Hunter Killer

Easy is the descent into the dark deeps!

But to retrace your way and issue into space-there is the toil and there is the task!

Virgil, Aeneid

COMMANDER GEOFFREY PEACE R. N.

Geoffrey Peace was dead.

I could not believe it. For three days, ever since a naval officer had enquired ' Mr. John Garland?' and handed me that agonizing message from the flagship, I had not believed it. Even when the ominous shape, covered by a tarpaulin, had been brought alongside in a launch by a naval party, my mind rejected the thought. But now there could be no doubt: I stood looking through the glass trap in the coffin lid into the hard face of the man who had been so much a part of my life: Commander Geoffrey Peace, Royal Navy, D.S.O. and two Bars.

Death had not softened the clean-shaven face; the strong jaw with the cruel line of the mouth was held shut by the black rubber diving-cap he had worn at the time of his death. They had dressed the body again in the underwater suit. Its cowled effect brought no feeling of sanctity but rather one of evil, or-I told myself in hurried excuse for the dead-the desperate rejection of any hope of afterlife, like the wild keen of a piper's lament in the Outer Isles.

Geoffrey Peace should not have died like this, I thought angrily-to be hauled from a few feet of water with heart failure. Automatically my eyes sought the hands which had sent so many other men to their deaths, but they were hidden. All the Peaces had died hard. A strange resentment welled inside me that this one should have met his end so tamely after so violent a life. Simon Peace, his grandfather, had gone to meet his Maker with the cry of the sea and England on his lips; old Sir John Peace, his piratical ancestor who had terrorized the Indian Ocean, had been cut in half on his own quarterdeck by a triple-shotted broadside. But Geoffrey Peace, who was in the full glare of the public spotlight in Britain and America because of his part in the controversial American Navy missile project, had died no more excitingly than an overfed businessman who drops dead after a dip at Ramsgate.

Now he lay ' slung atween the roundshot '-not old Sir John's way, perhaps, but as near as they could get to it in this age when men had already stepped on to the moon; for Geoffrey Peace's wasn't an ordinary coffin at all. The coffin at which I looked was steel, fashioned like a cylinder: it 7 might have been a section of torpedo-tube or, more likely, a length of discarded missile-casing from a cruiser in the bay. No, it couldn't be that, I realized, bending closer. The metal Was riveted, not welded, and a missile needs a smooth bore. I ran my fingers unseeingly along the line of grey-painted metal studs. Perhaps if the sight of my dead comrade-inarms had not affected me so greatly, I might then have suspected something of the secret which was to shock the world and the United States in particular.

The sound of a powerful jet engine overhead jerked my attention away from the dead man's face. Here were the top brass coming to pay their last tribute to Geoffrey Peace. The plane circled the anchorage. Peace was ' lying in state' aboard his own luxury motor-yacht, Bellatrix. In the bay, backed by palm-fringed islets, I could see the American Seventh Fleet, a magnificent array of fighting ships. Among them were two of the new Shenandoah-class nuclear subs, replacing the first Polaris-firing George Washington class, which had become obsolete in the early 1970's. To the north-east lay the Royal Navy's new Limuria Squadron, a crack task-force which had again raised the Navy's battle ensign of glory after the long starved years of the 'fifties and 'sixties. It did my sailor's heart good to see the lean, deadly silhouette of two Lochclass cruisers, Loch Vennachar and Loch Torridon. Complementing the American submarines were the British Devastation-class nuclear subs. Bellatrix was at anchor in Port Victoria, Mahe Island, largest of the Seychelles group in the northern Indian Ocean. The Seychelles, a 5,000-square mile agglomeration of islands, atolls, cays and coral reefs, lie about one-third of the way between East Africa and India. This group stands at the head of another immense chain stretching away boomerang-shape for over 1,000 miles to the south-east. The northern pivot is Mahe and the southern Mauritius. These islands-often no more than a fringe of coconut palms round a strip of sand a few feet above water-level-have been named collectively Limuria. They are inhabited by fewer than 2,000 people spread over tens of thousands of square miles of sea. The islands are believed to be the last visible peaks of a drowned continent which once lay between Africa and Australia. The inhabitants-descendants of pirates, natives and slaves-speak Creole, a tongue which has mutated as far from its original French as have the strange animals of Limuria from their African homologues. Limuria is a never-never land of soft tropical islands and languor, a surfeit of sweetness among the endless palms, lagoons of breath-taking loveliness at dawn and sunset. Here, some years ago, Britain had established her big missile base. I screwed up my eyes against the afternoon sun and watched the big jet bank round Mount Howard, Mahe's northern tip, and circle over the densely wooded ravines and peaks which back Port Victoria. I lost it momentarily, then it reappeared from behind Morne Seychellois, the highest peak in the island, to make its landing approach. I turned away from it, sick at heart, dreading it for what it represented: the publicity ordeal of Peace's funeral, with myself as the chief mourner.

