Special Deliverance
Page 33
So he’d reckoned. But they’d only been in the air about four minutes when George Anstice’s voice came explosively over the intercom: ‘See what I see, Robin?’
Lights…
He’d seen them at about the same moment, and hardly dared believe in them. Fixed, blazing, right in the sea, as if the lights themselves were floating, the waves rising close to them actually throwing shadows. The one to the left went out while he was looking at it. Sam Lincoln muttered into his helmet mike, ‘Oh, shit, what’s—’ and then the strobe came on again, flashing: S — O — S… A pause, that one extinguished again while the other burnt on steadily, and the morse letters were repeated. Anstice had been angling the Wessex out to starboard but now he was turning in, upwind, the helo juddering to strong gusts as it banked and began a gradual descent. Padmore was on the point of moving from his seat — with work to do now, safety-harness to put on before he could open the cabin door — but as he turned his eye was caught by a blueish flash — from that headland, a tiny fizzing streak instantly disappearing seaward. His heart raced and he couldn’t breathe for seven, eight, nine seconds — until the explosion, vivid double flash splitting the darkness maybe three-quarters of the distance out to where the ship would be now: scorching the sea’s surface, flaring upward and then dying, leaving the scene pitch-black again. He whispered in a sort of gasp — forgetting his throat microphone — ‘Oh, lovely Seacat!’ then heard Sam Lincoln ask, ‘What say?’ George Anstice told him, ‘Something about a Seacat… We’ll take the boat with the five guys in it first, right?’ Neither of the pilots could have seen it, Padmore knew; didn’t need to have their concentration interrupted with the news now either. Anstice had begun muttering to himself, ‘OK, you guys, now keep your peckers up and hold your water, here come the Queen’s Navee…’ Murmuring gibberish to himself at such times, all of it coming over the intercom of course, was an antisocial habit about which the flight commander had remonstrated with him on previous occasions, but he didn’t now because he’d just transgressed similarly himself and also because it was all beginning to turn out rather marvellously and he knew George was simply happy — as they all were, at having found the boats so quickly, being about to lift nine lives out of the sea. Padmore was standing by to open the cabin door as soon as the helo was in position over the first boat and hovering; the lever for operating the winch was above the door, and there was no need to go down on the wire because those were all trained men, quite able to hitch themselves on. George Anstice was actually singing as he went into the hover — singing for joy, although from the dirge-like sound no one who didn’t know him could have guessed it.
18
Shropshire making heavy weather of it, in position 51 degrees 31 south, 55 degrees 10 west, in transit to R/V at first light with a royal fleet auxiliary for transfer of personnel and mail. The SBS team had been crossdecked to Invincible twenty-four hours ago, might by this time be on shore again, on East Falkland… John Saddler, at his desk in the day cabin, unfolded a letter he’d been writing earlier to his daughter, and added a postscript to it. ‘This won’t be going by fleet mail, as I have a courier who’ll deliver it to you personally. Don’t ask him for explanations, because he won’t be able to give you any. Just take this at its face value, I mean accept it, and give him — give yourself, my — a break, as our US cousins say. Bless you.’
He folded the flimsy sheets, pushed the wad of them back into their envelope. Glancing across the cabin at Andy MacEwan, who in about an hour’s time was to be transferred to the storeship for passage to Ascension and thence onward by Hercules to RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire. Saddler said, ‘It’ll be some while before you can expect to hear anything about your brother, I dare say.’
‘I suppose so.’
Not that it mattered. Either way, he’d sell out when he could. When the dust settled and lines re-opened, he’d instruct lawyers to negotiate with — well, Robert’s or Francisca’s, the MacEwan family lawyers. No doubt with Alejandro Diaz calling the shots from the background, if Robert wasn’t there to do it. But it truly didn’t matter, it was all mere triviality in comparison with one’s recent experience, the huge, extraordinary achievement.
Tom Strobie, of course — he mattered. How old Tom came out of it would remain a source of sharp anxiety, until some word came.
He got out of his chair, and accepted the letter from Lisa’s father. ‘I’m very grateful, sir.’ Shifting his feet quickly: with the weather on her bow, Shropshire was demonstrating her tricky corkscrew roll. Saddler said, ‘Don’t tell her any more than she can guess — which’ll be more than enough, so make sure she keeps her big mouth shut. I’m breaking all the rules by letting her know this is where you’ve been. Can’t help it — since I want what I think might be best for both of you, no other way to do it… Best thing, Andy, might be to convince yourself it really didn’t happen, you dreamt it. Right?’
Harry Cloudsley had suggested something rather similar. Cloudsley who might at this very moment be crawling up some dark, wet beach. With Tony Beale in company, maybe — and those other dimly-perceived shadows would surely be Geoff — Monkey — Jake West… Could be others too, others like them — if you could stretch the imagination to the possibility of there being others even remotely like that bunch… Saddler’s quizzical stare and outstretched hand pulled him back into the present; the dreamlike images faded as he shook the hand.
‘Right…’
First published in Great Britian in 1986 by Sphere Books
This edition published in Great Britain in 2015 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
173A Cavendish Road
London SW12 0BW
United Kingdom
Copyright © 1986 by Alexander Fullerton
The moral right of Alexander Fullerton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781910859919
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Look for more great books at www.canelo.co