‘Well, sir, I thought the set was on the blink and I was going to request that you increase speed to close with the freighter.’ There were muffled mutterings over the speaker from another operator and then Vine said excitedly, ‘I was right, sir! The Cornwallis is turning!’
From the repeater Irvine said sullenly, ‘Can’t see anything on this yet.’
‘Turning? Are you sure?’ Dalziel was crouching over the handset like a sprinter awaiting the pistol.
‘Quite sure, sir.’ The voice was confident again. ‘Ship bears three-oh-oh, range oh-eight-five. Her present course is about two-four-zero, but still turning.’
Dalziel looked round the bridge. ‘Well, Number One, is there anywhere else she could be heading?’
‘I can see no reason for the change of course, sir.’
‘Right.’ Dalziel replaced the handset and returned to the chair. ‘Port fifteen.’
The speaker intoned, ‘Ship has settled on new course, sir. Now steering approximately one-six-zero.’
Dalziel grunted. ‘Midships. Steady.’
Corbin’s reply echoed up the voicepipe. ‘Steady, sir. Course three-three-zero. Revolutions seven-zero.’ He sounded very intent.
‘Steer three-three-five.’ Dalziel raised one hand in the darkness. ‘Tell Vine to shut down all radar transmissions immediately.’ He waited for the order to be passed and then said calmly, ‘No point in proclaiming our arrival, eh? Even that old freighter might have some sort of detection gear aboard.’
Irvine muttered, ‘I should think it unlikely, sir.’
Dalziel turned suddenly in his chair and snapped, ‘Well, you didn’t think the Cornwallis was acting suspiciously in the first place, did you? I’m afraid your sense of judgment leaves a lot to be desired!’
Irvine crossed to Standish’s side and whispered savagely, ‘No radar, and we’re almost on a collision course! What the hell did he expect me to say, for Christ’s sake?’
Dalziel said, ‘Pipe the hands to action stations. We’ll not use alarm bells this time. I don’t want to wake the whole world.’
Muffled below decks the brief pipes and hoarse bark of orders brought the off duty hands unwillingly to their stations, some still so dazed with sleep that they called to each other in the darkness, their voices confused and some openly scornful.
On the four-inch gun mounting a man yelled, ‘Wot is it, sir? Another friggin’ drill?’
And Wishart’s voice, sharper but equally confused, ‘Keep silent, that man, and do as you’re told!’
Someone kicked over an empty mug, probably Hornby, Standish thought, freed at last from the anguish of waiting for some of his circuits to explode while he was on the bridge.
Dalziel said slowly, ‘We’ll use the searchlight on him again and see what happens. We’d have seen his lights by now if he had any on.’ He slapped his palms together. ‘I wonder what the hell he’s up to?’
Irvine raised his head from a telephone. ‘Ship closed up at action stations, sir.’
‘Good. It’s as well to be ready.’ Dalziel seemed completely absorbed.
Standish said, ‘I estimate that we’ll pass port to port if he’s still on the same course. It’ll be close.’
‘My thinking, too. Tell the Chief to be ready for instant speed when required, I don’t want another bloody accident.’
There was a startled shout from one of the lookouts and then Dalziel yelled, ‘That light! What was it?’
A small yellow beam flickered in the water below the raked forecastle, died and then licked out stronger than before.
A petty officer called, ‘One of the messdeck scuttles, sir! The deadlight must ’ave become unclipped!’
Like a badly controlled signal lamp the loose deadlight swung open and shut across the scuttle, the light flashing at irregular intervals in time with the ship’s roll.
The effect was immediate. A great red eye seemed to light up in the sky itself, so close that Standish could see Dalziel’s face shining in the glare as he shouted wildly, ‘The Cornwallis has seen us! They’ve switched on their lights, damn them!’
Everyone was speaking at once, and as he watched Standish saw the red light fading slightly, and then with sudden shock saw the brighter gleam of the green starboard light.
Dalziel’s voice lifted above the startled voices around him. ‘He’s turning across our bows!’ He almost fell as he ran to the voicepipe. ‘Full astern both engines!’