What secret did that hard face hold below the glass, the secret which he had summoned me to tell and yet, for reasons which had died with him, had held back for one week, a week which was to prove his last on earth? My eyes searched the dead face, tried almost to get beyond the half-closed lids, to find out.. What was it all about, I kept asking myself, as I had done while we had raced towards the Seychelles from

Mauritius, where we had met. I had sought the answer then, but in life Peace was not the man to be approached-not even by his closest friend-if he did not want to be approached. I saw now that his tense, highly nervous state in the days preceeding his death was not, as I, thought, due to the weight of his secret, but was caused by the shadow of the heartattack which had killed him. The superficial explanation he had given for asking me to come all the way to Mauritius from South Africa was, of course, a blind. That was clear to me soon after our meeting. I had left the Royal Navy to take charge (thanks to my knowledge of navigation) of the head office of NACCAM, an advanced commercial air and sea navigational system, in

Johannesburg. Under my supervision, we had installed navigational aids for ships and aircraft round the southern, strategic tip of Africa. Peace had cabled me asking if I would meet him to discuss the installation of a similar system in the islands of the Indian Ocean. He had suggested Mauritius as the rendezvous, since the island is only six hours by jet from Johannesburg. Peace's message came as a surprise to me, for I had been out of touch with him for several years, although his work in connection with the British missile mission to

America had kept his name constantly in the news.

For months before his death, Peace had been the centre of a bitter controversy over an Anglo-American missile. British scientists had developed a small light-weight nuclear power plant for missiles and satellites. The newspapers nicknamed it SNAP-System for Nuclear Auxiliary Power. The motor, according to the papers, was considerably in advance of anything in America or Russia. Peace had led a British technical mission to the United States, offering the Americans the new motor as a co-operative effort in space exploration. Britain made no secret of her pride in her invention, and SNAP was equally well received in the United States. Its merits were endorsed by no less a man than Marvin K. Green, the brilliant young American astronaut and scientist who had become Vice-President. MKG, as he was popularly known, had turned that rather stultifying office to splendid account as the representative of the new technocratic society which had sprung into being in the United States. He had assumed the chairmanship of Special Projects-an independent body answerable to the President only-whose function was the development of special American missiles. Special Projects was enthusiastic about SNAP, MKG and Peace formed a close friendship, and it seemed that a new bond in Anglo-American relations was about to be forged.

Then-success struck. The Americans launched two men,

Davis and Acton to the moon. Using a land-based Air Force

Sirius rocket staged from a space-station orbiting round the earth, these astronauts reached the moon but failed to return, and were cremated in a shallow orbit round the earth.

The great American success-a skyport was established on the moon itself by Davis and Acton-killed the new AngloAmerican project. Against the wishes of the President, an economy-minded Congress scrapped it. What point had it, they argued, now that there had been a successful landing on the moon?

Peace-and to a lesser extent MKG-had been publicly outspoken against the dropping of the project and Peace's forthright views had made him the storm centre of the controversy in the United States.

