Читать книгу Under Pressure. Living Life and Avoiding Death on a Nuclear Submarine онлайн

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Longer than a football pitch, narrow and forbidding, HMS Resolution lay silent as death as I looked on – no machinery running, no sailors or stores being loaded on board, no hustle and bustle in the neighbouring support depots, just quiet and still. Even Gare Loch was motionless – no birds or wildlife, only the tiniest swell lapping against her bow as if in reverence to this huge, black leviathan. She was a killing machine – everyone in this place knew it, most of all me. I was extremely nervous, almost a wreck by this point. On the jetty next to the submarine I exchanged forced pleasantries with the quartermaster (QM), the seaman in charge of the boat’s security.

As he checked my name against the list of names permitted on board that day, I detected a Mancunian accent. I knew full well that if your name wasn’t down, you weren’t coming in. Had even the First Sea Lord – the highest ranking officer in the Navy – come a-calling unannounced and wasn’t booked in for the day, he’d have had a long night waiting up top freezing his nuts off. Nothing was compromised at any point; clockwork and military precision were the order of the day as the security of the boat was paramount. My cockiness on passing Part 2 submarine training five weeks earlier had quickly dissipated, and it was with a deep sense of unease that I made my first steps across the gangway and prepared to go on board.