Redcap

by Philip McCutchan

With any luck he would do it just about in time; and if that prospect should appear to dim as time went on, there was always the chance of a port along the track. His mind roved over the possibilities. Eden, the Tuross River, Jervis Bay . . . he’d get James’s advice on that. But it would have to be navigationally safe before he dare take the risk of running in.

  Away ahead of Shaw the New South Wales forged on through the gathering night and the storm, her navigation lights burning brightly in the murk, red and green and white. Her lighted decks and ports and lounges passed over the water in a blaze of electricity; to ships coming down from Sydney and passing her—and so uselessly passing Shaw in the for he could not contact them—she seemed like a huge fairyland, a teeming city in the black night. Along her decks the wind roared and howled and whined; but, that last night of the long voyage, few of her passengers were walking the decks to hear or feel it, to be disturbed by weather-doors banging in the gale, or the frap-frap of the canvas covers slatting on the lifeboats.

  They were mostly below in their cabins, finishing the last little bits of packing; their thoughts were winging ahead to Sydney, thoughts which were no longer ship-bound but which were, in some cases, of a home-coming, of family and friends who would be waiting at the berth at Pyrmont to-morrow; in other cases, thoughts of a new and probably lonely life in a strange land, of some fear and apprehension for that new life. Some would be sorry to leave the ship which had carried them through the seas some twelve thousand miles from the London River, looking upon her now, despite the odd tense atmosphere of the voyage, almost as a living entity binding them to the homeland which they had left; they would miss the friends they had made aboard, the people they would very likely never see again, for the ending of a voyage is often a very final thing. In fact most of those passengers had, as it were, already mentally disembarked. For them the voyage was already over and the ship seemed quite different. That difference had really set in after Fremantle, as soon as the ship had rounded the Leeuwin and was right inside Australian waters; that was when she had begun to die. There had been a subtle change in the air along the cabin alleyways, on the decks and in the lounges and bars. The ship had grown colder, more and more remote and distant as the shore reached out its fingers to squeeze away the sea-life. To-night the bars were utterly dead except for one small party of young people celebrating with a drinks session in a corner of the tavern. In the lounges, a few people sat and talked a little, but mainly they just sat and thought, and they all looked quite different too because they had their shore-side faces on now as the New South Wales swept on for journey’s end.

  Judith Donovan was very conscious of the change as she sat, a little forlornly as she had sat ever since Fremantle, in the veranda lounge aft and thought about Esmonde Shaw, wondered how things had gone for him. He’d have got to Sydney by now, for certain; she would see him again tomorrow if he wasn’t too busy and that would be nice; but beyond that she couldn’t think, didn’t want to think. She supposed Shaw would have to fly back to London at once when all this was over, and as for her, she wasn’t sure what she would do yet. . . .

  In his cabin high above the passenger decks Sir Donald Mackinnon was finishing the signing of the many port forms brought up to him by his Purser. That done, he sent for the senior MAPIACCIND man and once again they ran over the arrangements for the discharge of Redcap the following afternoon. A little later he went up to the chartroom, took a look at the chart. Thanks to the following wind and sea, they were running a little ahead of time. An early arrival off the Heads meant hanging about, probably in a nasty swell, and without stabilizers. That would mean seasick passengers, and passengers made seasick and green-looking just before arrival meant complaints. Besides, Sir Donald always liked a spot-on arrival. He walked for’ard into the wheelhouse and ordered a small reduction of speed. And as he gave that simple order he had no suspicion that he might well be influencing world safety—for good or ill.

  Miles ahead in Sydney as the time-and-distance gap began to close, the Australia and Pacific Line’s shore officials put the last touches to the arrangements for the reception of the great ship on her first voyage.

  She would be the biggest and most important ship, with the exception of the wartime voyages of the Queen liners on trooping duties, ever to enter the harbour of Port Jackson and berth in Sydney. The Line’s General Manager in Australia would go out himself with the pilot and embark off the South Head next day. Many high officials would go with him, including the State Premier—New South Wales extending an early and personal welcome to New South Wales. And at Pyrmont there would be a military band provided by Eastern Command to play the liner proudly in, and, just as, at Tilbury Landing Stage a Minister of the Crown had bid the ship godspeed on behalf of the Queen of England, so at Pyrmont the Governor-General would welcome her to the southland in the name of the Queen of Australia. A great link of Commonwealth would come, duly honoured, to safe berth, to home from home, and from thenceforward would hold a special place in the hearts of Sydneysiders.

