He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock on a warm, still night. His own inclination was to sail now; but his men could do with a few hours' uninterrupted sleep. He would leave Coffin Island before dawn, which would put him well clear before daylight-not that there was anything he had to fear.
He pressed a buzzer, and when his chief-of-staff came into the big cabin he ordered brusquely:
"The ship will sail at three in the morning."
That was all, but it was enough. The staff-commander saluted and withdrew.
There was every doubt in the minds of the officers on Wind Rode's bridge that they were wasting their time and their fuel: there was no doubt whatever that they were poking their lonely nose into dangerous waters. Certainly most of the Japanese Fleet was much further south, with plenty to do around the East Indies, the Philippines, and the islands captured in the South Pacific. But it would be foolhardy to suppose that they had left their home islands completely unguarded.
Silent, darkened, all the electronic aids in alert operation, she crept on through the dark night. Worshipping at the greatly-glowing shrine of the bridge radar viewing-screen, Bentley and Randall watched the white line representing the coast of Coffin Island gradually shift itself across the concentric range-rings towards the centre of the convex screen. Closer she swept, the long white pointer which was the radar aerial, swinging round and round the face of the screen with methodical, unimpassioned efficiency.
Now and then Bentley straightened his back and stared through the shadow of the night at the darker bulk of the island ahead. He neither saw, nor expected to see, any lights. He knew from the chart that the entrance to the deep, long harbour was comparatively narrow, and curved to the left inside, so that any lights from village or town would be hidden from seaward.
A few minutes later they were so close that radar could be dispensed with-the ocean swell beat against the cliffs and beaches of the island in flashes of curling white, and the unbroken mouth of the entrance was dimly visible. Bentley looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock.
He said in a low voice to Randall beside him:
"How the hell are we going to find out what's in there? I'm certainly not taking the ship in."
"Simple," Randall grinned, and his teeth showed white against his brown face. "It's a lovely night for a swim."
"You?"
"Me. We aren't all champ leather-pushers, but some of us aren't totally useless in the realm of sport."
That was true enough, Bentley reflected. Randall was a bright light in the inter-Services water-polo team-which accounted in part for the bulk of his shoulders-and he was used to keeping afloat for long periods. The more he thought of the idea the more he liked it- it would have to be an officer, one capable of assessing the advantages, or dangers, of the harbour and what it held; it would not be a long swim, for the ship could nose in quite close to the shore; and, determining his decision, he could see no better way of finding out what was inside.
"All right," he said, "get ready. What'll you take?"
"I don't expect trouble," Randall answered, "and a revolver would only bring it on me. But, just in case-I think a bayonet in a scabbard. It can trail from my waist in the water."
Bentley nodded. He bent to the voice-pipe and Randall moved swiftly down the ladder towards his cabin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THOUGH IT WAS UNLIKELY, so far north, the harbour entrance might be guarded by a motor boat patrol.
Randall lifted his head from the warm water, spotted the edges of the white-edged reef on either side of the entrance, then put his head down and swam quickly across towards the trees slightly left of the reef.
He reached them and rested there a moment, his mouth open to soften his breathing. His nostrils were filled with the strong stench of harsh decay and the odour from the slimy mud where mangrove roots coiled.
Carefully his ears identified each small sound-the slap of the water against the roots, the almost weird murmurings of palms in the wind, the scurry of some tiny jungle creature. He was straining his muscles to pull himself on to the bank when a discordant shriek echoed above his head.
He shrank back, certain he had not been seen.
The shriek sounded again, and this time ended in a muted muttering. Something moved in the tree tops. Then silence descended again on the jungle.
A parrot or monkey, Randall decided, and was a little surprised to feel how tensed he was.
He lay in the water a moment more, then carefully pulled himself upwards and out.
He moved forward into the undergrowth, and heard his sandshoes squelch. He pulled them off, drained the water out, and replaced them on his feet, tying the laces tightly. Then he eased the bayonet in its scabbard further round on his hip and crept into the jungle.
He moved very quietly. It was not the first time he had crept through tangled scrub-lantana scrub-though before he had been armed with a rifle and was after nothing more lethal than a kangaroo or wallaby.
He knew he had not far to go to his right to come out on the harbour's edge, and as he crept he looked out to sea.
The night was moonless, and it took him several seconds before he made out the low, dark shape of the destroyer. Reassured, he moved on.
He reached the water's edge and lay flat on his belly. Then he parted a screen of small canes and peered out.
To his right he could see the reef-entrance; opposite him was a shore the replica of his own; to his left the water reached until the turn in the harbour configuration shut it from view.
