Dalziel hurried to the gratings, groping for his glasses as the other vessel materialized from the milky haze. It was still well hidden, its gaunt shape distorted in the reflected glare, but as Standish peered above the screen he saw it was a native junk, larger than most he had seen around the coast, but a junk nevertheless.
He said wearily, ‘Better luck next time.’
Dalziel did not lower his glasses. ‘She must have been about to cross our stern when the radar mechanic spotted her.’ He sounded excited. ‘What do you make of her?’
Standish stepped down from the gratings and removed a teacup from the quivering chart table. What the hell did it matter? It would just mean more effort and sweat, and do nothing for Dalziel’s reputation between decks.
‘She’s steering north-west as far as I can make out, sir. But her final landfall could be either side of the Thai/Malay border.’
Burch appeared at the rear of the bridge, blinking in the sun-light, an enamel mug in one fist.
Dalziel said, ‘She’s no sails up, so she must have a good engine to push her along like that. Nor’-west, you say?’ He lowered the glasses. ‘Just the sort of move you might expect.’ He turned and saw Burch for the first time. ‘What the hell are you supposed to be doing, Yeoman?’
Standish said quickly, ‘Stand easy was piped just now, sir.’
Dalziel stared at him, his eyes grappling with this information. ‘What?’
Then he brushed past him and leaned over the bridge wing to stare down at several groups of seamen who were gathered on the shadowed side of the superstructure, drinking tea and smoking while they watched the other vessel as she began to fade into another bank of haze.
Dalziel snapped, ‘God in heaven, Number One, you must think!’ He swung back to the gratings, his jaw set in a grim line. ‘Well, there’s no time to bugger about now.’ He reached out and stabbed his finger on the red button beneath the screen, and as the alarm bells echoed throughout the hull he added, ‘Stand easy indeed!’
Cups clattered in all directions as the figures on deck started to run to their action stations, some peering up at the bridge as they dashed past, as if expecting to see it was a mistake, or that the alarm circuit had melted in the heat.
‘Port fifteen.’ Dalziel raised his glasses again. ‘Midships.’
There were mumbled responses from handsets and voicepipes as the men arrived gasping at their stations, and when Irvine clattered up the bridge ladder he asked, ‘What is it for Christ’s sake?’ No-one replied, and with another curse he wedged himself behind the chart table and looked up at Dalziel as the captain barked, ‘Steer, three-one-five.’
‘Course three-one-five, sir.’ This time it was Corbin’s voice up the brass pipe. ‘Both engines slow ahead, coxswain on the wheel, sir.’
The deck shook slightly as screen doors and hatches were slammed shut, and Standish found time to pity the people jammed below decks behind sealed ports and scuttles. Worse still, they would not even know what was happening.
Standish took the last report and said, ‘Ship at action stations, sir.’
Dalziel grunted. ‘About time. Far too long.’
Irvine whispered fiercely, ‘What is happening, Number One? For God’s sake, tell me.’
‘That junk.’
Irvine stepped cautiously on to a grating and then said wryly, ‘I see, that junk.’
The yeoman coughed. ‘She’s no registration mark on her hull, sir.’
‘You see?’ Dalziel turned and looked at all of them. ‘This may be one of the bastards.’
Irvine waited until he had turned back to the screen and whispered, ‘What bastards?’
Standish glared at him. ‘Forget it. Anyway, it might do some of our people a bit of good to move beyond a crawl.’
Irvine shrugged and tapped a pencil on his teeth.
‘Make a signal for her to heave to.’ Dalziel paced to the opposite side and back again. ‘Call away the motor boat’s crew and muster an armed boarding party.’ His eye fell on Irvine. ‘You take charge. I want that junk searched from top to bottom, right?’
Irvine saluted. ‘Right.’
Pipes shrilled and more men dashed for the boat davits, and as Irvine clambered over the bridge coaming Dalziel added curtly, ‘And arm yourself, too.’
The junk was now about half a mile from the starboard bow on a slightly converging course. She wore no flag, and on her tall poop Standish could see several heads turned towards the frigate, and other figures on the main deck beside what appeared to be several large crates.
