The Greatest Enemy

by Douglas Reeman

  Vine called, ‘Echo bears red oh-oh-five. Range oh-seven-oh.’

  Dalziel peered at Standish and Irvine, his teeth making a white crescent in his shadowed face. ‘We’re holding him! The last turn made some difference after all. If we can get another knot out of her we’ll have that bastard cold!’

  Standish seized the rack of telephones as the bows climbed steeply up another unbroken roller. Up, up, until the stem seemed to be pointing at the skudding clouds like a shining black arrowhead. Then, as the roller broke and roared down either beam he felt the forepart of the ship drop sickeningly into the waiting trough, and pitied the men crammed in the dripping messdecks as they were plummeted some forty feet before smashing into the solid force of water below.

  He thought too of the nameless submarine and her commander. He was leaving it as late as possible before diving, was even driving towards the approaching storm before making his dive to that other level of peace and stability. It pointed to the boat being an ordinary one and not nuclear, he thought. Her commander was probably charging batteries after his recent exploits around the Malaysian coast and elsewhere.

  It was unnerving to realize that if Terrapin failed to make contact the submarine’s crew would be able to glide away in comfort, listening to the frigate’s screws as she fought her way back from the approaching typhoon.

  The engine room telegraph buzzed again and the bosun’s mate called, ‘Mr. Quarrie wants to speak to you, sir.’ He handed it to Dalziel and used both hands to hold himself to a fire extinguisher as the ship lifted her stem towards the next leaping wave crest.

  ‘Captain.’ Dalziel crouched forward to peer towards the nearest clearview screen. ‘So?’

  Irvine muttered, ‘The ship will fall apart in a minute!’

  Standish ignored him and tried to guess what Quarrie was saying. Dalziel said very little, and his voice was devoid of expression.

  ‘Impossible, Chief. Out of the question.’ He lowered the telephone slightly and barked at Corbin, ‘Bring her round a bit, Cox’n. Steer zero-three-five.’

  Rideout reached Irvine’s side and said excitedly, ‘It’s wild, but the motion is better.’ He peered from one to the other. ‘Isn’t it?’

  Irvine said bitterly, ‘It’s always better when you face oncoming seas like these. But soon now we have to turn.’ He swung away, adding, ‘Work it out for yourself.’

  Dalziel slammed down the telephone and said, ‘I think the wind’s veered a point or so.’ He seemed quite calm.

  Rideout swallowed hard as the ship plunged forward and down, his eyes fixed on the incoming sea as it rushed aft along the forecastle and leapt high over the gun mounting. Standish saw his lips moving, as if he was counting seconds, willing the bows to reappear. It seemed to take a long while, as though the ship was already starting to plunge to the bottom.

  Rideout breathed out noisily as the deck emerged shining faintly against the tossing waves and said, ‘Some of the guardrail’s gone.’

  Standish turned away. You’ve not seen anything yet. He looked at Dalziel as Vine’s voice echoed above the din.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ve lost it. I think it has dived.’

  Dalziel glared up at the intercom speaker and rasped, ‘Keep watching!’ Then he dragged himself to the screen and pressed his face against it as if seeking his quarry for himself.

  Irvine said flatly, ‘We must turn now, sir. While there’s still time.’

  Dalziel swung on him. ‘Hold your advice to yourself!’ He seemed to see Rideout for the first time. ‘And you, what the hell are you whispering about, eh?’ He staggered and reached out to grasp a voicepipe. ‘Get off my bridge and attend to your own department at once!’

  As Rideout hurried for the door he was thrust aside by a thickset, dripping figure. It was Quarrie. He had come straight from the engine room along the treacherous upper deck wearing neither oilskin nor lifejacket.

  Standish could see the black oilstains on his chest and legs, could almost feel the man’s fury as he reeled towards Dalziel and shouted, ‘Are you all mad up here?’ He saw Standish and added, ‘There’s a bearing running hot in the starboard shaft, in the after gland space!’

  Dalziel replied, ‘Kindly control your emotions.’

  ‘Emotions?’ Quarrie looked as if he might strike Dalziel. ‘It’s the after bearing, don’t you understand?’ He faced the others, suddenly desperate and appealing. ‘It might be a blocked oil-pipe, and if I can’t fix it the whole shaft will seize up solid as a bloody rock!’

