by Ian Slater
“Fog bank closing,” another voice informed him.
“Not good,” said the air boss, turning around. There was a nervous chuckle. The air boss then ordered the Sea King helo off the starboard beam to move from its plane guard position three miles away from the carrier to one mile. If the pilot overshot and had to ditch, there was no way the ninety-thousand ton ship, at twenty-two knots, could stop or alter course to assist, risking the integrity of the entire battle group. Besides, even if all engines were shut down, it would still take the ship over a mile to stop.
* * *
After crossing the loch, Robert and Rosemary noticed how many more cars were coming south from Mallaig than those, like themselves, heading north toward the fishing port. And after a while, when the Prices’ car hadn’t shown up behind them, Robert Brentwood grew even more suspicious of the Englishman’s story. If the Prices, or whatever their real name was, were really protecting him and Rosemary, then they’d be going on to Mallaig. For Robert, the choice was clear. Either he and Rose could go on ahead to Mallaig, looking over their shoulders all the time in the fog—”a hell of a way,” he murmured, “to spend your honeymoon”—or he could do something about it. As he made the U-turn cautiously in the swirling fog, heading back in the direction of the ferry, Rosemary asked him to pass her another Gravol. Whether it was morning sickness or from their “run-in” with the Prices, she didn’t know, but she felt “awful.”
Brentwood saw the vague shape of a car coming at him from the direction of the ferry. It wasn’t the Prices. It occurred to him they might have turned back to the ferry, recrossed the loch, and made a call perhaps — arranged a little surprise for the captain of the Sea Wolf in Mallaig — away from witnesses and the busload of kids on the ferry?
After another five minutes or so, he saw what at first seemed to be a cluster of lambs and a shepherd at the roadside, but on getting closer, he could see it was a group of teenage girls and, immediately behind them, the school bus. The girls, in buff-colored skirts and maroon blazers, stood near the bus, which had a miter with a scroll underneath painted on its side. It was pulled off on the opposite side of the road where it had been heading for Mallaig, and soon he could read “St. Mark’s” written in black letters above the more colorful school emblem. The girls were all standing in a group, subdued. A moment later he saw two figures, a man and a woman, emerging from behind the bus, but saw it wasn’t the Prices. The woman, in a gray pleated skirt and coat, was walking toward him briskly, and behind her was a man who appeared to be the bus driver, wearing an anorak. The woman, obviously in charge, nodded brusquely.
“Anything the matter?” he asked.
“There’s been an accident,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Can you help?”
“I know first aid,” said Brentwood, getting out of the car. “What—”
“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid,” she said. “First aid.” The bus driver looked shaken, turning, his arm pointing behind the bus to a car, lopsided in a ditch, almost completely hidden by bracken. Brentwood’s first thought was that it was the Prices, but he couldn’t tell from this distance.
“I think,” began the bus driver, “what Miss Sawyers means, sir, is that you could help us if you’d take a message for us to Mallaig. We can’t go over sixty kilometers an hour on the bus. Be a while ‘afore we get in.”
“If you’re going in that direction,” said the schoolmistress.
“No problem,” said Robert. “Be glad to help. Just give me the message and I’ll—”
“Noo, lass—” called out the bus driver. “… Miss Wilson! Where you think you’re going?” Robert saw it was one of the schoolgirls across the road moving away from the group.
“Mother nature,” the girl replied.
“Up t’other way,” the driver instructed her. “And not too far from the bus, mind. We could lose you in this lot.”
The schoolmistress was leading Brentwood back to the car obscured by the bracken. It was the Prices’s.
“A terrible accident,” she said. “Perhaps we shouldn’t touch anything.”
“Christ!” said Brentwood, the mistress wincing at his blasphemy. “Sorry—” he went on, not wanting to look any further but feeling compelled.
“I think we should keep it quiet,” she said, her voice calm but nevertheless strained. “Until you reach Mallaig. No point in upsetting the girls any more than they have been. One or two of them saw the broken glass — otherwise we wouldn’t have seen the car in the bracken. Thank goodness Wilkins — our bus driver — had the sense to keep them away from it.”