The signal broke from Terrapin’s yard, while for good measure Burch triggered busily with his hand lamp, his jaws still champing on the remains of a biscuit.
‘No reply, sir.’
‘And not stopping either, by God!’ Dalziel rubbed his hands. ‘Well, we shall see.’ He glanced at Standish. ‘Is that boat ready?’
‘I’ll take a look, sir.’
Dalziel sounded angry. ‘Yes do so, please. I’m not a bloody mind-reader.’
The motor boat was already lowered to deck level, her small cockpit crammed with armed men, while her bowman and coxswain struggled to make sure the falls were indeed ready for final release. Irvine stood with one hand resting negligently on the cockpit cover, his tanned features split into a grin as he said something to the petty officer in charge of the lowerers.
‘Ready, sir.’ Standish bit his lip. This was no exercise. Dalziel was getting more excited with every phase of the operation. Why in God’s name didn’t the junk reply, or show some flag, anything to forestall the ridicule which would come Dalziel’s way if this proved another false alarm?
‘Stop engines.’ Dalziel walked to the wing. ‘Slip the boat.’
As soon as the motor boat had been lowered to within two feet of the slowing bow wave it was slipped and dropped heavily into the wash, the armed seamen cursing and clutching their Stirlings as it wallowed round until controlled by the boat rope which still held it to its mother-ship.
‘Slow ahead.’ Dalziel looked towards the junk as the increased way tugging at the boat rope made the small craft yaw away from the ship’s side, its engine spluttering into life until with a jaunty wave from the coxswain it slipped the rope and swung round towards the other vessel.
He remarked slowly, ‘Those crates might contain some interesting gear, eh?’
Standish did not reply. He was still watching the motor boat, which seemed to have stopped, a plume of petrol smoke hanging above it like a shellburst.
Burch raised his big telescope as the boat’s coxswain, swaying precariously above the crowded boarding party, started to make a semaphored signal with his arms.
Burch sucked his teeth. ‘Engine’s broke, sir.’
Dalziel stared at him. ‘What?’ He turned on Standish. ‘It’s even worse than I thought …’ he broke off as a seaman said hoarsely, ‘Junk’s increased speed, sir.’
The captain ran to the wing again, his glasses banging unheeded against the metal.
‘He’s getting away!’ He gripped the screen until his knuckles were white. ‘Like bloody hell he is!’
He appeared to control himself with a great effort, and almost casually crossed to the voice pipe and said, ‘Starboard ten.’ He waited, tapping the gyro repeater with his fingers. ‘Midships. Steady.’
The junk appeared to have swung inwards, although this was of course an illusion. But the Terrapin’s shallow turn had edged round the bows so that from the bridge it looked for all the world as if the junk was pinioned on the frigate’s jackstaff.
Dalziel sounded very calm. ‘Tell Wishart to prepare his gun crews for boarding. He’s got about five minutes.’
Standish heard the order being barked over the bridge speaker, and could imagine Wishart’s sudden apprehension. From being a spectator to one of the prime actors in this little drama.
He shifted his glasses over the screen and studied the other craft more carefully. Her sides were blotched with a dozen colours, her hull
patched so many times it was hard to imagine her as ever being new.
He said slowly, ‘If you get too near you might stove her in, sir.’
Dalziel shrugged. ‘He still has the option of stopping.’
There were more heads on the junk’s carved poop now, and several figures were struggling from an open hatch just below her foremast. The Terrapin was a small frigate, but viewed almost bows on from the junk’s deck she must look the size of a cruiser.
Far astern, the motor boat was bobbing up and down on the swell, a black sliver against the harsh expanse of blue. Whoever was responsible for the engine failure would know all about it when Dalziel got hold of him, Standish thought grimly.
Dalziel said sharply, ‘Signal him to heave to again.’ He drummed his fingers below the screen in time with the morse lamp and then added, ‘Well, so be it!’
Wishart was below the bridge, a revolver strapped round his waist, his face turned upwards as Dalziel yelled, ‘Prepare to board!’
