The Greatest Enemy

by Douglas Reeman

  Wills had appeared as if by magic and handed Dalziel a clean shirt.

  ‘These bastards on the wreck could hold an army at bay.’ His voice was muffled as he struggled into the shirt. ‘This is what we’ll do. There’s probably a carrier somewhere in the Gulf. I shall request assistance and some helicopters. We can pin these characters down easily with a bit of air cover.’ He groped for his cap and brushed some dust from it before saying, ‘But remember, it’s our pigeon!’

  Irvine said, ‘We have no choice, sir. We must leave at once.’ He gestured towards the islet. ‘They won’t get far. We can call up additional support and let them handle it.’ His tone hardened. ‘You have no right to do this.’

  Dalziel stared at him. ‘No right? There are three men dead back in that inlet, mostly because you only saw what you wanted to see. Once more, your damn carelessness has cost lives, and now you’ve got the impudence to question my orders!’

  Rideout interrupted quickly, ‘I think it would be better if you went to my sickbay, sir. It is a nasty wound. No one could blame you for handing over command, temporarily.’ He dropped his gaze. ‘You have proved your point. Others can clear up the mess now.’

  Dalziel walked unsteadily to the screen. ‘You haven’t understood a word, have you? Don’t you realize that by the time we can get any sort of cover organized those murdering bastards will have been lifted off? Only our presence here is holding them and the evidence of their operations.’

  Irvine looked at Rideout, but when he remained silent said bluntly, ‘I do not think it is your decision any more, sir. If the doctor won’t say it, then I will. I’ve got too much at stake to throw it all away on some fanatical gooks and a few gallons of oil.’ Dalziel remained staring at the islet as Irvine continued, ‘I suggest a signal is despatched immediately giving our correct position and relevant facts. If it is decided we should remain here to await support, then all well and good. But as the sea is getting up I think it unlikely.’ He looked sharply at Rideout. ‘It would be prudent if you would report sick at once. Number One can assume command until further orders are received and verified.’

  Dalziel looked at Standish. ‘Is that what you want?’ His voice was very level, but in his deepset eyes Standish saw something more. He was pleading with him, throwing himself wide open as never before.

  Irvine said, ‘It doesn’t matter what he thinks, sir. It is what is right which counts.’

  Dalziel did not take his eyes from Standish. ‘You know I’m right, don’t you? If we waste time, and especially if the sea gets up, there’ll be nothing here when help comes. In spite of what has happened and what we know, they’ll turn their backs on it, because it is convenient for them.’

  Standish replied quietly, ‘Three men died just now. Without warning they were killed.’ He looked at Irvine and saw that Pigott and Hornby had joined him by the compass. ‘I don’t think they should die in vain, sir. But you must make a signal. Tell the C. in C. and Admiral Curtis what has happened. Let them decide.’ He kept his eyes on Irvine as he added firmly, ‘But you will make the signal, sir. Nobody else will do it while you are in command.’

  Quarrie swung himself into the bridge and said, ‘I’ve still got steam on the capstan.’ He glanced at the others questioningly. ‘What’s this, a conference?’

  Dalziel walked to the telephones and picked one from the rack. ‘W/T office? Captain. Stand by to despatch a signal. Immediate.’ He covered the telephone with his hand and said, ‘You should see yourselves. It’s a sight I’ll never forget, I know that!’

  Marsh, the young signalman, crossed to the starboard gratings to keep clear of the assembled officers. He guessed what was happening, but could not quite understand it. Later he would ask the yeoman. Old Burch always had an answer. He gripped the glass screen as the ship heeled uneasily to her cable. When he spoke his voice was so quiet it was almost lost in the sounds of water sluicing against the hull. But the effect of his words was like an electric shock.

  ‘Excuse me, but there’s a submarine on the starboard quarter.’ He swallowed noisily. ‘Look, sir!’

  Dalziel dropped the telephone and threw himself on to the gratings. Standish followed and stared hard at the low shape which was moving so very slowly past the other islet, about a mile and a half away. He seized some glasses and trained them over the screen, his mouth suddenly dry as he saw the submarine spring into focus. He could see the layers of sea-slime on her black hull, the air of menace which was so familiar to him, yet so alien when viewed from the Terrapin’s open bridge.

