The Greatest Enemy

by Douglas Reeman

  Standish frowned. ‘Go on.’

  Motts walked to the doorway and waved his Stirling towards the jetty. ‘These guerillas, terrorists, or whatever they call their bleedin’ selves, must ’ave known the road convoy was empty if they always come ’ere early to dodge the rain, an’ my guess is that these other jokers were caught on the ’op.’

  Standish rubbed his chin. ‘It makes sense. Once they saw the convoy coming they had to hold it until they had done what they wanted.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘The patrol boat was blasted apart.’ He looked at Motts again. ‘A rocket?’

  ‘’S’my guess too, sir. The main force of attackers didn’t come down the road at all. They come right ’ere direct. From the sea!’

  Standish watched Rideout fixing a dressing over the Australian’s wound. The man was breathing heavily and completely unconscious.

  He said, ‘Get P.O. Barrett from the boat, Doc. He’ll give you a hand to make a stretcher and carry this chap along the jetty.’

  Rideout crouched on the floor, seemingly oblivious to the mud on his legs and buttocks. In the grey light his face looked deathly pale.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Must try and find out if there’s anyone else alive. You tell the party in the whaler, when it gets here.’

  He turned to leave but Rideout called hesitantly, ‘God, but I was bloody scared.’ He said it so calmly that Standish smiled.

  ‘As Pilot would say. You and three million others!’

  Then he followed Motts on to the road. ‘If only this rain would stop.’ But Motts did not hear him, and as they struggled through the mud and fallen huts he knew the others were following. They had all read of it. Even seen it on television. But this was happening right here and now, and they were in it.

  ‘Sir!’ A seaman halted and pointed into a ditch. It was almost overflowing with yellow water, but not enough to hide a man’s feet which had caught in an outflung branch. They were tied together. And further along the bank was another corpse, a woman this time, with half of her face shot away. A cooking pot lay nearby, mute witness to the actual moment of murder.

  Standish heard someone being sick, but could feel nothing himself but a cold, unreasoning rage. He thought of the butchered woman in the master’s cabin aboard the Cornwallis, the deliberate, senseless savagery.

  He said harshly, ‘Keep going. And watch the trees!’

  All the trucks were burned out, too. Some still in line where they had stopped. Others upended, as if their drivers had died behind their wheels under crossfire. The seamen plodded past them, their eyes averted from the charred, unrecognizable things which crouched obscenely in the burned out cabs, or lay in the rain and the mud.

  A Malay policeman was crumpled against an empty cask, his uniform soaked but without a trace of blood on it. He stared at them as they passed, his eyes bulging from a contorted face, his tongue swollen to twice its size. He had been garrotted with a piece of wire. It had been done very slowly, Standish thought.

  Feet splattered in the roadway and two more Malay troopers almost ran headlong into the sailors before they saw them. They collapsed, gasping and retching while Motts tried to reassure them.

  He said, ‘This one speaks English, sir. ’E says that the guerillas ’ave gone. These two ’ave bin tryin’ to pick off some stragglers.’

  Standish saw Motts’ expression and knew he shared his own thoughts. Neither of the troopers had any weapons, and both were terrified out of their wits. They had been running, not fighting.

  But the gunfire had stopped, and apart from the rain and the ripple of water in the gully beside the road they seemed to have the place to themselves.

  Motts said, ‘I suppose the villagers’ll come back soon. Maybe they’re used to this sort of thing.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor bastards.’

  A man shouted, ‘More of our lads comin’, sir!’ He sounded cracked with relief.

  Standish turned and saw them sloshing along the track and said, ‘So he’s come himself.’ It was the captain.

  Dalziel hurried through the mud, his head swinging from side to side as he studied the burned out village and the charred corpses around him. Standish saw that he was carrying his black stick, and across his shoulder was slung the sporting rifle he had seen in his cabin.

  Dalziel said tersely, ‘No point in going on. Never catch up with ’em in this rain.’ He sniffed the air like a terrier. ‘I’ve been on to the authorites of course. No sense from them. It appears there have been raids and ambushes in all directions. One ambush was only thirty-seven miles from the Kedah state capital, Alor Star.’ He waved his stick. ‘But it’s going on all over the northern territories, just as I predicted. The communist guerillas will do what they can to keep the defence forces spread out over wider and wider areas.’ He stopped to peer at one of the Malays. ‘This one seems to understand what I am saying.’