Irvine said tightly, ‘If we’d had our lights on this could never have happened.’
Dalziel stared past him, his eyes green as he watched the towering pale rectangle of the freighter’s superstructure rising beyond the swinging navigation light.
‘Shut your damn mouth!’ The deck shook violently to the reversed thrust and he added, ‘Stand by searchlight!’
‘We’re getting sternway, sir.’ Standish felt the deck shaking madly beneath his feet and imagined how it would feel to Quarrie in his sealed world of roaring machinery.
The green light vanished but for a faint glow along the other ship’s bridge wing, and Standish saw the single funnel clearly silhouetted against the stars, and realized just how close they had all been to disaster.
‘Stop engines.’ Dalziel reached out and grabbed his wrist. ‘Did you see that? Not a bloody word of protest!’
It was odd that in the confusion and sudden threat of danger Standish’s mind had failed to record the fact. Yet in spite of everything Dalziel had noted it, was even now showing his teeth in a grin of excitement or relief.
‘Slow ahead both engines.’ Dalziel waved his hand. ‘Searchlight!’
The other ship was almost end on now, her rising wake boiling beneath her high counter while she swung awkwardly away from the pursuing frigate. Because of the angle the searchlight was only able to illuminate part of the freighter’s hull, leaving the rest darkened by the shadow of Terrapin’s own bridge.
The loud-hailer squeaked and then Dalziel’s voice boomed across the water.
‘Stop immediately! This is a British warship and I am going to board you!’
In the harsh glare Standish saw the freighter’s wash leaping and writhing above the single screw. It showed no sign of lessening.
Dalziel said grimly, ‘Like that, is it?’ He snatched up a handset by his chair and snapped, ‘Captain here. Give me the gunnery officer.’
Burch looked at Standish and muttered, ‘Crumbs!’
‘Sub? Captain.’ Dalziel sounded crisp and formal as he kept his eyes on the other ship’s stern. ‘I am going to turn slightly to port in a moment. Once on a new course I want you to fire a star-shell across his bows.’ His teeth gleamed in the reflected light. ‘Close as you like without hitting the bugger. I need it to be spectacular rather than lethal, right?’
He slammed down the phone, and Standish pictured Wishart and his gun crews, the sudden responsibility which had been thrown down from the bridge.
‘Port ten.’ Dalziel swung round to watch the searchlight’s beam as it followed the other ship in time with the turn. ‘Midships. Steady.’
Below the bridge there was a metallic click and a voice yelled, ‘Right gun loaded, sir!’
Burch said between his teeth, ‘I ’ope they’ve not put a lump of H.E. up the spout by mistake.’
The communications rating wearing the headphones looked up at Dalziel’s squared shoulders.
‘‘A’ gun ready, sir.’
‘Capital.’ Dalziel was almost gentle. ‘Now we shall see, eh?’ Then he nodded curtly. ‘Fire!’
The righthand gun of the twin mounting lurched back in a savage recoil, the sound of the explosion echoing and re-echoing across the sea like a miniature bombardment.
Seconds later the star-shell burst far ahead of the other ship. the peardrop of brilliant light hanging and drifting slowly above its own reflection.
In the sudden silence someone said, ‘Bloody good shot!’
Dalziel merely remarked, ‘It appears to have worked.’
/> The freighter’s wash was falling away even as they watched, and by comparison the Terrapin appeared to be forging ahead with increased speed towards her port quarter.
There was neither signal nor any sign of anger from the other ship’s bridge, and Standish wondered if Dalziel felt as calm as he now appeared. Even at the last moment Standish had been expecting the Cornwallis to demand an explanation, or the W/T office to report that she was screaming to the listening world that she had just been fired on. But there was nothing.
‘She’s hove to, sir.’
‘Good. Stop engines. But keep a weather eye on the drift. Don’t want to get too close.’ Dalziel crossed to the wing and raised the handset again. ‘Cornwallis ahoy! Stand by to receive boarding party now!’