  And those Sydneysiders, the ordinary people of Sydney—they were going to turn out in their lunch-hour thousands, some of them awaiting relatives, the majority just wanting to witness the historic first entry of a nuclear-powered liner, a great, brand-new ship from across the world, to cheer themselves hoarse from points all along the harbour, from Bradley’s Head and from Kirribilli, from Bannelong Point and the shores of Sydney Cove, from Darling Harbour and from the Bridge itself, a welcome traditionally Australian as the monster slid in through the sparkling waters.

  Because by now Sir Donald Mackinnon had reported the switching-off of Redcap, the security net, though drawing tighter in the hopes of bowling out the men behind the thwarted plan and also to safeguard Redcap on its journey up to Bandagong, was no longer regarded as a net against world disaster. And no one ashore in Sydney, or aboard the New South Wales, was troubled about the small metal box in Number Five tank, the little box which was now becoming warmer and which was making a strange kind of subdued humming and flaring noise.

  There was still no one down there in the double bottoms to hear it.

  Above, a junior engineer walked casually on his routine checks of the big nuclear reactor, the reactor which was driving him onward to a girl he was going to meet in the Monterey next evening if he could get ashore. He whistled to himself, whistled a tune that the girl had liked dancing to last time he’d been in Sydney, and lost himself in a pleasant dream of shore-side freedom.

  Shaw’s eyes strained ahead through the spray-filled darkness, bile wrenching at his stomach and leaving his throat raw as it came up. With James beside him, he watched the distant line of ghostly surf breaking off the entrance to the Tuross River. There was a distant and foreboding drumming in the air, as of tons of water flinging down.

  James had to shout even in the wheelhouse, his mouth close to Shaw’s ear. He yelled, “It’s no good. We wouldn’t have a hope of getting in there—or anywhere else, I reckon. We’d split like matchwood.”

  The gale howled above them, eerily.

  Shaw said, “I think you’re dead right, sir.” Then he clamped his mouth tight, and swung the wheel. The M.T.B. turned again to the northward, heading up once more fot Sydney, and James lurched back to his motors. Just keep upright in that plunging, rolling little craft seemed to take all the life out of a man after a while. Shaw’s eyes were red-rimmed, stung with salt, and anxious, increasingly anxious. His speed was in fact just a little better than he had dared to hope, but that seemed, to be about the extent of his luck.

  As he fought the gale almost blindly, held the boat steady in the breaking, swooping seas, his body chilled through with the icy cold, Shaw prayed. The one hope now lay in the overtaking of the New South Wales. Shaw fought against an almost overpowering urge to sleep, kept his drooping eyelids apart with difficulty as the M.T.B. bumped on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Spanning the northward seas, reports from Australia had already indicated to the men
behind the threat that the British liner had passed Wilson’s Promontory inwards for Sydney Heads. Their instruments recorded no explosions, and these and their intelligence services told them that Lubin had failed to operate REDCAP as planned and that the first part of the project had miscarried. It was undeniably unfortunate, but the advantage and the initiative still lay with them, and they were ready to follow up the alternative the moment the explosion took place aboard the liner and REDCAP ceased to exist.

  With REDCAP gone, the way would be clear and before the other Powers collected their wits, the missiles would have done immense damage and would have paved the way for the steam-roller of the follow-through, the consolidation once the fall-out had dispersed. Together with the squadrons of troop-carrying planes and jet fighters, the transports were ready to move the moment the action signal was flashed from their Central Government. That signal would come as soon as the world’s Press tapes brought the message, the message that would tell them that the New South Wales had blown up in Sydney harbour.

  During the morning the gale began to blow itself out and the seas subsided a little, but, thanks to that high stern-wind throughout the night and despite Sir Donald’s earlier reduction of speed, it was in fact well before noon that the New South Wales stopped engines and lay-to, rolling heavily in the swell outside the Heads, flying the signal for a pilot. And it was getting on for twelve-thirty when the pilot-cutter crept out through the entrance, making rather heavy weather of the passage.

