Authors: John Gardner
Blackstone was probably the only man on Invincible, outside the Captain, senior officers and security people, who knew what was going on. He did not question how his two “friends” Harry and Bill had got hold of the information, nor did he have any moral qualms about what he was to do. After all, it would get him off the hook, both financially and domestically. In any case, they had told him it was really a Greenpeace operation, timed to cause great embarrassment to the Americans and Russians, also to the British Establishment, and “Blackie” had always had a lot of sympathy for Greenpeace.
He had thought for a long time about the job, but once he weighed the positive and negative sides, he realised there was no real danger.
“Blackie” had gone to a lot of trouble in arranging his shifts.
The first one just after these nobs come aboard, they had told him. Then the second one would require action in the middle of the following forenoon. “Blackie” Blackstone would have access to the turbines on both required shifts. He had seen to that, just as he knew the other men on the watch were content to let him do the physical check on the turbines. Even now, just after the visitors had arrived on board, he was alone in the Engine Room, while a Chief Petty Officer, another Petty Officer, like himself, and a “Killick” - a Leading Seaman, so called because of the anchor-badge he wore: killick being the old slang tem for anchor - lounged their way through the watch, occasionally checking the pressures and speeds of the turbines.
The Second Engineering Officer was, as ever, in the officers’ caboose, just behind the control room. Nobody would require him unless something went terribly wrong. Changes of speed, and other such things could be accomplished at the touch of a button, or a couple of clicks on the small levers which acted as throttles. So the Lieutenant who was the Second Engineering Officer was left to do a little “Egyptian Physical Training” as they called it. In other words, the Lieutenant was sleeping.
Petty Officer Blackstone quietly moved to the far side of Number One Turbine. He pulled a screwdriver from a leather toolkit attached to his belt, and tucked away behind his right hip. He then removed a cylinder, wrapped in Kleenex, from his pocket. The cylinder, which was made of strong wire gauze, had an opening at one end and was rounded at the other. Anyone, from Midshipman to Ordinary Seaman, could have identified the cylinder, as a straightforward filter for the turbine’s oil system.
Blackstone quickly unscrewed the two lugs that held down a small panel, roughly six inches by six, and lifted it on its hinge.
Above the panel the words Filter One were stencilled.
Quietly, he placed the screwdriver on the deck, by his feet, and took an abnormally long pair of tweezers from the toolkit on his belt, at the same time gathering another wod of Kleenex into his left hand.
Gently, Petty Officer Blackstone inserted the tweezers into the open panel of Filter One, extracting the identical heavy, dirty, gauze cylinder from within - though this one was hot and dripping with oil.
He placed it into the wod of Kleenex and put it carefully on the deck, beside the screwdriver.
It would take three minutes for any sign of the change to be registered on the instruments in the control room, and it took less than thirty seconds to slide the new filter into place, and another minute to close the panel and screw the lugs back in place.
Blackstone next returned the screwdriver and tweezers to his toolkit, picked up the bunched Kleenex which held the recently removed filter, and made his way through the bulkhead door, aft and leading to the Engine Room heads.
There he unbolted one of the ports, opened it up and hurled the filter and Kleenex out to be whipped away by the wind. He closed up the round port, washed his hands, clearing away all traces of oil, and returned to the Engine Room, casually walking around all the turbines, taking his time before returning to the Control Room.
“They all still running, Blackie?” the CPO asked with a grin.
“Difficult to say, Chiefy. I went and had a smoke in the heads.”
“You jammy bugger,” the other Petty Officer said. “I was just telling them about how you sloped off that time when we last docked in Gib. She was a corker, wasn’t she? Black-haired beauty, that one.
“You’re full of shit,” said Blackie, and the conversation continued on this high intellectual plane for the next hour or so.
The turbines all ran smoothly, but Blackie knew that it wouldn’t be smooth running at about eleven in the forenoon tomorrow. For one thing, the oil temperature on Number One turbine would start to rise spectacularly, and he would be there to deal with it.
