A Dawn Like Thunder

by Douglas Reeman

  It was always the same in this outfit, Ross thought. Openly all very relaxed and informal, until there was just one hint of another flap forthcoming. Then, as always, the whole section would close up like a giant clam.

  The car moved away and Villiers said, ‘There were times . . .’

  Ross smiled. ‘I know. Me too.’ He turned his head. ‘What’s that smell? Incense?’

  Villiers stared at him as if he had misheard. Then he snapped his fingers, his face suddenly excited and very young.

  ‘Of course, it’s Chinese New Year! How could I have forgotten?’

  Ross picked up his small grip and looked at the sunshine through the trees. ‘New Year? I’ll bet they had snow in England for ours!’

  Strange that it was so hard to accept that he was here, when he had taken his arrival at their small headquarters almost for granted. It had come to him during the night. Tossing and turning, perhaps calling out as his troubled sleep changed into nightmare. He had met Mike Tucker for a few moments just before the car had come for him. They had studied one another, each unsure, looking for something. There were few words: those might come later. It would not have done for Dartmouth, or Flag Officer Submarines, but they had embraced, each feeling the other’s pain and bruised relief.

  Ross had said, ‘You could have gone home – you know that, you rascal!’

  Tucker had given his lazy grin. ‘You’d never make it without me. The old firm, remember?’ The rest would come out later. When it was possible to talk about it.

  Villiers said, ‘There was a letter waiting for me. Caryl’s taken legal advice about a divorce.’ He grimaced. ‘Her father’s no bloody help, though. Saw her marriage as a bit of a flag-day, apparently. He’s a local bank manager – thinks the sun shines out of Major Sinclair’s . . .’ He broke off and flushed.

  Ross turned and saw her on the steps, framed against the house’s shadowed interior. She was wearing a white dress, with her arms bare, one of the scarlet flowers pinned in her hair.

  Villiers took her hand. ‘Kung Hai Fat Choy!’ He lowered his head to kiss it.

  She smiled. ‘And a Happy New Year to you too, Lieutenant Villiers!’ But she was looking directly at Ross, her eyes concerned, perhaps sad, as if Villiers’ greeting had brought back another memory.

  Then she walked slowly down the steps and said, ‘You are so welcome here.’ She tilted her face for him to kiss her cheek. ‘You look so much better now.’

  He grinned. ‘Do I? I must have been a real sight!’

  She linked their arms with hers and together they walked into the house. More incense, and some red and golden orchids beside one of the Colonel’s figurines.

  Ross glanced at Villiers, and the shadow was there, too, in his face. Another reminder of what he had seen in Singapore? Of what he had lost?

  A small servant appeared, bowing. Victoria said to Villiers, ‘He will take you to your room. We will meet you when you are ready.’

  Alone with Ross by the two pillars, she said, ‘My father is playing chess with his old friend, the doctor here. I will show you round the gardens, in daylight this time.’

  He felt her arm in his fingers, smooth and so tanned. It was strange that he felt so awkward with her. Had she been in uniform, perhaps it would have been different. Part of their world.

  She said, ‘You are staring.’

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘I’m glad.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘I still cannot believe you are here, you are like this, with me.’

  He stopped and held her gently. ‘I will not have you hurt again.’ He watched her mouth, the small pulse beating in her throat. ‘But I have to be sure that you understand.’

  She watched him searchingly. ‘Understand? What is there to understand?’

  He gripped her arms and said, ‘I love you, girl. I have since I first laid eyes on you. But it doesn’t give me the right, the freedom . . .’

  She pulled him firmly around and fell in step beside him.

  ‘You think I may do something I will regret? Like that other time my father told you of?’ She shook her head, the black wings of hair hiding her eyes. ‘I was to blame, too. I wanted love. I thought I had found it.’

  ‘I needed you to know.’

  She gazed up at him, her eyes bright in the reflected sunlight. ‘Yes, Jamie. Now I know.’ She watched him for several seconds. ‘We are not supposed to speak of such things.’ She shook his arm. ‘No, don’t look at me. But we both know there is a big operation coming, something very dangerous, something which will take you away from me.’

