Twelve Seconds to Live (2002)

by Reeman, Douglas

  All exactly the same, he thought. Even the firing controls, the ‘fruit machine’, as it was called, which translated what the submarine commander’s eye saw in the crosswires into action. The bearing and range of the target. The estimated speed and course, even when the target was zigzagging. It was all fed into the machine.

  Trojan, like the other boats of her class, mounted eleven torpedo tubes, with reloads for good measure.

  Her skipper would be thinking of that, too. If he sighted the most tempting target in the world he would have to let it slip through his crosswires. Until his passenger, his liability, had gone, he and not the enemy was a target.

  Masters turned to glance at the control room clock but checked himself. If he had overlooked something it was too late now. Or soon would be.

  The commander walked away from the periscope well and stooped to speak to him. Without his cap he looked somehow younger. More vulnerable. Did he have a girl back in England? How would she be taking it?

  ‘Won’t be long, David. I’m going up to have a look-see.’ He looked over at the navigator and added, ‘Pilot thinks we’re in the most suitable place.’ They grinned conspiratorially at one another.

  Diving or surfacing, the two most dangerous moments for any submarine. And yet there was no outward show of anxiety or hesitancy. It was not even like a well-practised drill, more as if they were simply doing what was quite natural to them. And yet, even in a well-used boat like Trojan there had to be someone doing it for the first time. Perhaps hating the unwanted passenger with his lethal cargo. Lookouts had appeared near the vertical ladder to the conning tower and the bridge. Each wore dark glasses, so that after the control room lighting, dimmed though it was, they would be instantly ready. Swaying very slightly to the motion, they looked like a group of blind men waiting to be guided somewhere.

  ‘Sorry we didn’t get much time to yarn, David.’ He sounded very calm, but his eyes were on the gauges. ‘When you get out of it, we shall be listening for your signal.’ He touched his shoulder. ‘Here we go, then.’

  He could have been discussing a quiet drive in the countryside.

  Masters felt his body tense, as if he was standing there by the well.

  The hydrophone operator reported, ‘All quiet, sir!’

  The commander looked at the sealed watertight door. A company of about sixty, plus the four artificers. Masters saw one of the lookouts reach out and grip the arm of the man beside him. Friends, or simply two people thrown together by the war? Sealed in a steel coffin if the worst happened. Every door clipped shut. Final.

  The first lieutenant was ready, his slide rule in one hand, always aware of the need for a perfect trim, so that water could be pumped from tank to tank, his responsibility at times like this.

  Masters looked at the depth gauge. Ninety feet. As deep as it was safe to run in these waters, unless it was an emergency. A last chance.

  The commander stood by the well, outwardly relaxed, his eyes on the curved deckhead with its wires and pipes, as if he could somehow see through and beyond the hull itself.

  ‘Thirty feet, Number One.’

  The response was immediate. The subdued trembling of air forcing water from the ballast tanks. Not an emergency, but firmly controlled.

  Masters imagined the submarine rising towards the surface, the hydroplanes keeping the process stealthy, like the hands of a swimmer heading for the surface.

  Like a great shark, a shadow. The officers and ratings merely incidental.

  Something clicked loudly and the coxswain shot the offending equipment a hard stare, a rebuke, as if it were something human.

  ‘Periscope depth, sir!’

  The commander made a quick gesture and bent over as the periscope hissed smoothly from its well, then snapped down both grips and pressed his forehead to the pad and waited for the lens to clear as it broke surface.

  Another gesture, and the periscope rose a little more, the commander moving slowly around the well, his feet brushing against the coaming with practised familiarity.

  It would be dark on the surface, or nearly so. But there was always a last-minute risk. Masters saw the commander snap the grip handles into place and straighten his back.

  ‘Down periscope!’ He stepped clear as it hissed down into its well.

  A torpedoman was holding out a stained old duffle coat and he slipped his arms into it, his expression completely absorbed, his eyes on the coxswain’s back. ‘Stand by to surface, Number One!’ The quick gesture once more. ‘Open the lower lid!’