* “Gentlemen, thank you for your time. I’ll be as quick as possible; though it’s essential that you all know exactly what’s at stake here.” Sir John Walmsley was full of himself: sitting back in his chair in the crowded day cabin, with all his senior officers around him, he almost overflowed with his own responsibility. Bond viewed the man with pity rather than awe. Walmsley was a pompous ass, full of self-importance, and, therefore, from Bond’s viewpoint, not really suitable for the job he had to do. “Now, Stewards’ Meeting. This is a very clear name for what is happening aboard invincible.”
The Rear-Admiral cleared his throat and continued. “You all know who’s on board. The three most powerful heads of state in the world, and they see themselves attending a real Stewards’ Meeting, for they regard themselves as true Stewards, Stewards in whom the world puts its trust. Two men and a woman who can truly hold the world in their hands.” This, Bond concluded, was going to be a sermon, not a briefing. Nor would it be a sermon to the wholly converted.
Walmsley was still talking. “You’ll also realise one important factor. They are all here with close protection squads but without their normal advisers - apart from the sinister bagman, with President Bush, who is required to have the nuclear alert codes with him at all times.”
He paused, as though pleased with his own knowledge and the ability for him to share it. Then he continued, “As some of you already know, they are here under highly classified code names.
The PM is Shalott Lady of, I presume, not just because she knows her onions.” He paused again for the obligatory chuckle to pass around the room. “The President of the United States is Dancer; and Secretary Gorbachev is October. You will refer to them by those names, both in conversation and any radio messages you might be called upon to give.
But, as I have said, the one unique thing is that they’re here with no advisers, or assistants. As far as their colleagues are concerned, Shalott has a touch of the “flu; October is resting in his country dacha, and has left orders that he should not be disturbed for five days; Dancer has requested no Press, and no calls to his hunting-lodge where he is quail-shooting.”
Again he waited for a laugh, but the jest was, if not dying, at least fatally ill. “The point is that all three chose to meet in secure conditions so that they could carry out four whole days of highly personal, one-on-one - or, I suppose it could be one-on-two talks without the usual interference from the throngs of experts from both government, military, financial and social levels who often advise more caution over sensitive issues.
“There will be no official statements regarding Stewards’ Meeting.
Nobody is to know, unless they feel they have accomplished some incredible breakthrough that can be announced. Their main objective is to set some ground rules on world finance, security against terrorism, and the acceleration of solving that thorny question regarding the quick phasing out of nuclear weapons.
“Our job is to see they have the next four days to themselves.
They will be eating and working together in the forward lecture room, which has been made more presentable than usual. So, with the help of the Wren detachment to see they get decent food, and good service, and the assistance of security, they will be following a very tight schedule which, even in the midst of Landsea “89, we must see is adhered to. They have got to be given four whole days, no matter what.
If you have any questions come straight to me. Understand?”
Yes, Bond thought. Go straight to him, and he will pass you straight on to me. He left, went back to his cabin and sent for Donald Speaker, the interrogator who had come in from Gibraltar with the new American, Woodward.
He had never met Speaker before, but knew his reputation as a hard investigator who rarely gave an inch, so it was, when the man came into his cabin and sat down without even being asked, that Bond took an almost irrational dislike to him.
If Speaker had made any progress with Deeley he was not going to tell Bond. In fact it was just the opposite, for, within minutes, he realised that the interrogator was asking questions of him.
“I don’t altogether trust those two Branch men in fancy dress,” Speaker said of Brinkley and Camm.
“Oh?”
“Not cut out for the kind of job they’re doing on this ship. I’m highly dubious of their motives, Mr., er Captain, Bond.”
“Interesting, but what about Deeley?”
“I’ll report when I have anything to report.”
The gingery beard, Bond decided, covered a weak chin. The man was, in a sense, hiding from himself. “You have only a very limited time. You realise that?”
“How so?”
“It becomes a non-Service matter, once we get to Gib. She has to be handed over to the Civil Police.”
“What are we, two days from Gib?”
“We’re taking four actually. For operational reasons which don’t concern you.
“Well,” the lips curled under the beard, “well, that’s plenty of time for me to whop some kind of story out of her. Don’t worry. ” He rose.