  ‘Yes. It seems very likely.’ There was no room for denials or lies, no time now to make things appear what they were not. What they might never be, for either of them. ‘I don’t believe the top brass will be able to resist it.’

  She smiled. ‘Top brass. You are so disrespectful, Jamie! What would our Captain Pryce think of that?’ But her eyes were troubled again.

  He kissed her very carefully. ‘Or this, Victoria?’ He could feel her holding back, frightened perhaps; for her, for him, it was impossible to tell.

  She said quietly, ‘Three days. What would you like to do with them?’

  He thought of the telephone. Surely Pryce could leave them alone for three days?

  She said, ‘We can walk and talk, swim or just sit in the sun.’ She watched his hand on her arm, surprised.

  He said, ‘You have a beautiful tan. Second Officer Blandford will envy that.’

  She corrected him just as seriously. ‘She will envy me that also.’ Then she pointed to the rear of the property, a plain white-painted building like a blockhouse. ‘The water storage is inside. It has a flat roof. Very private. Nobody can see me up there!’ She smiled, but could not look at him. ‘I used to wonder why I bothered.’ She pressed his arm again very tightly. ‘Now I know why.’

  They paused beside the swimming-pool and she said, ‘Are you tired of water, Jamie?’

  She seemed to pause each time she used his name. Unable or unwilling to drop her defences.

  She watched him as he knelt beside the pool and put his hand in the clear water. Cool, and after the heat and the dust, so inviting. And it was because of her. Their being together. Something which people had almost given up taking for granted.

  She touched her arm, as she had when Major Sinclair had released her. If there was a bruise, it did not show. She saw the pleasure on Ross’s face when he turned to look up at her, the tension smoothed away as if it had never existed.

  How could I tell him? It would prove nothing and might put his life in even greater danger when Pryce’s ‘flap’ became a reality. She could hear Sinclair’s slurred voice. Whose word would they take? Captain Pryce had asked Sinclair to postpone his return to England for his new decoration, his gong, as Mike Tucker had called it. If he even suspected that she had informed her superiors, he would blame Jamie: indirectly or otherwise, it would amount to the same. Sinclair’s enmity would impose a terrible risk in addition to those other dangers he was already expected to accept without protest.

  She could feel her eyes stinging, her body trembling with sudden anger, remembering how she had fainted after the news of Jamie’s safe rendezvous. Who could she tell, anyway? What proof did she have? Whose word would they take?

  He was beside her and she had not heard or seen him move. ‘What is it? Is it me?’

  She shook her head and wanted to cry. ‘No, Jamie. It’s neither of us . . . It’s not a dream, either.’ She lifted her chin and looked at him quite calmly. ‘I love you, Jamie. I don’t want to lose you. Not now.’

  Colonel Mackenzie got up from the chess table and walked to a window. ‘Care for a gin, George?’

  His friend, the doctor, another old warrior, nodded while he studied the ranks of chessmen. He asked, ‘What are they doing now?’

  Mackenzie pushed his fingers between the slats of the blind and peeped out at the unmoving couple beside the pool. No use getting sentimental and protective about it: if it w
asn’t for the bloody war, he’d have been more than satisfied. Jamie Ross was a fine officer, a brave young man who had proved his courage over and over again. Sometimes luck stayed with you. People often said that if it had your number on it there was nothing you could do anyway. But what would become of her if that happened, and I was gone? Without turning his head, he knew that the portrait of her mother, Jeslene, was watching him. Just as he knew what she would have said about it. He dropped the blind again and reached for a bottle of gin. It was stamped Duty Free, H.M. Ships Only. Charles Villiers was a thoughtful lad.

  He replied, ‘Doing, George?’ He touched his white moustache with his knuckle. ‘They’re living. That’s good enough for me.’ Then he did look at the portrait, suddenly aware that he meant it.

  It was on the second of their promised three days that the call came. Surprisingly, it was Pryce himself, undaunted by the security of the telephone.

  She had watched Ross’s face when he had come back into the room. He had said, ‘I have to go tomorrow. They’re sending a car. There’s no need for you to leave here.’

  The old Colonel had looked at each of them, feeling it, sharing it, as if the life he had been forced to abandon was still a part of him.

