Standish crossed to the opposite wing and jammed his unlit pipe between his teeth. If Dalziel failed to alter his decision soon, Pigott would have very few more dates to encircle on his calendar. Whatever had bred the dislike or mistrust between Dalziel and Jerram, it obviously needed very little to bring it to a new flashpoint.
‘Bridge … Radar!’
The metallic voice from the microphone beside the hooded chart table made him swing round and he saw Dalziel already beside it. How he had moved from his chair to the centre of the bridge in such a short time was hard to understand, but the tone of his voice did give some hint of the strain he had been careful to hide from all of them.
‘Bridge … Captain here!’
‘Echo, sir. Green oh-two-oh.’ The radar operator cleared his throat noisily as if suddenly aware of his captain at the other end of the line. ‘Range oh-eight-oh.’
Dalziel snapped, ‘Who is that speaking?’
‘Leading Radar Operator Vine, sir.’
‘Well, Vine, would you mind explaining why we are within four miles of a ship without your people spotting it earlier?’
Vine sounded defensive. ‘Too much vibration, sir.’
Dalziel’s head nodded sharply in the darkness. ‘Good. Capital.’ He snapped, ‘Reduce to one-one-zero revolutions.’
He crossed to the radar repeater, his eyes glowing faintly in the twisting mass of back-echoes and strange guttering reflections as he peered fixedly into the screen.
‘Ship all right. No doubt about it, Number One.’
He stepped back to allow Standish to see. It was just visible, blurred and indistinct, like an unmoving flaw in the radar’s swinging probe.
Dalziel said, ‘Bring her round to zero-three-zero.’ As Standish leaned over the wheelhouse voicepipe he added irritably, ‘The echo is firm enough. What is the fool playing at? He must be able to see our lights.’
Corbin’s voice came up the brass pipe. ‘Steady, sir. Course zero-three-zero.’
Standish looked up at Dalziel’s shoulders above the screen. He was swinging his glasses back and forth, leaning forward in that characteristic way as if to smell out the other vessel.
He said, ‘She could be abandoned, sir.’
‘Maybe. But there should be some flares or something, damn it!’
Vine’s voice again. ‘Range now oh-seven-five. Appears to be stationary, sir.’
Dalziel said something under his breath. Then he called, ‘Is the yeoman there?’
‘Sir.’ Burch stepped into the centre of the bridge.
‘Is that big searchlight of yours still working?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, get some of your bunting-tossers to uncover it. We’re going to need a bit of light around here shortly.’ He returned to the screen. ‘In more ways than one!’
Standish found time to wonder if Hornby was still awake and within easy reach. If the big searchlight blew itself when it was switched on it would need more than a set of sports gear to appease Dalziel.
Several figures had appeared below the bridge, dark and indistinct against the surging water alongside. Some of the older hands probably. It was odd the way seasoned seamen seemed to feel things before they happened. Like the coxswain, for instance. He should be below in his bunk, but there he was now, on the wheel. At his place, in case he was needed.
And it was more than likely that Quarrie was on his footplate, never having left it since his hurried exit from the wardroom.
Dalziel said sharply, ‘Nothing happening yet.’ He sat stiffly on the edge of his chair, as if willing himself to relax. ‘Reduce speed to seven-zero revolutions. Don’t want to run some poor chap down in the water, do we?’
The vibrations eased in response to the telegraphs, and once more the sea-noises intruded into the bridge. The sluice of water around the bows, the steady hiss of spray thrown back over the forecastle like tropical rain.
The minutes dragged by, broken only by Vine’s regular reports, while in the radar repeater the strange, unlit ship remained across their line of approach like an unmarked reef.
Burch came back breathing heavily. ‘Searchlight ready, sir.’
Standish said, ‘Perhaps you’d better stay with it. Just in case.’
Burch’s shadowed features split into a broad grin. ‘S’all right sir. The electrical officer’s down there in ’is pyjamas takin’ charge ’imself!’