Over his shoulder he added, ‘You go, Number One. Enthusiasm is fine, but this time we want a bit of experience as well, eh?’
Standish nodded and then turned for the ladder, his mind grappling with the job ahead. In his heart he had known Dalziel would choose him, but now it was actually happening he was suddenly conscious of that same blockage, that too familiar sensation which seemed to render him momentarily confused and unable to think clearly.
As his feet groped for the top rungs of the ladder he saw Dalziel close above him, his face shadowed by the searchlight’s beam at his back.
He said quietly, ‘No heroics or anything like that. I’ll be keeping an eye on you, so take all the time you need.’
His tone was so calm, so completely assured that Standish felt himself thinking and breathing more easily. He nodded quickly and continued on his way to the deck below.
Torches flashed here and there in the darkness and he heard Caley snapping out orders to the lowering party beside the motor boat’s davits.
Petty Officer Motts, the gunner’s mate, loomed between the busy seamen and Standish felt him clipping a pistol belt around his waist as he said cheerfully, ‘Boardin’ party mustered, sir. I’ve squeezed two extra bodies in this time, just in case like.’
Standish peered round as the boat began to jerk squeaking down its falls towards the heaving water alongside. A scrambling net was already lowered, and torch beams flashed on intent faces and the muzzles of Stirling guns as the small party of seamen waited to climb down to the boat.
Motts said, ‘The engine’ll be all right this time, sir.’ He grinned. ‘Since the skipper disrated the coxswain it seems to ’ave gone bloody well.’
Standish swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. It took real effort to move, to stop thinking of vague possibilities and fears.
He snapped, ‘Over you go, lads. Safety catches on, and no talking.’
He followed Motts across the guardrail, dimly aware of the vague faces above him as he climbed down the scrambling net, of the fact that he was leaving the ship. The latter suddenly seemed very important, and he could feel the sweat cold beneath the rim of his cap.
Perhaps his mind had been more damaged than even he had suspected? That the pain and shock he had suffered had left him mentally scarred, as vulnerable as a man who has lost a limb or a sense of balance.
‘Shove off forrard!’ Cully, the boat’s coxswain, swung the tiller and waited as the engine roared into sudden life. ‘’Old tight all!’
Standish found that he was gripping the gunwale with all his strength, feeling the spray soaking over his arm, yet unable to move it.
Motts said, ‘Better get down, sir. May be a bit choppy once we gets clear of the old Shellback’s lee.’
Standish stared at him. It was strange that he had never heard the ship’s nickname before, and the realization seemed to steady him. Shellback was about right, too, old and somewhat comical. He lowered himself on to a thwart as the boat pushed noisily around the frigate’s bows and headed for the searchlight’s dazzling carpet which lay between the two ships like something solid.
But then, he knew so little about anything or anyone aboard if it came to that. Pain, bitterness or just self-pity, he had failed completely to make himself a part of the ship, as if by so doing he might admit his own vulnerability.
Then he saw the freighter glittering in the beam, her hull rising like a cliff against the backcloth of stars and dark sky.
He heard two of the seamen whispering, and one of them actually laughed aloud. They were unworried, perhaps even glad something had at last happened to break the boredom and frustration they had come to take for granted.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, knowing too that they were untroubled because he was with them. An officer, one who would know what to do if things went wrong. He felt a sudden surge of apprehension. He did not even know what the things were. Back there on his own bridge Dalziel would be watching, hiding his impatience as he awaited the first report from the boarding party.
Standish found himself cursing Dalziel, his mind suddenly filled with unspoken, nameless words. Dalziel could have waited until daylight, or ordered the other ship to follow him into port. But no, he had to act at once, regardless of the risk. Perhaps Irvine was right after all. That the captain thought more of his own glory than any possible consequences.
Motts said, ‘They’ve thrown a ladder down, sir.’
It looked more like a long snake in the harsh glare, and made the freighter’s side appear all the more invincible.
The coxswain shouted, ‘Stand by in the bows!’
