of submarine warfare, and a single sheet headed Program for Official Special Observers: Playboy-Trepholite Firing Trials completed the file. This final page was, to Boysie, the only useful thing in the whole load of bumph. It clearly stated the times of meals (Not that we’re likely to get any cordon bleu here, he thought), and gave an explicit picture of how they were expected to spend the next few hours. An introductory talk, by Admiral Charles Fullenhaft would be followed by Captain Gary O’Hara (Commanding USS Playboy) giving his briefing to the observers. In the afternoon they were to be taught safety drill, and at 17.00 all personnel—civilians, officers and enlisted men—taking part in the trials, had to be present for a final briefing. The eight observers, Boysie no
ted ruefully, were required—dressed, clean, sober and in their right, tiny, cotton-picking minds—at 05.30 on Monday morning ready for embarkation in Playboy.

  The lecture room was small and uncomfortable. It reminded Boysie of school (there was that same chalky smell), and later of the interminable lectures he had endured—shuttled from training course to training course—during World War II. On the right of a raised dais stood an easel displaying a large-scale chart of San Diego Bay and a mighty hunk of the Pacific; on the left, a similar easel held a coloured sectional diagram of a submarine—presumably the famous Playboy.

  “It is my pleasurable duty to welcome you here as official observers for these trials involving the most advanced sub aqua craft the world has yet seen—USS Playboy—and its particular missile, the Trepholite.” The arid voice of Admiral Charles Fullenhaft growled sporifically in the mid-morning warmth.

  Under his breath, Boysie muttered, “Here they are ... Your friends and mine ... Ladies and Gentlemen ... a big hand for . . Per-lay-boy ... and ... Ter-repholite!”

  “Before Captain O’Hara speaks to you,” the Admiral looked set for a good half hour. “I would like to explain just why the United States Navy and the State Department deemed it desirable to have certain independent obeservers present on this historic occasion ...”

  The tensions of the past days were pressing in on Boysie. It only needed Admiral Fullenhaft’s tranquillising pedantry to set the veils of sleep billowing round his mind. Twice he nodded forward. The third time found him off his chair, having to be helped up by the laconic Rondinelli. The Admiral’s secretary, a lean hungry Lieutenant, pointedly opened the window.

  The Admiral buzzed on, “... The submarine must move to live; while it is moving it is detectable. You are all aware of the increasing importance of sub aqua launching pads. Because of them, International Limits have no strategic significance. Our deployed nuclear submarine power is at once a silent strike force and a last ditch retaliatory unit …” Boysie decided to try out the game they used to play during sermons—when he was in the village choir. You listened for a word beginning with A, then B and so on until the end of the alphabet. XYZ were the difficult ones.

  “... Success in the nuclear war can only be achieved by the complete and immediate destruction of the enemy’s powers of retaliation. Our Polaris submarines—operating for long periods below the ocean—are almost immune from surprise attack.” Up to F already.

  “But, gentlemen,” the Admiral was allowing his voice to slide into the grave funeral oration level. “We must not delude ourselves. In spite of this great country’s advances in the relatively new field of nautical strategy and technocracy, we must face the fact that the USSR has, until now, remained steadily ahead of us—both numerically (with submarines afloat) and in strike power: you will all be conversant with the formation of Russia’s new attacker fleet of sixty large, nuclear, missile-carrying submarines. But, with the Playboy-Trepholite complex in full production, we will now have the edge on any navy in the world.” He paused, searching for applause. Getting none the Admiral gazed steadily at his notes and continued. Boysie had got to I.

  “The balance of power lies in Playboy. She is the fastest, most manoeuvreable nuclear submarine yet devised by any nation. Equipped with the HK5 radar beam-bender, she is virtually undetectable. Her sole purpose is to operate as a silent, rapid, annihilative attack platform. She carries—and can launch from the submerged position—six Trepholite missiles.” Boysie was still listening out for J. “At first sight this may seem a small number compared to such craft as George Washington, designed to carry sixteen Polaris missiles.” No J.

  “Now, gentlemen, obviously, even at this level, I cannot give you the full specifications of Trepholite. But I can assure you that it is the answer to our prayers. God is on our side gentlemen. Its accurate range, from the submerged craft, is in excess of 3000 miles, and its nuclera punch far exceeds the ICBM figures released last year. One Trepholite ...” He sounded as though he was about to deliver an ultimatum, “can deliver the megadeath power of six Polaris. Sixteen Polaris, launched simultaneously, have a destructive power equal to that of all bombs detonated during World War II ... So you can work it out for yourselves.” Stuck on J. There’s no justice, thought Bosyie, and gave up the game. The Admiral was still talking.

  “The greatest single factor in Trepholite’s favour, as you will see, is its size. In relation to range, accuracy and power, this is a comparatively small missile—due to the phenomenally tiny Dies Irae warhead and the new X4F metallic compound developed by the Sandia Corporation ...”

  The size, range and power of the Trepholite meant little to Boysie. His mind could not encompass such things. To him, the Trepholite was simply a super shell which could be fired from under the sea, travel a long distance, and end up with a bloody great bang—killing a lot of people, maiming hundreds more, and spreading a deadly toxic sprinkle into the atmosphere. Yet even Boysie could see it was an important weapon. The faces around him all radiated the same resigned gloom.

