Submarine

'The First Sea Lord also asked me to tell you, sir,' Trevellion continued, 'that we are laying stress on the immediate reporting of success from our operational boats. The speed with which the kill reports are reported is crucial to the success of sow, even at the risk of jeopardizing the submarines' safety: kills — even if doubtful — must be signalled immediately if the strategic objective is to be realized.'

The admiral nodded. 'But we'll have to accept assumptions in the classification of our results,' he said. 'It's deep under the Pole and in the Pacific: our submarine captains may be able only to guess.' He added: 'It's not that difficult, Captain Trevellion, to simulate breaking-up noises.'

Trevellion sat down. The President was staring at the global chart. Then he turned to address the Secretary of Defense:

'It's a delicate business, Mr Secretary. I speak as a politician when I tell the Navy that it must not overdo it. If we take out too many of their SSBNS, the Kremlin could react in desperation. I can't risk that, gentlemen. I agree with our British friends: swift communication from our SDW boats is vital.'

'What we're doing, Mr President,' the Secretary of Defense explained, 'is showing the Soviet that we have world-wide capability. CINCPAC can take care of Soviet SSBNS in the Pacific. I'm sure our British friends can do likewise in the Atlantic. We've got to clinch deterrence if we're to bring back peace.' The dapper little civilian removed his spectacles and huffed on the lenses.

At that instant in the White House Situation Room, a gamble was being taken with the planet's existence. The greatest monolithic system which the world has ever known was miscalculating, blundering towards catastrophe. If Nato submarines failed, the men in the Kremlin would be convinced that they had succeeded in calling our bluff. Their argument was plausible and little choice would remain to us: the West: total surrender — or the nuclear holocaust. Expressing the premise differently, humanity, a helpless bystander, had but one option: the slavery of Soviet communism was as nothing to the horrors of the nuclear holocaust and a return to the cave-man. The world was at flash-point and whether the spluttering fuse reached the powder keg depended now upon the skill and resolution of a few submariners.

The silent assembly was rising to its feet as the Secretary of Defense faced the leader of the free world:

'I need your go-ahead, Mr President.'

The big man in the casual clothes imperceptibly squared his shoulders.

'Okay, Jack,' he said brusquely. 'Tell Nato and CINCPAC I'm happy with this plan. They'd better get on with it.'

He turned and strode briskly from the Situation Room.

Chapter 7

Northwood, 29 April.

Farge was arranging his grip in the back of the Volvo when he heard the phone ringing from inside the hall of Newdyke House. He waited patiently for his father who was answering it: even with this early start, they would be pushed to catch the only train which could deliver Farge to London in time for his Northwood meeting.

'It's the Prynne daughter,' Lord Farge shouted through the doorway. 'She insists on speaking to you.'

Farge ran across to the doorway. 'Jump in, father. We've got to catch this train.' He grabbed the instrument from his father's outstretched hand.

'Julian?'

'I can't stop, Lorna. What is it?'

Her voice was low: 'I've thought it all out. I wanted you to know before you left home.'

'Quick, Lorna.'

'Will you ring me from London?'

'As soon as I get the chance. Perhaps from Barrow. I must hang up, Lorna.'

'I'll come to you,' she said softly, difficult to hear, 'wherever you are.' A short silence then: 'D'you understand, Julian?'

He did not reply at once. He could hear her breathing at the other end.

'Yes, Lorna, I've understood.'

His father was waiting in the passenger's seat. He uttered several terse comments upon Farge's abortive leave, then remained silent for the rest of the hectic drive to Taunton. As he hustled his son into the train, his parting words cut deeply:

'There isn't much point your coming to Newdyke, if you don't give me any time, my son. You might as well join your sister in town, for all the help you are to me.'

Farge watched the lonely figure on the platform fading to a blurred speck — he, Julian, had been bloody selfish. A week ago, he would have treated with amused cynicism the notion that he could be utterly captivated by an open-air girl from the moors, a farmer's daughter. He was a professional killer, trained for the past decade to seek out and destroy his enemy: his was a mind forged for the intricacies of submarine warfare, yet here he was, succumbing to this overwhelming emotion at the critical instant when his undivided intellect should be concentrating upon the coming operation….