“Yes,” agreed Robert. “Well, leave it to me, miss. I’ll tell the police in Mallaig. Maybe you should give me your name.”
“And you?” she asked. Robert showed her the U.S. Navy card with his photo. She was visibly relieved.
“Oh, thank goodness. I saw you leaving the ferry, you see, and wondered—”
Brentwood suddenly remembered something, too — the car speeding past him in the rain, shortly after he’d made the U-turn to come back. What if he and Rosemary hadn’t turned but, like the Prices, had kept on in the fog toward Mallaig?
“Listen, Miss Sawyers,” he said urgently. “I think we should all go into Mallaig. On your bus. Can we hitch a ride with you?”
“Why, yes, but—”
“I haven’t time to explain fully yet.”
He saw her suspicion return. “Look, when we get to Mallaig, you can call this number — here on my card. It’s the U.S. Navy attaché at the U.S. Embassy in London. But right now I think it’d be best if we all go in together to Mallaig.”
“Perhaps one of us should stay here and—” she began.
“No,” cut in Brentwood. “No one stays here. Everyone gets on the bus.” The teacher and the driver looked uneasily at one another. “Trust me!” said Brentwood. “I know what I’m doing, believe me.” The driver made noises about sweeping the glass off the road. “Leave it,” said Brentwood. “Believe me, I know what I’m doing.”
“Very well, I suppose —” began Miss Sawyers. “You’d best get the girls back on the bus, Wilkins.”
“Yes, miss.”
The drive to Mallaig was a mournful one, only a few of the girls talking, a few giggling, trying to act nonchalant despite their having come across what Miss Sawyers had somberly told them was a “fatal accident.”
“But I didn’t see any damage to the car,” Rosemary insisted.
“It was on the driver’s-side fender,” Robert told her. “On the right side — you couldn’t see it from where our car was parked. Slammed right into the ditch. Price probably dozed off at the wheel.”
“How dreadful.” The Gravol hadn’t worked yet, and she felt so ill, she thought she was going to throw up.
* * *
When the bus reached the Mallaig police station, it was an anticlimax for the girls of St. Mark’s, who had thought they were in sole possession of knowledge of the accident. But the police said someone had already called it in. That being the case, Robert told the desk sergeant he was surprised he hadn’t seen any ambulance or rescue vehicle passing them on the way in.
“Ah,” replied the desk sergeant good-naturedly, “we wouldn’t be using flashing lights unless it’s an extreme emergency, sir. Air raid regulations, you see.”
The sergeant took down the statements from the three of them, spun the log book about, thanked Miss Sawyers and Wilkins for their help, and informed Robert that “the super’d like a word with you, Captain Brentwood, if you don’t mind, sir. I’ll have the corporal make Mrs. Brentwood a cuppa. Come inside the staff room if she likes, sir.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
The superintendent had Brentwood draw up a chair. “Well, Captain, I know you’re not a police officer, but I’d appreciate your assessment of the situation. In your line of country, I expect you’ve seen a few injuries?”
“Yes,” acknowledged Brentwood. “Well, from what I saw through the shattered window, I’d say the car
was forced off the road, then they were shot. Both between the eyes — at short range. Bullet holes in the windshield. You couldn’t do that at speed — I mean, from a moving vehicle.”
“Were the doors locked, Captain?”
“I think so. If I remember correctly, on the way up here, the bus driver said he’d had to reach in through the shattered window glass to pull up the lock.”
“Silly man,” said the superintendent.
“He told me he used a handkerchief,” said Robert.
“Oh, aye. But now any other fingerprints on the door lock are probably gone.” The superintendent paused, running fingers through thinning white hair. “You’ve no idea of the weapon, I suppose?”
“Small-bore, I’d say. Neat hole in the forehead — the back of the skull was something else.”
“Strewn about, was it?”
Robert sat back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, face grim with the recollection. “Never seen anything like it.”
