A Dawn Like Thunder (19 page)

Napier called down to him, ‘Right here, I think.' He closed his visor and twisted round towards Tucker to indicate that he was going to dive.

Tucker slithered into the water to join the other man. It was all going well. The time fuse was set, and as he helped Rice fix the magnets to a surprisingly clean bilge, he felt the warhead detach and float down beside them until it was suspended firmly beneath the hull. The explosion plus the weight of the cargo would break the vessel's back and scatter the contents across the seabed.

It was done, and Tucker turned round, clinging to the chariot as Rice slapped his shoulder and gestured with excitement.

Napier brought the chariot carefully to the surface again. Not a jolt or a scrape had marred the manoeuvre and all three of them sat in the water, visors open as they sucked in the air and fought down the urge to laugh or cheer.

Napier was peering at his luminous clock again. He found it an effort to remain calm and unruffled.

‘Ahead of time, would you believe?' He stared up at the guardrails, still only just visible in the surrounding darkness. He seemed to grin, like his dead brother for just that moment, Tucker thought. He said, ‘I'm going up for a souvenir. Be ready to cast off, lads!' Then he was
clambering up the rope ladder, apparently heedless and unhindered by his breathing apparatus.

Rice said grudgingly, ‘Like a bloody kid! What do you think, Tommy?'

Tucker stood up, swaying, and then seized the ladder. ‘I think he's being stupid!' He knew Rice was gaping at him, but he didn't care. Rule One, never take chances. He thought of Bob Jessop's last words.
Keep your head down.
He snapped, ‘I'll get him back, and then we're bloody well off!'

He climbed swiftly up the ladder, his whole body suddenly cold, as if he were naked.

The freighter's deck was like any other, with loose gear and uncoiled mooring wires scattered about to show the haste of the crew's departure. Tucker lowered himself to his knees and winced as a rivet ground into his leg. He heard Napier rummaging about among the discarded equipment by an open door at the foot of the bridge.
A souvenir.
For the mess, or to impress some girl or other. It made him unreasonably angry, and he was about to call out to him when he glanced at the open door again. There was a tiny glow, where before there had been only blackness. The man, whoever he was, must have been on deck for a quiet smoke when Napier had blundered jubilantly aboard. Tucker could feel his heart lurch as if it might stop altogether and then, as if another's hand were guiding his, he unfastened his knife and pulled the blade carefully from its sheath. Like those other times; like the moment when the German frogman had found them and had been about to raise the alarm. When Ross had gone for him, taken him with him into the swirling water. Ending it.

Napier stood up, something flapping in his hand. Then he froze, his arms flailing as he saw the other man and realized what was happening. Tucker bounded forward,
seizing and flinging the man to the deck. Noise no longer mattered. Nothing mattered but survival. He felt the man's buttoned tunic and realized he was a soldier; at the same time he saw him drop a rifle, which had been hidden in the darkness.

He heard Napier cry,
‘Oh, my Christ! Christ, help me!'

Tucker sat astride the soldier and held him between his legs, one arm pinioned so that he could feel the joint cracking. There was a bayonet on the rifle. Napier's screams of agony told him the rest. He said quietly, ‘Coming, sir.' The formality made him want to scream or laugh. If he did either, he knew he would be unable to stop. He saw the soldier's eyes swivel as he tried to look at him, then he drove the blade into his body, counted the seconds before twisting it and dragging it free. Then he moved carefully to Napier, expecting at any moment to hear shouts and challenges, feel the same thrust of steel, then nothing.

‘Where is it, sir?'

Napier was gripping his left shoulder, his blood like black paint between his clawed fingers.

‘I'll put a dressing on it.' He heard Napier choking on a scream as he lifted him bodily and put him over his shoulder. ‘But first, we get the hell out of here!'

Rice had at last realized something had happened, and helped him lower the groaning officer back down to the chariot. Before he followed down the ladder, Tucker found time to notice that the dead soldier's cigarette was still glowing on the deck.

He said, ‘I'll take over, sir. Nick'll hold you.'

He sensed Napier's refusal, clinging to some last fragment of authority which refused to give in. ‘No! I'm in command here!'