  Dalziel said hoarsely, ‘See? She’s making for the inlet. Her captain has probably seen everything we’ve been doing. Now he’s going in to take off his people, and will probably detonate the only evidence we have to show for all this.’ His voice sounded near breaking as he added, ‘Look at him. He thinks we’re going to let him do it!’

  Standish said softly, ‘She’s an ex-Russian boat. I heard they’d handed quite a few to the Chinese before relations got strained.’ How could he be so calm when his whole being was screaming out to move and act?

  Behind him he heard Irvine again. His voice like someone repeating a lesson. ‘Make the signal, sir. There is nothing we can do. Nothing.’

  Dalziel turned away as Standish said, ‘If we could have got here earlier. Had we anchored across the inlet he’d have been helpless.’ He made himself say it. ‘As we are now.’

  A voicepipe squeaked and the bosun’s mate said, ‘Call from the fo’c’sle, sir. Mr. Caley thinks the cable might be draggin’.’

  Dalziel nodded dully. ‘Hands to stations for getting under way. We will break out the anchor immediately.’

  As the order was repeated and piped around the ship the watching figures along the guardrails seemed to melt away, while others appeared on the forecastle where Caley was staring down at the snubbing cable. Yet in spite of the noise and sudden activity it seemed quite remote on the bridge where officers and watchkeepers stood like statues, their eyes still watching the slow-moving submarine. On her conning tower it was now possible to see a few heads, and as the watery sunlight flashed momentarily below her periscope standards Standish knew her officers were studying the Terrapin.

  He dragged his eyes away and looked at Dalziel, wondering how he felt at this moment. Frustration, despair? They were too empty to describe what he must be suffering. He had almost expected him to order an all-out attack, or at least make some show of defiance before this unnamed, unmarked enemy. It might have been better if he had. To be forcibly restrained and taken from his bridge would have shown all of them that the old spark was still there.

  From forward came the steady clank of incoming cable, and on the side deck he heard Wishart yelling at his men to prepare the Whizz-Kid for hoisting.

  Dalziel said tonelessly, ‘You draft out a signal, Number One. Report the submarine’s position and purpose here. You know what to do.’

  Pigott muttered uneasily, ‘At least they won’t be able to use this place again.’

  Dalziel did not turn his head. ‘There will be other places. And there will be other people to ignore them until it is all too late.’

  Irvine replaced a telephone, his features wooden. ‘Engine room standing by, sir.’

  A lookout called, ‘Submarine has stopped, sir.’

  Standish paused on his way to the chartroom and raised his glasses. There was still no sign of life on the submarine’s casing, and apart from two heads on her conning tower she could have been abandoned. There was not even a gun as was usual in this sort of boat.

  He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and then said quietly, ‘Something’s moving.’ He steadied the glasses against the ship’s uneven motion. ‘Forrard of the tower, what the hell …’ He sprang across the gratings and shouted, ‘She’s armed with rockets! She’s training them on us!’

  From the forecastle the regular clank of cable continued unhindered, and below the bridge Wishart’s party had succeeded in raising their boat clear of the wate
r like a gleaming blue pod.

  Dalziel was already pressed against the screen, his voice carrying above the other sounds as he yelled, ‘Break the cable! Jump to it!’ He groped for the red button and jabbed it with his thumb. ‘Action stations! Get those men off the upper deck!’

  As the alarm shrilled and clamoured between decks Caley seemed to come to life again, pushing with his hands when words failed to move the men around him. They seemed stricken and unable to react until with an oath Caley dashed amongst them, his mouth moving soundlessly in the scream of the alarm.

  Dalziel snapped, ‘Signal. Immediate. We are …’ He broke off as he saw Standish’s face and turned his eyes back to the other vessel.

  Standish stood quite motionless, watching the tiny blob of light as it left the submarine’s casing and flashed low across the heaving water towards him. It was like a drip of molten lava, and had such a flat trajectory that he could see the surface of the water tearing apart as it ripped above it.

  Pigott was yelling, ‘He can’t! He couldn’t fire on us!’