  Motts nodded, ‘That’s right, sir.’

  Dalziel glared at him. ‘I see. Useless, was he?’

  Standish said quietly, ‘Frightened.’

  Dalziel looked at him curiously. ‘This isn’t doing much good, is it?’ Then he unslung the rifle and removed the waterproof cover from its muzzle. Almost casually he asked, ‘Tell me what you saw?’ He lowered the rifle and prodded the trooper’s foot with it. ‘You must have seen something, eh?’

  ‘We shoot. We lose officer.’ The man watched the gun barrel with staring concentration.

  ‘You bloody liar!’ Dalziel pointed the rifle at the nearest huts. ‘All these men killed, and the village burned! You’ve no weapons, and I suspect you’ve been hiding right here since the fight started.’ He worked the bolt deliberately. ‘I’ll give you five seconds to remember.’

  Standish stepped forward. ‘Did you see a ship?’ He was sickened by the man’s fear. ‘Any sort of ship?’

  The rifle moved very slightly towards the man’s stomach and Dalziel said coldly, ‘He’ll say he saw anything now. I’ll not waste any more time on him.’

  ‘Please!’ The man rolled over in the mud, his eyes round with terror. ‘I am corporal. I not coward.’ He sobbed and then added, ‘There was a boat, I think.’ He closed his eyes, the effort of remembering making him wrinkle his face like an old man. ‘There was the explosion. It was after that I saw it.’

  Dalziel nodded. ‘Better. Much better.’

  Standish asked, ‘What size?’

  ‘I not know.’ The man opened his eyes and looked at the rifle. ‘But not big. I am sure of that.’

  Dalziel pulled the trigger and the rifle clicked harmlessly. He said, ‘Get everyone back to the ship. We’ll tow the whaler with the launch.’ He glanced quickly at the dripping trees above the village. ‘No sense in wasting time. We’ll take these two and the Australian with us. Might get something out of them later, eh?’

  Standish looked at him as the men started to move back along the track towards the jetty. ‘What are you going to do, sir?’

  ‘I’ve been calling up damn near everyone.’ Dalziel strode after the seamen. ‘The coastal patrols are scattered and in shelter from the storm. The army and police have all their work cut out as it is.’ He smiled grimly. ‘No one knows where the hell Jerram is. Probably cut off on some waterlogged airfield, blast him.’

  ‘Did you reach the admiral, sir?’

  ‘Briefly. He has given me the job of sorting this out.’ He chuckled. ‘The usual rider of course. Use your own discretion. In other words, if I make a hash of it I carry the can. If not, someone else will have a great and passionate yearning for all the credit.’ It seemed to amuse him. ‘I remember being told that they don’t want another Viet Nam on their hands. Well, they’re getting it, whether they damn well like it or not.’

  Standish said, ‘You intend to go after that boat?’

  ‘Correct.’

  They had reached the jetty and stopped to watch the seamen helping the two Malays into the whaler. Compared with the sailors they looked almost untouched. Motts and the other
s were covered from head to foot in mud, their eyes showing white through the layers of filth.

  Dalziel added, ‘We can still get ahead of that damn storm. If we wait at anchor we could be penned in for days.’ He looked at Standish and smiled gently. ‘Well?’

  Standish shrugged. ‘If there was a boat it must have gone north along the coast. South or east and we’d have seen it on our radar. We wouldn’t have known what it was, but we’d have seen it all right.’

  ‘Now you’re getting the picture. So let’s get weaving, shall we?’

  By the time they had churned clear of the jetty all the fires were out, and Standish wondered if even now some of the villagers were peering down at the ruins from the protective jungle. Also, how many others lay dead, and whether the woman with the cooking pot had understood the need of her own murder before she had been shot down.

  He noticed that the motion was heavier again, but the Whizz-Kid seemed well able to tow the pulling boat as they bounced through the drenching rain.