  All eyes were on the pilot-cutter, first link with journey’s end; and, in those waves which were still comparatively high, no one noticed the little M.T.B. crashing up from the southward. At the lee gunport door the liner’s Staff Commander, standing by to receive the V.I.P.s, sent down the jumping-ladder and hoped none of the landlubbers was going to miss it and fall in. In the event all was well; and a few minutes later Sir Donald was welcoming the General Manager and the State Premier on his bridge. After a few brief words he excused himself and turned to the pilot, who was an old friend.

  The pilot shook his hand warmly, said: “It’s good to see you again, Captain. You’ve got a nice ship, right enough. Sorry I’m adrift, but we had to wait for one or two blokes. . . .” He jerked his head towards the harbour entrance. “They’ve got a real Sydney welcome, back there, my word! I never seen anything like it.”

  “In this weather?” Sir Donald walked out into the wing, with the pilot behind him. “I don’t care for this wind. It’s going to make it tricky.”

  “Get away with you, it’s moderated a lot!” The pilot, a stout, cheery man, chuckled. “Worst of you deep-water men. Don’t feel safe when you see the land, eh?”

  “Come now—you’ve been a deep-water man yourself, Frazer.” The Captain looked round. “Well—-if you’re all ready, I’m going in. Right?”

  “Right, Captain. We’ll make Pyrmont pretty near on time, I reckon.” He glanced up at the sky, then over at the swell rolling up against the Heads. He added, “I’ll tell you something. It’s going to clear a little more soon.”

  “Good. And now I’ll tell you something, Frazer.” Sir Donald took a deep breath. “I’ve never been so damn glad to see Sydney in all my life!” The pilot gave him a look of inquiry, but Sir Donald was already walking away. Going into the wheelhouse, he ordered briskly: “Half ahead, port ten.”

  The New South Wales vibrated into life, made inwards for the entrance between the great green mounds of the Heads. And then, as if in sudden golden welcome, the sun came streaming through a cloud-break which showed the brightest of blues in the gap. The rays of that sun streamed down across the liner, lighting her decks, bringing up the white-capped blue water inside the Heads, sparkled on that wind-blown, superb harbour, on the fresh green of the seaward-sloping stretches of the land, on the distant buildings of Sydney. As his ship moved in, Sir Donald could see the Manly ferry from Circular Quay turning to the north of Middle Head to heave-to just clear of the channel on the Manly side, so that her milling crowds of passengers could get a nice close-up view. The harbour seemed to be crammed with other craft as well, smaller boats, anything in fact that floated.

  The New South Wales moved in, like a great gull on the waters, a vast and towering gull. Her decks were lined deep with passengers crowding to the rails. And then, as she moved on faster and neared the Heads, the officer-of-the-watch, who had been looking in puzzlement through binoculars to port, came across to the Captain.

  He said, “Captain, sir. There’s a small boat making up to us. It looks like Commander Shaw aboard, and he seems to be signalling.”

  As the hours passed and he’d come up infinitesimally closer to the liner but never quite close enough to see more than her top superstructure, Shaw had found hope diminishing and had begun unwillingly to see that the lack of any ability to make contact was going to lose him this last battle after all. It had been a useless endeavour.

  He swore aloud between his teeth, the oaths ripping out into the tearing wind.

  And then, as the gale lessened, the liner appeared to reduce speed and he began to close the gap faster. Just after eleven-thirty he saw her turn off the Heads and then stop.

  That gave him his chance and he felt a thrill of hope. But, just as he’d got to within some six cables of the liner, she’d got under way again and was steaming inwards. Luck, however, was with him just a little yet, for her turn for entry brought her across his course.

  He yelled down the voice-pipe to James in the engine-room, his shout cutting through the wind. “Come up, sir—and quick. Bring one of the others.”

  James was up in a flash with one of the security men, looking pale and ill. Shaw yelled in James’s ear, “I’m going to try to send a semaphore message from the foredeck and hope they’ll see me. . . . Can you hold on to my legs?”

  James nodded, his face set. “I’ll hold you, all right.”