Tucker ignored him. ‘Take a good grip. There's a gash in his suit. If it fills with water . . .' He did not need to go on.

He slipped into the control seat and tested the joystick. They had all been trained for this in case of just such an eventuality. Go out on the surface, and to hell with caution. Only speed counted now. He cursed himself for not dropping the Jap into the sea. Someone might discover what had happened. Even Bob Jessop wouldn't risk his
Turquoise
if a chase was in progress. He made himself take a few deep breaths.
Especially
Bob Jessop.

‘Cast off.' He watched the compass and felt the chariot edge away from the target. He tried to think it out, put his thoughts in order.
I just killed a man.
But nothing formed in his mind. ‘Here we go!'
What wouldn't I give for a tot right now!

He craned his neck and saw the first of the fishing-boat lights. Paler, perhaps? He tried to control his sense of urgency. As they ploughed into a small wave he heard Napier cry out, and Rice's despairing, ‘For Christ's sake shut it! Haven't you done enough for one bloody night?'

Not officer and rating any more. Just two frightened people who were depending on him.

They would be well clear of the islands soon. After that . . .

The explosion was as deafening as it was vivid, and for a few seconds more Tucker imagined that the charge had exploded prematurely, even though they never did. The darkness that followed was total and enveloping, but Tucker had seen part of an island illuminated by the blast as if it had been touched by fire.

Napier was calling weakly, ‘What happened? Did the charge blow?' He sounded irritated, querulous, like a small, disgruntled boy.

Rice took a firmer grip on him and stared into the sea. ‘Can't you smell it? If you'd been in the Western Ocean you'd recognize it quick enough!'

Tucker said dully, ‘It was
Turquoise.
She's gone.' He too could smell the burned oil, could picture the shattered hull falling like a torn leaf to the bottom. He could even hear Jessop's anger.
My men, all fifty-eight of them.
What had happened was anybody's guess. One fact stood out. They were alone.

Napier asked, ‘What are you doing?'

Tucker shrugged. ‘Going back. We don't have much time left. I think I can find a place where we can ditch the chariot and our gear.' He was thinking aloud, some of his words muffled as water slopped over his open visor.

Rice said, ‘Going back?' He sounded dazed. ‘They'll be looking for us.'

Tucker responded savagely, ‘Well, nobody else will be, so shut up and save your breath!'

Surprisingly Rice said, ‘Sorry, Tommy. I'll stand by you.'

Napier called, ‘It
hurts.
I can't move it!'

Tucker saw the same small lights and wondered what the fishermen would have thought about the explosion. And what about the Japs? An officer was probably roused right now, telephone ringing, perhaps a patrol boat putting to sea to investigate.

Napier muttered, ‘They won't hear the last of this . . .'

Tucker sighed and watched the compass.
They?
Who, he wondered?

Rice said, ‘He won't make it.' When there was no response from Napier he added, ‘Sod him!'

Rice spoke as if he had already given up hope. Tucker tightened his grip on the joystick, as he had done on his knife. Aloud or to himself he did not know, he said, ‘Well, Evie, I'm really in it this time.'

A gull rose mewing from the water, disturbed perhaps, or aware of the nearness of dawn and the prospect of fish
from the boats. But to Mike Tucker it sounded like a cat calling to be let in.

In his mind he could clearly see his mother opening the telegram.

The evening of the promised party could not have been a better one, offering a clear, bright sky with a new moon riding above its shimmering reflection in the sea. There was even music, provided by a very solid-looking gramophone watched over by one of the Colonel's servants, who cranked it up between the heavy records. Strangely, most of it was dance music, something from the past.

Ross and Villiers handed their caps to a servant and paused uncertainly in the entrance hall. After their other visit it seemed totally different, with naval officers making up the largest number. They, too, looked unfamiliar in their white uniforms, ‘ice-cream suits', gently suggested by Captain Pryce, who had obviously intended it as an order. Glancing round at the noisy throng, Ross guessed why Pryce had insisted on this rig for the occasion. Medal ribbons were worn, and at a glance one could see the insignia of gallantry on the uniforms of many of those present.

