Motts muttered savagely, ‘They’ll never get away with it!’
Behind them a man was whimpering piteously and another shouted, ‘I’m comin’, Ginger! ’Old on, mate!’ But more shots from the bridge silenced the wounded man, and the one who had called to him yelled, ‘You murderin’ bastards! You stinkin’, butcherin’ sods!’
Standish said slowly, ‘This is no use at all.’ It was surprising how calm he felt. As if he was suspended in space, remote and cool, dangerously so.
He added, ‘We’ll have to do something before first light. They’ll soon winkle us out when the sun comes up.’
Motts said, ‘But who are they, sir?’
‘The yeoman said something about pirates earlier on.’ He steadied the Stirling against the winch and then relaxed slightly. It was only a shadow. Earlier on? Was it possible it had all happened within hours? And somewhere in the darkness Burch and the others on Terrapin’s bridge were watching, expecting them to be killed. What the hell could Dalziel do but stand off and await daylight?
A seaman whispered, ‘There’s a bloke coming down the starboard ladder, sir!’ He raised his Stirling, adding harshly, ‘I’ll get that bastard!’
But Standish gripped his wrist. ‘Hold your fire!’
The man in question was unlocking the iron gate at the foot of the ladder, held all the time in a beam of torchlight directed from somewhere on the boat deck. He was a small bald man, and on his torn shirt wore the shoulder straps of a ship’s officer.
Once through the gate he locked it and then after a brief hesitation threw the key up towards the light. Then with his arms above his head he started to walk unsteadily towards the mainmast, his shoes loud in the silence.
As he blundered level with the winch Motts reached out and dragged him into cover.
Standish said, ‘Who the hell are you?’
The man slumped against the winch gasping for breath. He smelt of sweat, and fear.
‘Hamlyn, chief officer.’ He had a Yorkshire accent, and Standish was reminded vaguely of Pigott. He added thickly, ‘I’ve been sent down to parley with you.’
Standish stared at him. ‘Who by?’
The man let out a groan. ‘I don’t know, an’ that’s the truth. We were on passage for Songkhla when we came on two junks. One was towing t’other and they seemed in a bad way. We stopped to help of course.’
Standish looked at Motts. Of course, he had said. The unspoken code of the sea. He asked, ‘What happened?’
‘It was all so quick really. We had a deck cargo of Chinese passengers. They were supposed to be cleared, had work permits for Thailand an’ all that stuff, but as soon as we got alongside the junks they rushed the bridge and took command. The junks carried about two dozen more of ’em, armed to the bloody teeth. It was all over in minutes.’
Motts gestured towards the ladders. ‘What about the wire an’ gates?’
The officer shrugged. ‘Someone aboard had been careful to open them up at the right moment.’ He added bitterly. ‘It was no bloody chance affair. They knew we were coming all right!’
‘The cargo?’ Standish tried to control his impatience.
‘General mostly. But we’ve fifty cases of rifles and automatic weapons for the Thai army and twelve tons of drugs and medical supplies.’ He became suddenly desperate. ‘I’ve been sent down to tell you to signal your ship to stand off. The leader of these bastards has given me ten minutes.’
Motts said grimly, ‘Some ’opes ’e’s got!’
‘You don’t understand!’ The officer struggled on to his knees. ‘We’ve got twelve other passengers aboard, eight of ’em women! He’s going to kill the lot if your captain stays in company! That was why the skipper played along with him when you first stopped us.’
Motts said quietly, ‘Jesus!’
‘Would he do it?’ Standish tried to clear his mind, to produce some solution, even though he knew it was hopeless.
‘He shot the quartermaster and third officer. Our Sparks was killed when the bastards threw a grenade into the radio room. The poor bugger was trying to get off an S.O.S.’
‘I know.’ Standish looked at the stars. They seemed paler already. This leader, whoever he was, probably intended to rendezvous with some other ships and unload the precious cargo at sea. It would not be too difficult for someone who was so obviously well trained and informed. Jerram’s M.L.s would be many miles to the south. The leader probably knew that, too.
He said slowly, ‘I can’t make any bargains.’
‘D’you know what you’re saying, man?’ The officer clutched his arm. ‘They’ll murder the lot of them!’