  Ross had added quietly, ‘I shall come back – if I may, sir?’ But his eyes were on her, her mouth, her breathing, the way she was clenching her hands with desperation, and with courage, too.

  He did not even hear the Colonel’s gruff assent. It was like being broken, forced down into the abyss where all hope is finally extinguished, like the lightless depths of the sea.

  To Villiers, he had said, ‘You too, I’m afraid.’ But still his eyes did not leave hers. Pryce had sounded firm and convinced, without emotion, as might have been expected.

  Ross had been suddenly reminded of Highmead School, the place to which his father had been desperate to send him, even though he had been so short of money. Just so that his son could go to the same school as the man who had once been his young commanding officer: Pryce’s father, who had been awarded the V.C. after Zeebrugge. The decoration which should by rights have been his own. Ross sometimes wondered if Pryce knew or had ever guessed the truth of that affair. But more than that, in a school so full of tradition, and with such strong ties to the armed services, he had found himself thinking of morning assembly in the Hall, and the school’s roll of honour. His own name was on it now, although he knew he would never go back to see it. There had been some verse beneath the long list of names from the Great War: lines from Kipling.

  What stands if Freedom fall?

  Who dies if England live?

  The car had come for them in the early morning, and he had seen her watching him from a window, her face in shadow. She had reached out as if to grip his hand, and then placed hers against her breast. As though she had been able to take and lay his own hand there.

  The car had swung out of the driveway and headed back towards the coast. Once, Ross looked back, but the estate, like a dream, was lost from view.

  Captain Ralph Pryce was showing unusual signs of strain, as if he had been working sleeplessly throughout much of the night. He waved Ross to a seat and said simply, ‘Sorry to drag you back so soon, but this matter can’t wait.’

  Ross prepared himself, surprised that he felt nothing. No nerves, no fear, only a kind of emptiness. Awaiting the inevitable, not for the first time.

  There were a lot of cars in the compound, and even from Pryce’s office he could hear the murmur of voices from the operations room along the corridor. He tried not to think of her at the window, her courage.

  He had thought it strange that Pryce should hold the briefing here: the Base Operations section had far more room and better facilities, and was used to dealing with the needs of a fleet, not merely a tiny part of it. He had even seen the Chief-of-Staff’s car. As he was second only to the admiral, it must be important. Then Ross had understood why Pryce had persuaded the brass to meet here. He was in control. It was, after all, his show.

  Pryce said, ‘Before we go into the wolves’ lair, I just want to make matters clear to you. If you agree, you will be the main player.’ He turned over some papers without looking at them. ‘At first I thought it was some extraordinary coincidence – and but for your meeting with that Tsao chap and getting that priceless information from him, the whole thing might have gone down the drain.’ He leaned forward, and in the light from the lamp on the desk Ross could see his fatigue, the redness in the eyes, so unlike the man. Pryce said, ‘Last week, apparently off Lisbon, an R.A.F. Sunderland spotted a U-Boat on the surface. It attacked with depth-charges and destroyed it. Nothing unusual, just a “good show” as the high-fly boys would put it, but they did manage to photograph the end of the attack. Then some bright lad in air-reconnaissance spotted something interesting about it. The Intelligence department had circulated all branches, but it took one man to notice it. This is it.’ He dragged out a glossy enlargement of the original photograph and laid it carefully beneath the light.

  It was familiar enough: a submarine caught at the moment of diving, the great whirlpools of torn water where the depth-charges had burst around the shark-like hull in a lethal straddle. Some unknown character had written in one corner, The Perfect Kill! To others, it would be. Ross glanced at Pryce’s cold eyes and knew how he was seeing it. A submarine in her death agony, men like themselves being taken to the bottom, crushed and mangled – no one ever could know the true horror of such a death. The Perfect Kill. As submariners, they both saw the scene in a different light.

  Pryce said, ‘Take a closer look.’