  When he looked inboard again he saw that the seamen were very quiet, their eyes dull and unseeing, as if they were reliving those moments in the village. He found he was suddenly grateful. They were all here. They had survived. It was strange to look back and realize that when he had first climbed from the boat it had been with a kind of fatalistic bravado. A sort of madness. As he had walked along the open jetty he had expected to feel the crashing agony of a bullet, just as he had known that if he had waited any longer he would probably have turned back.

  The ship loomed over them, and he followed Dalziel up the dangling ladder, his mind recording the shouts of welcome and concern, the helping hands, and an immediate bark of orders for the boats to be hoisted.

  Dalziel looked up at the sky and nodded. ‘Stations for getting under way immediately.’

  Standish watched him gravely. ‘Would you have shot that Malay?’

  Dalziel paused in his stride and smiled. ‘Would you have stopped me?’ He hurried away without waiting for an answer. Irvine shot past on his way to the bridge. He saw Standish and grimaced. ‘Another storm warning. It’s backed a bit more.’ He smiled. ‘What with one thing and another I forgot to welcome you aboard.’ Then he too dashed towards the bridge ladder.

  Motts took Standish’s pistol belt and muttered, ‘I’ll get it cleaned up a bit, sir.’ He looked at the rain. ‘Personally I’d rather be at sea than stuck in ’ere. You’ve room to run then.’

  Standish watch him walk aft, his body swaying easily to the uneven motion. A good petty officer. A man who had not even hesitated when the time had come to go for the hut and whatever lay inside.

  He saw Wills lurking by a screen door and said, ‘Fetch my pipe and pouch from my cabin, will you.’ Strange he had forgotten to take them with him. Had he really expected to die?

  Wills said, ‘The ladies’ll be stayin’ for a bit longer then?’

  ‘Looks like it.’ He added quickly, ‘No need to tell them too much about the village. They’ll find out soon enough.’

  He climbed the ladder to the forecastle and walked stiffly towards the bows.

  The men of the anchor party watched him in silence, and even Wishart seemed unnaturally subdued. He said awkwardly, ‘You look all in.’

  Standish watched the mechanic by the capstan and then looked up at Dalziel’s outline on the open bridge. ‘Thanks.’

  The capstan gave a metallic grunt, and link by link the cable began to jerk back through the hawsepipe. Standish frowned. How long had the anchor been down? An hour, or was it three? His mind refused to remember.

  Several men coughed as a down-draught of wind brought a cloud of greasy funnel smoke swirling forward over the bows. It was going to be rough beyond the headland, he thought.

  Wishart yelled, ‘Up and down!’

  When the anchor finally tore itself free from the bottom the ship seemed to stagger sideways before rudder and screws brought her back under command. Even so, it took Dalziel another fifteen minutes to turn her towards the open sea, the hull shaking wildly as the engines were put ahead and astern with hardly a pause while the stem edged round. Finally the broken water was spread before them in a criss-cross of leaping whitecaps, and Standish knew that whatever else happened, they would not be able to return until after the storm had spent itself along the shore.

  He said, ‘Make sure you’ve secured the anchor, Sub. Don’t want it to stove the plates in, do we?’

  He made his way aft towards the bridge, his body reeling like some Liverpool drunk as he looked astern towards the village. But the rain was still too heavy to see anything. It was, he decided, just as well.

  * * *

  ‘Steady on zero-four-five, sir.’ Corbin’s big hands eased the polished spokes very carefully while his eyes remained fixed on the gyro repeater.

  Dalziel nodded. ‘Good.’ Then he looked sharply at the coxswain. ‘Hand over the wheel to the chief quartermaster.’ He seemed to sense Corbin’s unwillingness and added, ‘You’ll need all your skill later on, and so will I.’

  Standish stood by one of the clearview screens and watched the endless terrain of broken rollers. With the ship’s head pointing away from the land they were cruising almost directly towards the starboard bow. And the colours were different. The angry, serried crests were dull yellow, like the muddy water on the village road, and the sides of the rising waves were very steep and dark, like black glass. The wind had mounted too, and he could hear it wailing around the wheelhouse and smashing the blown spray against the screens like slivers of ice.

  The whole ship was trembling, and he could guess the effort which Quarrie’s men had produced to give Dalziel the speed he had demanded. The Terrapin was making fourteen knots, in spite of the sea and wind, and he wondered if ships could remember, and if so did she recall seas like these in those far off Atlantic days and months?