I had thought Peace to be in England when his cable arrived. Glad to go and 'eager to see my old friend, I had been shocked at his tenseness when he met me at Mauritius as the South Africa-Australia jet landed. He had hurried me aboard his luxury yacht Bellatrix-another surprise for me-and persuaded me that the place for the discussion with unspecified persons over the NACCAM installation was the Seychelles. We had sailed from Mauritius within a few hours on the fourday trip. Apart from his tenseness, the first indication I had of the impending shadow over Peace was a diversion to a remote island group 250 miles north-north-east of Mauritius known as St Brandon, or Cargados Carajos. St Brandon is nothing more than a hellish group of islets and coral rocks 10 with one tiny port on Raphael Island. Peace's excuse was that his ancestor, Sir John Peace, had used St Brandon in the reign of Charles II as a base for piratical forays against shipping in the Indian Ocean. Peace made much of the fact that Sir John had been the first Englishman to chart the group. To my astonishment, he had insisted on spending days in an island boat charting the risky seaward passages of St Brandon's great 25-mile coral barrier reef. When I protested, and pointed out that I had joined him to discuss a big business proposition, he became withdrawn and angry. I got no more out of him until we reached the Seychelles, where, instead of going ashore at Port Victoria to discuss what I had irritably ceased to regard as a deal, he decided to go spear-fishing. When Peace announced that he intended to take Bellatrix to a cluster of islets centering on Frigate Island, 25 miles east of Mahe, I exploded. If he wanted me, I told him angrily, he would find me ashore at the hotel-if I hadn't left on the next plane for South Africa. MacFadden, the tough Scots engineer who had been with us on the Skeleton Coast of South-West Africa in earlier years, had gone on a bender ashore immediately we arrived. I sympathized with him. I had no wish to go wandering aimlessly about the islands under the pretext of a business deal in the offing.

My irritation with the whole affair increased when I found that I would have to stage back to, Johannesburg via East

Africa, and that the aircraft was an old flying-boat which only made the leisurely trip once a week. That meant a further delay of three days in the Seychelles. I cursed the soft languor of Limuria.

Peace. had seemed animated, less tense, when I announced my intention of going ashore. He didn't try to stop me. For a moment I thought he was about to say something, but then he shrugged as if he had, changed his mind.

As I sat at dinner at the hotel that evening, a naval officer came to my table and saluted.

Mr. John Garland?'

I nodded, wondering if my anger had provoked somebody to do something about discussing the deal.

He handed me a note, which I took more in irritation than anticipation. It said: ' I have to inform you that the body of Commander Geoffrey Peace was taken from the water at Noddy Rock, half a mile northward of Frigate Island; at approx. 1330 hours today by a boat's crew from H.M.S. Loth Vennachar, operating in that area. Artificial respiration was applied without success. Commander Peace was taken aboard Loch Vennachar, where he was pronounced dead by 11 the Senior Naval Surgeon. The body will, at the direction of the Commander-in-Chief, Limuria Command, be held aboard Loch Vennachar until suitable arrangements have been made..

I hadn't seen the room after that. All I saw was an indelible vignette from the past; Peace at the periscope of a submarine, Peace going in for the kill…

The sub-lieutenant was dutifully sympathetic. ' You were his friend, sir, weren't you? They say he was the greatest skipper that ever took a submarine to sea..

I had my own memories of that. I cut him short. The manner of our parting ate into me like acid, now. ` Can I see him?'

Afraid not, sir.'

I got up. I had to see Geoffrey Peace-only once again. Not the way we had parted, with a flare of anger and a shrug. `

By whose orders?' I demanded.

' Commander-in-Chief's, sir. No one allowed to see the body. As a serving officer..

I must have raised my voice, for several of the diners turned. ` Take me to Loch Vennachar.'

The sub-lieutenant had obviously been chosen for the job. `

Sorry, sir, no civilians allowed aboard missile cruisers. Security and all that.'

` Civilian!' I exploded. I'm no bloody civilian, man-. I' m a reserve captain in the Royal Navy! Ask! Ask!'

He was cool and sure of himself. ' Ask-who, sir? Perhaps we could discuss this… ah… away from…' he gestured at the staring diners. He led the way outside. I demanded again to see Peace's body, the C-in-C, the Senior Naval Officer ashore. The most I could wring out of the young sublieutenant-whom I heartily detested by now-was that he would try and establish my bona fides.

I walked down to the pierhead. I do not know how long I stood and stared at the lights of the fleet. He could not end like this, I told myself over and over-not Geoffrey Peace. I had to talk to someone. I spent the next few hours looking for MacFadden among the pubs and joints. There was no sign of him. I tried to telephone the SNO, but the naval exchange was adamant. For the next two days I fretted and fumed. Then the sub-lieutenant came to the hotel and reported that Bellatrix was back in port. I could go aboard, I was informed politely, but must not leave harbour. I tried again to find MacFadden, but he must have holed up somewhere. 12

If, however; the body of Peace was being concealed, the news of his death was not. The morning after his death, the BBC gave it a high place in its early bulletins. The evening newscast contained a tribute from the Prime Minister to

Peace's part in the development of the SNAP motor and his mission to the United States.