  Ross studied the dying U-Boat, the moment frozen in time. He could almost hear Tsao’s calm voice describing the boats in Group Monsun. As part of the German and Japanese recognition system, the U-Boats were to have two broad white stripes fore and aft athwart their decks, and the German flag painted on the conning tower. Unnerving to think that he had seen it for himself in the harbour at Penang, peering through a tiny shutter in the tug-master’s cabin like an amateur spy. In the photograph it was not possible to see the painted flag, but the white stripes had stood out stark and bright even as the sea had boiled over the casing. There were some metal containers, too, immediately abaft the conning tower: extra stowage for non-perishable cargo on the return passage. Ross looked up and saw the feverish brightness in Pryce’s eyes.

  Pryce said, ‘We shall have the correct recognition signals if Tsao keeps his promise. The rest is up to us.’

  Ross looked at the photograph again. ‘We’d use a submarine, sir?’

  ‘We have a submarine, Jamie. I’ve got the go-ahead, and the Fleet Engineering Officer has the matter in hand.’ He added with his usual impatience, ‘Tybalt is pretty well knocked about. The enemy will have no idea that another of their boats was sunk. There were no signals. It was over in seconds.’ His mouth lost its customary hardness. ‘Poor bastards.’

  He might have taken Ross’s silence for doubt, and went on sharply, ‘It’s a chance in a lifetime. We have no time to lose. All we need is the location of the new submarine depot-ship – Intelligence are voting for Penang. I don’t think so. Too many eggs in one basket. The Germans may be difficult to understand sometimes, but their submariners are still the best. Admit that, and you’re halfway there.’

  From far away they heard a bell ring, and somebody’s deep voice calling for order. The stage was set.

  Ross said quietly, ‘You want me to command the attack, sir?’

  Pryce swung round and seized the telephone before it buzzed twice. ‘Yes? I told you I was not to be disturbed!’ A pause, and Ross saw his eyes return to the photograph. ‘He’ll just have to wait.’ He slammed it down. ‘Bloody woman, I’ll explain to her what I think is important.’ He took several seconds to calm himself. ‘It will probably never come again, and in any case we should probably be elsewhere if it did.’ He walked to a window and stared emptily at the palms. ‘Fate, some would call it. My father and yours in the Great War,
with a clapped-out submarine full of explosives. Who said history can’t be repeated?’ He patted his pockets. ‘Well? I can’t order you to do it.’

  Ross picked up his cap and turned it over in his hands. ‘You don’t have to. I’ll ask for volunteers when we’re closer to the time.’ He realized that Pryce had not followed him to the door. ‘What is it, sir?’

  Pryce shrugged. ‘I just wish one thing.’ He looked at him, searching for something, perhaps. ‘I wish to God I was coming with you.’

  They walked out into the corridor and Ross noticed the messenger and some seamen watching as they passed. They knew. Soon everyone would know about the proposed attack, and the secret would be safe. He thought of Mike Tucker. The old firm.

  He realized that a solitary officer was waiting as if to intercept them. In his smart white drill, he was barely recognizable as the distant Tarrant, who had conned his submarine with such admirable skill through that last attack.

  Pryce stopped and said curtly, ‘There is nothing to add, Lieutenant Tarrant. You will get another command in due course, and I would be obliged if you would keep the whole matter to yourself.’

  Tarrant turned to Ross. ‘They’re taking my command, sir! To be thrown away on another crazy operation!’

  There was nothing to say. He knew and understood what Tarrant was going through. He would have felt the same way himself.

  Pryce had no such doubts. With one eye on the widening slit in the operations room door, he said coolly, ‘A submarine is a weapon, Lieutenant Tarrant, to be used to its best advantage, and under any given circumstance. That is all.’

  Ross hesitated, but the other man looked through him, his eyes empty. There was nothing to be said.

  The long room seemed to close around him, shining red or tanned faces, smart drill uniforms or crumpled shirts of khaki and white. Officers who had come from all branches and every kind of duty to be a part of Special Operations, their reasons as varied as themselves.

  The Chief-of-Staff sat with his black walking-stick beside him. Before this important staff appointment, he had commanded a light cruiser in the Mediterranean, which had eventually been sunk by dive-bombers on a Malta convoy. He had made no secret of the fact that he would have preferred another sea command to a position with the top brass. The thought touched Ross like a spoken word. You are so disrespectful, Jamie.