  Captain Gary O’Hara now took the stand—a very different can of fish from the Admiral. O’Hara was a compact, aggressive, fly-weight who came straight to the point.

  “Gentlemen, my name’s O’Hara and you will be under my command while you are on board Playboy tomorrow. Some of you may wonder why we have asked for observers actually on board. We want you aboard for two reasons. First, you will be able to make a more accurate evaluation of the Trepholite’s mobility from the radar scanners and TV screens on Playboy. Second, we want you to see for yourselves the ease of firing this weapon—its basic simplicity. The only thing you will not see, is the strike power; but none of us’ll see that until the balloon goes up anyway: perish the thought.”

  Boysie still fought drowsiness.

  “As you’ve only got two naval officers with you, I’m going to avoid technicalities. This is Playboy.” He pointed to the sectional cutaway plan. The submarine looked like a fat, strangely-bumped fish: the conning tower—set well to the rear—sprouting a pair of unlikely-looking fins, the forward deck rising to a streamlined bulge at the bows. It reminded Boysie of the Hammer-head sharks he had seen at the zoo with Elizabeth on his last leave. O’Hara went on.

  “Playboy is powered by one pressurised water-cooled reactor. Geared turbines. Length 447 feet. Beam twenty-five feet. Six Trepholite missiles housed in the launching area forward.” He indicated the bulge. “Though for the trials we will only be carrying two. Tomorrow you will enter the craft through the main forward hatch in the sail—that’s what we used to call the conning tower. Now it’s called the ‘sail’, sometimes the ‘fair-weather’. You will spend the entire trip in this area ...” His hand hovered over a section within the ship’s hull, directly below the the sail—the first of four decks which formed the living and working quarters. “In an operational craft this would be the Officers’ Quarters, but for this exercise we have fitted it out as an Observation Platform. You will be seated—as comfortably as we can manage—against the hull: four on either side: and you’ll watch the operation on two thirty inch radar scanners and two TV screens which will give you pictures of the launching from the surface and the scenes at the strike areas. One of my officers will be present throughout, to keep you advised of progress and to point out anything of special, or technical, importance.” O’Hara paused to take a long swig of water.

  “The Control Deck—from which I command, and from which the missiles will be aimed and fired, is immediately forward of your Observation Platform.” On the plan the Control Deck was outlined in blue. “You will be taken on board around 05.30 tomorrow. We sail at 09.00 and will submerge approximately two miles out from San Diego Bay. From there we go full speed for the launching area—roughly forty-five miles West of where we are sitting now. We begin the firing countdown around 13.30 and we’re going to make two demonstration strikes. The first against a radio-controlled aircraft flying at 40,000 feet due West of us. The second on an obsolete cruiser�
�USS Fireman—anchored 200 miles due West. These shots, of course, don’t demonstrate the true range of Trepholite.” The Captain smiled and, Boysie observed, slyly transferred his hand from pocket to mouth.

  “Captain O’Hara has a passion for ju-jubes,” whispered Rondinelli.

  O’Hara had quickly consumed the candy and was still talking at speed: “To some extent we’re going to be cheating tomorrow as far as the aircraft shoot is concerned. The missile, in this case, will not be beamed on to its target from Playboy, but homed by the ICD Mk IV Homer fitted into the target aircraft.”

  O’Hara rolled down another diagram on the submarine easel and explained the workings of the ICD Mk IV Homer—an instrument not much bigger than a matchbox, capable of sending a pre-selected bleep over long ranges. A similar apparatus, in the nose of the missile, is set to corresponding bleep series, which it tracks until physical contact is made. The whole mystique of this instrument eluded Boysie, to whom electronics were anathema.

  “The bleep settings will be checked and corrected from the Control Deck fifteen minutes before firing; but I intend to show you the firing procedure on the spot tomorrow,” continued O’Hara. “Last, a word about safety. When we are fully operational, the Control Room and Officers’ Quarters—your Observation Platform—are sealed off from each other and the three decks immediately below: that is, the crew’s quarters, galley, electric space and store rooms. The only access to these decks is through the main hatch in the Control Room which, on this occasion, will be closed before we sail. The Control Deck bulkhead door—which is your link with me and my staff —is made fast from inside the Control Deck. Tomorrow I’m going to leave the Control Deck bulkhead door open until forty-five minutes before firing, so that you can see how we operate the craft underwater. It’s a bit cramped, of course, so we’ll have you up on the Control Deck in pairs. In the event of damage or accident, both the Control Deck and Officers’ Quarters are fitted with two escape tubes. You may know that it is not normally the policy of the United States Navy to make provision for escape tubes in submarine design. We rely on the McCann Rescue Bell, which will be carried in our Depot ship—accompanying the surface craft at the firing point tomorrow. But, as this is a prototype vessel we have been experimenting with a form of escape tube that we consider an advance on both the British Davis method and the Twilltrunk escape hatch. You will be issued with P50 escape apparatus—there’s a breathing mask which will take you up to the surface with very little discomfort. You’ll be instructed on the use of the escape tubes and the P50 this afternoon.”