Path of the Storm

by Douglas Reeman

  Connell said, ‘It might be a rest cure.’

  Gunnar darted a suspicious glance at the man’s smiling features, but Regan’s harsh voice broke across them. ‘At least it’ll keep some of the hotbloods from chasing tail, eh?’

  Maddox looked up from his pondering. ‘Has someone been bellyaching again?’

  Regan did not turn towards him but remained facing the captain. ‘Just as I was coming down here Chief Tasker told me that one of the new dreamboats has been throwing his weight about.’ His bushy, unbroken eyebrow lifted. ‘Your yeoman, Captain!’

  Gunnar leaned back. ‘Oh? How come?’ He fitted a small picture of Bella’s dark head bent over some despatches that morning. A quiet, sad-looking boy, he had thought.

  Regan continued with relish: ‘I’ve read his folio. He was shot off the flat-top like a dose of salts apparently. Wanted to dip his wick into a bit of Chinese tail!’ He grinned hugely. ‘Can you imagine?’

  Gunnar felt the colour rising to his cheeks. What did Regan know? Was there someone on the ship who had been in Viet Nam when he had been naval adviser at Qui Nhon? He tried to remain calm. Surely not here too!

  The engineer spoke for the first time. ‘The first girl I ever had was a Chinese.’

  The others stared from the captain to him with surprise.

  Malinski toyed with a doughnut as if it were a piece of delicate mechanism. ‘Fifteen she was. A real picture.’

  Regan frowned. The spring had gone out of his story. ‘Christ, I thought only the swabs did that sort of thing!’

  Malinski eyed him with faded, mild eyes. ‘I was a stoker then. Nineteen. We don’t all start with the silver spoon, you know.’

  Regan looked confused and plucked at his hawk’s nose. ‘Hell, I didn’t mean to imply——’

  Maddox drained his coffee with a loud cluck. ‘Like hell you didn’t!’

  Gunnar saw the immediate tension and said sharply: ‘Okay, gentlemen. I think that flogs out that topic!’

  Maddox said in a carefully controlled tone, ‘We should hit Payenhau in forty-eight hours, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’ Gunnar saw the others relax. ‘I’m afraid this detour has taxed the fuel a bit. We shall just have to cut down on unnecessary steaming. There are no bunkering facilities at Payenhau.’

  It had been a drag, he thought. The first course had taken them many miles to the south-west before they had finally turned north-east towards the true destination. It was odd the way senior officers still believed in outmoded tactics, Gunnar pondered. In these days of Intelligence and active radio units it was hard to mask anything. That was even if anyone cared about the Hibiscus. What could happen? Even supposing for one crazy second that China took over the rest of the world during the second half of the week, the navy could blast Payenhau from the water without even surfacing its undersea cruisers.

  A bosun’s mate, cap in fist, peered round the curtained doorway. ‘Captain, sir? Mister Inglis’s respects but he thinks we’ve sighted a submarine!’

  Maddox snorted, ‘He thinks!’

  But Gunnar was already halfway to the door. ‘I’m coming up!’

  Some of the others raised themselves on their chairs to peer through the shining ports. The sea was as placid and empty as before. Apart from a junk and two smudges of smoke on the horizon they had sighted nothing since leaving Hong Kong.

  Regan said derisively, ‘Young Peter Inglis would see a sub in his bath!’

  But Maddox had seen the captain’s face, the same empty eyes he had seen when the ship had careered sternfirst towards the flagship. It just needs something to go wrong, he thought. Just one stupid mistake and he’ll rip apart.

  He forced himself to remain seated, but his mind was already on the bridge.

  * * *

  Gunnar swung his leg over the bridge coaming and forced himself to walk quietly to the gratings. His palms felt moist as he lifted the powerful glasses, and he could sense the eyes of the signalmen on his back as he levelled them across the screen.

  Inglis said hoarsely, ‘It dived, sir.’

  Gunnar had to squint his eyes against the blinding glare reflected from the flat, creamy water, and he was aware for the first time that he had left his cap in the wardroom so that the heat beat across his head with crushing force. ‘Did you get a good look at her?’ His voice was controlled but sharp, and he knew that Inglis was staring at him. Almost savagely he added, ‘Well, did you?’

