Understrike Read Free Page B

Chief was getting irritated again; his clenched fist pounding the desk top to a slow steady rhythm.
    “ Come on, Mostyn. What’s on your mind? We’re pushed, laddie, and the old grey matter’s not functioning as smoothly as it might.” He swallowed the remainder of his whisky in an enormous gulp and leaned over the desk. “If we do not have someone on the Official Observer’s list for next week, the Ministry might start askin’ questions about our strength. Maybe the Treasury will have a go as well. Think where that could land us.”
    Mostyn thought—quickly. The idea of the Treasury poking their serrated gold beaks into the internal finances of the Department was enough to bring even Mostyn heavily up against the true heart of the matter. He took a deep breath and began to blurt, somewhat pompously:
    “ ‘L’ will be in New York tomorrow: delivering the July code corrections. But it’s ridiculous, he doesn’t know a conning tower from a cowslip ...”
    “ Aren’t called conning towers any more. Not in nuclear submarines,” said the Chief sharply. “Called sails. Anyway, shouldn’t have really thought it mattered if he couldn’t tell a WREN’S brassière from a quarantine flag. Thing is, he’s an experienced operator. Don’t see why we can’t use him.”
    “ Oh, Boysie’s all right,” said Mostyn uncertainly. “Only, well, you know he’s inclined to be on the careless side.”
    “ Good great Nelson’s braces, the fella’s only got to sit in a fornicatin’ submarine and look at a pulsatin’ radar screen.”
    “ He’ll have to write a report.”
    “ You can help ‘im with that, can’t you? Blast it, fly ‘im back here as soon as it’s all over. He tells you what he saw and you put it in the right lingo. Damn it man, he’s a godsend. Probably get on with the Yanks like a pig in a mire. Can’t understand why you’ve lost faith in the bloke. Saved all our bacon with the Coronet thing.”
    “ Well ...” Mostyn’s mind had subsided into a picture of Boysie full fathom five behind the armoured hull of a nuclear submarine. When you knew Boysie you were naturally conscious of the hundred and one things that could go wrong. The dream progressed with astonishing rapidity. Now Boysie had got up from his radar screen to be sick, or pee, or something; his hand had accidentally touched a button, and the Trepholite had gone blazing up out of the blue Pacific to land flaming on New York—in the rush hour. Mostyn was beginning to sweat. Why was it that Boysie always did this to him? It was bad enough in the old days, but since that last bit of trouble even the most simple job given to Boysie brought Mostyn out in the singing terrors.
    The Chief sliced cleanly into the daymare: “Gettin’ nowhere, so I’m goin’ to give you a direct order. ‘L’ is over there. Right? If ‘L’ don’t go on to San Diego as our bleedin’ observer, then I shall have to send you. Right?”
    Mostyn groaned internally, “As you say, sir. Right.” His intuition told him that neither this day nor those immediately following were going to be particularly good. “I’ll set up a contact for briefing in New York and cable San Diego and Boysie,” he said wearily. “I expect they’ll arrange for a courier to take him down there. But if he does manage to louse it up, then I’m not going to take the responsibility. This is being done under your direct orders, sir.”
    “ Ah!” said the Chief. “Where’s that fat-arsed girl with the tea?”
    As Mostyn got to the door, the Chief called out, “Do me a favour, will you.” Mostyn turned. The Chief was looking suddenly older and his bright little eyes were strangely watery. “Fix up a wreath for Dudley,” said the Chief quietly. The two men looked at one another in mutual understanding. Mostyn nodded and went out.
    *
    Back in his office, Mostyn pressed the buzzer for his secretary, ordered tea, and sent her down for the photostats of Dudley’s briefing for the