‘Stop that damn muttering!’ Dalziel slid lightly from the chair. ‘We’ll edge round a bit to port and take a look at him.’ He lifted his glasses again. ‘Port ten.’ He seemed to pivot in time with the ship, as if he was part of her, while he moved the glasses slowly along the screen. ‘Midships. Steady.’
‘Steady, sir. Course zero-zero-five.’
‘That should do it. Right, switch on!’
The bosun’s mate with the handset had hardly finished speaking when the great glacier-blue beam swept out from amidships, before swinging with painful brilliance towards the starboard bow.
Burch muttered, ‘Thank the Lord for that!’
They all watched in fixed silence while the hard-edged beam moved purposefully above the heaving water, throwing back thousands of diamond-bright reflections where seconds before there had been only darkness.
‘There she is!’
Every pair of glasses settled on the shining line of scuttles, and then as the beam lifted steadily, on the tall white bridge and slung lifeboats and the single funnel with its painted insignia.
She was barely a mile away. The searchlight’s glare held her as if at the end of something solid and unyielding, and Standish was conscious of the tension around him while the Terrapin moved slowly towards her.
‘Shall I signal her, sir?’ Burch had his lamp at the ready.
‘No.’ Dalziel crossed the gratings in two strides. ‘The searchlight must have blinded everyone aboard, I should think.’ He reached a handset which was connected with the bridge loud-hailer system.
A signalman said excitedly, ‘There’s someone on her bridge wing, sir!’
Standish nodded and then turned to watch as Dalziel’s voice boomed across the narrowing strip of gleaming water, magnified and metallic like that of a robot’s.
‘This is a British warship! What ship are you?’
In his powerful glasses Standish could see several heads beyond the first one, some in the wheelhouse and a few more by what appeared to be a radio shack. The bridge ladders seemed to be gleaming in the glare, and with a start he realized they were enmeshed in layers of barbed wire and protected by stout metal gates.
Burch said helpfully, ‘That’s in case they get attacked by pirates, sir. Does ’appen sometimes, though not much in these waters.’
Someone had raised a megaphone and back over the water came a man’s voice, very distinct and surprisingly loud.
‘S.S. Cornwallis! Three days out of Saigon and bound for Songkhla with general cargo.’
Dalziel snapped, ‘Check that, Yeoman!’ Then he switched on the loud-hailer again. ‘Do you require assistance?’
‘No, but thank you.’ A long pause. ‘We had a fire in the radio room, but it is all right now.’
There were plenty of dark stains around the little radio shack, and it was possible to see the broken glass of its scuttles now that the ships had drawn closer together.
The voice added, ‘Burned through a whole lot of cables, which was why we couldn’t put on our lights or signal you.’
Burch muttered, ‘Just like that bloody line. Only four old freighters in it, and all on a shoestring.’ In a more formal tone he said, ‘The Cornwallis is on our cleared list, sir.’
At that moment the freighter’s navigation lights came on, and along her island superstructure several scuttles lit up, giving the ship both personality and life. At her high counter a solitary screw churned the water busily, the froth pale blue in the reflected glare.
Dalziel said harshly, ‘Are you sure, Yeoman?’
Burch was watching the
other ship with professional interest. ‘Know her well, sir. I was just tellin’ the first lieutenant here that she an’ three other old tubs work out of Hong Kong.’
Irvine had appeared on the gratings, his face smooth in the glare. ‘Well, well,’ was all he said.
The freighter had gathered slight way when a voice called, ‘I’ll tell my owners you were offering to help. What name shall I say?’
Dalziel said, ‘H.M.S. Terrapin.’ He paused and Standish could see his knuckles bunched into a tight fist around the handset. ‘Commander Dalziel.’
The voice grew fainter as the ship began to forge clear. ‘Goodbye, and thanks again.’
Burch said sourly, ‘Mean buggers. Afraid of gettin’ a salvage claim, I expect.’
Dalziel turned sharply. ‘Switch off that damned light, will you!’
When it died the darkness seemed to come sweeping inboard like a solid canopy, and as Standish peered across the screen to look for the freighter he could barely see her shaded sternlight. Even the stars seemed faded now.