  Inglis was keen and eager to make himself into a good officer, but his obvious lack of confidence was already beginning to show itself. The quiet watch, the oppressive heat and the drowsy effect of the ship’s gentle motion had been shattered, first by the lookout’s report and then by the sudden appearance of the captain. It had seemed unimportant at first. The China Sea was open house for anyone who cared to explore its inhospitable vastness, and any nation which had the desire to push a submarine across it could do so. But there was something about this submarine. Shrouded in a long writhing layer of sea-mist it had come up to them almost unnoticed. The radar was out of action for three hours for some awaited repairs, and in any case nobody seemed to think another warship in this area mattered anyway.

  Then Caslett, one of the duty signalmen, had remarked casually, ‘She sure is cracking on speed, sir!’ The submarine had turned away even as Inglis began to sort out his thoughts. Long and low like a basking shark, with a wafer-thin fin, she had shortened her silhouette and swung deeper into the mist. The sleek, rounded hull had been broken by a sudden upthrust of froth and spume, and she had begun to dive as Inglis had finally decided to call the captain.

  He said: ‘Steering almost a parallel course with us, Captain. I guess she was charging batteries, but made off when we started to come up on her.’

  Gunnar dropped the glasses on to their rack and banged his hands together. ‘Did you call her up!’ He saw the mounting concern on the younger man’s face but this only made Gunnar more impatient. ‘Christ, man, what nationality was she?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir!’ Inglis looked at the deck while everyone else stared at him and the captain. ‘We didn’t get time to flash her. She was off like a rocket!’

  Caslett cleared his throat and held up the intelligence log like an offering. ‘None of our subs in this area, sir.’ He looked helpfully at Inglis’s wretched face. ‘Could be a Limey.’

  Gunnar swung on the signalman, his face tight. ‘When I want your advice I’ll ask for it!’ Then to Inglis: ‘You should have called me at once. Get me a despatch blank, and as soon as I’ve written this down I want it coded and sent off at once. Tell Lieutenant Kroner to come to the bridge and deal with it personally. I want every last detail about that submarine you can remember. Course, speed, description, the lot!’ He ran his fingers across his hair, aware that his hand was shaking badly. ‘And in future I want a good watch maintained at all times!’

  Inglis lifted his chin, his eyes hot and angry. ‘The radar is out, sir.’

  ‘When this ship was first commissioned in ’forty-two, Mister Inglis,’ Gunnar’s tone was dangerously low, ‘they didn’t have it aboard at all. What d’you suppose the Germans did in the Atlantic? D’you imagine they came and signalled their positions before they attacked?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Captain.’ Inglis’s embarrassment and anger were slowly giving way to open amusement. ‘We’re not at war now, sir.’

  Gunnar took a pace towards him, his eyes hard and without pity. ‘If you think that you should not be here!’ As Caslett held out the despatch pad he added, ‘By God, you’ll not live long if you believe that!’

  Gunnar wrote rapidly on a blank and thrust it into Inglis’s hands. Then without another word he strode into the charthouse and stood for several minutes in the cool gloom of the small space, his eyes fixed unseeingly on the glass-topped table.

  It was happening. In spite of his quick flush of anger at Inglis’s stupidity he could feel the rising excitement like the stabbing of an old wound, which indeed it was.

 
; There was more to the Hibiscus’s mission than they had told him. The vague orders, the deception of course and destination, it all added up. The submarine was probably Russian. It was quite likely one of their new atomic-powered ones, which would explain the speed and silence of its engines. Aiding their doubtful allies the Red Chinese no doubt. Helping them to do what? Gunnar leaned on the cool glass and stared at the clean chart between his hands.

  He felt his breathing returning to normal, and plucked the moistened shirt away from his chest. Perhaps after this Inglis might learn to keep alert. Not at war indeed! What in God’s name did he think they were doing out here otherwise?

  There was a discreet cough in the doorway and Maddox peered in at him. ‘All okay, sir?’ He looked wary, but calm.