The superintendent was nodding. “A high-vel, most probably,” he mused. “Not much noise, faster than most, with a mercury-filled head. They like twenty-two-caliber. That’d explain the back-of-the-head business.” He looked across the desk at Brentwood. “Did none of the girls see tha’?”
“No. Wilkins, the bus driver, kept them away.”
“And quite right, too. How’s your wife taking this?”
“She’ll be fine. I told her it was an accident. I doubt she believes me but, well, when she’s feeling better, maybe…”
“Not much of a honeymoon you’ve had, lad?” the superintendent cut in.
Robert couldn’t remember telling him they were on their honeymoon. The sergeant saw his surprise. “Oh, we’ve been given the gen on you, lad. Ever since our boys got on to them in Surrey.”
“You’ve circulated their descriptions, I hope?” said Brentwood.
The corporal came in with two teas and the station’s ration of Peek Frean biscuits on a tray.
The superintendent dunked a chocolate sandwich, tapping it on the large mug showing President Suzlov being kicked in the butt. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m not with you. How do you mean—’circulated their descriptions’?”
“Well, I mean whoever’s chasing us. Whoever’s trying to kill nuclear sub captains. Of course, I know they’re special Soviet agents — SPETS, I suppose — but I assume you know what they look like by now — or don’t you?”
“Och, mon, you’ve got it all mixed up. “ ‘Twas those bloody Prices who were gunning for you. Hoping for a lonely place on the stretch after the ferry. If our boys hadn’t caught up with ‘em, you’d be dead, lad.”
Brentwood slowly put his tea down on the superintendent’s desk. “Then who in hell were—” He gave the superintendent the description of the young newlyweds they’d met in the B and B. The ones with the confetti still in their hair.
The superintendent fished a file from his top drawer and, opening the folder, passed over an ID kit sketch. It was them. “The ‘charmers,’ we call ‘em,” said the super. “Real charmers, they are. Bastards change their name every other week.” The super hesitated. “Captain Brentwood, I hate to say this, but — well, first of all, I’d better make sure I’ve got the right info from London. Your naval attaché informed us your leave’s up in a few days. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Now, this is up to you, mind, but if I were you, I’d get back to Holy Loch. Out of danger — if you see what I mean?”
“How about my wife?”
“It’s you they want, lad. Not her. ‘Sides, we’ll keep a close eye on her. We do it for a lot of you chaps. But they’ve not grabbed any of the womenfolk yet. They know we’d never give in to a kidnapping situation. No, as I say, it’s you they’re after.”
There was a long silence, broken finally by the superintendent. “Would you like a wee dram of something stronger in that tea?”
“Yes,” Robert Brentwood replied, “I would.”
“Corporal?”
While they were waiting, the superintendent told the nuclear sub skipper, “She won’t like it, of course — wives never do— but tell her you’ve got orders to sail a few days earlier. Won’t be much of a Christmas, I’m afraid.”
Brentwood nodded tiredly. He realized that then and there, police protection or not, he was going to give Spence Senior his.45, along with the police ID sketch of the two charmers from the B and B. And he was going to tell Richard Spence that if either of the charmers ever showed up around the Spence house, he was to call police emergency straightaway. And if he couldn’t he was to shoot the charmers dead.
Robert Brentwood took the tea and double Scotch in one gulp. It wasn’t safe anywhere.
* * *
Coming down toward the postage-stamp-size deck of the carrier, Shirer knew it would be his last chance. He had the carrier’s meatball centered, the green dots either side of it confirming he was on the right glide path, despite the buffeting of the crosswind. The wind had blown the deck clear of fog, and while the salt spray on his cockpit obscured his view, it wasn’t enough to trouble him.