Other bulletins stated that Peace would be buried at sea with full naval honours by the Limuria squadron and the u.s. Seventh Fleet. This seemed to me a belated attempt at recognition of what, on the face of it, might, have been a highly successful joint space effort between the two nations. The British Defence Minister would fly to Mahe to attend, as well as senior naval officers from Allied countries, it was stated. I took it, was because of Peace's famous wartime exploits. I was interviewed by long-distance telephone from London about Peace. A television news crew arrived and the hotel foyer looked like a studio. Through all this I was denied access to the C-in-C.

I went aboard Bellatrix-still no MacFadden. Then came the awful moment when the naval party arrived with the body and my realization that the face below the glass was indeed dead. There was also a message to say that the Cin-C would be pleased to discuss the funeral arrangements with me at my convenience. The funeral was to be delayed, I was informed, pending the arrival by plane of more VIPS. The big jet came round once again, flaps hard down for the landing. Perhaps this was a plane-load of them. If I could have had my way, it would have been a quiet committal to the sea from the deck of Bellatrix… Had the soft thump on the hull come a few minutes earlier, it would have been lost in the roar of the jet. Its very gentleness made it sinister. A boat makes its own particular noise against the hull of a bigger vessel. This was the thump of-a body.

I slipped over to the opposite porthole, and crouched down with my ear against the sycamore panelling. There it was!

The slow slide of 'a body pulling itself up to the deck, with great caution. Had this suspicious approach something to do with the secret Peace never told me? I glanced round the cabin hurriedly and then ducked behind the bar-counter in the corner.

Whoever it was made no sound on deck. I waited.

Then the after door of the cabin began to open slowly.

Out of sight, I would have to rely on sounds from now onwards in order not to be seen. 13

Silence.

I risked a quick sideways glance round the bottom of the bar.

Back towards me, a man, wet, naked except for swimming trunks, was kneeling at the side of Peace's coffin. His head was cocked to one side and a rubber tube led from his head to the steel cylinder. A stethoscope! Like a veterinary surgeon sounding the heart of some strange creature, the man placed the stethoscope against the metal. I could almost hear his breathing. As if the instrument were not functioning properly, he slipped the earplugs off and put his ear-face sideways to me-against the coffin. Still not satisfied, he went to the head and listened again. I heard the faint hiss of his breath. I craned round the bar. It could not have been his breath, for the man was standing, every nerve alert, looking down at the coffin. He was muscular, sun-tanned, and I saw thrust into his belt, the walnut butt striking against the Whiteness of his belly, a Colt. 38 Detective Special., He moved slightly and the gun clunked faintly against the steel. He must have been as taut as I was, for he wheeled round on the empty room. I jerked my head back._ Colt Special! That was the gun used by American police, the FBI and detectives, a beautiful little weapon with a stubby barrel and a lethal s t r i k e . I h a d s e e n, t o o, s o m e t h i n g t h a t a l a r m e d m e – t h e hammer of the Colt had been hocked, to enable a quick draw f r o m a s h o u l d e r – h o l s t e r. W h o e v e r i t w a s k n e w h i s w a y around with guns.

I peered out from behind the bar. The man had dropped the stethoscope and now leant with his chest across the glass w i n d o w . I h e a r d h i s r a p i d b r e a t h a s h e t h r u s t d o w n o n a s c r e w d r i v e r. H e w a s u n s c r e w i n g t h e p a n e l t o g e t a t t h e corpse!