  He strode to the ladder, but paused to glance at the control room. His world. His eyes passed over Masters without seeing him, then he gripped the ladder and began to climb.

  Masters found that he was holding his breath, as if he was there, doing it.

  Each man had to be packed exactly into the tower so that no space or time was wasted. The lookouts and gun’s crew. But first the skipper, with only the bridge hatch, still clipped, between him and the sea.

  Even now he would be considering, preparing for unforeseen hazards. Surface vessels, engines stopped, perhaps warned of their presence at this pencilled cross on the Pilot’s grubby chart. Or an aircraft, unseen in the periscope, diving out of nowhere to straddle and rake the dark shadow.

  ‘Surface!’

  Masters heard the air booming into the tanks, saw the hydroplane operators swinging their wheels, holding her down until the last moment, when she would break surface, the sea parting across her dark flanks, and he could imagine that first bitter taste of salt water as the hatch was flung open.

  The ladder was empty, and there was cold air blowing across the control room. A figure loomed through the dimmed orange glow and touched his arm.

  ‘Ready, sir?’

  It was now.

  19

  A Hell of a Risk

  David Masters pressed his back into the pilot’s seat and made himself carry out another check of instruments, course, and approximate speed. He was geared for it, had gone over it so many times during the preparations for Pioneer that he had considered himself ready for everything. After the passage from Plymouth, the routine going on around him, diving and surfacing, he had tried to face each possibility, item by item.

  And then the actual moment of surfacing, the sudden rush to make the midget ready for launching: it had all been over in minutes. Hands helping him up and into the torpedo-shaped hull, quick words of advice, even best wishes from another vague figure, and it was done. The perspex dome was fitted over him, bolted down and made airtight. Someone had patted the dome, and he had seen a hand giving a thumbs-up. Then he had been alone.

  Trojan had dived, slowly and carefully, but even so there had been a few moments of anxiety when the supporting trestles had remained, clinging and thudding against the hull and, more to the point, against the steel cylindrical container beneath it.

  Perhaps Trojan’s commander had waited on his bridge until the very last second. After that he would be thinking only of his responsibility to his boat and his men.

  Half an hour ago. Masters could recall each part of it, without fear and without panic. Something he had dreaded when the midget submarine had responded to its own motor and rudder, and he had turned the bow with its crude iron fore-sight towards the east. The motion was unsteady, far more than his practice trips in the dockyard basin, and with the sea washing past him only a foot or so below his cockpit it was a test for any man. Complete and utter isolation, like nothing he had known before. He had stood watches at sea on an open bridge in several submarines, with nobody but the lookouts for company, and only his own instinct to tell him when to call the commanding officer, or to order an emergency dive. But always there had been a sense of belonging, others to turn to if things went badly wrong.

  He swallowed hard as the hull dipped over again, thankful that he had never suffered from seasickness. He watched the small instrument panel, the controls which connected him with the torpedo-shaped container beneath him. Four mines,
with their precise but delicate timers, almost exact copies of the German weapons which this midget had been designed to deliver when the time came. The boffins had done well to respond so quickly to the Admiralty’s unexpected demand.

  Four mines, not as big as those normally carried by surface vessels or submarines, but, as the bespectacled Beamish had explained, ‘Enough to flatten a street.’ Or, in this case, a ship loaded with an even smaller, deadlier version. He could picture the bay where the ship was anchored as if he had been there before. Depths, the lie of the headland, and the reported whereabouts of coastal artillery.

  He peered at his watch. An hour to go, if he was on the right course, if he did not get completely lost. Then what?

  He reached for the oilskin pouch by his left foot. A flask and some chocolate, the sailor’s favourite ‘nutty’. He eased the steering and checked his compass. Again . . . At any other time he would have wanted to laugh. The hot tea and the chocolate were wonderful. If he laughed, he knew it might not be easy to stop.

