No Deals, Mr. Bond

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The navigation officer, like so many of his Royal Navy counterparts, was known affectionately as Vasco. In the red glow of the submarine’s control room he now leaned over and touched the captain’s arm.

‘Coming up to rendezvous, sir.’

Lt Commander Alec Stewart nodded. ‘Stop all. Planes midships.’

‘All stopped,’ came back from the watchkeeper.

‘Planes midships,’ answered the senior of the two planesmen, who sat in front of the yokes that operated the hydroplanes, controlling the submarine’s depth.

‘Sonar?’ the captain asked quietly.

‘Distant activity around Bornholm Island, usual heavy stuff in and out of Rostock, two targets that sound like small patrol boats distant, up the coast at around fifty miles, bearing zero-two-zero. No submarine signatures.’

Lt Commander Alec Stewart raised an eyebrow. He was not a happy man. For one thing, he did not like operating his Trafalgar Class nuclear submarine in forbidden waters. For another, he did not like ‘funnies’.

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