On all that expanse of still black water nothing moved, nor showed.
He quelled the feeling of slight disappointment and crawled carefully off towards the bend.
It was likely that a ship would have been anchored as near to the entrance as possible; it was just as probable that she would go further in, especially with no suspicion of danger so far north.
There was only one way to find out, and he had, he thought, plenty of time.
It was nervous work.
The jungle was so thick that he could come upon a clearing unexpectedly, and he could not be sure that the Japs would have no sentries patrolling: it was extremely likely that they would.
This conviction grew upon him the nearer he crept to where he could expect the town to be. So that when his head poked through a wall of lawyer vines, and he saw a clearing directly before him, with a group of huts edging the water, and heard distant voices, he shrunk back and had no eyes for anything but the owners of those voices. He picked them out quickly-two soldiers, obviously sentries on the huts, talking together at the meeting point of their beats.
He was so relieved that he had not stumbled out into the clearing that he had no thoughts for the water, but kept his eyes on his visible enemies.
Only when he realised that they had probably just met, and would talk for a few minutes more before parting on their rounds, did he think of the mission which had brought him there.
He turned his head and looked over the harbour.
He remembered afterwards that what he saw was so huge, so much bigger than anything he had expected, that he believed he was looking at the side of a hill.
A dark looming hill on which the lights of houses or huts were shining. It was only when his trained seaman's mind saw something familiar in the way those lights ran in straight, parallel lines from one end of the black shape to the other that his mind could grasp the significance of what he was staring at.
The lights came from portholes, and they were on a ship!
But a ship such as he had never seen before in all his experience.
Now that his mind was conditioned to the belief that the native fishermen had been right, he had no difficulty in picking out salient points.
The four huge turrets, as big as a house, with their guns projecting from their armoured faces like telegraph poles; the rearing rampart of the bridge structure, topped with its aerial-cluttered foremast; the two streamlined funnels, each broader than the mouth o
f a railway tunnel; and, most impressive and shocking of all, the enormous effect of her whole overall length.
Randall sank back on his haunches and wet his lips.
He did not think of what money and labour had gone into the monster's building; nor of what havoc she could wreak if allowed south among the Allied Fleets; nor even of what she was doing skulking in this harbour.
His whole thought was concentrated on time! Time to get back to Wind Rode, time to race at full power south to make rendezvous with the British Fleet, time to bring up Allied battleships to try and trap this colossus before she could get clear.
With these thoughts urgently in his mind, he turned quickly to make his way back to the mangroves.
The bayonet scabbard swung and rattled against the thick lawyer vines. The voices of the sentries ceased abruptly.
Crouched, breathing widely and shallowly through his gaping mouth, noiseless, Randall slid his left hand back and eased the scabbard clear.
His eyes were on the sentries in an unblinking stare. For ten seconds he crouched there, absolutely still, and then one of the soldiers laughed, and they both relaxed.
Randall's first reaction was to turn and get to hell out of it.
A moment's reflection served to convince him that if he moved now, with the sentries still possibly alerted, he could not hope to move four yards without being heard in the thick jungle.
Cursing his scabbard and his own carelessness, he waited there while the soldiers parted and resumed their beat. One, he saw with an instant twitch in the pit of his stomach, was coming towards him.
Randall drew his bayonet very carefully, trying not to move the vines with his arm, and crouched there.
He could hear the crunch of the sentry's feet clearly, growing louder as he came closer, and he tautened his muscles in readiness.
It was apparent that the soldier had not actually seen him, just as it was plain that he was not satisfied that an animal had made that rattling noise in the thicket.
He was almost to the edge of the clearing. Randall knew that he should keep his eyes down-their whites could betray him.
Using all his will-power, he looked down at the ground. He heard the footsteps stop, not a yard from his nose. Silence. Not even the sound of breathing.
Not even for his life could Randall forbear to look up, to see what the Jap was doing. He looked into a tense, brown face, the head leaning forward a little on the squat body; and in that moment he saw in the Jap's eyes that he had seen him.
Randall jumped.
He thrust forward as he leaped, with all the strength of his arm. Private Sokuawa, of the garrison force of Coffin Island, died without even a groan.
That disposed of one sentry.
Randall stooped and then he picked up the Jap's rifle and stared down the clearing.
The second sentry was turning to come back.
Randall knew with complete clarity of vision that he had to kill that second sentry.
If he did not, the Jap would discover his companion, the island would be in uproar, either Randall or the destroyer would be discovered, and the battleship would sail at once.