Loyalty to Peace, devotion, admiration, grief at our unhappy parting, made me blind. That anyone should desecrate Peace's body, in front of my eyes…

I was on his back, my hands reaching for his throat, before he heard me, even. As he swung and grappled, dropping the screwdriver, I knew I had been a fool. This man was skilled at in-fighting. There was no blind panic in his actions, simply a swift muscular reflex to offset the ground he knew he had lost in that split-second of my surprise attack. I dodged the s w i f t k i c k t o t h e g r o i n a n d h u n g o n t o h i s t h r o a t. T h e r e w a s n o f e a r, o n l y a h i n t o f a c k n o w l e d g m e n t o f a w o r t h y enemy in his grey-green eyes. He feinted with a knee to try and prise loose my grip on his throat, and then, with a spasm of strength, jerked me over his head. My spine crashed sick14 eningly against the top of the coffin. My grip eased and he struck me savagely across the heart with a flat blow from his forearm. My scream of pain died from lack of air in my lungs. He eased back, drew in a deep controlled breath like a swimmer, and his hand went to the Colt. I lay spreadeagled across the coffin, my face to the. ceiling. The swift, cool actions of my unknown enemy were those of a professional. I lurched forward as his hand clutched the butt and struck a karate blow to the carotid artery with my left hand. It wasn't a heavy blow, for I was completely off balance and it was my left hand-a blow like that can kill when administered with the right. I saw the face go blank with pain and semi-consciousness. The Colt came up, though. He was a foot from me. Then, as if from nowhere, a bottle smashed down on his head and he fell half across me, showering me with whisky and glass splinters. His face hit the steel side of the coffin and he slid slowly to the floor.

Mac stood looking at the label of the broken bottle in his hand. Glenflddichl' was all he said. ' Waste of t' best whusky in t' world.'

The unconscious man lay grotesquely on the thick carpet, blood and whisky about his head. Mac walked over and looked through the glass trap. He drew back a little and the dry sob which shook him was the most terrible thing I have ever heard.

' Geoffrey.. I began.

I heard about it,' he rasped. Whusky!'

I went over to the bar and pulled out another bottle while Mac simply stood there. I handed him the unopened bottle. He tried to pluck off the foil and unscrew the cap, but his hands shook so uncontrollably that he could not. With an oath, he smashed the neck across the coffin and the amber liquid flowed across the glass, blurring the face below. He threw back his head and gulped some of the spirit, drinking from the broken edge. A trickle of blood ran from his lips, but I do not think he noticed.

' Mac!' I said sharply. ' Mac!' He stared unseeingly at the dead face. I shook him roughly by the shoulder. He took another strong drag from the ragged edge of the bottle. ' Aye,' he said quietly, under control now. ' Aye, nothing.'

I broke the silence. I nodded at the unconscious man. `

Thanks for that •.. he was going for his gun'

Mac said uncertainly, ' He was?'

I told him briefly about the stethoscope and the screwdriver. Mac picked them up and we rolled the intruder over. 15

` He won't die,' said Mac with the ghost of a grin. 'I hit him hard enough just to break the glass.'

I knelt down and tried to find something to identify him. '

Except for the Colt, there was nothing visible. The numbers had been filed off the weapon. I emptied the shells. The trigger was hair-light.

Nothin',' said Mac in disgust. Not even any clothes..

I bent down again and threw back the man's limp left arm. I pointed to the back of the armpit. The skin was chafed and rougher than the rest.

Shoulder-holster,' I remarked to Mac. But that wasn't what I was looking for. I stretched the arm out so that the skin of the inner arm was visible.

On it, grouped in a triangle, were three small brown dots, like small moles. It was enough.

I rose, balanced the Colt. ' Central Intelligence Agency.

American.'

Mac peered and shook his head. All I see are three brown moles.'

' Take a close look and you'll see they're not pigmented,'

I said shortly. It's the secret mark of the CIA'S agents. It's how they identify each other.'

Mac examined the ' moles ' closely and gave a soft whistle. '

Tattoo.'

He looked admiringly at me. Where didyer pick up that one?'

I shrugged. I worked a long time with Geoffrey Peace. And Peace worked with Naval Intelligence.'

Mac looked thoughtfully at the muscular figure. ' What did he want with-?' He nodded, leaving the name unsaid, as if he couldn't bring himself to speak it. Mac was closer to Peace than even I had been; it was a blind, headlong devotion backed by a cunning and ruthlessness learned in the gutters of Glasgow. I knew Mac's past; I also knew there was nothing he would not have done for Peace. Perhaps it was only because he was still suffering from his bender that he hadn't killed the CIA man with the jagged whisky bottle. He looked dangerous enough now he knew who the intruder was.

What did he say to you?' he asked hoarsely.

Not a word,' I replied. ' He came at me as silently as a snake.'