But just at the very last moment, as the frigate’s raked stem slid comfortably towards the junk’s port quarter, the other vessel’s master cut his engine. The effect was disastrous. As the way was lost to her ancient rudder she started to swing drunkenly to starboard, the high poop following round to present itself across the Terrapin’s final approach in a solid barrier of carved wood.
‘Full astern both engines!’ Dalziel gripped the screen as the bells jangled in the wheelhouse below his feet. ‘The fool! The stupid, bloody idiot!’
The bridge shook violently as Quarrie threw the engines to full speed astern, the sudden change of thrust making the whole hull quiver as if being bounced through some rapids.
When it came, the actual impact was barely felt. It was more of a tremor which died almost as soon as it was begun. But the sound was appalling. The steel bows ploughed into the junk’s swinging stern like a giant axe, and the waiting boarding party scattered beneath an onslaught of splintered wood, torn rigging and one whole section of handrail which slewed across the four-inch guns like a painted foot-bridge.
‘Stop engines.’ Dalziel stood looking down at the chaos without moving. ‘Slow ahead. Starboard ten.’ He waited until the frigate started to nudge forward again before saying, ‘Second time lucky.’
Standish stared at him. There was neither anger nor remorse on Dalziel’s face. He seemed conscious only of the job in hand. Of getting alongside the junk, no matter what.
He shouted suddenly, ‘Over you go, Wishart! Jump to it!’
As heaving lines and steel grapnels thudded into the junk’s splintered bulwark the seamen, reluctantly at first and then with desperate enthusiasm hurled themselves aboard, their arms and legs flying as they piled after Wishart in a wild, disordered tangle.
Dalziel said, ‘Stop engines.’ He seemed oblivious to the fresh sounds of breaking wood as the frigate surged slowly forward, the sagging vessel lurching and bumping alongside like so much salvage.
Burch said thickly, ‘There’s women an’ kids there, too!’
Dalziel ignored him. ‘What’s that fool doing?’ He pointed down at one of the seamen who was struggling frantically with a tall, smock-coated Chinese. The latter was an old man with a pale grey beard, but even from the upper bridge his strength was obvious.
The rest of the seamen had become momentarily separated from the other man by a surging crowd of people. They had swarmed up from below, of all ages and sizes, and as Burch had observed, with a large proportion of women and children. Screams and yells almost drowned the harsher shouts of the seamen and Wishart’s shrilling whistle.
The sudden ripping burst of automatic fire silenced the din, and every sound, while with grotesque dignity the bearded Chinese staggered to the bulwark, his fingers interlaced across his belly, his eyes glazing as he stared with disbelief at the blood which poured over his hands and across the smoking muzzle of the seaman’s Stirling.
Burch said quietly, ‘Gawd.’
It was pitiful to watch the way the crowd of packed figures seemed to shrink in density, to fall back across the listing deck until Wishart and his men were left quite alone in a small, tight group.
Dalziel picked up a megaphone. ‘Get on with the search, Wishart! Ship’s papers, the hold, you know what to do!’
The man with the smoking gun looked up at the sound of Dalziel’s voice and cried, ’Worn’t my fault! The silly old sod kept pullin’ an’ yellin’ at me!’ He stared at Wishart. ‘Worn’t my bleedin’ fault.’ Then he dropped his head and started to sob.
Dalziel said, ‘What a sickening spectacle. Get that man aboard at once!’
Standish looked down at the junk. The crates were easy to see now. Most were quite empty, but two of them contained a handful of scrawny chickens. He felt sick, unnerved by the suddenness with which things had happened, and a man had died.
It seemed an age before Wishart reported to the bridge. He was pale and tight-lipped, and his shirt was filthy from the search below decks.
He said, ‘Refugees from Viet Nam, sir. This is their third attempt to cross the Gulf.’ He swallowed hard. ‘They’re carrying nothing but a few personal belongings. Nothing else.’
Dalziel had reseated himself in his chair. ‘Why did the fool run away?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I think they’ve been frightened for so long that to meet us out here after getting within sight of hope…’
Dalziel held up his hand. ‘I can manage without the drama, Sub. And who was the man by the bulwark?’
‘An old fisherman, sir…’
Wishart recoiled as Dalziel shouted, ‘Not him, I meant that stupid rating with the Stirling?’ He swung on Standish. ‘Call themselves seamen! I’ll give them bloody seamen before I’ve done!’
