If one of those patrols sighted me it could blow Mandarin as effectively as a mine.

The control console was housed in a building like a concrete bunker and the only window was made of smoked plate glass with an integral mesh of extruded steel. Lamps burned inside and the control panels were visible through the glass but the place didn't seem to be manned at this hour. The signs above the main door were in Chinese characters followed by a number.

It was now an hour before dawn and I began getting out, hanging back in deep cover and moving only when the risk was calculated. The most interesting thing on the middle deck was the work site where they were building some kind of platform into the main structure of the drilling derrick: the area was cluttered with welding gear and pneumatic rivet hammers and there weren't any signs that the job had been abandoned. I had to signal Ferris and I couldn't do it from anywhere near the rig unless I had adequate noise background to cover my voice and if those riveters started up I could get some sort of message out through the interference if the set was any good.

By 08.00 hours I was beginning to feel the shakes.

I had a lot of information for London and I wanted to give it to them as soon as I could because the future wasn't too certain. But I couldn't do anything about it until I had some kind of noise background and all I could hear was the low-pitched sound of the diesel generators and that wasn't enough: the human voice range would cut right across it.

There were two things wrong: geometry, chronometry.

They wouldn't leave a minefield to look after itself: there'd be a strict surveillance routine to make sure none of those things got loose or trapped flotsam and that meant they'd be sending someone down in daylight and he'd use one of the four iron ladders that ran from the lower deck to the sea bed down the substructure legs. They provided access to the pontoons and anchorage for repair and maintenance and the trouble was that I couldn't hope to find any effective concealment here between the lower deck and the surface of the sea. The geometry was wrong.

I was wedged in the angle formed by three girders and it was the best cover I could find anywhere in the stormwave gap between the rig and the water: there were twenty other places like this but they were exactly like this and therefore no better.

If the work crew on the middle deck had started riveting at first light I could have sent my signal to field direction and got out. I'd been thinking of Heng-kang Chou Island in terms of a refuge in emergency but now I'd surveyed the rig I knew I'd have to go out there and hole up till tonight if London wanted me to extend operations: but I couldn't leave here before I sent my signal because the waterproof bag was showing some wear and tear and I didn't think I could get the Hammerlund as far as the island in working condition. One drop of sea water in the wrong part of the circuit could block off the information I had for London and there might not be another chance. So I had to stay here and hope the riveters would start work before anyone came down here to look at the minefield but they hadn't started work yet and that was why I was getting the shakes: the chronometry was wrong.

At 09.00 I was sweating hard in the rubber suit with the sun eight or nine diameters above the horizon and sending out heat. There had to be a change of plan because I was a sitting duck and the best thing to do was leave the radio here and go down and put on the scuba and wait with my head above water, ready to submerge as soon as anyone came down from the deck. They wouldn't see me and wouldn't see the radio unless they were looking for it and I could stand off below water and get back here when I could. One of the things I didn't like about it was that I'd use up a lot of air but none of the arguments against this plan made any sense because if I didn't put it into action I risked being seen and taken on board for interrogation and the longer I waited the higher the risk would become.

I tilted the Hammerlund along the inside line of rivet heads against the girder and swung down and went sideways along a horizontal section till I reached a pontoon leg three feet above the surface and then climbed all the way back because the noise had started.

09.14.

Frequency 8MHz.

222.

Executive in the field to base: Wing to Swordfish.

A hell of a bloody din from the deck above me, louder than I'd expected, the rivet-hammer trapping the sound and sending vibrations throughout the whole of the rig: I could feel it against my thighs and shoulder as I slid one leg along a girder and lay almost prone with my head against the set.

222 — 222–222.

He'd told me he was going to stay on board Swordfish until I could send Him a situation report: Ackroyd had a much bigger radio than anything Ferris could carry around and I might flash the sub to come and pull me out in a hurry and he'd want to be there.

I kept on talking, giving them blocks of three with my head against the set and my nerves getting tight because it was going to be a fifteen-minute exchange of signals and I hadn't even raised an acknowledgement yet and as soon as anyone came down one of those ladder the whole mission was blown.

Treble two thrice.

All right, I was in the middle of seven thousand tons of steel girders waving a six-foot aerial around and trying to hit the ether with it while half a dozen diesel generators were pushing out enough electrostatic squelch to jam any transceiver within ten miles of here.

222 — 222

The riveter stopped and I hit the volume control in case Swordfish came through too strongly. The squirt of the welders kept up a low background so I thought I'd try it and spoke right against the mike, treble two, three blocks. Why the hell didn't those bastards -

345 — 345–345.

Swordfish.

Very faint. I acknowledged and turned up the volume a few degrees and waited. They were going to get Ferris. He wouldn't be far away. He'd give me fives: that was Mandarin. Sweat stinging my eyes. Nobody on the ladders. Oh for Christ sake come on, we're -

555 — 555–555.

Mandarin.

I went straight into the spiel.

We'd been Control-briefed to exchange signals totally in cypher when we were using the Swordfish radio, without any speech-code thrown in to expedite the transmission. The Admiralty was a bit edgy about having spooks on board one of Her Majesty's ships and they'd obviously told London that if we wanted to use the sparks we'd have to do it in strict hush. That was fair enough: they weren't used to having a couple of torn-arsed mudlarks playing about with their sub and the kind of stuff we'd be sending was pretty strong compared with the day-to-day signals normally going out — Have polished anchor — Please send buns for captain's birthday — so forth.

489 — 356–181.

Ferris was asking how I was and I told him to shut up and listen because I wanted to give him the whole picture before anyone came down here and stopped me.

389–376 — 210… Extending and reversing, leaving some of the transfers the right way round whenever they could stand in as a contraction… This isn't an oil rig it's a missile base… thinking up non-standard contractions when I thought Ferris would get it first go without risking delay while he queried it… No well-head and false flare stack and crude reservoirs… image from air would be perfect… basic armament for defence: six eight-inch naval guns camouflaged as lean gas coolers… main structure under modification… electronic and telemetric installations not yet completed… assume Tewson involved as technician or supervisor.