Retaliate sailed for Copenhagen from Stockholm on the afternoon of the third day after the collision. Three hours later the submarine passed the Revengegrundet buoy and then set a southerly course. It was at 0116, some six hours later, that Shadde had gone up to the bridge in response to Symington's report that Great Karlso light was in sight, bearing 168 degrees, five miles distant, through the mist and rain of a dark and cheerless night.
After the trouble on the bridge with Symington, Shadde went back to his bunk, but, as so often nowadays, his mind wouldn't let him rest. An endless succession of disquieting images floated before him. There was the moment of collision, with the hull of the pleasure steamer almost on top of him; and Kyle crouching by the port ram cylinder, easing off the locknut, hiding it away in the gray silk.
Next he saw the Flag Officer Submarines reading the dismal summary of damage prepared by the marine surveyor. Now it was the doctor's serious, ugly face and all that damn psychiatric nonsense. Any fool could see what was wrong with Kyle. Chip on the shoulder; dirty little crook. Then there was Symington. The muscles in Shadde's stomach contracted into a painful knot. And the first lieutenant, square-headed prig. Doesn't like me. Pro-Symington, of course. Knows all about the Lombok Strait, no doubt. Then Dwight Gallagher. Shadde choked with resentment. Why did one of Her Majesty's submarines have to carry an American Nuclear Weapons Control Officer to have the final say about firing? A dirty political trick thought up by gutless politicians. Shadde's palse beat in his ears like a drum. How could he sleep with that? Just one long night of sleep. Oh, God! Just one.
But now another face. Elizabeth, of course. Pale, sad and remote, that permanent question mark in the dark eyes. Sentence by sentence he reconstructed her Oslo letter. The concentration made his temples throb. Must get away from that. Suddenly there was the shattering "birr-birr" of the voice-pipe buzzer next to his head. The first lieutenant was reporting the bearing and distance of the light at Hoburgen Reef. Thank God for the interruption. He dressed and went up to the bridge.
Astern to port showed the first gray light of dawn. Looking ahead to the dark side of the horizon, Shadde saw the vague outline of the men on the bridge. He moved toward the tallest of them.
"That you, Number One?"
"Yes, sir."
"Speed?"
"Making good nineteen knots, sir."
"Hoburgen light?"
"You can still see the loom, sir. About thirteen miles astern now. There it is now. Period's about five seconds."
The light loomed and, as it doused, Shadde started counting: "One, two, three, four, five . . ." On five it loomed again, barely visible against the dawn sky.
There were many steaming lights in sight and Shadde examined them carefully with binoculars. "Lot of traffic about."
"Yes, sir; mostly Baltic coasters, I imagine." Cavan was wary.
The captain was silent, engrossed in his examination of the lights. At last he said, "Three are fishermen."
Cavan used his binoculars. "Two in sight a moment ago. You must've found a third, sir." Then, "Ah, yes, I've got it."
Shadde experienced a mild surge of pleasure. He'd found a light both the lookouts and the officers had missed.
Cavan's voice broke in, "Like a cup of cocoa, sir?"
For a moment Shadde hesitated. "Yes, thank you."
He took a cup from the messenger, and its heat warmed his hands against the chill air of dawn. Switching on the light and leaning his elbows on the chart table, Shadde sipped cocoa and looked at the fixes: firmly drawn little circles with the lines of bearing intersecting at their centers, the time written neatly against each. Grudgingly he acknowledged that the first lieutenant was a good naval officer: thorough, conscientious, capable. The early gray of morning was changing to pink and Shadde's mood lifted. Dawn and the warm cocoa brought a sense of well-being, and in the freshness of the wind and sea he forgot the apprehension of the night. These were the things he understood, the real, substantial things that a man could see and feel. Nothing hidden or evil about them. He went back to the forepart of the bridge.
"Like a cigarette, Number One?"
"Thank you, sir."
They stood for some time in silence. Then Shadde said, "What's the good of a submarine like this if it's never used?"
"Isn't the fact that she exists enough? I mean, isn't that the point. . . the deterrent? No one wants them to be used."
"That's the trouble, isn't it? This fantastic equipment; men trained to a high pitch of efficiency—yet everyone bloody well determined that it'll never be used. D'you think the Russians would hesitate to use one of these if they thought their survival depended on it?" He gave a dry laugh. "Well ... do you?"
Cavan looked at the gaunt figure. There was a rocklike, compelling quality about him. Powerful forces seemed ever working in him. Cavan's voice was slow and hesitant. "I suppose—if it was survival—the Russians might. But would they? There wouldn't be any survival. Both sides know that."
"Number One," Shadde said earnestly, "you're an Englishman. Wouldn't you fight at any cost rather than submit to . . . those thugs?" He pointed astern. For a moment the gesture puzzled the first lieutenant. Then he realized that Shadde was indicating the general direction of Russia.
Mr. Buddington was an early riser. Soon after seven he left his cabin for the wardroom. As he reached the door he saw and heard in a fleeting second something which stopped him in his tracks.
Target, the wardroom steward, and Miller, the captain's steward, were outside the pantry door, their backs toward him. Target held something in front of him which Miller was craning his head to see. He heard Miller's whisper: "The storeroom in ten minutes. Too risky to give it the once-over 'ere."
Mr. Buddington noted the time, 0708, cleared his throat and walked into the wardroom. With a mumbled "Good mornin', sir," the stewards moved apart. Dusty Miller, thrusting his left hand behind his back, had stepped backward into the wardroom pantry. But the movement had not been quite fast enough and Mr. Buddington had seen the brown envelope.
A few minutes later Miller came out of the pantry and left the wardroom. When Target followed, Mr. Buddington looked at his watch; it was 0713. At 0720 he moved quietly into the control room. Mr. Buddington always moved quietly. He was small and inconspicuous and wore rubber-soled shoes. Down the starboard ladder he went to the middle deck, where he edged his way along until he was near the door of the storeroom, opposite the notice board. While he read the notices on the board he could make out odd fragments of conversation through the open door. Target was talking. "... Put the tins on top . . . risky business . . . agents . . . two in Portsmouth . . . big prices for these prints . . ."
Then Miller spoke. "... See 'ere . . . blimey, what a weapon . . . dockyard police . . . worth it though . . . man's got to live, ain't 'e . . . see what we can do in Copenhagen ..."
Mr. Buddington decided he had heard enough for his immediate purposes. Quietly he worked his way back to the wardroom.
At 0735 Shadde left his cabin for the control room. He walked down the starboard side past the men on the wheel and engine-room telegraphs. He went first to the W/T office and then to the missile-attack center. Then he crossed over to the port side and walked up forward, looking in on the asdic and radar compartments. Without a word to the men on duty he examined the instrumentation. This occasioned no surprise; it was Shadde's custom at sea to start the day with a stalk in tight-lipped silence, his dark eyes searching everywhere. Yet Shadde's men had an immense respect for him. His remote aloofness and great skill as a submariner surrounded him with an almost mystical aura of authority. From the asdic compartment the captain went on to the chart table. With a frown he studied the chart, then asked the asdic operator for a line of soundings from the fathometer. As these were called, Shadde compared them with those on the chart. Then he picked up a signal pad and wrote two messages on it. One he handed to Gracie in the W/T office for immediate transmission. It was to FOS/M giving the times at which Retaliate would dive and surface. The other sheet he folded and held until the signal had been sent. Then Shadde gave the folded signal to a messenger and told him to deliver it at once to the officer of the watch.