  Irvine said quietly, ‘Hell.’

  ‘Damn fine time to tell me that.’ Dalziel was still by the voicepipes, his face in shadow.

  ‘I’ve told you already!’ Quarrie waved his hand wildly. ‘I warned you, I explained exactly what would happen if you kept this crazy speed going.’

  Standish said, ‘Easy, Chief. There’s been a lot going on here, too.’

  Dalziel remarked, ‘We will keep closing on the last fix and continue with a sonar sweep. There’s still a chance of locating that submarine. A very good chance, in my opinion.’

  Quarrie seemed dazed. ‘In my opinion this ship will be lying deeper than any bloody submarine in about thirty minutes!’

  Irvine looked at Standish and asked quickly, ‘What do you think, Number One? You know about subs.’

  ‘I can see your little game, Pilot.’ Dalziel sounded dangerously calm. ‘Well, forget it. I am not interested in opinions, only facts. And the one true fact around here is that submarine!’

  He turned and peered through the screen as a dull boom echoed dismally above the hiss of bursting spray. The hull lifted, staggered and then plunged headlong through another breaking roller and the same sound repeated itself. It was like a giant oildrum being beaten with a bar of iron.

  The bosun’s mate snatched up a handset and reported shakily, ‘The buffer says the port anchor is comin’ adrift, sir.’ In the compass light his eyes were like marbles.

  Dalziel plucked at the neck of his crumpled shirt. ‘Anchor?’ Then in a sharper voice he snapped, ‘Get Wishart down here at once!’ Almost to himself he added, ‘Is there not one single man I can rely on?’

  Wishart entered the wheelhouse and almost fell back under Dalziel’s sudden anger.

  ‘Don’t you ever do anything right? What sort of bloody officer do you imagine you will be, eh?’ He raised his fist as the dull boom came again. ‘Did the executive officer warn you about doubly securing the anchors, or did he not?’

  Wishart glanced at Standish and muttered wretchedly, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir, what?’ Dalziel leaned towards him. ‘Answer me!’

  ‘He did warn me, sir. I thought I’d taken all precautions …’

  He faltered as Quarrie interrupted roughly, ‘Never mind that. What about my shaft? I must insist that you slow down at once!’

  Dalziel did not appear to notice him. ‘Well, Sub, you can damn well take your men forrard and see to it, right now …’

  He broke off as another speaker intoned, ‘Wheelhouse … Sonar. No contact.’

  Standish said, ‘Nobody can stay alive up forrard, sir. Not under these conditions.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Dalziel was tugging at his collar again. ‘Well, due to this officer’s carelessness I seem to have no alternative but throw away the one real chance we’ve had of proving our worth.’ He looked at Wishart. ‘Get your men together and await orders.’ To Quarrie he said, ‘And you can return to your engine room, Chief. I will begin to turn the ship in ten minutes.’

  Quarrie said stubbornly, ‘And the shaft, sir?’

  ‘I will reduce speed when we have altered course.’ As Quarrie reached the door he added coldly, ‘Unless of course you’d like to stop engines altogether and have us take to the boats!’

  Quarrie went out, slamming the door behind him.

  Dalziel continued in a more level tone, ‘We’ll let the sea do the work for us. I shall turn to port. Be ready to go half astern on the port engine.’


  Boom. The sound jarred the strained minds of everyone in the wheelhouse.

  Standish said, ‘I think Wishart did all that he could, sir. Maybe that big breaker snapped something. Most of the cable and anchor gear has been aboard ever since the ship came out East.’

  ‘It’s not the gear.’ Dalziel was squinting into the radar repeater as if still hoping for a returning contact. ‘Nor the ship either.’ Then he glanced across at Irvine. ‘But if that’s the way they want to play it, then heaven help them as far as I’m concerned.’

  The bosun’s mate said, ‘Call from the engine room, sir. Standing by.’

  Dalziel grunted. ‘Port fifteen. Port engine half speed astern.’

  Corbin had hardly completed a full turn of the wheel when the ship reeled wildly across an advancing wall of water and began to topple drunkenly on to her beam. Pieces of gear tore loose and clattered through the bridge, and somewhere below a man cried out in sudden terror.