  Then came the explosion. It was like a thunderclap, and Standish felt the bridge shake as if it had been struck by the greatest wave in creation. As he reeled against some unyielding object he was partially blinded by a torrent of falling spray, his lungs burning as the air was squeezed out of them. All about him men were slipping and falling, yelling to each other, while the ship staggered and then rolled upright again. When he dragged himself to the screen he saw that the side deck was scorched black, the guardrails missing and the funnel buckled inwards like a crushed oil drum. In the streaming smoke, like two gaunt gibbets were the remains of the davits, and he guessed the rocket had exploded against the Whizz-Kid even as it was being hoisted up the ship’s side. But for her, it would have burst right inside the hull.

  He felt the ship swinging clumsily in a lazy roller and knew that the cable had parted, and when he peered forward he saw Caley and some men reeling aft towards the guns, while at his back three crumpled bodies lay spread-eagled around the empty hawsepipes, cut down by the blast which had somehow spared their companions.

  Dalziel shouted, ‘Make this signal. Plain language. Am under missile attack from unidentified submarine.’ He ran to the voicepipe and snapped, ‘Port fifteen!’ Then he looked across at Irvine. ‘Did you get that?’ He watched the gyro again. ‘Request immediate assistance.’ His mouth hardened. ‘Am engaging.’

  Irvine prised his fingers from the screen and staggered towards the door of the chartroom.

  ‘Midships. Full ahead both engines!’ Dalziel’s eyes gleamed like steel as he shouted, ‘Here’s another!’

  This time the missile did not miss. As the frigate continued to turn in a wide circle it struck her below the starboard side of the bridge. The whole ship reeled wildly, and as Standish ducked to avoid flying glass from a shattered screen he saw smoke pouring through a voicepipe like steam under pressure, while on every side voices were shouting and cursing amidst the bedlam of creaking metal.

  Through it all he heard Wishart over the intercom. ‘“A” gun ready. Director out of action. Have switched to local control.’

  Dalziel said thickly, ‘Midships. Steady.’ He was crouching over the gyro, watching fixedly as the submarine’s low outline glided across the bows.

  Irvine reappeared, a handkerchief balled in his mouth. ‘W/T office is smashed!’ He retched. ‘Keeble and the others are …’ This time he vomited helplessly against the side.

  Dalziel looked at Standish. ‘That’s it then, eh? All alone.’ He snapped, ‘Open fire!’

  The right four-inch gun lurched back violently, and seconds later the shell made a tall waterspout rise slowly far beyond the submarine. As the other gun fired Standish found time to wonder how Wishart had survived the blast when the boat and most of his men must have been wiped out.

  The bosun’s mate said thickly, ‘Damage control reports five killed in W/T and main fire point, sir.’ He winced as the guns banged again. ‘Fire under control now, sir. No damage to hull structure.’

  Dalziel bared his teeth. ‘Good.’ He raised his glasses. ‘Still shooting over. But I’ll bet that gave ’em a nasty moment!’

  The submarine was moving, and Standish could see from her rising bow wave that she was making real speed this time. ‘A’ gun crashed out again, and the waterspout which followed shot skyward less than half a cable from the submarine’s bow. He heard Wishart call, ‘Down one hundred.’ He could picture the gunners peering over their sights, waiting for the sleek shape to emerge in the crosswires. One hit was all that was needed. The waters were too shallow for her to dive. She had to fight or run, and either way she had lost her first advantage of unprovoked attack.

  Perhaps her commander had imagined the Terrapin intended to try and forestall her approach to the inlet. Maybe he even recognized the old frigate from some earlier encounter. As the one which had almost caught him at Kuala Papan, or had charged alongside the Cornwallis in total darkness.

  He could feel the revolutions mounting with every second, saw the bow wave surging abeam to break across some of those reefs which no longer seemed important or dangerous.

  He saw too that the young signalman who had first noticed the submarine’s stealthy approach was standing beside him, his hair blowing in the breeze while he stared wide-eyed at the target.

  Standish groped for a helmet and held it out to him. Then he tapped the boy on the head and shouted, ‘Put this on! You’ve got some valuable stuff in there!’