Wishart said, ‘His name is Thomas, sir.’
‘Good. I’ll deal with him later. Now withdraw the boarding party and cast off.’ He looked at Burch. ‘Tell the W/T office to make a sighting report to Jerram’s patrols. He can clean this mess up.’ He scowled. ‘Refugees, eh? The thin edge of the wedge if you ask me!’
There was a small spluttering sound and a seaman said nervously, ‘Motor boat’s comin’ alongside, sir.’
Dalziel’s mouth tightened.
‘It seems the engine restarted. A small miracle.’ He banged his hands on the screen. ‘Or something else!’
Standish said, ‘Will we stand by the junk until an M.L. arrives, sir?’
‘No point in that. Mass interrogation is Jerram’s job. I’ll make out a report and let him have it later. Mark the position on the chart and then make up the log.’ He shrugged vaguely. ‘Usual thing. Stopped and searched unidentified vessel. Refugees alleged from Viet Nam. One suspected terrorist killed resisting arrest. That should cover it.’
Standish looked away. ‘The man in question would probably disagree, sir.’ He could feel his limbs shaking. As if from fever. ‘He was probably afraid. Saw the man with the gun, and panic did the rest.’
Dalziel eyed him impassively. ‘Supposition, Number One.’ He turned to watch the motor boat being run up to its davits. ‘And that is something I have little use for.’ His eyes narrowed as Irvine appeared at the top of the ladder. ‘Any more than I have for disloyalty.’ He walked to his chair. ‘Now bear off and bring the ship back on course.’
Irvine opened his mouth to report his presence but saw Standish’s expression and closed it again.
Instead he said, ‘Well, here’s a fine thing.’
Standish looked at him bitterly. ‘You were well out of it, it seems? I have never seen the motor boat break down before.’
Irvine smiled gently. ‘To think anything else would be supposition too, surely?’
The bosun’s mate switched on his speaker. ‘Fall out action stations.’ Then after a pause and while the listing junk dropped slowly astern in the frigate’s rising wash he added, ‘Continue stand easy …’
5 Ships in the Night
STANDISH WAITED UNTIL Leading Steward Wills had removed
the last of the empty coffee cups and then said, ‘That will be all for now.’ He saw Wills glance curiously around the other officers and added, ‘And close the pantry hatch as you leave.’
Dinner, such as it was, had been consumed in almost total silence, and now as the others slumped in the battered armchairs or squatted on the bench seats below the scuttles Standish picked a folder from the deck and opened it across his lap. All through the meal he had been thinking about this moment, the weary necessity of telling the others of Dalziel’s latest requirements. On the opposite side of the wardroom he saw the straight purple edge of the horizon mounting slowly along each open scuttle, hanging for a moment and then falling with equal slowness and monotonous regularity.
It would soon be dark again. Another night on this senseless patrol. He glanced around the wardroom, his eyes taking in the familiar scruffiness, the disordered little world where they came and went with the passing hours, dragging out each day to the prescribed times of duty and routine. On the bulkhead the calendar was no longer a joke. But Pigott still encircled each passing date with his pencil. Dalziel plus nineteen, and a whole week since the swift and unexpected encounter with the junk.
He said, ‘The captain has asked me to tell you about the new programmes.’
They were all watching him. Irvine and Hornby, Quarrie and young Wishart. Pigott was sharing the bridge with Caley, enduring Dalziel’s close supervision while he passed the watch away by thinking up some new test to put them on their mettle. Every so often the hull would give a shudder, or there would be a scramble on deck to show that the duty hands were running to complete some further drill against Dalziel’s stop-watch.
He continued, ‘Starting tomorrow every officer will take turns to produce a programme, an exercise if you like, to be carried out during the afternoon of each working day.’
Irvine asked, ‘How about poker?’
The others smiled and Standish said, ‘I’ll put it to the captain.’ He frowned and added shortly, ‘It’s his idea to keep our people from becoming bored sick. I think that anything other than actual sport, which might include poker, should be considered.’
The Greatest Enemy Page 8