  Dalziel seemed to be speaking through clenched teeth. ‘Increase to twenty. Port engine full astern.’

  The next careering wave hit the exposed bow and thrust the ship hard over, the deck angling so steeply that from his position jammed against the port scuttles Standish found he was staring straight down into the frothing water alongside. Another few degrees and the hull would capsize completely. He found that he could accept it. Was even able to breathe. Then through the leaping spray he saw a piece of buckled guardrail and knew that the ship was coming upright again.

  He felt the fierce pressure against his chest and thighs easing, and turned stiffly as Dalziel barked, ‘Half ahead both engines. Wheel amidships!’ He rubbed the screen with his sleeve. ‘Steady now! Steady!’

  Corbin said, ‘Steady, sir. Course three-four-zero.’ He cursed softly and swung the spokes to meet a sudden challenge, and added grimly, ‘She’s holding it, sir.’

  Standish looked around him, at the weary, clinging watch-keepers. At Corbin standing straddle-legged and stubborn, as if nothing would break him. And at Dalziel by the gyro again, his face like a mask as he peered at the luminous figures inches from his eyes.

  He said, ‘I’ll go and watch Wishart, sir.’ There was no response. ‘Is that all right?’

  Dalziel still did not answer so he pushed into the small passageway abaft the wheelhouse and stumbled across Rideout who was trying to blow up a lifejacket. But the doctor was not alone. There seemed to be dozens of dark shapes jammed everywhere, their orange lifejackets giving them a strange anonymity. He thrust his way between them, saying nothing. It was useless to tell sailors it was pointless to climb to the highest point in a ship when they were terrified beyond reason. It had been bad enough on the bridge, but to men off watch and imprisoned with a reeling, creaking hull it must have been a living torment.

  He found Wishart with his men huddled together below the bridge, their faces showing occasionally as a torch flashed amongst them. Beyond the watertight door he could hear the sea sluicing along the deck, the boom of the anchor like a curfew bell.

  Wishart looked at him and said, ‘Thanks for coming down.’ He sounded as if he was shivering.

  Another voice spoke beside him. ‘I’ve got a new slip fixed up an’ ready, sir.’ It was Petty Officer Harris, the chief bosun’s mate. He seemed unperturbed. ‘An’ I’ve sent two good leadin’ ’ands below to break the cable.’

  Standish nodded. Harris, like Motts, needed no telling. It was useless to try and secure the anchor. That great weight of water must have moved something just enough to allow the anchor to slip clear of the hawsepipe. Now, suspended on its shackle it was swinging against the frail plating each time the ship plunged. If it stove the bows in the sea would do the rest, bulkheads or no bulkheads.

  Wishart said, ‘It’ll have to be fast.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I … I’ll go first.’

  Harris chuckled. ‘We’ll both go, sir.’ He jabbed the two seamen behind him. ‘White an’ Bundy, take the wire strops. Dobson, cop ’old of the lifeline. When I raps on the deck with me ’ammer the lads below will break the joinin’ shackle and we’ll do the rest, right?’

  They nodded. One of the seamen asked thickly, ‘What if we gets caught by one of them big waves, Buffer?’

  Harris grinned. ‘Don’t you worry yer ’ead, Knocker. Your old woman’ll get ’er pension a bit earlier, that’s all!’ Then sharply he added, ‘Right, lads. Let’s get that bloody door open!’

  Now that the ship had turned her stern towards the great following sea it was surprisingly sheltered below the bridge. Cautiously, feeling their way along a lifeline the men groped towards the gun mounting and around it where they paused beneath the twin muzzles.

  Standish pulled himself to the front of the crouching figures and peered towards the stem. The ship seemed to be making hardly any headway at all, but that was merely because her speed was almost matched by that of the pursuing waves. The deck was still vibrating fiercely, and he knew Corbin would be watching and feeling his wheel, ready to warn Dalziel the instant he was losing steerage way. If that happened the ship would broach to, or be pooped and driven under before Dalziel could get more speed.

  The bows dipped slowly and he saw the spray feathering back through the bullring and spurting up over the crumpled guardrail.

  He said, ‘Now!’

