Submarine

Coombes- and Farge had shared the same conventional perisher four years ago. Over the previous three years Farge had been chasing Margot, a Wren officer from Vancouver. She was his first real love. At first, she resisted his idea of marrying but his perseverance triumphed and she half-heartedly agreed. They had thrown an engagement party in Dolphin at the beginning of the perisher and Farge was happy, in spite of her occasional remoteness, of her absences when she could have been with him.

Those were the days when the submarine branch was expanding so rapidly that training programmes were strained to the limit. Dolphin was popping at the joints. Farge and Coombes, lieutenant-commanders, were sharing a cabin in Clyde Block, overlooking the harbour entrance opposite Wylie's tower; it was during this month that Farge began to recognize the undoubted potential of the florid, red-bearded Coombes. They became friends, despite their differences. Coombes, unashamedly amoral, would regale Farge with lurid and hilarious details of Coombes' recent conquests, his chef-d'oeuvre being his pursuit of an insatiable contortionist. Each evening after work, Coombes would travel to Brighton, returning the next morning by milk train and Vernon's liberty-boat for breakfast in Dolphin's wardroom. His nightly exploits seemed to add zest to his performance in the attack-teacher, instead of, as with lesser mortals, dulling the edges of their reactions. A man of stamina was Coombes, exuberant, irrepressible and impossible to ignore: they had got on well enough, but that was before Margot… and Farge's mind clicked back to the present, as the tube stopped at North Harrow… three stations to go.

At Northwood, the staff captain came towards him.

'Morning, Farge,' he welcomed briskly. 'It pays to get the Old Man off on the right foot, otherwise we have a helluva day. Leave your grip with security.'

Farge followed the captain down into the subterranean warren which was the nation's defence headquarters. After negotiating the strict security precautions and passing through the massive access portals, they stopped outside a blue door at the end of the passage. The captain knocked and ushered Farge inside.

The room was lit by subdued lighting. Vice-Admiral Jake Rackham was striding towards the group of officers huddled over the large central table. Rackham nodded and indicated the chairs in front of his desk.

'All right, staffie,' he growled at the captain. 'Leave Farge to me. You can get on with the bumph.'

While Farge waited, he took in the details of this room, one of the vital cells in the honeycomb of Nato's defences. It was windowless and there was a steady whirr from the air-conditioning. From here, Jake Rackham could contact his submarines throughout the world. Two of the walls carried charts showing the oceans of Nato's influence. The third was devoted to the Norwegian Sea, Northern Norway, North Cape, the Barents Sea and the Kola Inlet. The adjoining wall displayed the North Polar charts, the seasonal icing limits and the disposition of all the Royal Navy's and Nato's submarine squadrons. Wren officers and ratings moved discreetly about executing the orders given to them by the duty submarine officer. Farge rose to his feet, as Rackham strode back to his desk.

'Coffee, Farge? You've had a frustrating trip, I'll bet.'

The submariners' boss deposited himself into his swivel chair, and pushed two charts across his desk — one was a small-scale admiralty chart covering the area from North Cape to the entrance to the White Sea, including Archangel; the other, «a large-scale hydrographer's effort coloured in yellow and blue, was one with which submariners had become accustomed: Varangerfjord to the west, the Kola Inlet and Cape Teriberskiy to the east.

Targe,' Rackham began, 'I've sent for you because I know you from our Osiris days. There's a job to do and it's important.' He shifted in his chair and half-turned towards the chart of the Barents Sea behind him, a chart embracing the eastern shores of Greenland to Novaya Zemlya and Franz Josef Land. 'The operation's also very secret.' He swung back and, resting his elbows on the desk, he rested his chin on his hands, his dark eyes fixed on Farge. 'For the past few days, the Soviets have been making tentative noises for a truce in the Atlantic. From the general signal we put out, you know the gist of their terms by now.'

'If we don't pack up sinking their submarine fleet in the Atlantic,' Farge said, 'they'll take out our cities with their ICBMS. Are they still refusing to withdraw from northern Norway?'

Rackham nodded. 'They're still under the delusion that their SSBN submarines, their "bombers" out there in the oceans, are inviolate because we can't find them — the Soviet case rests on this assumption. The truce depends on our disabusing them.'

'We've got to sink their SSBNS, sir?'