  He ducked sharply as something pale seemed to burst over his head. But it was a gull, floating, perhaps sleeping, when this strange creature had driven it up and away, its angry screams lost beyond the thick perspex.

  He sealed the flask. Keep it for later. He steadied his thoughts again, a physical effort this time. Suppose there was no later?

  Where was she now? What was she doing, in the flat near Chelsea Bridge, opposite the power station? If it’s still there. With the photograph of her mother who, like herself, had been betrayed. Poised in her costume. Swan Lake, she had told him. Why didn’t they make the bell buttons easier to see in the dark? You needed a lighter to . . . Masters shook himself and stared at the compass. A close thing. He felt his breathing coming under control again as he adjusted the air flow. His mind had started to drift, hallucinate.

  Like the corpse laid out with the midget submarine on display at Portland. The wallet with the photo of his other life, and his girl.

  He loosened his collar and took several deep breaths. A close thing. He tried to relax, to ignore the monotonous humming of the motor. It was easy to imagine the other pilot becoming dazed, barely conscious, the midget taking over, turning in a complete circle perhaps, using up the batteries, losing its way.

  Elaine might never know. Wykes would see to that. A matter of security. He wondered if she had seen Philip Brayshaw about her brooch. Her mother’s last gift.

  He shifted in the seat, and felt the hard nudge of the pistol against his hip. To defend himself? Or to end it all if things went wrong? Nobody had explained.

  He leaned back and stared at the sky; there were stars, but no moon. They were moving from side to side as the hull pushed through small waves.

  He stiffened with disbelief as a sharp blade of light swung across the sky, and down, it seemed, across the water. He could even see hand and fingerprints on the perspex, the water dappled across the torpedo back-sight directly in front of him. The dome would stand out like a giant dish cover. At any second . . .

  The light went out. A routine test, maybe. They did it often enough along the coast of Dorset.

  He gripped the steering control and squeezed it until the pain calmed him. He must clear his mind of everything else. Kick all the doubts and fears aside. Above all, believe what you just saw.

  Like the description and the sketches he had memorized. Caught for a mere few seconds in the swinging searchlight beam was the headland.

  He peered at his watch, expecting it to be shaking. It was not.

  One and a half hours. To the minute. No matter what else happened . . . he spoke her name aloud. ‘We made it!’

  After all the usual delays and diversions the car was eventually directed to an auxiliary fire station on the edge of Southampton.

  Lincoln climbed out and stared at the sky. There was still a lot of smoke, like low cloud, and the familiar smell of charred wood hanging in the air.

  They had passed several fire engines and trucks full of A.R.P. personnel, the mopping-up process. The aftermath of two swift air attacks during the night.

  He looked at the Wren and said, ‘That was a good piece of driving. You were right about our arrival. It is lunchtime!’

  Downie stood on the pavement, staring along the street. Most of it bore signs of damage from previous raids; some of the houses were empty and beyond repair. Southampton was and always had been a prime target for the Luftwaffe.

  He said, ‘Here’s somebody, sir.’

  It was a police sergeant, carrying a steel helmet in one hand and a mug of something in the other.

  ‘Mr. Lincoln, sir? You’re expected.’ He beamed at the Wren. ‘We are honoured today!’

  A door opened and another naval officer stepped into the hazy sunlight. Lincoln recognized him from somewhere, one of the Portsmouth team who had been diverted for some reason. His overalls were filthy; even his cap had not escaped.

  He held out his hand. ‘You made it then, good show! I’m Roach, Tom Roach. Just enjoying something hot and strong!’

  He was grinning, his features devoid of strain. Light-headed; Lincoln had seen it in others after a successful encounter with a beast. He had even known it himself, but only at a distance, something elusive. The fear had always remained.

  Roach glanced at Downie. ‘This your chap? Mine’s out the back, spewing his heart up! Tough as a lion, but he always throws up when it’s over and done with. Me, I prefer a tot of something!’

  He seemed to get a grip on himself.