Motts said sharply, ‘The first lieutenant means that they’ll kill the lot of us anyway. Where would be the point in lettin’ us live?’
‘Where are the passengers?’
‘Under guard in two cabins, port side of the boat deck.’ He sounded suddenly despairing. ‘They’ve got several armed men in the engine room to watch the black gang, and the rest are on the bridge with the master, Cap’n Tothill. It’s no use. They’ve thought of everything.’
Standish made up his mind. It was a crazy, impossible risk, but there was nothing else left.
‘Go back and tell them I must signal my captain. They’ll be expecting that, I should think. It’ll give us a bit more time.’
‘If you say so.’ He stood up and would have fallen but for Motts holding his arm. ‘I’m getting on a bit. I was going to retire from the sea this year.’ He shuddered. ‘But now …’ He reached suddenly into his shirt, and after some fumbling produced a battered money belt. ‘Only safe place to keep it in this old bucket. They steal everything that’s not screwed down.’
Standish waited. Knowing the man was making time, trying to come to some decision.
He continued in the same breathless tone, ‘I’ve been at sea for thirty years, mostly out here.’ He thrust the belt into Standish’s hands. ‘See that my old woman gets this if you come through.’ He released himself from Motts’ support, adding gruffly, ‘But I’ll not die knowing I didn’t lift a finger.’ He turned to leave. ‘There’s a spare key to the starboard gate in there, too.’
With something like a sob he was gone, and as he approached the bridge the torch came on again, and in the pale glare Standish saw a key hanging down from the boat deck on a length of codline for the officer’s re-entry.
When the torch was extinguished Standish felt the man’s own key between his fingers. It was still warm from contact against his body.
Motts said quietly, ‘Well now, there’s a thing.’
‘Get the lamp and signal the ship, Motts. As quickly as you can, but make sure you turn it away from the Cornwallis’s bridge as you send.’
He wondered briefly why Dalziel had made no move. Had not even attempted to make contact with the loud-hailer.
‘Ready, sir.’
They froze as a piercing scream shattered the silence. Then there was another. Then nothing.
A seaman said thickly, ‘Christ, that was a woman!’
Standish looked away. ‘Start sending, Motts. Word for word, just as I tell you.’
Motts shuttered his small lamp, and back across the black water came an instant acknowledgement. That must be Burch, Standish thought. It was some comfort. Something familiar to hold on to.
No shots came down from the bridge, nor was there any attempt to stop the message. It was a gamble on both sides, he thought grimly. But in this game everyone could lose.
Eventually Motts lowered his lamp and looked at him. ‘It’s been nice knowin’ you, sir.’ He sounded very calm. ‘If I ever get to Pompey again, I’ll stay there for good.’
Standish peered past him. Trying to see the ship’s outline. Imagining the scene on her bridge at this moment.
Then he replied slowly, ‘Be ready to move. And if I catch it, you’ll have to manage on your own. There’s no margin left for failure now.’
In his mind he imagined he could hear Dalziel’s voice. Can
’t abide failures! And in spite of the tension he felt his mouth twist in a smile.
Motts said, ‘I’ll tell the others, sir. What’s left of ’em.’ He showed his teeth. ‘I ’ope to Christ it’s the right key!’
Standish turned to watch the bridge again. It would soon be over. He wondered momentarily if Alison would ever read about it in the papers. And if she did, would she care?
He gripped the dead seaman’s Stirling even tighter and shut her from his mind.
Dalziel had said it is the here and the now. Well, now they all knew what that meant.
7 ‘The Navy’s here!’
PETTY OFFICER MOTTS slithered across the freighter’s deck and touched Standish’s elbow with his fingers.
‘I’ve told the lads what to expect, sir.’ He lifted his head above the winch and strained his eyes towards the superstructure. ‘I think it’s gettin’ brighter already.’
Standish did not reply. He had hardly moved a muscle since the brief message had been flashed across to the frigate, and his eyes felt raw from peering at the upper bridge and the deeper shadows around the boat deck. He tried to picture Dalziel, and wondered what he would have done had he been in the captain’s position.
