Bond, asleep in one of the duty officers’ bunks, was awakened by the alarm bell. The iron voice of the P.A. System said: ‘Diving stations. Diving stations,’ and almost at once his bunk tilted slightly and the distant whine of the engines altered pitch. Bond smiled grimly to himself. He slipped off the bunk and went along and up to the attack centre. Felix Leiter was already there. The captain turned away from the plot. His face was tense. He said, ‘It looks as if you were right, gentlemen. We’ve got her all right. About five miles ahead and two points to starboard. She’s doing around thirty knots. No other ship could be holding that speed, or would be likely to. And she’s showing no lights. Here, care to have a look through the scope? She’s raising quite a wake and kicking up plenty of phosphorescence. No moon yet, but you’ll see the white blur when your eyes get used to the dark.’
Bond bent to the rubber eye sockets. In a minute he had her, a white scut on the horizon of the soft, feathery swell. He stood back. ‘What’s her course?’
‘Same as ours – western end of Grand Bahama. We’ll go deeper now and put on a bit of speed. We’ve got her on the Sonar as well, so we shan’t lose her. We’ll get up parallel and close in a bit later. The met. report gives a light westerly breeze in the early hours. That’d be a help. Don’t want it too calm when we unload the swimming party. The surface’ll boil quite a bit as each man goes out. Here,’ he turned to a powerful-looking man in white ducks, ‘this is Petty Officer Fallon. He’s in command of the swimming party, under your and Mr Leiter’s orders of course. All the top swimmers volunteered. He’s chosen nine of them. I’ve taken them off all duties. Maybe you gentlemen would like to get acquainted with your team. You’ll want to discuss your routines. I guess discipline’ll have to be pretty tight – recognition signals and so forth. Okay? The sergeant at arms is looking after the weapons.’ He smiled. ‘He’s rustled up a dozen flick knives. Had some difficulty persuading the men to give them up, but he’s done it. He’s barbed them and sharpened them down almost to needles then fitted them into the tops of broom handles. Guess he’ll make you sign an indent for the brooms or he’ll have the supply officer on top of him when we get out of this. All right then. Be seeing you. Ask for anything you want.’ He turned back to the plot.
Bond and Leiter followed Petty Officer Fallon along the lower deck to the engine room and then to the engine repair shop. On their way they passed through the reactor room. The reactor, the equivalent of a controlled atomic bomb, was an obscene knee-level bulge rising out of the thickly leaded deck. As they passed it, Leiter whispered to Bond, ‘Liquid sodium Submarine Intermediate Reactor Mark B.’ He grinned sourly and crossed himself.
Bond gave the thing a sideways kick with his shoe. ‘Steam-age stuff. Our Navy’s got the Mark C.’
The repair shop, a long low room equipped with various forms of precision machinery, presented a curious sight. At one end were grouped the nine swimmers clad only in bathing trunks, their fine bodies glowing with sunburn. At the other, two men in grey overalls, drab figures of the machine age, were working in semi-darkness with only pinpoints of bright light cast on the whirring lathes from which the knife blades threw small fountains of blue and orange sparks. Some of the swimmers already had their spears. After the introductions, Bond took one and examined it. It was a deadly weapon, the blade, sharpened to a stiletto and notched near the top into a barb, firmly wired into the top of a long stout stave. Bond thumbed the needle-sharp steel and touched the tip. Even a shark’s skin would not stand up to that. But what would the enemy have? CO2 guns for a certainty. Bond looked the smiling bronzed young men over. There were going to be casualties – perhaps many. Everything must be done to effect surprise. But those golden skins and his own and Leiter’s paler skins would show at twenty feet in the moonlight – all right for the guns, but well out of range of the spears. Bond turned to Petty Officer Fallon: ‘I suppose you don’t have rubber suits on board?’
‘Why sure, Commander. Have to, for escape in cold waters.’ He smiled. ‘We’re not always sailing among the palm trees.’
‘We’ll all need them. And could you get white or yellow numbers, big ones, painted on their backs? Then we’ll know more or less who’s who.’
‘Sure, sure.’ He called to his men. ‘Hey, Fonda and Johnson. Go along to the Quartermaster and draw rubber suits for the whole team. Bracken, get a pail of rubber solution paint from Stores. Paint numbers on the backs of the suits. A foot deep. From one to twelve. Get going.’