  ‘The sergeant here will take you to your job. I had a quick dekko before I was called away. A Type Charlie from what I could see in the bloody blackout.’

  Lincoln asked, ‘Why were you diverted?’ He clenched his fists. It was starting.

  ‘Oh, the other one was near a railway. There was an ammunition train due to move, and there was a raid on anyway. Not much choice, really.’ He laughed, a little wildly. ‘Inconsiderate lot!’

  Margot Lovatt stood by the car, one hand on the open door. It was painful to watch. One so elated he could scarcely stop himself from laughing. The other tense, staring at him as if he hated what he saw.

  The sergeant said, ‘I’ll show you, sir. The place is roped off, but it’s pretty deserted at the best of times. They’ve taken a battering over the years.’ He looked at the girl. ‘You can stay in the fire station, miss.’ He tried to smile. ‘Powder your nose an’ have a cup of tea, if you like.’

  The door opened again and a fireman peered at them. His eyes settled on Lincoln.

  ‘Call for you, sir. A Commander Crozier.’ He winked at the sergeant. ‘Had a bit of trouble getting through – shame, ain’t it?’

  Lincoln entered the office and picked up the telephone.

  Crozier sounded as if he was speaking from the end of a tunnel, and there was an intermittent murmur on the line. The air raid, he thought.

  ‘So you got there. Had a look at the thing yet?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Is Lieutenant Roach there?’

  So he was a lieutenant? Under all that dirt he could have been anything.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll get him.’

  ‘No. Listen. When you’ve finished, let me know. Then report back here to me.’

  Lincoln pressed his free hand against his forehead. Not another one. Not so soon.

  Crozier’s voice was suddenly louder. ‘I’ve had an officer of the Judge Advocate’s department on the phone. You’ll have to see him. There’s been some sort of complaint or allegation, didn’t make much sense to me.’ A pause. ‘Are you still there?’

  Lincoln cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, sir. I think I know what it is. When I was on leave . . .’ He got no further.

  ‘Well, just get on with it. Everything seems to be happening today.’

  Lincoln put down the telephone.

  The Judge Advocate’s department. An allegation. He tried to remember all the faces on that night. His father, spitting with fury, beside himself. His ‘friends’. Only one face stood ou
t, the man named Mason of the South London Courier. A comparatively small, weekly paper. All it needed.

  He left the office and passed another fireman sitting at a switchboard. A radio was playing music, a woman’s voice. Vera Lynn.

  Lincoln heard and saw none of it.

  Downie picked up his satchel. ‘Ready, sir?’

  Lincoln said flatly, ‘Do we walk?’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘Use my car. I’d not want to see your fine vehicle all messed up by the rubble!’

  Margot said, ‘I’ll wait here, sir,’ and hesitated. ‘As long as it takes.’

  Afterwards she wondered why she had said it. But she remembered the sudden exchange of glances, the tall subbie and the fresh-faced seaman. It made her feel like an intruder, and a witness.

  She looked at the lieutenant, Roach. Maybe they were all like that before and after an ‘incident’. But she knew they were not.

  It was not far to the location but, as always, it seemed to take for ever, the police car lurching over scattered bricks and slates, past houses with empty windows, torn curtains blowing out in the wind like banners, a milk cart overturned, broken glass everywhere. Some houses were past victims, boarded up, bedrooms open to the sky, even the wallpaper still visible. A Union Jack had been painted above one front door, and Welcome Home written underneath.

  Lincoln sat beside the sergeant, trying to hold himself together. He could feel Downie’s hand on the back of his seat, hear his breathing. It would ruin both of them. Humiliation and disgrace. He felt his lip quiver. It would be worst of all for Downie, after all he had gone through. All he had lost.

  The sergeant said quietly, ‘There they are.’ As if he was afraid of disturbing something.

  Another policeman and an air raid warden stepped out of a ruined doorway.

  ‘Number Thirty, sir.’ The policeman looked tired out, but relieved. They always did. It was somebody else’s job now.