  Shaw hauled himself up, clambered out into the open, met the full remaining force of the wind and thanked God the gale had declined. James wound the screen down and he and the other man reached through and wrapped their arms tightly round Shaw’s legs, holding him upright.

  Desperately he began waving his arms, calling up the New South Wales, praying that some one would see him.

  He let out a great gasp of relief when a small figure ran into the liner’s high bridge-wing and a signal lamp beamed out its acknowledgment across the water. Bracing himself against the motion of the vessel, he passed his message:

  EXPLOSIVE CHARGE IN NUMBER FIVE DOUBLE BOTTOM

  PLACED BY ENGINEER SIGGINGS. DO NOT REPEAT NOT FLOOD

  TANK. WILL BOARD YOU.

  Upon the liner’s bridge Sir Donald Mackinnon swung round on his Staff Commander. He snapped, “Stanford, get a pilot-ladder down from the starboard gunport right away. I’ll stop her and give Shaw a lee. Meanwhile nothing’s to be said to alarm the passengers. I’ll pass further orders shortly.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Stanford about-turned, ran for the ladder. Sir Donald said, “Stop engines. Slow astern together, wheel amidships. Get me the Chief Engineer on the phone.”

  The New South Wales backed slowly away from the South Head.

  Shaw brought the M.T.B. fast round the liner’s great bluff counter. She bucketed and wallowed in the seas. When he had rounded the stern and come into the lee provided by the high, sheer decks, the motion was easier, but the little craft was smaller and lighter than the pilot-cutter and was taking the weather that much the worse.

  Shaw grasped James’s shoulder, yelled close to his ear: “Take the wheel . . . I’ll stand by to jump. I suggest you go right on into the harbour after I’m clear.”

  James nodded, took over the wheel from Shaw, edged the boat in towards the New South Wales. Hundreds of faces peered down at them. Shaw, clinging to a stanchion, looked upwards at the towering decks, at the fluttering dresses, the coloured shirts. Closer and closer, so slowly—too slowly— they came. The pilot-ladder, half borne along the wind blowing round the stern, swung ou
t from the gunport. Closer, closer . . . inching in, holding back so as not to be thrown violently by the surging waves against the liner’s side and split like a nut . . . and then, as a lift of ‘the sea took the M.T.B. nearer to that dangling, rope-sided ladder, Shaw tensed his leg muscles and jumped.

  He came clear of the deck, grabbed, got his hands round the ropes just above the ladder’s bottom rung. He sensed rather than saw the M.T.B. fall away and turn to head clear, vaguely heard James’s shout of good luck. Clinging to the very end of the swaying ladder he felt the sea surge over his legs, his knees, his thighs. He clung on for his life, felt the drag-back as the water fell away again, struggled to get his feet on to that bottom rung. The huge side of the liner, its tiered decks looming over him like a precipice, a precipice edged with staring faces, made him feel giddy as he looked up. He knew he couldn’t hold on for much longer; and then he felt himself rising, being drawn upwards, bumping on the plates as the men at the gunport door hauled away on the ladder, pulling him up bodily. He bore off with his feet, and then hands reached out to help him in through the ship’s side and, as he almost fell inboard, everything swam before his eyes, the foyer was going up and down, up and down . . . he felt all in, finished and done. But there was so much to do yet, so much to do ... he pulled himself together, gasped:

  “The charge . . . it’s due to go up maybe any time now. Siggings knows. . . .”

  Grimly, thin-lipped, the Staff Commander interrupted. “Siggings jumped ship in Melbourne. The Chief’s going down himself, and—”

  “I’m going down.” Shaw passed a hand over his damp, hot forehead. “I’ve a good idea what the thing looks like so I’ll find it quicker and I may be able to dismantle it.”

  The moment Shaw was reported aboard, Sir Donald turned his ship round to the northward and stood well clear of the Heads. He ordered a message to be sent to the signal station at the Outer South Head for transmission to the Captain of the Port at Garden Island, telling him what had happened and that the New South Wales did not intend to enter but would proceed to sea as soon as possible. Sir Donald asked for a lighter to be sent out to off-load REDCAP, adding that in the meantime he intended clearing his ship of all passengers and non-essential crew, lowering the boats to head into the harbour. He asked the Captain of the Port to provide fast naval launches to meet his lifeboats and give them a tow inwards.