While flying in pattern to use up his fuel, he’d had time to psyche himself up for a barricade engagement should he fail to make a clean-trap, hooking the three wire. Besides this, there was the four wire, and providing he could keep the Tomcat’s ass low, nose high, most of the braking would be over before the nose could lunge and take out the fighter’s Hughes radar and the long-range Northrop target-TV. If all went well, he’d halt the plane fast enough so that even if he slid, the Tomcat would stop before reaching the net. His major problem, which the LSO calmly reminded him of, was that unlike the normal landing when, after hitting the deck at 150 miles an hour, the pilot kept the engine at 75 percent power, ready for touch and go should there be anything wrong, Stirrer’s approach on Bingo fuel would be his only one. And with the barricade up, the Tomcat would be fully committed once it touched the deck, Shirer having to immediately cut power. If he hit the net at three-quarter power, he could “total” any or all of the other aircraft clustered cheek to jowl on the cramped parking area of the flight deck, the carrier able to house only half her aircraft belowdecks.
“Beautiful, two oh three,” came the landing officer’s voice. “Beautiful — on the glide path — on the glide path—”
The bluish-white blot of the deck suddenly became a blur of lights, the narrow deck widened, the orange ball centered, the twenty-five-ton fighter hitting the deck with a force of over forty tons. Below the flight deck, the cable housings crashed like two freight trains. Shirer felt the harness jerk, his body slammed back into the seat with a force of over seventy tons. He cut power and left it to God.
The Tomcat skewed, and halted abruptly, the wire’s “pullback” failing to release the hook so that Elmer Ventral and two other green shirts following a brown-shirted plane captain raced to unhook the plane, but the three wire snapped. The cable whipped through the air. Ventral disappeared, two men near him smacked clear off the deck. As the petty officer and two other men attended the plane’s chocks, another sounded the “man overboard” alarm of his fiber mike, the Klaxon wailing throughout the enormous ship. Immediately the Sea King helo hovering a quarter mile astern moved in.
Ventral’s top half continued writhing close to the island, slithering in its own entrails, the green jackets helping Shirer unstrap, leading him quickly off to flight deck control and debriefing.
The Sea King’s searchlights crisscrossed the sea, the helo hovering above the wide, bubbling wake, whose luminescent plankton made it look like wild, undulating hills of cream.
Neither of the two men were found.
As both the captain’s and the flight deck controller’s investigation would reveal, the oil rag should have raised the alarm that the big one-and-a-half-inch “braking” cable, to which the arrester wires were anchored, had been strained — a loose strand hooking the oil-stained cloth, the worst section of frayed cable hidden from view in the cable’s housing.
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Shirer, sitting exhausted in his cabin, knew it wasn’t the first time a wire had gone, and it wouldn’t be the last. He felt bad about it but not guilty. If you went “into guilt,” as the air boss often repeated, you’d soon be “out of” flying.
It was announced on all three of the carrier’s TV channels that there would be a service for Leading Seaman Ventral and the other two flight deck crewmen at 1400 hours next day— “Air Ops permitting.”
Most of the five thousand men aboard Salt Lake City had never heard of Ventral or the other two men, but this made it all the more important for those who could to attend.
“Shirer?”
It was the air boss’s voice outside his cabin. Shirer found the effort of getting up off his bunk and going to the door as tiring as if he were dragging a bag of cement. “Yes, sir?”
“You okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No you’re not.” The air boss slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re off to Pearl in the morning. Then San Diego and Washington.”
“What’s the scuttlebutt?” Shirer asked.
“Don’t know. Haven’t got a clue.”
“Guess I’ll find out soon enough, sir.”
The air boss smiled and turned to go. “Need anything tonight? We can lay on room service if you like.”
“No, thanks, sir,” replied Shirer. “D’we know what screwed up on that nose wheel?”
“Not as yet. By morning.”
“Yes, sir. Ah — I’d like to attend the burial service for…”
The air boss was shaking his head. “Sorry, but Washington wants you ASAP. Don’t worry — I’ll explain it to the men.”
“Appreciate that, sir.”
“You get some shut-eye.”
Shirer didn’t need an order to sleep. He hadn’t been as tired as this since the dogfights over Adak, when, after three or four sorties, you were ready to sleep on the tarmac. Lying on the bunk, he looked down at his boots. He’d have to undo them before he— His head lolled and he was fast asleep.
CHAPTER TEN