Motts turned and looked at Standish, his face like a circus clown’s in the searchlight’s unwavering eye.
‘Shall I go first, sir?’
Standish stood up and then staggered as the boat ground heavily against the ship’s pitted plates. Every rivet seemed to stand out in the light, and the great patches of uncovered rust looked like dried blood.
‘Follow me.’ He hardly recognized his own voice. ‘The boat will return to the ship and await orders.’
He seized the rough ladder, his legs soaked to the groin as the boat dropped sluggishly in a trough, and with his eyes fixed on the rail far above, began to climb.
He had almost reached the top when a slight movement to his left made him turn his head. A small figure in a white shirt had appeared on the flying bridge and seemed to be watching him. The man did not shout or wave or show any sign of emotion at all other than the casual interest of a spectator. Then another appeared slightly further forward of the first, but he moved straight to the screen, his shirt gleaming in the light as he stared down at the motor boat which was already chugging stern first away from the side.
Standish could feel the ladder jerking beneath him and knew that Motts and the seamen were pressing hard on his heels. But something made him remain motionless, his eyes fixed on the two figures on the flying bridge.
Then, even as the motor boat started to curve round away from the freighter’s side, the second figure came to life. In the arctic glare Standish saw him point something down across the screen, and as he yelled a warning his words were drowned by the searing rattle of automatic fire.
He started to climb again, his knuckles and knees bleeding from a dozen cuts as he scraped against the rough plates, but his mind recording nothing but the savage burst of firing, the smash of splintering wood as the hail of bullets swept across the motor boat from end to end.
Then he was up and over the rail, his feet stumbling on a carelessly stowed rope, while his fingers plucked desperately at his holster. The firing stopped abrubtly, and in the sudden stillness he heard a man screaming, a terrible bubbling sound which went on and on like some tortured animal, until like the firing it ceased with the suddenness of death.
The searchlight went out, although whether on purpose or from some of the bullets Standish neither knew nor cared.
His men were tumbling and cursing around him, their weapons clashing against the deck while they groped like blind cripples in the unfamiliar surroundings, their voices cracked and close to panic.
One side of the freighter’s boat deck lit up briefly and another burst of automatic fire whined and
ricocheted across the crouching seamen, striking sparks from a winch and hammering into the planks on every side.
Standish yelled, ‘Spread out to either beam!’ He ducked as a solitary bullet smacked the deck by his feet. ‘Motts, take charge to starboard!’
The seamen started to run and then faltered, blinking and dazed as the big clusters of cargo lights came on above their heads, illuminating every hatch and stanchion, and making their figures stand out stark and unreal like creations in a nightmare waxworks.
It was the signal for more firing, the bullets ripping down from the bridge and boat deck until it seemed that they would all be slaughtered within seconds.
Motts dropped on one knee and opened fire with his Stirling. Faintly between bursts Standish heard breaking glass and several shouts from beyond the blinding lights. He yelled, ‘Put a burst into those clusters!’
A seaman gaped at him and then nodded, but before he could raise his gun he was plucked from his feet and hurled against the bulwark like a piece of torn rag. Standish felt blood spurting across his leg as he snatched the fallen Stirling and then poured a full magazine at the nearest light cluster above the mainmast.
Another seaman fell kicking and screaming, his hands on his face as he rolled from a hatch top and dropped between two of his companions below.
Standish crouched on one knee behind the winch, his eyes aching with effort as he tried to see beyond the remaining lights. Before a burst from Motts’ gun shattered the cluster to fragments and the deck was plunged again into pitch darkness, he saw the two sets of ladders to the bridge, the barbed wire and the heavy gates. It was like a fortress.
Motts crawled across to his side, his forehead bleeding badly. ‘What d’you think, sir?’ He sounded out of breath.
‘God knows. But whoever has taken over the ship has got us pinned down right enough. If we rush that barricade they’ll pick us off in the wire like …’ He ducked as a burst of gunfire ripped along the hatch top, hurling wood splinters and torn canvas in all directions.
The Greatest Enemy Page 11