A telephone buzzed like a trapped insect and the bosun’s mate said nervously, ‘W/T office ’as a signal, sir. Immediate.’
Dalziel was on his way back to his chair. ‘Have it decoded and bring it up.’ He sounded tired.
Somewhere in the darkness below the bridge a man laughed, the sound unnaturally loud above the slop of water against the hull.
Standish bit his lip. Another build-up for nothing. The man who laughed was probably spreading the yarn around his messdeck right now. S.O.S., and it had turned out to be little more than an electrical failure, and that was common enough aboard this ship, let alone the battered Cornwallis.
Pigott stepped forward from the chartroom, a signal pad in his hand. He said, ‘Signal is from S.N.O. East Coast Patrols, sir.’
Standish tried not to watch Dalziel’s bunched fists. It would have to be Jerram now.
‘Go on.’ Two words, toneless and devoid of emotion.
‘It reads,’ Pigott’s glasses gleamed in his torchlight as he held up the pad, ‘Terrapin to rendezvous with Force Tango Zulu twenty miles east of Chenering Head at 0600.’
There was a stunned silence and then Irvine said quietly, ‘Well, that really does put the fat in the fire.’
Without consulting any chart Standish knew what he meant. At any other time the Terrapin could have reached the rendezvous no matter where she was on her patrol area. But Chenering Head was over one hundred and forty miles astern. It might just as well be on the moon.
Pigott asked, ‘Acknowledge, sir?’
Standish could almost feel Dalziels’ disappointment. He was glad it was pitch dark, if only to hide his face from the others.
Feet grated on a ladder and Quarrie’s square shape moved uncertainly across the bridge.
Dalziel asked flatly, ‘Yes, Chief?’
Quarrie rubbed his chin, suddenly aware of the mood around him.
‘I could leave it, sir.’ Then he said firmly, ‘No, I’ll speak my piece and go.’
Dalziel watched him, his face in shadow. ‘Well?’
‘I came up for a breath of air and to watch the old Cornwallis, sir.’
‘You know her too, do you?’ Again the same lifeless tone.
‘That’s just it. We was in Hong Kong for months at a time when I first came aboard. We was always running into the old Cornwallis.’
‘Get to the point, please.’
‘Commander Mitford was a regular visitor aboard her. Used to play golf with her master and first officer. Great buddies they was.’
Pigott stared at him. ‘That’s right. I remember now.’
Dalziel stood up very slowly, as if he was standing on thin glass.
‘The Cornwallis’s master would have recognized this ship, you mean?’
Quarrie nodded decisively. ‘More’n that, sir, he’d have been bound to ask after Bob Mitford when you gave your name as captain!’
Dalziel removed his cap and turned it over in his hands.
‘Thank you, Chief.’ He looked away. ‘Thank you very much.’
Irvine said, ‘But this signal, sir. What are we going to do?’
‘Do?’ Dalziel clamped his hat back on his head. ‘Disregard it for the present.’
Irvine lowered his head. ‘Christ Almighty.’
‘Number One, bring the ship round to one-seven-zero at once.’ He seemed to be speaking his thoughts aloud to the bridge.
‘In one hour we will go about again and go after the Cornwallis. When we turn we will extinguish all lights and make no further transmissions on W/T, right?’
The ship swung slowly round in response to Standish’s orders, and as she steadied on her new course Dalziel added half to himself, ‘Two can play this bloody game. Make no mistake about it!’
He turned on his chair and Irvine whispered fiercely, ‘He’s really done it this time. Oh, my aching God, has he done it!’
6 One for the Queen …
‘CHAR, SIR?’
Standish took the enamel mug from an anonymous figure in the darkness and held it with both hands. ‘Thanks.’
After heading away from the Cornwallis at maximum speed they had turned to make another dash through the night until the radar had again reported the ship some six miles distant, steaming as before towards the Thai mainland.
It felt strange without the lights, Standish thought. True to his word Dalziel had ordered a complete shut down of scuttles and screen doors, and had even sent Hornby round the ship in person to ensure his orders were being carried out. The fat electrical officer was here now, his pyjamas showing faintly above his jacket while he sipped nervously at a mug of sweetened tea.
