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Authors: Stephen Leather
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WARNING ORDER
By Stephen Leather
***
September 1997
Dan “Spider” Shepherd yawned as he sprawled across a hammock in the cramped interior of a submarine’s forward torpedo bay. It was the last place he’d expected to find himself – SAS troopers jumped out of planes, abseiled down cliffs and blew their way through locked doors, they didn’t generally find themselves in sardine cans breathing recycled air. He wasn’t finding it a pleasant experience. One of the other members of his patrol, Jim ‘Jimbo’ Shortt, was lying on the deck below him in an attempt to stretch out his six foot two inch frame. They were squeezed into the cramped space between the torpedoes - the only free space available. The other two patrol members, Geordie Mitchell and Liam McKay, were sitting on the floor with their backs against a bulkhead. Subs aren’t designed to carry passengers and there were no bunks to spare – even the crew had to work a “hot bunk” system: two men sharing each bunk, one using it while his shipmate was taking his turn on watch.
The four SAS men had been together as a patrol since they’d passed Selection and had soon settled into the relentless rhythm of the Sabre Squadrons: Operations - Rest - Retraining - Standby - Operations. Whenever they were on Standby, they were the next cab on the rank for any incident or active service mission that was not already covered by the duty Operations Squadron.
During their army careers, they’d already trained or seen action in everything from jungle and desert to high mountains and arctic tundra, and could cope with almost anything that was thrown at them, but it was clear they were all out of their comfort zone in the claustrophobic environment of the submarine. The harsh neon lighting gave their faces a grey pallor, the hard surfaces made sounds rattle from one end of the sub to the other and the air they breathed had a metallic tang and a musty whiff of stale sweat and unwashed bodies that the recycling systems were unable to eradicate.
There was a clunk from beneath him as Jimbo sat up and banged his head on Shepherd’s boot which was dangling over the side of the hammock. He stood up rubbing his head. ‘Why can’t they build these things for normal human beings instead of pygmies?’ he said. ‘That’s the fourth time I’ve cracked my head in this floating tomb. If I’d wanted a life on the ocean wave I’d have joined the bleeding Navy.’
‘At least there’s only four of us,’ said Geordie. ‘If you count the hooks for attaching hammocks, you’ll see that there could have been eighteen of us snoring and farting away in here. Just the four if us is bearable, just about.’
‘Your farts stink like there’s eighteen of us anyway,’ said Jimbo.
Liam winked at Shepherd. ‘Those two bicker like an old married couple,’ he said in his Northern Irish brogue. They’d been firm friends since they’d met on the first day of Selection. Even soldiers used to excelling in their field found Selection daunting, and of the one hundred and twenty who started, just ten had passed. Liam had been one of them - the only non-airborne soldier to succeed. ‘Speaking of which,’ Liam said. ‘How’s the lovely Sue?’
‘As big as a house, but at least she’s stopped blaming me for the morning sickness.’
‘How far along is she?’ asked Jimbo.
‘More than seven months now,’ said Shepherd. ‘I went to see the Boss and he promised not to send me to far afield on training or ops until after the baby’s been born.’ He gestured at their surroundings. ‘I guess I should have been more specific and mentioned submarines. How deep do you think we are?’
‘I try not to think about it,’ said Geordie. ‘At least if you’re in a plane and something goes wrong, you’ve got the option of jumping. In a submarine…’ He shuddered at the thought of what would happen if the hull were breached.
‘They’re as safe as houses,’ said
By Stephen Leather
***
September 1997
Dan “Spider” Shepherd yawned as he sprawled across a hammock in the cramped interior of a submarine’s forward torpedo bay. It was the last place he’d expected to find himself – SAS troopers jumped out of planes, abseiled down cliffs and blew their way through locked doors, they didn’t generally find themselves in sardine cans breathing recycled air. He wasn’t finding it a pleasant experience. One of the other members of his patrol, Jim ‘Jimbo’ Shortt, was lying on the deck below him in an attempt to stretch out his six foot two inch frame. They were squeezed into the cramped space between the torpedoes - the only free space available. The other two patrol members, Geordie Mitchell and Liam McKay, were sitting on the floor with their backs against a bulkhead. Subs aren’t designed to carry passengers and there were no bunks to spare – even the crew had to work a “hot bunk” system: two men sharing each bunk, one using it while his shipmate was taking his turn on watch.
The four SAS men had been together as a patrol since they’d passed Selection and had soon settled into the relentless rhythm of the Sabre Squadrons: Operations - Rest - Retraining - Standby - Operations. Whenever they were on Standby, they were the next cab on the rank for any incident or active service mission that was not already covered by the duty Operations Squadron.
During their army careers, they’d already trained or seen action in everything from jungle and desert to high mountains and arctic tundra, and could cope with almost anything that was thrown at them, but it was clear they were all out of their comfort zone in the claustrophobic environment of the submarine. The harsh neon lighting gave their faces a grey pallor, the hard surfaces made sounds rattle from one end of the sub to the other and the air they breathed had a metallic tang and a musty whiff of stale sweat and unwashed bodies that the recycling systems were unable to eradicate.
There was a clunk from beneath him as Jimbo sat up and banged his head on Shepherd’s boot which was dangling over the side of the hammock. He stood up rubbing his head. ‘Why can’t they build these things for normal human beings instead of pygmies?’ he said. ‘That’s the fourth time I’ve cracked my head in this floating tomb. If I’d wanted a life on the ocean wave I’d have joined the bleeding Navy.’
‘At least there’s only four of us,’ said Geordie. ‘If you count the hooks for attaching hammocks, you’ll see that there could have been eighteen of us snoring and farting away in here. Just the four if us is bearable, just about.’
‘Your farts stink like there’s eighteen of us anyway,’ said Jimbo.
Liam winked at Shepherd. ‘Those two bicker like an old married couple,’ he said in his Northern Irish brogue. They’d been firm friends since they’d met on the first day of Selection. Even soldiers used to excelling in their field found Selection daunting, and of the one hundred and twenty who started, just ten had passed. Liam had been one of them - the only non-airborne soldier to succeed. ‘Speaking of which,’ Liam said. ‘How’s the lovely Sue?’
‘As big as a house, but at least she’s stopped blaming me for the morning sickness.’
‘How far along is she?’ asked Jimbo.
‘More than seven months now,’ said Shepherd. ‘I went to see the Boss and he promised not to send me to far afield on training or ops until after the baby’s been born.’ He gestured at their surroundings. ‘I guess I should have been more specific and mentioned submarines. How deep do you think we are?’
‘I try not to think about it,’ said Geordie. ‘At least if you’re in a plane and something goes wrong, you’ve got the option of jumping. In a submarine…’ He shuddered at the thought of what would happen if the hull were breached.
‘They’re as safe as houses,’ said
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