He sloped his rifle and started towards the distant Jap, conscious of, but having no thought of being thankful for, the darkness of the night.
He walked quickly towards the nearest hut, and stopped in the black shadow beside it.
The other sentry, as he approached, could see only the vague bulk of a figure. Then the dark figure stepped forward and brought the rifle butt crashing down.
Randall was now free to pursue his plan of escape. He took a final look at the battleship, and noted she was lying at anchor, bows to seaward.
As he slipped along the edge of the clearing he strove to pick out any details which to his seaman's mind would indicate her intentions.
But apart from the fact that all her boats were hoisted there was nothing to tell him if she were sailing in an hour or next week.
He wasted no more time in marvelling at her size, but plunged straight into the jungle.
Wind Rode was moving slowly up and down, but not crossing the harbour entrance.
From her bridge at least six pairs of binoculars were focused on the distant shoreline. Even so, the first indication they had of Randall's presence-and his superb swimming powers-was when a low voice hailed from the water below the bridge.
Bentley stopped her at once, and in a few minutes Randall climbed dripping on to the bridge.
"She's there, all right," he told them, without preliminary and speaking quickly in between great breaths of air. "The biggest battler I've ever seen. It's something they've kept up their sleeve. Really colossal."
Bentley accepted his first-lieutenant's description without question-that was the reason he had sent an experienced officer.
"Position?" he rapped.
"Bow to sea, just round the turn in the entrance."
"Any boats down?"
Randall did not appreciate till later Bentley's instant grasping of that salient point. He said at once:
"No, all hoisted."
"Then she could be sailing shortly. There's a fair sized town in there. They'd have a canteen. If she was staying in harbour she'd have her boats down to bring back liberty-men."
"I don't know about that," Randall demurred.
He wiped his hand across his salty mouth.
"They mightn't be giving shore leave. Look, Peter, let's get out of here! Fast!"
The yeoman said:
"Signal from the wireless office, sir."
Bentley took the sheet absently. He was looking at Randall, but he did not see him. His mind was racing with the incalculable velocity of urgent thought.
"It's urgent, sir," the yeoman prompted.
Bentley held the signal near the binnacle, and read it by the compass light. It was, as expected, from Palesy, and said:
"U.S. Liberty ship Jacksonville struck submerged rock 150 miles south-east your present position. Has requested tow. Proceed with despatch and take in tow. Repeat, proceed with despatch. Ends."
At first, Bentley appreciated and accepted the signal as an order from superior authority-and that was as far as it went.
His mind was too full of his other problem to consider acting on this latest one thrown in his lap.
He turned to question Randall again, and the torpedo-officer said, as if he had been waiting for a chance to speak:
"I think we could hold her in there, sir."
"How? Sink ourselves as a block-ship?" Randall asked impatiently. The obvious thing to do was clear enough in his mind.
"What do you mean, Torps?" Bentley asked, and forced himself to speak calmly.
"I've been thinking a lot about it, sir," the young lieutenant said. "You know, wondering what we could do if that fisherman's story was true. A man can dream, can't..."
"Get on with it!" Bentley snapped. The voice effectively damned the lieutenant's loquacity. He spoke quickly and to the point, warming to his subject as he went.
"I thought of mining the entrance. I know we don't carry mines, but what's wrong with a torpedo warhead? It's just as big, and the Torpex explosive is a damned sight more powerful. We hoist a spare warhead out of the magazine and tow it to the entrance in the motorboat, or whaler. We sink it there, and connect it to a shore post by insulated wire. Instead of the normal firing pistol, I fit in an electronic detonator. When the Jap comes out-if he does come out tonight-the bloke ashore pressed his plunger, and she has one bow
blown off."
"Gawd," Randall said slowly.
The torpedo-officer was looking at Bentley, his face eager. Bentley turned and walked slowly to the starb'd side of the bridge. No one followed him. They guessed he wanted to think.
He did. He had much to think about. He couldn't wait here till daylight-that was suicide. But if he put Randall ashore (of course, it would have to be Randall) with the mine, the ship could clear out two hours before daylight, say at four. He could be more than 75 miles away
by then, in a safe position to break wireless silence. Randall could stay on the island all day if necessary and catch her the next night if she didn't come out tonight. This was nothing like Sainsbury's lecture. He knew his cruiser was coming out. Bentley could not afford to wait on that assumption. And there was a hell of a lot of difference between taking on a cruiser with torpedoes and a giant battleship! No, if he was to tackle her at all, he had to cripple her first. Otherwise the odds were too great-suicidally great.
J. E. MacDonnell - 012 Page 13