Villiers remarked, ‘Just a nice bunch of blokes as far as I'm concerned. I never think of them as heroes.' His glance dropped to the solitary crimson ribbon on Ross's tunic. ‘Present company excepted, of course.'

They laughed, but Ross had the distinct feeling that his companion was rather depressed. It was neither the time nor the place to question him about it. Perhaps he had not received another letter from his girl, or maybe he had had bad news. He glanced round, wondering if Victoria would be there, or whether she had made a point of staying away.

Villiers said, ‘So that's the big man, is it?'

Howard Costain, the famous war-correspondent, was not quite the figure he had appeared in his photographs and newsreels. He was shorter than expected, with thinning fair hair, and was quite noticeably plump. His suit was lightweight, well cut, but suitably crushed to show that its owner was a man of action, with little time for the niceties of apparel.

Pryce and Brigadier Davis were with him and, dwarfing them all, the impressive figure of Colonel Basil Mackenzie, resplendent in white dinner-jacket and black tie. Ross suspected that he always dressed for these occasions, or even when he was alone in this house of memories. Major Guest from the Provost Marshal's office was also here, hovering discreetly but obviously by a tall potted palm. He held a full glass of wine in his hand, and looked as if he might have been happier with a pint of ale.

As if to a cue, Howard Costain pivoted round and looked at them.

Pryce frowned. ‘And this is Lieutenant-Commander Ross, my senior officer in the section.'

Ross held out his hand. He had seen the frown and knew it was because he and Villiers were late, their driver having lost his way twice.

The handshake was soft and plump, as Ross knew it would be. But Costain's tan was impressive, golden and perfectly even, as if it had been laid on with a brush.

Costain said abruptly, ‘Wrote a piece about
you –
two, in fact. You're quite a man, by all accounts.'

Ross smiled. Costain spoke sharply and jerkily and sounded much more like the voice on the radio or in the newsreels.
Today I met one of Britain's heroes, not a bit what I might have been expecting.
He saw Villiers watching him over the man's shoulder. He might even have winked.

Pryce said, ‘We have a very strong team here. I wish I could show you over our establishment, but . . .'

Costain nodded and dragged out a cigarette-case. ‘Top Secret, of course. But the admiral said he would arrange it. There might be a useful story for the folks at home.' He laughed. That was jerky, too.

Brigadier Davis coughed politely. ‘There are some other people I'd like you to meet, Howard.' He took his arm. ‘Though I doubt they can surprise you much.'

Some people stood aside to allow another tray of glasses to pass through, and it was then that Ross saw her.

She was standing on one of the tiled steps and was looking directly at him. Like that other time, as if there was nobody else here. He had never seen her out of uniform before. She wore a simple green silk dress with a high collar and small slits in the hem which was perfect for her hair and eyes; it was more like a gesture of defiance than a desire to impress.

He walked up to her and took her proffered hand.

She said, ‘I thought you might not come.'

‘I was thinking the same about you, Victoria. I have to tell you this, even if you hit me. You look wonderful. Stunning.'

She watched him, in that same searching way. She did not drag her hand away.

A tray appeared and she selected a glass before saying, ‘I'm glad you came. I have been thinking about all sorts of things.'

‘Are you going to tell me?'

She moved slightly away and Ross knew that several faces were turned towards them, watching them. He saw a fine gold chain around her neck, hidden for the most part by her collar.

‘I thought I would dress up. My father wanted it.' She
smiled at the white-haired man across the room. ‘ “It will keep the war away,” he said.'

She looked at the white-uniformed figures and added softly, ‘They give their lives so easily.'

‘Is something troubling you? If I can help, please tell me.'

She touched his arm. ‘You barely know me.' She averted her eyes, almost shyly, he thought. ‘But thank you. Today I saw the admiral. He has been “pulling strings” for me.' Then she looked back. ‘Perhaps a commission.'

He said carefully, ‘I'm so glad for you. You more than deserve it. Even Captain Pryce has said so.'

She smiled sadly. ‘Rain in the desert, yes?' She hurried on. ‘It would mean going to England. Leaving here.' She looked at her father's broad shoulders. ‘Leaving him. Now I can always see him when I am not required in Operations or watchkeeping. It is a privilege, and I am grateful. In England?' She left the rest unsaid.