“Sit down!” Bond all but shouted. “Sit down! I haven’t said you can leave.”
“I didn’t know you were my keeper on this ship.”
“Well, you had better know, Mr. Speaker. You don’t move on this ship without my saying so.”
“You’re not trying to tell me you’re SIS?” The leer again.
“I am telling you just that.”
“Very interesting, in view of what seems to have happened on board this ship. I think we’ll have a little talk when we’re back in London.
I can be a very suspicious man, Bond, and they trust me at the interrogation centre. I can reach into your file and come up with something, I’m sure. Everyone has at least one thing they want to hide. We’ll discover yours, then I can embroider it a little and they’ll drop you into a well and forget about you. I’ve broken stronger men than you, Bond. Goodnight,” and he walked from the cabin, leaving Bond floundering. The man was some kind of a nutter, he thought. Best get a signal off to London about him.
He went out and toured the passageway, speaking to all the varied security men, British, American and Russian. All seemed in good order, so he decided to leave the signal until after dinner, which he took quietly in the wardroom.
Later, as he was about to go up to Communications, the Tannoy clicked on. “D’you hear there! D’you hear there! Would Captain Bond please take a message in his cabin? Captain Bond to his cabin please.”
Nikki, looking pale and uncomfortable, was waiting for him.
“What can I do for you, Nikki?”
“Oh, please don’t tempt me, James, but I have a terrible concern.
A worry.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Pour it all out.”
“This is about the new American. The one called Woodward, Dan Woodward.”
“Desperate Dan,” Bond smiled. “Has he been desperate with you?
He comes complete with a reputation that he likes the ladies.”
“No, James. No. This is not funny. I am suspect that this man is not American. That he is not truly the Dan Woodward he claims.”
“What?” He sat up, a little twitch of anxiety deep in his stomach. “Why do you say this, Nikki?”
“How do I tell you? It is difficult. Look, is operational secret, but we must share it. Three years ago, I was assigned to work in Afghanistan. With KGB. We had a dossier on terrorists operating in the Gulf. You know the kind of thing. A mixed bag of names and suspicions. The man who says he is Dan Woodward. His picture was there in dossier. I forget what he was called then.
Hamarik, or Homarak. Something. James, you should take a look.”
“Keep quiet for now, Nikki. I’ll run it through London. Play it gently. I know how we can check it out.”
He went up to Communications and went through the same, inquisition by a different, armed marine, then got on with the job in hand. First a cipher concerning Speaker, followed by a second one to liaison with Grosvenor Square, requesting a photograph to be sent over the wires. When unbuttoned, the text read PLEASE HAVE PHOTOGRAPH OF DANIEL WOODWARD YOUR NI OFFICER STOP SEND MY EYES ONLY URGENT AND HIGHEST PRIORITY STOP PREDATOR STOP It had been a long, tiring day, so he hoped it would come in before he went to sleep.
He had just got into his bunk when there was a tap at the door.
He opened up, and Nikki slipped past him into the cabin.
“James, I’m sorry. I feel so alone. So afraid. It is like a feeling of doom. Please don’t send me away.” She wore a towelling robe which she slipped from her shoulders. There was nothing underneath. Bond’s mind travelled back to the villa on Ischia.
Once more he saw the doomed and treacherous Beatrice and realised that, whatever she had been, it would take a long time for her to be expunged from his emotions.
Now, looking at the young body of Nikki Ratnikov he realised that he was also lonely, worried, and in need of comfort. He turned the lock in the cabin door, and took her in his arms. For a long time she just clung to him, then, lifting her head, Bond put his own lips to hers, and they moved to the bunk, then drowned in each other as though this was the first and last time they would ever meet.
She left him at dawn, and he lay on the bunk alone, thinking they had both given and taken from each other. It was the most, except for dying, that any two humans could give.
Communications did not come back to him until almost ten thirty the next morning. There were two messages waiting for him. First, a flash from Regent’s Park authorising him to remove Speaker from the interrogation of Deeley if he was not happy.