  The signalman stared at him and then nodded dazedly. He was the same one who had accompanied Standish ashore to the burning village.

  It was at that moment he felt himself falling. It was almost like being suspended in space, floating, while things and events all around took on an unreal and seemingly nightmare shape. There were jagged holes in the steel deck, and he saw Burch lolling against a flag locker with blood pouring from his mouth. The signalman was gripping his legs as if to hold him, to stop him from falling, but when he looked down Standish realized there was little left of him below the waist.

  Only Irvine appeared to be alive, and as he staggered against the compass he was croaking aloud, yet no words came. Or maybe Standish could no longer hear. He might even be dead. With something like panic he clutched at the voicepipes, his shoes slithering on blood and pieces of torn flesh as he stared towards Dalziel.

  The captain was crouching against the side, his cap gone, hair hanging loosely across his eyes and speckled with chipped paint. Then as his hearing returned Standish knew what Irvine was trying to tell him, and as he pulled himself towards Dalziel. he saw the great pall of smoke rising over the forepart of the bridge, heard the rip of tearing steel as something tore adrift and fell deep into the shattered hull.

  ‘Wheelhouse doesn’t answer!’ Irvine’s voice was suddenly very loud. ‘Direct hit!’

  Dalziel opened his eyes and licked his lips. ‘Have to steer from aft. No good like this.’ He lolled his head from side to side, and Standish saw blood soaking across his legs and the splintered remains of the gratings. ‘Get down and see to it, Number One. I’m all right here. Just be a few moments, eh?’

  Another great shockwave hurled the ship drunkenly from her set course, and as he ran for the ladder Standish realized that the rocket must have missed and exploded against one of the exposed fangs of reef. He threw himself down the ladder and then saw that the twin four-inch guns were pointing towards the sky, their muzzles still smoking as if they had just fired. Of the gunshield there was no sign at all, and he shut his mind against the thing which crawled sobbing from the charred remains, its clothing burning like a torch. It might have been Wishart, and he prayed that he was already dead.

  As he passed the wheelhouse he heard a voice call, ‘Able Seaman Macnair on the wheel, sir.’ A pause and someone coughing. ‘They’re all dead in here for God’s sake! But she’s answering the helm again!’

  A down eddy of wind cleared the funnelling smoke from the foreca
stle, and as he peered over his shoulder Standish saw that the submarine was no longer visible. Taking her time she had gone to complete what she had started. After that she would return and finish the crippled Terrapin. Her own radio operators would know Dalziel was sending no signals for help. That he could not.

  He could tell from the vibrating deck that Quarrie had cut down the speed, and guessed the last explosion had punctured the old ship’s skin and any increase would pare the plates away like flesh from a gutted fish.

  He saw Rideout kneeling beside a seaman, his fingers no longer clean but bloodied like a butcher’s as he worked busily with his dressings. He looked up and said hoarsely, ‘They fired on us without any reason.’

  ‘They had their reasons.’ Standish looked aft at the clean paint and neat decks. It seemed incredible that the afterpart had survived with hardly a scratch. Not that it would make any difference now.

  Rideout stood up and said, ‘That’s a bad gash on your arm. Here, let me …’

  Standish pushed him away and wrapped a bandage around his arm. It was bleeding badly, yet he had felt nothing.

  ‘Go and help the captain.’ He met the doctor’s glazed stare. ‘I think he may be badly hurt.’

  He found Hornby crouching by the depth-charge mortars, his face like a sheet.

  ‘Gather your men together and check all circuits. You’ll be in charge of damage control, right?’ He shook his arm savagely, feeling the man quivering, unable to stand. Sickened, Standish turned and picked his way beneath the break in the forecastle.

  He need not have bothered for he could see the sky quite clearly through the crater in the deckhead above.

  Two stretcher bearers crunched over broken glass and splintered lockers, their burden lurching between them as if already dead. There was a bloody bandage completely covering his face with a tiny slit where the mouth should be. But as they hurried past one hand reached out and plucked feebly at Standish’s leg. It was blackened and burned like a piece of wood, yet as the stretcher came to a halt he knew it was Wishart.