Tokorev had seen enough junior submariners succumb to claustrophobia to know the warning signs. Usually recruits who couldn’t handle the lack of personal space, sunlight or fresh air that came with life on a submarine were weeded out early on in the selection process, and the ones who fixated on the constant possibility of the tube they were stuffed inside crumpling under the weight of the ocean depths only lasted a few short trips away from their base. The KGB, Tokorev guessed, gave their officers no such training, or any reprieve if they weren’t cut out for serving beneath the waves. And this was a serious issue, because if someone didn’t calm Starikov down then he could very easily become a risk to the rest of the crew and a threat to the success of their mission, however peculiar that mission currently was.

‘Have we received fresh orders?’ Starikov asked as Tokorev closed the door to his quarters behind them, unbuttoned his uniform jacket and sat down at the small desk next to his single bed.

‘You would know if we had, Lieutenant,’ Tokorev replied.

Tokorev’s quarters weren’t much bigger than Starikov’s own bunk, but the KGB officer still managed to find enough space to pace up and down.

‘Perhaps we should surface ahead of schedule,’ Starikov said.

‘Why would I disobey direct instructions?’ Tokorev asked.

Tokorev knew he needed to divert Starikov away from the precipice he was rushing towards, but he couldn’t resist needling the young man a little while he did it.

‘The ZEVS system might be malfunctioning,’ Starikov offered.

‘Disobeying orders and questioning the Soviet Union’s mastery of technology. I don’t think I’d advise it.’

Starikov stopped in his tracks, apparently realising the implications of what he’d just said. Tokorev laughed, relieved he’d so quickly and easily managed to insert an even greater fear than death into the KGB officer’s head.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t tell anyone what you just said. And between the two of us, I have my own reservations about what we’re doing sitting out here in the middle of the ocean.’

The last orders the Yorsh had received had been simple and confusing—to head slowly out of the Channel at near-surface depth, and then dive, hold position in the open Atlantic, and await further instructions. The submarine had now floated steady, minus a few metres or so of drift, in the same spot for almost seventy hours.

‘What are we waiting for?’ Starikov asked.

The question had none of the distrustful tone that usually accompanied enquiries from the KGB. Tokorev wondered if he wasn’t just managing to calm Starikov down, but also perhaps starting to get through to him about the realities of their lives and duties.