The bunk was too small; his head touched one bulkhead of the four-berth cabin, his feet another. He was alone; the three he shared with were on watch.
The cause of his insomnia wasn’t the size of the bunk, however, but the turmoil in his mind.
In the past thirty-six hours, conversation amongst the officers had reduced to a single topic — speculation about their captain’s highly irregular orders.
They’d all remarked on his heightened irritability, snapping at them one minute, icy calm the next.
The others could only guess what had got into the old man, but Sebastian — he reckoned he knew. And it had nothing to do with secret orders from CINCFLEET.
Whether to tell someone, that was the question churning round in his mind. He’d seen the first lieutenant and the WEO whispering secretly in corners. Had to be talking about Hitchens. Should he tell them their captain had flipped, and why?
He’d been dodging Hitchens’ eyes, which seemed to burn with pain and anger. Sometimes he’d caught the captain looking at him across the control room; his expression seemed to say: ‘I’ve got your number, you bastard!’
Sebastian cursed his luck for being posted to Truculent — for being brought face to face with the man he’d innocently cuckolded two years ago.
Sara Hitchens was the first woman he’d spent the night with — the first time he’d made love in a bed. Before that it had been fumbles in the back of his car — awkward, and hurried.
They’d not expected to strike lucky, that night in the restaurant two years ago. He and another midshipman had been celebrating his twentieth birthday, when two women had begun eyeing them from another table.
Bold as brass, one of the women had asked them to join them for coffee.
He’d suspected they were tarts; nice girls waited for men to make the first approach. But he’d soon realized he was wrong. These women had class.
They’d only used their first names — made it more mysterious. The women were ten or fifteen years older than them. Divorcees, the boys had reckoned.
‘Come home and we’ll have a little party!’ the women had insisted, after a few liqueurs.
Back at Sara’s old house out in the wilds, Sebastian had sensed she was still married. He didn’t care, though; he’d drunk plenty by then.
It was the other woman who’d got things moving; she’d been all over Sebastian’s chum, and dragged him off to a bedroom. Sara had been more hesitant, nervous even. Sebastian had liked her for it.
They’d had another drink, alone. Then, emboldened, they’d gone to her bedroom. It had smelt of perfume. He could still smell it when he closed his eyes.
She’d seen he was inexperienced, and took the lead; he could still picture the mischief on her urchin face as she began to unbutton his shirt. Her breasts had felt hot, so unbelievably soft. Skin as smooth as cream.
They’d made love, and for the first time for Sebastian the words had had meaning.
Then morning had come. A dry throat, a throbbing head — and the sight of her husband’s photograph on the bedside table.
He’d not dared ask about him, not wanted to know Sara’s surname. But on a pewter tankard next to the photograph, were engraved the words ‘Congratulations to Lieutenant Commander Philip Hitchens’.
Two years later he’d been told to join HMS Truculent; he’d thought of asking for a different appointment, but without a good reason, a man would damage his career that way. Anyway, TAS Officer was exactly the job he’d wanted.
When he’d first joined the boat, Hitchens had shown no sign of suspicion. Sebastian had relaxed, believing his secret was safe. Until the start of this patrol. On his return from shore leave this time, Commander Hitchens’ attitude to him had changed radically.
Now the whole boat was in turmoil. Because of him, so he believed. Sebastian pressed his fists against the deck-head. The steel seemed to crush downwards.
How much had Sara told him? Everything they’d done that night?
He’d never seen her again — hadn’t dared to. For months she’d haunted his thoughts. He’d never been so in love before.
He almost wished Hitchens would come out with it. Tell him what he thought of him and have done with it. But it was as if Hitchens had decided Cordell had ceased to exist. That look in his eye was of a man betrayed by his closest friends. A man whose mind had been turned by it.
He ought to warn them; tell them what he knew. But what if he were imagining it? Supposing there really were secret orders? He’d have made a fool of himself. It’d go on his file.
Best to hold his tongue for the time being. Just one more day. See what developed. But should he wait, when the whole ship’s company might be heading for appalling danger?
He banged his fists against his head. He had to tell someone. He’d talk to Pike. That’s what a first lieutenant was for.
Philip Hitchens checked in the small mirror that his hair was groomed. Doubt plagued him; he panicked even, at the thought of what he’d taken on.
The day ahead would be critical. No more wavering. He had to weigh his options — decide what to do.
He looked long and hard at his reflection. The strain was less noticeable now. Two nights of deep, drug-induced sleep had worked their beneficial effect.
He’d apologized to Pike for not telling him about the tablets. But he hadn’t realized they’d put him so far under. He’d imagined he’d still be rouseable in an emergency.
His crew had done well handling that Victor, though he’d torn a strip off them for not waking him at the time. That was when Pike had rounded on him in the control room.
He’d realized then how close he was to wrecking everything. He’d taken stock rapidly, wrenching his emotions back under control. Now, after a second night of deep sleep, he felt ready.
Calm and consistent; that’s how he must appear to his men if they weren’t to doubt his authority. Whatever the outcome of his mission, he needed them to obey his orders without question.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he left his cabin and stepped into the wardroom for breakfast. Seated at the near end of the table was a short, stocky figure, shovelling bacon, egg and sausages through a small gap in his bushy black beard.
‘Stoking up, Peter?’
‘It’s all fuel, sir,’ answered the marine engineer officer, Lieutenant Commander Peter Claypole. ‘Body’s just like a machine.’
‘Standard, sir?’ asked the steward.
‘Yes, please,’ answered Philip. ‘I can just about manage it this morning.’
‘Standard’ was egg, bacon, sausage, tomato and fried bread.
Further down the table sat Sub-Lieutenant Smallbone, the radio officer, and Lieutenant Cordell.
‘Are you going on or just off watch, Sebastian?’ Philip asked, pouring himself a cup of tea.
‘Off — I mean, just going on, sir,’ Cordell stammered.
There’s something wrong with Cordell, Philip thought. The boy blushed whenever he spoke to him. He hoped he wasn’t gay.
‘This morning — and this affects both of you lads — we need a SSIXS. Scheduled at 1130, isn’t it, Hugo?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
SSIXS stood for Ship to Shore Information Exchange Satellite.
‘We’ll need to take extra care this far north, Sebastian. The Russians are everywhere.’
‘Yes, sir. I know that.’
The steward placed the greasy breakfast on the table. What would Sara say about all that cholesterol?
For a split second nothing happened.
Sara. Oh, Jesus!
The hurt hit him like a gloved fist. Eyes closed against the pain, he swayed and gripped the table.
‘Everythin’ okay, sir?’