  Dalziel snapped, ‘I’m going to the chartroom, Number One. Take the con. We’ll alter course in ten minutes.’

  Rideout stepped aside to let Dalziel pass and then groped his way clumsily to the forepart of the wheelhouse. He murmured, ‘What a sight.’

  Standish looked away. It was bad now, but when Terrapin turned on her next course towards the north she would be at the mercy of those rollers.

  He replied, ‘Visibility’s down to three miles and the glass is still falling.’ He saw the uncertainty on his face and added, ‘We’ll be all right, Doc. The path of the storm will be clear of us.’ He smiled at Rideout’s confused expression. ‘We’re on the fringe, so to speak.’

  ‘I see. But what exactly are we doing?’

  ‘The boat we’re looking for is apparently small. She’ll have to make good speed to keep out of trouble, but she’ll not want to keep too close inshore. In these seas it might be dangerous. Also, we have informed the shore patrols. We’re trying to get a bit of sea-room before following the coastline and making a full radar sweep.’ It sounded easy. Too damned easy.

  Leading Seaman Porter, the chief quartermaster, had taken over the wheel and said between his teeth, ‘The old Shellback’s takin’ it well, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’ Standish did not feel like talking. ‘Watch your helm. She’s yawing a bit.’

  The red telephone buzzed faintly above the sounds of sea and wind. It was Quarrie, his voice blurred and indistinct from the bowels of the engine room.

  ‘Yes, Chief?’

  Quarrie sounded angry. ‘Will you tell the Old Man to cut down the revs? She can’t take much more of this, y’know.’

  ‘I know.’ It was hard to picture the engineer as the same man who had been so moved at the news of Alison’s death. He added, ‘Do your best. I’ll tell the captain.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Dalziel stood in the doorway at the rear of the wheelhouse, his body reeling with the ship.

  ‘The Chief’s worried about the revolutions, sir.’

  Dalziel grimaced. ‘Have you ever known a bloody plumber who was not worried about his precious pistons?’ He walked t
o the screens. ‘We will make the turn now and begin the sweep. I’ve informed the radar people and sent Wishart up to keep an eye on them.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘There’s not a decent anchorage or niche of shelter for miles. We’ll run that murdering lot of bastards aground or sink them before we’re much older!’

  Irvine was in the doorway, his face composed but grim. ‘Ready, sir.’

  Dalziel wrapped one arm around a stanchion. ‘Very well.’ He looked at the helmsman. ‘Port fifteen.’

  Porter licked his lips. ‘Port fifteen, sir.’ He swung the wheel deftly, his eyes glued on the ticking gyro. ‘Fifteen of port wheel on, sir.’

  The effect was instantaneous. As the ship began to swing she heeled steeply taking a great wave full across the starboard side of the forecastle, so that the deck was completely hidden as far aft as the bridge. The four-inch gun mounting shivered as the tons of incoming water cascaded around it, leaving it isolated like some metal reef. Then as the sea boiled back along the main deck and sluiced angrily through the scuppers the bows rose heavily once more towards the low clouds.

  ‘Midships.’ Dalziel did not even blink. ‘Steady. Meet her, you fool!’

  There was sweat on the quartermaster’s intent face and he sounded almost breathless. ‘Steady, sir. Course three-five-zero.’ He gulped. ‘I can’t hold her, sir. She’s still going! Three-four-five!’

  ‘Put the starboard engine to slow astern!’ Dalziel turned to watch as another great wave thundered against the side and threw a wall of spray high above the bridge so that the squeaking clearview screens were momentarily blinded.

  Porter said hoarsely, ‘Steady, sir. Three-five-zero.’

  ‘Full ahead starboard.’ Dalziel looked at Standish, his eyes like stones. ‘Steady as you go.’ He waited until the next big roller had boomed against the hull and added, ‘Not too hard now, was it?’

  Porter swung the spokes and forced a shaky grin. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘I should damn well think so.’ But Dalziel was grinning, too.

  Standish watched him and wondered. He seemed to be enjoying it. As if he was fighting the sea and the ship single-handed.