Motts muttered, ‘Jesus, what’s takin’ so long?’
‘It’s not long.’ Standish stiffened as a brief glimmer of light showed itself beyond the shattered glass of the radio shack. A man lighting a cigarette. They must be confident, he thought grimly. Then he thought of Motts and the other seamen, and how much worse it must seem to them. The Cornwallis’s engine had started again, and against the pale stars the darker tracery of rigging and blocks were shaking violently to the screw’s renewed effort.
He said more calmly, ‘The captain seems to have fooled them.’ For the present anyway … ‘It’ll be any minute now.’
He eased back from the winch and brushed against something by his knee. It was a man’s leg, outthrust and relaxed, the attitude accepted at the moment of death.
Tightly he added, ‘Pass the word round, Motts. There’s going to be a hell of a lot of noise. So keep together, and think of nothing but that bloody ladder!’
He heard Motts whispering in the darkness and thought of those unknown men above him on the bridge. Did they really expect Dalziel to haul off and let them get clear? But they had no choice now, and nothing left to gamble with but their hostages. He remembered the chilling screams and tried not to imagine their cause.
Motts hissed in his ear, ‘Look!’ He seized his arm excitedly. ‘Port quarter! The old Shellback’s comin’!’
Standish half rose, his eyes fixed on a hardening moustache of white water beneath the frigate’s stem as she pounded out of the darkness at full speed, her bows pointing straight for the freighter’s hull.
To go alongside an anchored ship in the dark was always dangerous, but to attempt to close with a moving one was courting with real disaster. Standish found that he had risen to his feet, and the seamen around him were staring at the onrushing patch of broken foam with something like awe.
Overhead a voice called out urgently and two dark shapes flitted along the bridge wing. As Standish pulled the key from his pocket the Terrapin’s searchlight came on, lighting up the bridge and funnel in a dazzling glare, while at the same time her siren rent the air apart with a jarring banshee wailing, the deafening sounds adding to the nightmare unreality.
Standish yelled, ‘Now, lads! While they’re all busy!’
Then he was running, heedless of nameless shapes in the harsh glare, of disjointed cries and the occasional sounds of shooting, his whole mind concentrated upon reaching that gate.
Men lurched against his back, and while he fumbled with the crude lock he heard one repeating fervently, ‘Oh God, oh God,’ as if he would never stop.
The gate clanged aside and they were dashing up the ladder, blinded momentarily as the boat deck hid the searchlight like a curtain.
And all the time the siren kept up its insane wailing, louder and nearer until Standish could also hear the roar of fans, the steady swish of screws as the frigate charged headlong towards the other ship’s tall side.
There was more shooting now, and sparks flickered from bridge and boat deck alike as bullets cracked and whistled, or whimpered impotently across the opposite beam.
A pale shape loomed across the catwalk beside the radio shack, saw Standish and made to step back into the shadows. He felt the hot wind of bullets past his face and saw the crouching shape plucked aside and fall kicking to the deck below. The seaman who fired must have missed Standish’s head by inches.
But they were on the catwalk, and between the radio shack and the tall funnel Standish saw the frigate’s grey outline as she surged close alongside, her bridge lit occasionally by short bursts of automatic weapons as she replied to the fire from the other ship’s superstructure.
Then came the first impact. Standish felt the deck stagger beneath him, heard the terrible shriek of torn metal as the frigate’s raked forecastle ripped through the freighter’s rusty plates like a timber saw. In the weird reflected light he could see hammocks and fenders draped along the Terrapin’s hull to withstand the first shock, but they were already being ripped away as both hulls ground together again with a prolonged metallic roar.
Motts shouted, ‘Up ’ere, sir!’ He dashed towards the bridge, his Stirling held in front of him while the deck gave one more terrible convulsion.
Standish kicked open a wooden screen door and saw the figures around the wheel and telegraph swinging to stare at him as if he had fallen from the sky. There were about fifteen of them, anonymous in the smoke and dazzling reflections. Then one made a dash towards the opposite wing, that one small movement triggering off all the fear and hatred which the remaining seamen had endured since climbing aboard.