  While the bows lifted wearily again they dashed forward along the slippery deck, clinging to the single wire stay which spelt life or death for all of them.

  Harris threw himself astride the port cable shouting, ‘This one never was much bleedin’ good!’ He laughed into the spray and held up a piece of metal. ‘Sheered off like a carrot!’

  The deck canted again and more water swept over them, choking their cries and curses, blinding them until the bows fought back once more.

  And all the time Harris was busy with his slip and his strops, while the seaman named Dobson controlled his movements with the rest of the lifeline.

  Harris rapped his hammer on the deck and shouted, ‘Now we’ll see!’

  The cable groaned and stiffened as the steel slip took the strain. He banged twice on the deck, and from below they all heard the sudden rasp of metal and then an answering signal.

  Harris yelled, ‘Thank the livin’ Jesus that wasn’t rusty, too!’

  Standish jerked the wire stay. ‘Get back, the rest of you! The buffer will knock off the slip!’ He saw Wishart’s face close by his arm, pale and staring. ‘Got to judge the right moment!’

  He made himself wait, knowing that Harris was having real difficulty in holding on. But knock the slip off too soon and the anchor would smash through the hull long before it could drop clear.

  The bows started to dip and he yelled, ‘Slip!’

  Harris leapt clear and swung his hammer, ducking into Standish’s arms as with a growling roar the short length of cable trundled along the deck and then vanished through the hawsepipe.

  Harris clung to the two officers, his face split into a huge grin. ‘That’ll give some fish a ’eadache!’

  They struggled aft along the wire towards the gun mounting, half blinded, and almost deafened by the wind in their faces.

  Wishart yelled, ‘Never thought it had taken so long.’ He was half laughing, half sobbing. ‘Be daylight soon!’

  Standish peered past him and then froze. The pale line etched against the cloud was not the dawn. It was the thin crest of the greatest wave he had ever seen. It stretched away on either quarter until it was lost from view and seemed higher than the masthead.

  He shouted, ‘Run for the guns! Quick!’

  The wave came on, lifting the stern higher and higher until it was tearing forward and down like a surfboard. Had it broken it would have smashed the ship apart, but as it reached the bridge it seemed to stagger and break into several gigantic waves of equal size and ferocity.

  Standish saw the nearest one lifting above the port rail, so tall that it was like something solid. He watched it curve inboard and felt the ship slew heavily to one side as
the full force of it exploded against the foot of the bridge before thundering forward towards the bows.

  His breath was being pushed from his lungs. It was like being buried alive, and in the blind maelstrom of sea and noise he could hear himself shouting, his words choked by salt water as it swept over him, dragging at his sodden body, tearing at his fingers as he fought to hold on.

  Then it was past, and as he struggled painfully against the gun mounting he realized that he was alone.

  He reeled round the streaming steel and saw a crumpled figure poised right on the edge of the deck, draped around a buckled stanchion like a discarded puppet. He reached it and dragged desperately at the man’s coat. It was Wishart, and as he hauled him back over the side he heard him gasp, ‘Buffer! He’s here!’

  Standish saw two seamen dashing from below the bridge to seize Wishart’s body, and as he lowered himself to the side again he found Harris directly beneath him, his hands locked into a drooping piece of guardrail like two pale claws. Standish felt someone holding his legs, and reached down to seize the petty officer’s wrists with all his strength.

  Harris croaked, ‘Bloody fine thing! Me leg’s busted!’

  Standish adjusted his grip and called back to the men behind him, ‘Pull us inboard, lads!’ It was then that he saw the next wave coming down the side of the hull towards him.

  This time he heard nothing at all, but was conscious of the overwhelming, choking water, and the fact that Harris’s wrists were slipping through his fingers. He knew he was trying to shout to him even though his lungs seemed full of water. Knew too that Harris was staring up at him, watching him, knowing he was going to die.

  He thought he too was dying, for even as the two cold hands slipped away so also did his senses. Then there was nothing.

  When he opened his eyes it took him several minutes to grasp what had happened. There was a light burning on the opposite bulkhead, and everything was white. Clean, clinical and pure white. He moved his cracked lips and tried to laugh. Like a soap advertisement.

  He saw Rideout looking down at him, smiling and sad at the same moment.