Bond commented drily, “They’ll find some way of spotting them. And presumably an atomic depth charge set deep would send a shock wave through hundreds of miles of water and blow anything to pieces over a huge area. But has she got anything smaller than these missiles? If we’re going to do a job on the Disco what are we going to use?”
“She’s got six torpedo tubes up front and I dare say she’s got some smaller stuff—machine guns and so forth. The trouble’s going to be to get the commander to fire them. He’s not going to like firing on an unarmed civilian yacht on the orders of a couple of plainclothes guys, and one of them a Limey at that. Hope his orders from the Navy Department are as solid as mine and yours.” The huge submarine bumped gently against the wharf. Lines were thrown and an aluminum gangplank was run ashore. There was a ragged cheer from the crowd of watchers being held back by a cordon of police. Leiter said, “Well, here we go. And to one hell of a tad start. Not a hat between us to salute the quarter deck with. You curtsy, I’ll bow.”
20.
Time for Decision
The interior of the submarine was incredibly roomy, and it was stairs and not a ladder that led down into the interior. There was no clutter, and the sparkling paintwork was in two-tone green. Powerlines painted in vivid colors provided a cheerful contrast to the almost hospital decor. Preceded by the officer of the watch, a young man of about twenty-eight, they went down two decks. The air (70º with 46% humidity, explained the officer) was beautifully cool. At the bottom of the stairs he turned left and knocked on a door that said “ Commander P. Pedersen, U.S.N. ”
The captain looked about forty. He had a square, rather Scandinavian face with a black crew-cut just going gray. He had shrewd, humorous eyes but a dangerous mouth and jaw. He was sitting behind a neatly stacked metal desk smoking a pipe. There was an empty coffee cup in front of him and a signal pad on which he had just been writing. He got up and shook hands, waved them to two chairs in front of his desk, and said to the officer of the watch, “Coffee, please, Stanton. And have this sent, would you?” He tore the top sheet off the signal pad and handed it across. “Most Immediate.”
He sat down. “Well, gentlemen. Welcome aboard. Commander Bond, it’s a pleasure to have a member of the Royal Navy visit the ship. Ever been in subs before?”
“I have,” said Bond, “but only as a supercargo. I was in Intelligence—R.N.V.R. Special Branch. Strictly a chocolate sailor.” The captain laughed. “That’s good! And you, Mr. Leiter?” “No, Captain. But I used to have one of my own. You operated it with a sort of rubber bulb and tube. Trouble was they’d never let me have enough depth of water in the bath to see what she could really do.”
“Sounds rather like the Navy Department. They’ll never let me try this ship full out. Except once on trials. Every time you want to get going, the needle comes across a damn red line some interfering so-and-so has painted on the dial. Well gentlemen”—the captain looked at Leiter—“what’s the score? Haven’t had such a flood of Top Secret Most Immediates since Korea. I don’t mind telling you, the last one was from the Chief of the Navy, Personal. Said I was to consider myself under your orders, or, on your death or incapacity, under Commander Bond’s, until Admiral Carlson arrives at 1900 this evening. So what? What’s cooking? All I know is that all signals have been prefixed Operation Thunderball. What is this operation?”
Bond had greatly taken to Commander Pedersen. He liked his ease and humor and, in general—the old Navy phrase came back to him—the cut of his jib. Now he watched the stolid good-humored face as Leiter told his story down to the departure of Largo’s amphibian at one-thirty and the instructions Bond had given to Domino Vitali.
In the background to Leiter’s voice there was a medley of soft noises—the high, constant whine of a generator overlaid by the muted background of canned music—the Ink Spots singing, “I love coffee, I love tea.” Occasionally the P.A. system above the captain’s desk crackled and sang with operational double-talk—“Roberts to Chief of the Boat”—“Chief Engineer wants Oppenshaw”— “Team Blue to Compartment F”—and from somewhere came the suck and gurgle of a pumplike apparatus that sounded punctually every two minutes. It was like being inside the simple brain of a robot that worked by hydraulics and electrical impulses with a few promptings from its human masters.