  ‘It was a submarine right enough.’ Gunnar relaxed slightly. ‘I’d like to have had a crack at it with the d.c.’s.’ He frowned slightly and did not see Maddox arch his eyebrows with surprise. ‘You’d better tell Regan to check all the armament again when we have drill this afternoon. I want the whole lot at first-degree readiness in future.’

  Maddox moved his feet uneasily. ‘I’m not quite with you, Captain. Young Inglis seemed a bit too flustered to explain.’

  Gunnar nodded. ‘Shut the door.’

  Maddox closed it obediently and moved closer. It was easy to sense the excitement in the captain, although Maddox was baffled as to its cause. But Gunnar’s new appearance was infectious, and he felt that he had been allowed into some new and fast moving development.

  Gunnar said quietly: ‘I think we’re being shadowed, Bob. Somehow the Reds are on to us. I don’t know how much, but I’m hoping that the reply to my signal will explain things a bit.’

  ‘Signal, sir?’ Maddox was getting confused.

  ‘I sent one off just now.’ Gunnar leaned against the table and folded his arms. For the first time since he had taken command, for the first time since … He shook himself. It was useless harping back to other things. This was now. It was real and it was a new chance.

  Maddox said slowly, ‘I thought the orders specified no despatches, sir?’

  Gunnar’s mouth parted in a smile. Maddox noticed how that one action transformed the man into an excited boy, and he was strangely moved.

  ‘This is different, Bob. This sneaking submarine will change things a bit. It’ll change it for the other side too of course!’ He grinned. ‘The Reds don’t like being caught out at their own game!’

  Maddox rubbed his stomach as he always did when his thoughts refused to drop into the right order. Red submarines, deceptions, depth-charges, and a strung-out conspiracy with the far-off admiral seemed somehow out of character for a clapped-out little ship like the Hibiscus. He said carefully, ‘It might be interesting.’

  Gunnar bit his lip. ‘You’ve said it. I’m just waiting the chance, just one chance to get even with——’ He looked up sharply as the door slid back.

  Lieutenant Kroner’s handsome features stared in at them. ‘Reply to your despatch, sir.’ He darted an apprehensive glance at Maddox.

  Gunnar stood up quickly. ‘Well, let’s have it.’

  The lieutenant licked his lips. ‘To boil it down, it says to disregard the sighting report, sir.’

  Maddox said, ‘That means it was one of our——’

  But Gunnar waved him down. ‘Go on, Kroner!’

  ‘It refers you to section three of your orders, sir.’

  Gunnar nodded with mounting impatience. ‘Yes, yes, about maintaining radio silence, go on, man!’

  ‘Message ends, sir!’ Kroner looked dazed.

  ‘Ends?’ Gunnar tore the pad from the man’s fingers and stared at it for several seconds. ‘What the hell are they playing at?’

  Kroner stared woodenly at the deck. ‘Is that all, Captain?’

  Gunnar did not answer, but walked instead to the chart table, his brows drawn together in a deep frown. Maddox gestured briefly towards the door, and Kroner, with a shrug, withdrew.

  Maddox said evenly, ‘Perhaps the stupid bastard didn’t see us, sir?’

  Gunnar looked up, his eyes wild. ‘Hell, they saw us all right!’

  ‘But if it was one of our own?’ Maddox noticed how the captain’s hands were gripping the table, as if he was afraid to let go. ‘Anyway it was a good idea to check up.’

  Gunnar stood up, suddenly quiet, even subdued. ‘Yes. Yes, it was.’ He turned towards the rear door. ‘I’m going to have a lie down, Bob. Just snatch a minute or two.’

  Maddox answered, ‘I’ll keep an eye on things, sir.’

  But the door slid shut, and Maddox was left alone beside the chart table. He tried to dismiss what had happened, to bring back his old attitude of not caring, not demanding the voice of reason, but instead he could sense only fear at the enormity of his discovery. Gunnar was driving himself mad. He might be halfway there already.

  Inch by inch Maddox could feel his own security being stripped away, and his reeling thoughts were mixed between resentment and pity. No wonder Inglis and Kroner looked so dazed and vacant. That would soon give way to bitterness or amusement. Either way it would spread through the ship, and then anything could happen.