An order was shouted from outside and an engine went into reverse. I felt the launch come expertly alongside. Another order, and heavy feet on the deck.

Quick!' I said to Mac. That's the Navy.

E n g i n e – r o o m, ' h e r e p l i e d. H e l p m e w i t h h i m – j u s t a s far as the companionway.'

We half-carried, half-dragged the limp figure from the cabin as several pairs of boots fell into step on the planking a b o v e. I s n a p p e d t h e d o o r s h u t b e h i n d M a c a n d t r i e d t o straighten my clothes in the bar mirror, but before I had run a comb through my hair a man in admiral's uniform, with two officers behind, stood in the doorway. He came forward, stopped at the sight of me, the broken bottle, and the stench of whisky. He stretched out his hand.

Mr. John Garland? I am Admiral Sir William Irvine.'

The C-in-C himself! I was not in any mood for him, or any of the others who were staging a Roman Holiday out of Peace's death. I was still short of breath from the fight.

I have been trying to get hold of you for three days.'

One of the officers looked shocked at my abruptness. Irvine remained bland. You'll appreciate that in view of the high public esteem in which Commander Peace was held, it was not possible to rush through the arrangements.'

Arrangements be damned,' I retorted. If Peace had had his way, he would have asked to be thrown over the side with some old iron at his feet to take him down.'

Commander Peace was very unorthodox, we know,' he replied thinly. He frowned at the whisky-blurred glass and the broken bottle. It appears that his friends are, too.'

Mac the engineer and I were saying goodbye to him in our own way,' I snapped back. We broke a bottle of whisky over his face. It's the sort of thing that would have appealed to him.'

The admiral looked pointedly at my dishevelled appear ance. May we sit down and discuss the arrangements?'

He and the officers found themselves chairs and one of them smoothed out a typewritten sheet.

Ackroyd?

The officer went into action with the smooth competence of a computer. He read: Funeral arrangements for the late C o m m a n d e r G e o f f r e y P e a c e. T h e b o d y w i l l l i e i n s t a t e aboard the yacht Bellatrix for three days..

Three days!' I exclaimed. You mean this sideshow-' I gestured at the coffin-' is to go on for three days just to satisfy the ghoulish whims of a lot of sightseers?'

The admiral dropped his blandness. I think you should moderate your tone, Mr. Garland. It is not a sideshow, as you choose to call it. Commander Peace is a national hero an internationally known figure-and he will be accorded the recognition due to him. A naval guard of honour will stand 17 watch over the coffin. I am afraid we must ask you to leave Bellatrix until after the funeral..

I scarcely heard him. My mind was on that strange figure listening at the coffin, trying to get in. Had he taken a chance in broad daylight because he knew there would be a naval guard after that?

… following the lying-in-state, the body will be conveyed aboard Loch Vennachar,' droned on Ackroyd. Limuria Squadron will put to sea at 0900 hours, using the North Entrance. The u.s. Seventh Fleet will also proceed to sea and take up station in line ahead two miles northward of

Recif Islet, bearing 155 degrees, while Limuria Squadron will be stationed in line ahead approximately three miles south of Renommee Rock.'

` We are burying Commander Peace as near to the area where he was drowned as we can,' consoled the admiral. '

Frigate Island is a bit tricky for the big ships, particularly if we get a squall from the north-west.'

Ackroyd resumed. ' A fighter escort over the fleet will be provided jointly from H.M.S. Teaser and U.S.N. Springfield.'

The more I thought about the grand display, the less I liked it. The mourning party will be abroad Loch Vennachar,' intoned Ackroyd. ' Launch for the chief mourner to be at Victoria pierhead at 0830..

"That means me,' I said.

The C-in-C was patient. ' The Admiralty has informed me that no relatives of the late Commander Peace could be traced. As his close friend, the honour falls to you.'

Honour! At heart I felt like Mac-I wanted to smash something.

Ackroyd went on. ' The official naval party-'

The admiral broke in sharply. ' What about the Dm?'

' The Director of Naval Intelligence, sir? No invitation was sent..

The C-in-C smiled apologetically. ' Not the current DNI. No, the Old-Man himself-just retired-'

I felt a thrill go through me. How often had Peace spoken of him, although I had never met that legendary figure of

British Naval Intelligence! I said off-handedly, ' There's no call for the DNI to come all the way from England for this circus'

The C-in-C's glance contained something I did not understand. ' He does not have to come from England-he lives here-in the Seychelles.'

