Shadde was displeased. "See here," he said. "I think you're making this unnecessarily complicated. Somebody hid that lock-nut in one half of that piece of gray silk. D'you accept that?"
"I do," said Mr. Buddington.
"And this morning you found the other half of the silk in Kyle's watch coat, and there were traces of hydraulic fluid on it?"
"That is correct," Mr. Buddington agreed.
"And Kyle worked on the steering the day before sailing?"
"He did."
"And you say it's unlikely to be Kyle!"
"That is correct, Captain."
"Then how did he come by the silk?"
"Ah!" said Mr. Buddington. "That's what I'd like to know."
The captain yawned. "You soon will. I propose to ask him when he comes up before me this morning. Any objections?"
"None at all. Indeed, it is essential that we should know."
"Would you like to be present when he comes up?"
Mr. Buddington's eyebrows arched. "Oh, dear me, no. What would an air-conditioning expert be doing at such an investigation?"
Shadde frowned. "Of course. Stupid of me!"
CPO Telegraphist Grade sat in the wireless office checking the W/T log, but his thoughts were far away. That interview with the captain had landed him in a dilemma. His training and instinct revolted against using the submarine's complicated communications system to produce make-believe signals, for any reason whatever. The signals the captain had suggested might compromise the security measures on real missile firings. Gracie didn't really know what these measures were, but he had a shrewd idea about the communications side of them.
On the other hand, years of naval discipline and his personal loyalty to the captain left him, he felt, with no option. How could he, a young chief petty officer, tell the captain that he wasn't prepared to cooperate? He wished there was somebody he could talk to, somebody who could settle his doubts for him. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he must get advice. The captain had told him to keep it to himself, but he just couldn't. There was one man who had never let him down, the navigating officer. Gracie decided to go to him at once.
He found Symington in the gyro room. Without wasting time he told him about the discussions with the captain and of his own doubts. "D'you see the trouble, sir? I mean, I don't quite like it."
The navigating officer did some hard thinking. Finally he looked at Gracie. "You'll have to do what he wants, Gracie. The responsibility's entirely his. After all, he's the captain."
The CPO telegraphist looked relieved. "Thank you, sir. That's what I thought, but I feel better now you say the same thing."
"But if the captain hands you those signals for transmission, you must tell me at once. Before you put them onto your teleprinter."
Gracie nodded. "I'll do that, sir. You won't breathe a word, will you, sir? It'll ruin the skipper's plan for a realistic exercise if it gets around, and he'll know it was me."
Symington smiled sympathetically. "I won't let you down."
On the captain's orders the wardroom was cleared at half past nine. Shadde was seated at the head of the table, with Cavan on his right and the engineer officer on his left. Shadde had decided to limit this investigation to the question of how the gray silk had come into Kyle's possession. The charges against him would be dealt with in Portsmouth.
Kyle came into the wardroom followed by the coxswain. He was pallid and dejected, with a black eye and a bruised cheek.
The captain stared at him. "I've had you brought before me, Kyle, to answer questions about a matter of some importance. In your own interests I want you to realize how important it is that you tell the truth. You may be in serious trouble if you don't."
Kyle's face showed no emotion. Shadde produced a watch coat and pushed it across to him. "Is that yours?"
Kyle opened it and looked inside. "Yes, sir."
"Ah!" said Shadde. "And when did you last use it?"
"'Ad it with me in the steering compartment last night, sir."
"I see. And before that?"
Kyle thought for a few moments. "Took it ashore on me last liberty in Stock'olm, sir. Night I was coshed."
"Where was the coat kept between that night and last night?"
"In me locker, sir."
"In that case," said Shadde, with a note of triumph in his voice, "you may be able to explain how this—" he threw across a piece of oil-stained gray silk "—came to be in the pocket?"
Kyle looked at the silk. "Yes, sir. I put it there."
"And can you tell me when you did this?"
"In Stock'olm, sir. Day before sailing."
"Ah," Shadde said. "And where were you at the time?"
"In the steering compartment, sir."
There was a deathly silence in the wardroom and Shadde gave Rhys Evans a quick I-told-you-so look. Then he said to Kyle, very softly, "And what were you doing there, Kyle?"
"Working on the port ram cylinder with Chief Shepherd and Finney, sir. Draining the 'ydraulic."
From the way Shadde put the next question, Rhys Evans knew he was closing in for the kill; he suddenly became casual and leaned back, as if the discussion were at an end. "Thank you, Kyle," he said. "That's been very helpful. Just one thing before you go—where did you get that gray silk?"
"Chief Shepherd gave it to me, sir," said Kyle. "To wipe my hands with. We'd forgotten to bring along any cotton waste."
The first lieutenant could see the shock of disappointment on Shadde's face. That's floored the old buzzard, he thought.
Next Shadde sent for Shepherd, who confirmed Kyle's story in every detail. When Shepherd had gone, Shadde said to Evans, "This thing's got me beat. Somebody put that gray silk and the locknut behind those pipes. If it wasn't Kyle, who?"
The more he thought about what Gracie had told him, the more convinced Symington was that he should tell the first lieutenant. This was something outside his experience, and he didn't know what to make of it. He spent a frustrating fifteen minutes trying to get Cavan alone, eventually running him to earth in the control room. "Number One," he said in a low voice. "Can I see you alone, now!" Without lifting his eyes the first lieutenant said, "Of course. In my cabin in two minutes."
Cavan shut the door and looked at Symington curiously. "Very mysterious, George. What's the score?"
Symington told him of his conversation with Gracie. At first Cavan was skeptical, but the navigating officer soon convinced him that Gracie was not making the story up. "Incredible, though, isn't it? A bogus signal from FOS to start a ruddy exercise."
The first lieutenant nodded. "Incredible's the word. Do you realize that it could compromise the security measures?"
Symington sat on the corner of the desk. "I know. He must be round the bend. Surely their Lordships wouldn't approve?"
Cavan shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows?"
There was a long silence. "I suppose you'll tell Gallagher, won't you?" prompted Symington.
Cavan thought for a moment. "Not Gallagher. He's U.S.N, and this is our affair. He'd go and have it out with Shadde—quite rightly too. But Shadde would know that Gracie had talked."
Symington nodded. "Couldn't agree more. If Shadde knows Grade's spilled the beans, he'll hammer him."
"And you, my boy. The whole story would come out and all hell would break loose." He was silent again for a moment. "In some ways, I'd like to tell the chief. He's a sound little chap. But he's too close to Shadde. He'd go straight back to the captain."
"What are you going to do?" Symington asked.
Cavan looked at him quickly. "You mean what are you going to do? It's your problem, you know. Gracie confided in you, not me. But of course I'll give you all the help I can."
Symington darted a curious look at him. "I see," he said slowly. "That's very decent of you, Number One."