Submarine

'Two at the moment: one in Polyarny, the other in Severomorsk. I'm hoping they won't sail before you get there on the seventeenth.' Rackham turned abruptly to the captain of Safari: 'Coombes, it's vital for you to be in your Zulu position by the seventeenth.'

'Roger, sir,' Coombes said. 'Have I plenty of time in hand?'

'Not much, because of our deception plans: the staff captain will give you details. You too, Coombes, have one objective only: nothing, I repeat, nothing is to deviate you from your target, the Typhoon. Understood?'

Coombes' massive head inclined slowly. 'Yes, sir. Understood.'

'That's all from me. It's all yours, George.' The admiral glanced at his staff captain, then walked across the room towards the two cos who, with the remainder of the company, had risen to their feet. He shook Coombes and Farge by the hand.

'Good luck.'

The silence was complete while FOSM strode from the room.

The lounge bar of the large pub was packed with Northwood personnel. Uniforms of the three services were preponderant and Farge was lucky to snaffle the last of the circular tables. 'I'll get the beer,' Coombes said, 'Ploughman's?' 'Fine.' Farge took Coombes' cap and set it on the seat of the other vacant chair. He sat down and watched while Coombes joined the queue at the long bar.

An incredible morning! Farge found it hard to believe that during these past few hours Coombes and he were part of reality. It was barely a week since Orcus had been limping home north of Shetland with her damaged casing. And for the first few minutes at Northwood this morning, Farge could not accept that he, captain of HM Submarine Orcus, was to play a vital role in this gigantic and complex Operation sow. After FOSM had left, when the tactical side of Orcus' mission was being explained in detail by the staff captain, Farge's mind at last began to grapple with the practical minutiae. He would remember for a long time the silence in the room while everyone stared again at the blow-up photographs of the Typhoons, the blurred pictures hastily snapped by brave Nato agents: twice the size of the Americans' Ohios, these titanium Typhoons were monstrous engines of destruction.

Farge began to relax. He doubted whether Coombes and he could talk here about sow: secrecy was such that they had been forbidden even to take notes during the staff captain's briefing. They had much to discuss and to co-ordinate together, particularly in the realm of deception, but that would have to wait until they met again next week in Scotland. Secrecy had produced one bonus: both submariners were not to deviate from normal 'between-patrol' routine. While in Loch Alsh and the Inner Sound of Raasay, on the nights of 6 and 7 May, normal leave was to be given. Coaches to Glasgow were out of the question, but a night to each watch in the Kyle of Loch Alsh and Kyleakin was permissible: the wartime attractions of Wester Ross and the Island of Skye resorts were unlikely to tempt jack to break ship. No mention of the impending operation was to be made to any officer or member of the ships' companies until after Orcus sailed during the night of 8 May. Safari and Orcus' sailing orders would be delivered by hand during the forenoon of that Thursday, when the submarines were to be in all respects ready for sea — ostensibly for their next, normal wartime patrols. By then, all routine ranging and noise-trials should have been completed in the Inner Sound.

Watching Coombes giving his order at the bar, Farge sensed that there was an indefinable change in the chap. Since Coombes had won his brass hat, some of the old bull seemed to have gone — perhaps he was feeling sensitive about the past and Margot — but the first awkwardness was rapidly evaporating under the immediacy of the mission they were now sharing. A visit to the library and that had been that: the two cos were lucky to catch the pub before closing time.

'Cheers, Julian.'

'Cheers. Don't wait, Janner, but I must spring a leak.'

Careless talk costs lives — the posters were everywhere, even in the lavatories. On his return across the hall, Farge saw the phone booth. Shutting the door behind him, he fished out the coins, then dialled Lorna's number. He waited, and then:

'Just a minute.' Lorna, out of breath: 'Just a minute, please.' He could imagine her, in her old jacket and blue pom-pom, kicking off the mud-splattered wellies and tip-toeing in her socks to the phone near the fireplace.

'Hullo? Who's that?'

'Lorna.'

He could see her, even from here, the colour mounting in her cheeks. A brief silence, then:

'Tom's in the yard,' she spoke softly. 'What is it, Julian?'

'Can you be with me up in Scotland next week at the beginning of May? The sixth and seventh, Wednesday and Thursday? I'll book rooms somewhere.'

'Yes… oh, yes.' 'I'll ring from Barrow. Good-bye,' and he lowered his voice, 'dearest Lorna.'