Stirlings hammered viciously from the door and through the shattered bridge windows at the rear, shutting out the screams and cries, concealing their brief harvest in wreathing coils of blue smoke.
Standish knocked Motts’ arm down. ‘Enough! Cover what’s left while I go for the boat deck!’ He saw Motts nod, his eyes wild in the glare.
As he ran with three seamen towards the first door in the superstructure Standish noticed that the savage jerking had stopped and the ship was wallowing heavily in what must be the frigate’s wake. So Terrapin had done her bit. Had created a fantastic and crazy diversion while he finished the job.
He pushed open the door and stumbled to the opposite side of a darkened cabin. He found another door and almost fell into a brightly lit passageway which ran fore and aft through the boat deck superstructure.
A shadow moved by a door at the far end and a bullet ricocheted against the steel behind his shoulder. Muffled screams answered the shot and Standish yelled, ‘End cabins! Move!’
At that moment another figure dashed into view, a grenade held above his head as he seized the handle of a door and jerked it open. Standish heard the women’s terrified screams even louder and knew that this was the one where they were being held. The grenade was to ensure that they at least would not be spared.
Standish raised his Stirling and fired. The magazine was almost empty, but he saw the man spin round, heard the click of steel as the lever flew from the grenade, and shouted, ‘Down, lads! Get down!’
Confined closely by the sides of the narrow passageway it was more of a sensation than an actual sound. Standish did not hear any explosion at all, but was conscious of tremendous pressure on his ears and lungs, of stinging smoke and chipped paintwork across his outthrust arms like imitation snow.
Then as his hearing returned he lifted his head and saw what remained of the would-be executioner. His trunk and legs were smashed into a corner of the passageway, and the rest of him spread across the punctured deckhead and doors like some hideous mural.
He turned and looked at his men. One was slumped against the side, blood pumping between his fingers as he squeezed them round his thigh, his teeth gritted against th
e pain. The others seemed dazed but unhurt.
Standish said, ‘Dobson, you stay and look after him until help arrives. Put a dressing on it.’
The wounded man peered up at him and grinned. ‘S’all right, sir. Don’t feel too bad.’ Then he fainted.
Standish reached the last door and seized the handle. It had swung shut as the grenade thrower had died and its surface was scarred with splinters and droplets of blood.
He drew his revolver for the first time and stared at it. Then he pushed down the handle and heard more screams, suddenly close and personal.
He shouted, ‘You’re safe now!’ There was a sudden silence and he added, ‘The Navy’s here!’ He half turned and saw the seaman beside him grinning broadly, the shock draining from his eyes as Standish said awkwardly, ‘A bit theatrical, but it seems to have worked.’ He tried to return the man’s grin but his lips felt frozen.
Standish thrust open the door and stepped across the coaming, his eyes passing over the upended suitcases and torn bedding, the crouching shapes of several women, wild-eyed and staring at him like those who cannot believe in their own reason.
One, a young girl with dark hair, was sitting on a bunk, her knees drawn up under her chin. She was almost naked, and as she looked at Standish she began to weep. There was no sound and no tears, just a steady, pitiful shaking.
Standish asked, ‘Is everyone here?’
A tall, grim-faced woman in a dressing gown said, ‘In the next cabin.’ She shuddered. ‘The master’s wife. They killed her when your ship came alongside.’
She sat down and put her arm round the sobbing girl’s bare shoulders.
‘Is she all right?’ Standish felt sick and dazed after the first few moments of madness.
‘Several of the Chinese raped her.’ The girl made no sign that she had heard as the older woman added quietly, ‘She might get over it. I was at Singapore in the last war. I did.’
Standish turned to the seaman. ‘Stay here. I’ll go and see …’
He did not finish but opened the other door and pushed into the cabin. The light had been smashed so he groped for the deadlight and clipped it above the wide scuttle. Astonished he saw the sea spread out beyond him, blue and green in the early light. Then he turned and looked at the large double bunk, at the elderly woman who lay spread-eagled across the bloodied sheets, her eyes watching him but devoid of understanding. He pulled a rug from the cabin floor and threw it across her. Could men really do that to a woman? To any living thing? He doubled over a chair and vomited uncontrollably.
The Greatest Enemy Page 12