He watched me closely, too closely. First, the CIA man 18 and now the head of British Naval Intelligence himself, when I had thought him to be living in a country cottage in England,' or sailing a yacht at Cowes. Stranger still that. Peace had not mentioned him in the week we had been together; he must have known he was in the Seychelles. Where did Peace's secret come in? I was in deep waters.

' Didn't you know?' asked the C-in-C. ' He's living here at Mahe-retired and came straight to the Seychelles. He'll be aboard Loch Vennachar for the funeral. You can renew acquaintance.'

' I never met him,' I replied.

` Strange,' he murmured, watching me still. The tenseness seemed to go out of him with my last remark, however. Mac and I would have to find out more from our faceless stranger, even if Mac had to rough him up a little in the process. The odd coffin began to look odder still as my suspicions mounted. Ackroyd cleared his throat and broke the tight silence. At least the funeral arrangements were neutral ground.

` The committal service will be conducted by the Reverend

Miles Sands, Fleet Chaplain. The customary salute will take the form of a salvo fired from the main armament of Loch Vennachar..

The bizarre ceremony took shape in my mind's eye-the double row of British and American ships stopped for the committal, the ramp over the cruiser's side, the weighted body tipped as the padre intoned `… we therefore commit his body to the deep…' the uptilt of the ramp… the faraway splash as the object hit the water…

… following which a wreath will be dropped over the spot by helicopter flying from H.M.S. Teaser.'

I had to be aboard that helicopter! Only if I saw Peace's body sink into the depths would it allay the crowd of doubts and questions which clamoured now in my mind.

I'd like to fly in that helicopter,' I said quickly.

The C-in-C froze. His reply confirmed my suspicions. I'll consider it.'

` Consider!' I retorted. ` You don't have to consider! You can okay my request here and now.'

He said steadily, I said, I'll consider it. I'll inform you of my decision in good time. I can, however, promise that if you wish the pilot to drop a personal floral tribute-'

' Personal floral tribute!' I laughed in his face. The reek of whisky was in my nostrils. Mac's ' personal tribute ' was raw from the heart and it could stay at that, for my part. The mystery remained, larger than before.

' Forget it,' I muttered.

Ackroyd had been well trained. He glided on, trying to reduce the tension. The fleet will then make half-speed to a p osition east-north-east of Recif Islet, to bear 220 degrees

My sharpened mental reflexes jerked at the mistake in the orders.

The fleet's stopped for the committal,' • snapped.

There was a flash of anger, but also amusement, in the

C-in-C's eyes. Ackroyd dutifully fell silent. My eyes followed his steady stare at the coffin. I saw, too-the thing weighed a ton! I'd been thinking in terms of a body sewn in canvas. How would they get that heavy object over a ship's side?

The fleet will not heave-to,' replied the C-in-C evenly.

If you get it overboard it'll foul the cruiser's screws!' I expostulated.

Cruiser?' echoed the C-in-C, playing with me. Who said the ceremony was to be from Loch Vennachar?'

I half rose, but he waved me down.

' I think you should get the picture clear in your mind. Commander Peace will not be buried in the ordinary way.

The method might have pleased his own macabre taste. No, the British and American fleets will steam in line ahead, the mourning party being on Loch Vennachar's bridge. The fleet destroyer H.M.S. Amirante will detach and proceed at full speed between the lines of ships. Amirante will carry Commander Peace's body, while the chaplain conducts the service from Loch Vennachar. It will be relayed by radio to the other ships.' He turned to Ackroyd. What is Amirante's speed?'

Thirty-five knots, sir'

I was revolted at the thought of the Hollywood-type spectacle to please millions of television viewers (there was to be a hook-up via Telstar satellites) which would also massage the egos of the British and American naval commanders. The press, radio and television ballyhoo had also been deliberately engineered.

My anger flared. Thirty-five knots! Don't be bloody silly, man-you can't drop a body overboard at thirty-five knots!'

Who said we intended to drop him overboard?'

I rose to my feet in incredulity.

Not drop-fire.'

Fire?'

Yes,' said the C-in-C evenly. We are going to fire Peace into his grave from a depth-charge mortar.