The sublieutenant was down on the deck, arms locked about Shadde's legs; the first lieutenant sat astride the captain's chest, and the doctor and Symington each pinned an arm to the deck. Shadde turned his head to one side and saw Symington. His eyes rolled. "You . . . you . . . !" he exploded, and started to struggle again with fresh energy. "Unspeakable little cad! This is your doing ... all yours . . ." With a groan he relaxed and began to babble incoherently. "Lombok Strait!... Fitzhugh Symington ... dogged by that bloody family." For a moment he lay silent; then, his eyes wild and staring, he was off again. "Ah! Nelson . . . happy band of brothers! Forgive me, Nelson, forgive me!"
"Take it easy, sir." Cavan's breathless voice was meant to be soothing, but it drove Shadde into another frenzy.
"You're mad ... all of you . . . wait for the court-martial! Call yourselves Englishmen! . . . My God! You've sold her, I tell you. Stupid swine! ... I could have brought Russia to her knees . . . ended the threat once and for all! . . . You stopped me! . . . You stopped me!" There was a chilling scream; then he lay back breathless, exhausted by his exertions.
By now others were crowding into the control room. Weddy and Mr. Buddington and Gracie were there and the two stewards. Their faces were agitated and perplexed.
From the beginning Gallagher had watched the astonishing performance with openmouthed wonder, but he had taken no part in it. Now he pushed his way through the circle of men around Shadde. "What's going on?" he asked quietly.
Still sitting astride Shadde and panting for breath, Cavan said, "That can wait. Allistair, look after the boat! Watch the trim! Keep this course and speed." He stopped to regain his breath. "Weddy, close the launching caps. Pump out and get those Polaris run down as quick as you can."
The doctor gasped, "If someone will hold this arm for me, I'll get some morphia and ..."
"How dare you!" Shadde interrupted with a shout, and he wrestled again furiously. "Filthy little medico! Don't you try your quackery on me!" Then he went limp, but a moment later he gave a violent heave which nearly unseated the first lieutenant. "Gallagher! Allistair! Coxswain!" He summoned them all in hoarse desperation. "Lend a hand! Pull these men off! Arrest them! They're mutineers! This is . . ." His voice trailed away again and he lay back groaning and gasping.
In a few moments O'Shea was back with a syringe. He bared the captain's forearm and with a quick jab injected the morphia while Shadde struggled again to free himself. But it was not long before the drug took effect, and in the middle of a fresh outburst of hysterical rambling he lost consciousness.
The first lieutenant, Keely and the two stewards carried the captain to his cabin and laid him gently on the bunk. With Miller's help, the doctor took off Shadde's uniform coat, shoes, collar and tie. Sadly, O'Shea looked at the unconscious man; he tried to smooth back the thick tangle of hair from the moist forehead. "Poor old chap," he said softly. "You've been through hell, all right." He looked at Miller. "See that he's kept warm. He'll be out for hours. We'll keep him that way until we get to Blockhouse. Then the hospital will take him over."
When the doctor had gone Miller stood over the bunk looking at the strong pale face, blood-smeared and sweating. With a moist cloth he gently wiped the blood marks away; then he stood listening for a while to the labored and irregular breathing, broken from time to time by sobs like those of a tired, sad child.
Miller put two blankets over the captain, and then turned the lights out. At the door he stopped for a moment and looked back. "Blimey, sir," he whispered. "What've they done to you?"
Back in the control room Cavan went to the broadcast and pressed the call push. "This is the first lieutenant. Secure missile launching stations. The captain's had a breakdown and is under the doctor's care. I have assumed command.
"You can't have known that tonight's happenings were, in fact, just an exercise. The so-called NATO operational signals from FOS—which the captain told you about—weren't real signals. They were his idea for an exercise under realistic conditions. But..." Whatever Cavan was going to say, he changed his mind. "You've all, I'm sure, been very worried and concerned. I can only say how sorry I am for that. I must ask you, out of loyalty to the captain—and to the service—not to mention this when you're ashore. Let's do all we can to keep it in this boat"—he cleared his throat—"or at least in the naval family.
"I'll inform FOS by signal of the captain's illness, and we'll alter course for Portsmouth. We should arrive there on Sunday morning. That is all."
Course was altered, and ten minutes later the submarine surfaced and steamed to the southwest at sixteen knots. It had stopped raining, and the northwesterly wind and sea were now abaft the starboard beam. The steady rolling of Retaliate, the gusts of fresh air which blew down into the control room, and the noise of the sea washing along the casing reminded the men below how good it was to be alive in a world at peace.
The next morning after breakfast, when the stewards were finished clearing away, the first lieutenant said: "There are one or two things about last night which I think we should discuss. Bound to be an inquiry and we'd better tie up some of the ends now."
There was the sound of a nervous cough and Mr. Buddington said, "Would you like me to leave, Mr. Cavan?"
"Not at all—but I'd better tell them who you are."
There were exclamations of surprise when Cavan explained, and Weddy asked curiously, "Any clues about the saboteur?"
"There isn't one, gentlemen. There wasn't any sabotage, you see. It was ... it was . . ." he stammered, "a powerful obsession with your captain. Not that he wasn't perhaps entitled to . . . er . . . think that." He told them about Finney.
"How is the skipper, poor man?" It was Rhys Evans' mournful voice.
"Still out," said O'Shea. "We'll have to keep him under sedation until we get in."
Gallagher looked at the first lieutenant. "What d'you say we get on with that discussion you mentioned just now?"
Cavan nodded. "We'll do that." He moistened his lips. "Thing is, we must put the best possible face on this for the skipper. But it's going to be difficult after last night."
"I'll say," agreed Gallagher, and he sounded pretty grim.
"I'd better tell you the thing from the beginning," Cavan said. "It started the second day out of Stockholm. . . ." He told them how Shadde had sent for Grade and set up the bogus signals; that Gracie, worried about the whole idea, had gone to Symington; and, finally, that Symington had come to him.
"I knew this could be damned serious." He looked around at the expectant faces. "The threat to the security measures was fantastic. Shadde's moods had been getting more and more peculiar and . . . well"—he held out his hands—"I knew something had to be done. I had to think pretty hard and quick. It was a hell of a responsibility, I don't mind saying."
"Quite," said Symington, and he looked up at the deckhead. The first lieutenant gave him a shrewd look.
"I knew I had to play the thing damned carefully, because otherwise a number of innocent people were going to be in serious trouble. I had to make sure the security measures weren't defeated, and at the same time I had to protect Symington and Gracie. So I hit on this idea of disconnecting the firing circuit." His smugness was obvious to all.
Cavan went on to tell them that he had been to see the doctor to get an opinion of Shadde's mental condition and that consequently he had told Symington how to disconnect the firing plunger, and sent him to ask the doctor about Shadde for himself.
"That stood him in good stead later when the chief bumped into him in the air lock. Didn't it, Symington?" Cavan asked the question with a smile, but there was no amusement in it.