  He jammed on his cap and banged open the door.

  Happen? Jesus Christ, it was happening right now!

  * * *

  Mark Gunnar awoke with a start and lay staring wide-eyed into the darkness. The rapid beating of his heart slowly returned to normal as his ears and thoughts became tuned to the quiet, reassuring shipboard sounds which filtered through the closed charthouse door from the bridge beyond. After a moment Gunnar reached out and switched on the small lamp above his bunk and peered at his wristwatch. A mere half hour before dawn, and he knew that he had hardly slept for more than a few minutes at a time. When once he had fallen into an exhausted sleep he had been visited yet again by the ever-recurring nightmare in which only his own suffering was real and stark, and the other figures and happenings vague and all the more threatening because of their size and featureless horror. He had awakened shivering and dazed, his body chilled in a layer of cold sweat, his eyes probing the darkness of the tiny sea cabin as if he expected to see a continuance of the nightmare.

  He could hear the muffled movement of feet from the bridge and the persistent creak of the steering mechanism from the wheelhouse below. The bridge structure itself kept up its own grumbling chatter of squeaks and vibrations in time to the engines, and once he heard a man laugh, the sound indistinct and unnatural in the darkened ship.

  What would the new day bring? Gunnar pushed his hands behind his head and stared at the riveted steel a few feet above him. Some time in the forenoon would see them groping their way into Payenhau, where an entirely new set of circumstances would be awaiting his attention. He checked the immediate impulse of excitement and interest which still dogged him like an old instinct. What did it matter any more? The despatch from the admiral in response to his information about the strange submarine should have been enough. A slap in the face. An empty but nevertheless definite rebuke.

  He half wondered why he should feel hurt and surprise. He had seen it happen to others. One slip was all an officer required. He bit his lip, knowing that he was only concocting the beginning of another excuse for himself.

  How Janet would have laughed! he thought. She had tried everything she knew to get him to leave the navy. Looking back it was almost comic how he had clung to the one job he knew well because it was the only thing in which she could not dominate him.

  It had been all right at first. Naval life at its very best. London, Paris, for the two years of their marriage they had managed to see most of the civilised world together. But when he had been singled out for staff training he had seen the change come over her, had sensed the difference between them. It was as if she had only tolerated his career like some women put up with their husband’s hobbies.

  Her father, a big timber man with several interests in Canada, had openly sided with his daughter on every po
ssible occasion. ‘Come in with me, boy, and stop wasting your life.’ Now it was obvious he had been more interested in his daughter’s life than Gunnar’s. The navy was good enough for its social side, and as far as Janet was concerned that was all she could see of it. Attentive ensigns, flattering senior officers, even they could pall after a time.

  Gunnar could no longer find one reason for his marriage, nor could he imagine what she had seen in him. She had no service connections, unlike his own family which had given its blood on more decks than he could remember. There had been a Gunnar in the navy since the War of Independence, and before that there had been Gunnars ferreting out the world’s trade secrets in merchantmen and men-of-war since the time seamen had first bent a sail.

  His father had died shortly after the Second World War, broken in health from the wounds received at Normandy, but his mother still lived in the same old timbered house on the outskirts of Boston. Living a quiet, well-ordered life of one bred and born to the ways of menfolk earmarked through the generations for service at sea. She had not approved of Janet, although she had never shown her anything but kindness. Gunnar had sensed her disapproval but had put it down to the usual parents’ mistrust of anything or anybody new and different. And Janet was certainly different.

  Gunnar could still remember her first visit to the Gunnar house. It was almost as if Janet had decided her own role from the beginning. Everything was larger than life, from the Cadillac her father had given her for her twenty-first birthday to her leopardskin pants. Gunnar, of course, had hardly noticed the challenge, but had been carried along with the tide of events he could not have controlled even if he had so wanted.

  It was when he had been sent away on sea-duty for the first time after their marriage that the change came about. Upon his return she had seemed distant and cold, and she once more opened her attack on the one thing in life he held dear.