Starikov’s breathing, which was already shallow, started to quicken as he fought to convince himself this was all just in his head. He couldn’t understand why he suddenly felt like this seven days into the voyage. All he could think was that for the first four days of cruising around the North Sea and English Channel he’d been too overwhelmed by the strangeness of life underwater. And, of course, he’d actually had a job to do then, ensuring that no one in the Yorsh’s skeleton crew was doing anything that could jeopardise their mission. But for the past three days, since he’d last breathed fresh air and looked at something that wasn’t a metal plate, dial, or disdainful crew member, he’d had nothing to do. And neither had anyone else.

He should have got up as soon as he’d started to feel trapped, and walked the submarine again to prove to himself that it wasn’t really getting smaller, but he couldn’t face the prospect of his rational mind being wrong and ending up stuck in a tangle of pipes or pinned between a control panel and a bulkhead as the pressure of the ocean and his psyche squeezed around him.

Now, however, the shift change was starting and he didn’t have a choice. Luckily, the few other members of the crew who had been off shift with Starikov and were still in their bunks didn’t look his way as he tentatively swung his legs out of his, pulled on his uniform jacket, and slowly stood up, his eyes on the deck plate above him to check it was still where it was supposed to be. Then he made his way through the cramped mayhem that briefly consumed the submarine as half of its crew perched narrow braided caps on their heads and the other half removed theirs, to see Captain Tokorev.

Tokorev was supposed to obey the same shift pattern as the rest of the Yorsh’s crew, but with no second in command and being very curious about the odd shape this shakedown cruise had taken, he’d decided to spend as much time as possible in the submarine’s control room, only retiring to his quarters for brief naps when he felt tiredness start to take over his muscles.

He was on his way to his own narrow bunk for a few minutes of rest when he saw Starikov approaching. Tokorev still hadn’t warmed to the KGB officer, who had spent the last three days stalking his crew and getting in the way of even the most basic and mundane procedures. But he could tell just from looking at the younger man’s face that he wasn’t in a good way, and ushered him into his quarters without a word.