'"Ullo, Mr. Bloody-nosey-parker-Shepherd," he mumbled.
"That'll do, Kyle," Shepherd said sharply. "You come along to the duty officer. You're supposed to be on watch."
Kyle hiccuped. "Flip the flippin' duty officer."
Shepherd snatched away the bottle. It was Courvoisier. Kyle clambered laboriously to his feet.
"Kyle, this looks like wardroom stock."
Kyle's face was twisted with contempt. "It does, does it? Well, you c'n shove it up, Chief," he said thickly.
Shepherd seized Kyle, who shook himself free. "Take yer flippin' paws off me!"
This was too much for Shepherd. He moved in swiftly, and as he came Kyle lashed out. It was a crude drunken blow, but Shepherd was not expecting it and it caught him full in the mouth. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes unbelieving, then put down the bottle and hit Kyle twice in rapid succession. Shepherd was a strong man and Kyle went down like a felled ox.
Shepherd half carried, half dragged him to the mess deck, where he wakened two men and got them to help him carry Kyle to the control room. There he handed him over to the duty petty officer. "Keep him here while I go and report to the duty officer."
The petty officer looked down at Kyle. "Don't look as if he needs much keepin'. He's in dreamland. What hit 'im?"
"I did," said Shepherd grimly. "In self-defense."
The petty officer's eyes went wide with surprise. "Blimey. Striking a chief petty officer. What's the Navy coming to?"
Weddy, the duty officer, was in the wardroom. He whistled. "Struck you, did he, Chief? That's serious. I'll come along at once."
In the control room, Kyle was still dazed and in no condition to take any interest in the proceedings. Weddy said to the duty petty officer, "Lock him up in the sick bay and let him cool off. You'd better give him a hand, Shepherd. Then bring me that bottle. We'll investigate this in the morning."
Weddy went to Cavan's cabin and told him what had happened.
"Good God!" Cavan said. "Must be round the bend striking a chief PO."
Weddy shook his head. "Don't envy him when he comes up before the skipper."
The first lieutenant's face was grim. "Nor do I," he said.
It was five minutes past midnight by the time Shadde got into the launch to go back to the submarine. He was in a ferment of worry and anger. For the captain of a British nuclear submarine to appear in the Danish courts on a charge of drunken driving would be worse than humiliating. The bills for damage to Margrethe's car and legal costs would involve more than he could afford. And worst of all were the possible consequences to his naval career. If the case went to court the press would jump at it.
When the launch came alongside the submarine, the sentry on the after casing hailed, "Boat ahoy." The Danish coxswain answered, "Retaliate." But there was no duty officer or petty officer to see him on board, and Shadde set his mouth grimly. Down in the control room he found a quartermaster, but no one else. Finally, in the wardroom, he found Weddy and Shepherd with a bottle of liquor between them. They stood aside as he came in, but he ignored them and went on into his cabin. He sent for Cavan.
"Why weren't the duty officer and duty petty officer on the casing to meet me when I came on board?" Shadde demanded.
"They were down below, sir. The duty officer was—"
Shadde raised an imperious hand. "I'm perfectly well aware of that. I've just observed Weddy and Shepherd in the wardroom with a bottle. Drinking my good health, no doubt."
"They weren't drinking, sir, they were—"
"Are you suggesting that I'm a liar, Number One?"
"No, sir, I'm not. But Weddy and Shepherd are investigating a charge against Kyle, and the duty petty officer has ..."
Again Shadde interrupted. "What charge?"
"He's drunk and he struck Chief Shepherd."
"Drunk? How can he be drunk? He's under stoppage of leave."
"He must have pilfered a bottle of brandy from the wardroom."
"This is all most interesting," Shadde said, "but it doesn't explain why the duty officer didn't meet me on the casing when the launch came alongside. Why wasn't he there?"
"I imagine because he was dealing with Kyle, sir."
"You imagine, do you?" Shadde mimicked. "Possibly you can also imagine why the duty petty officer, at least, was not there?"
"He was guarding Kyle, sir."
"I see," said Shadde. "Everybody was so bloody busy that it didn't matter a damn about the captain coming off. After all," he added sarcastically, "he knows his way about the boat, so let him find his own way on board."
Cavan was beginning to have difficulty with his temper. I must keep calm, he told himself. He said nothing.
Shadde picked up a sheaf of signals and began to turn them one by one. "Anyone adrift?" His tone was ominously casual.
"Yes, sir. Holmes and Brown."
"Hm," said Shadde, "I'm not surprised. This boat's so bloody slack nothing surprises me." His voice rose. "I'm not used to arriving alongside without a duty officer to receive me on board. And I'm not used to boats where ratings strike chief petty officers after helping themselves to wardroom liquor. I'm handing over to a new commanding officer. I can assure you I don't intend to hand over a slack boat. I have only a few days left but I intend to shake this boat up in no mean fashion. D'you understand?"
The first lieutenant still made no reply.
"For a start, you'll inform Weddy that I shall require him to be duty officer every day for the first ten days in Portsmouth."
At this, Cavan looked him square in the face. "He's due to go on leave as soon as we reach Portsmouth, sir."
Shadde threw the signals onto the desk. "I don't give a damn what he's due for. You heard my orders. Carry them out."
Shadde was behaving monstrously, but Cavan knew it would be dangerous to argue. He was due for promotion to commander and he was going to keep his yardarm clear whatever it cost. He left the captain's cabin without a word.
It was five minutes past one when Shadde turned off the cabin lights. He was exhausted but sleep wouldn't come. He lay there tormented by his thoughts: the wreckage of his private life and, after tonight, his prospects of promotion, too; his difficulties with his officers. One by one the foundations of his world were crumbling.
The muscles in his stomach knotted into a tight, painful ball, and his head ached until the pain seemed unbearable. Hysterically he said aloud, "I must sleep! I can't go on like this!" He turned on the lights again and saw that it was after three. He rang for the quartermaster and said that he wanted to see the doctor.
When O'Shea arrived, a raincoat over his pajamas, hair tousled and eyes bleary with sleep, the captain was at the desk in a dressing gown.
"I can't sleep, Doctor," he said brusquely. "Can't do my job properly without sleep."
"Have you been sleeping badly for some time, sir?"
"It's become very bad. My mind's too active."
"How's your appetite, sir?"
"Poor. Don't feel like food much."
"And your bowels, sir?"
Shadde glowered from under beetled brows. He disliked the doctor intensely and the question struck him as too personal.
"What the hell have they to do with it?"
"A good deal, sir. Are they functioning regularly?"
"They're very irregular," said Shadde awkwardly.
"Headaches, sir?"
"Acute ones. Got one now. Always have when I can't sleep."
The doctor warmed with sympathy for this suffering, aloof and highly complex man. "When we get back you should see a Fleet specialist at Haslar, sir."