Dalziel said, ‘Check the Cornwallis again.’
Irvine’s face glowed above the radar repeater. ‘Bearing three-oh-oh degrees. And she’s still maintaining a westerly course, sir.’
Standish held the mug to his lips. There was no mistaking the triumph in Irvine’s voice as he added, ‘Seems innocent enough.’
Dalziel replied swiftly, ‘Guilt often looks innocent, Pilot.’
Standish wondered just how much longer Dalziel could keep this up. It was no good at all. The freighter was still heading for the Thai port of Songkhla, and it would be better if Dalziel turned back now, if only to avoid the spectacle of his ship steaming into Thai waters in broad daylight without any possible reason for doing so.
And twice so far the W/T office had reported further signals from Jerram, the last one demanding Terrapin’s exact position and E.T.A. at the rendezvous.
Dalziel had momentarily lost his temper when the radio supervisor had come to the bridge with the last message.
‘Do I have to say everything one hundred times? No transmissions means just that, Keeble, so for God’s sake stay off my back!’
But that seemed an age ago. The Terrapin’s reduced speed added to the impression of failure and absurdity as she steamed after the other vessel. The old freighter’s progress was so slow that it had been necessary to alter course several times merely to stay at a safe distance. She was out there now, about four miles off the port bow and heading away almost at right angles from their own line of approach. It was not possible to see her lights, but the angle was probably too extreme, or perhaps her electrical circuits had failed again, Standish thought wearily.
And all the while the patrol area was fading further and still further astern. Had Dalziel turned at once after meeting with the freighter he might still have held his own with Jerram. After all, an S.O.S., no matter how doubtful, was a fair reason, if not a true excuse, for his behaviour. But now there was no such extenuating reason, and nothing would save him from the consequences.
Standish went back over what Quarrie had said but could find little comfort. It was all too vague, a straw in the wind which had gone in the Terrapin’s wake like every other explanation which they had wanted to accept.
Perhaps if he had been more insistent with Dalziel, instead of merely abiding by his snap decisi
ons without comment, this might still have been avoided. Maybe he believed even now that the old Terrapin was just a stepping stone, a limbo for his own personal use while he waited for the chance to strike out to something better.
He stepped up beside Dalziel’s chair and said quietly, ‘I suggest you make a signal to the squadron, sir. Captain Jerram can decide how to handle this at the Thai end.’ He had spoken almost without realizing what he was saying. ‘If we head back to our area now we could claim W/T interference, anything but this.’
‘Your part in all this is quite clear to me.’ Dalziel leaned back in his chair, his voice impassive. ‘No blame will rest on your shoulders.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of myself!’ Standish stared at Dalziel’s outline, suddenly angry.
‘I see. I’m glad of that. But I could hardly blame you anyway. From what you have already told me, and from a whole lot more which you carry round inside yourself, I have gathered a good deal. But the Navy is not the distant future, or what happened six thousand years ago, it is the here and the now. The ship around you at any given moment of time, the situation as you see it, and as you translate it into worth and deed.’ He shrugged, the movement like one of resignation. ‘If you were not thinking of your own reputation, then you must have had mine in view, eh?’
‘Something like that.’
‘It does you credit. But beware of too much sentiment. You know what they say in the Service.’ He sounded suddenly bitter. ‘One hand for the Queen, but keep one for yourself.’
He tensed as the speaker came to life behind him.
‘Bridge … Radar.’ Vine’s voice. His eyes must be squinting from strain by now, Standish thought.
‘Radar … Bridge.’ Irvine’s slim figure was swaying easily to the slow roll of the hull.
Vine sounded less sure this time. ‘I’m getting a lot of bad interference, sir. It might clear but …’
Irvine snapped impatiently, ‘Get on with it, man!’
Dalziel slid from his chair and crossed to his side. ‘Give me that! If Vine is the best operator we have, you’ll get nowhere by flustering him with bloody rudeness!’ When he spoke into the handset his tone was quite calm again, even soothing. ‘Captain speaking. Tell me.’
The Greatest Enemy Page 10