If one had time and opportunity to see where boats were on the move, he thought, and avoid those areas, it mightn’t be too difficult to cope with.
Almost at the entrance, now. Flashing lights – and fixed ones: not necessarily in the same vicinity, could be way back behind them. Confusing, anyway, from this range and from water-level, and one didn’t want to look at them directly for longer than a glance. Might have been easier at this stage if one had not had someone to follow. If you were trying to sort out the lights – you couldn’t not look at them, now and then – then had to find him – by which time your vision was impaired.
Concentrate on Martellotta’s back. Well – Marino’s. Lights could remain peripheral: leave it to de la Penne to work them out. He’d be just about there…
Is there. So soon and unexpectedly – due to the fact that estimating distance from this perspective is impossible – and the lights so confusing – plus the need to watch Martellotta’s back… One moment he’s motoring slowly, looking for the gap, and the next the goal-mouth’s there in front of him. He’s in fourth gear, the pig’s lowest speed, steering towards the boom to get close enough to see a way in, if there is one; it’s what de la Penne’s doing, anyway, or seems to be, closing in towards a line of buoys – this has been an option they’ve discussed, to find some such barrier and use it (a) to hang on to, (b) as camouflage – and then in a flash—
Boom…
He’s seen the launch, guessed there’ll be a charge coming. That one – like a boot in the belly, and the thought with it Been here before… Gib, of course, vivid memories of. But that explosion was – distracting… The launch comes creaming out of the darkness to starboard – under helm, heeling as it swings away from the boom-gate vessel – which is on the move… Hauling the gate shut, or open? Depending on which, a ship or ships must either have just entered or just left, or is/are about to enter or leave. Lights flashing on both sides – red this side, green the other – are dropping the same hint. Whichever way it is…
Here meanwhile it’s dark – Emilio can see Martellotta – or his diver’s back – only because one head’s in partial silhouette against the glow from higher up. The water’s dark right in the entrance, between the ends of the two breakwaters. Those lights set well back on the piers, the green and red flashes – every two seconds, both of them – are quick darts of colour on the surface some way out, surface still disturbed by the launch’s wash. But they’re only points of colour, spearpoints flickering on dark ridges. De la Penne’s motoring towards the line of buoys – the far side, where the gate may be opening or may be closing. Emilio can’t see him, but that’s where Martellotta’s heading. Speeding up, suddenly. From fourth gear into third: then first, as Martellotta’s pig surges forward. Following suit, Emilio’s looked to his right, freezes for an instant as he sees the dark shapes coming at a rush, growing out of the black seascape at frightening speed, bow-waves tumbling white and the ships towering: from down here in the dark, gargantuan. Their noise too now – destroyers, nose to tail, entering harbour at maybe twelve knots. Two – no, three: and de la Penne’s either right under the forefoot of the leader or damn close to it; if it doesn’t hit him it’ll roll him over, send him out of control, and then – the next one… A ship that passes over you tends to get you a second or two later with its screws. All wash, white water now, Emilio in first gear and with starboard rudder on, still on the surface and breathing air – he’s seen his chance, for better or for worse and whoever else is alive or dead or mangled he’s swinging his pig into the wake of the third destroyer – into a torrent of solid white that boils right over him – them… Port wheel: blind, but having a course to steer and sticking to it, in the maelstrom of three ships’ wash and the turbulence confined in the narrow entrance, flinging back on itself from the sheer stone walls. At least half blind, swallowing salt, the pig rolling like – a sow… Then – through spray – incredibly, the sight of the green light’s quick flashes drawing aft.
Inside. Practically washed in. But where the hell the other three—
Boom…
Into fourth gear. Looking back at Maso. A hand to his own mask, a signal to put his on. Might need to submerge: might not, but there’ll be no warning. That last charge was the closest this far. Still feeling it. Breathing from his set now, with the pig trimmed down, only his and Maso’s heads above the surface, and in fourth gear for slow speed, minimal disturbance. There’s still a rolling swell from the destroyers’ passage but it’s smoothing out, fizzing here and there in whirls but no broken water now. Putting on port wheel, quickly: the destroyer he followed in has stopped her engines. He’s on her starboard quarter. Still hardly believing he’s actually inside Alexandria harbour. But this ship having stopped – right in the fairway and for no obvious reason – has him wondering again about the others, especially de la Penne. It’s conceivable that they’ve spotted something – something that’s floated up.
Signalling in progress. Stabs of white light into the harbour’s depths, and after a few repetitions a single flash responding from the darkness on the left, a pinprick that blossoms then cuts out, and the destroyer’s clacking out its message. End-on shapes in the dark beyond it are no longer discernible, have pushed on towards the inner harbour. Emilia’s holding port rudder on, bringing the pig round to pass under this destroyer’s stern. Her engines are stopped but she still has way on – northeastward, the general direction of the inside of the coaling arm, location of all the other targets.
She’s passed her message. He hasn’t seen the flash of acknowledgement but there must have been one. Telling himself: No need to submerge – yet… There are lights everywhere you look but it’s dark enough here; so is the centre of the harbour, on that crucial line of bearing 035 degrees.
Another charge – astern, from the entrance or outside it. Where with the destroyers safely inside, no doubt they’ll now be shutting the stable door. A sense of triumph, in that thought – that one’s fooled them – but suppressing it, reminding himself Long way to go yet… The destroyer’s on the move again. A swirl of water at her stern, and the thrum of turbines. Starboard rudder, therefore, to come back on course. Having very much in mind the distance that’s to be covered, passage of time, and problems to be encountered – before, during and after. Working his leg muscles, to get life – feeling – back into them. Second gear – the destroyer’s drawing away, giving him room, opening the way forward. Then – ‘Damn!’ – a searchlight beam licking out from behind, turning the surface out to starboard mirror-bright and beginning to swing left, this way: he’s opened the diving tank’s vent, flooding her down.
* * *
They’d had to dive again since that first submersion. Twice more, counting this last quick ducking-under. He thought it had been twice He was getting a sort of dizziness now and then. And reacting to events, not keeping a bloody diary. At least when you were reacting the cold took a back seat for a while. That was his problem, the damn cold. He’d thought when he’d had the first dizzy spell that it might have been oxygen poisoning, but the submersions hadn’t been long enough for that. Not for him – he’d survived very much longer periods than that, on numerous occasions, with no ill effect. The only protracted dive had been the second. That time there’d been boats moving in dangerously close to them from about three directions; he’d had no choice, certainly wouldn’t have chosen to be under water when one knew there’d be charges coming. He’d come up to the surface – after a particularly bad one – to see where the boats had got to and check that Maso was all right – and made a ninety-degree diversion westward towards the French ships, having noticed that that area of the harbour was getting less attention. Unfortunately one of the patrolling boats had had the same idea, and they’d had to stay down for a bloody age.
Heads above water again now, anyway. Maso seemed to have weathered the depth-bombs all right, but after the third dip under – this recent, very brief one – he’d kept his mask on, hadn’t responded when Emi
lio had yelled at him to take it off, breathe air while they had the chance. He still had it on. No time or place – or strength to waste – for arguing with bloody-minded divers who thought they knew it all… He’d be needing the spare set out of the tool locker before they went under for the target, Emilio guessed. When they got to it. They were behind schedule now by about – Christ, best part of an hour. And in this damn cold… Not agony, he told himself. Discomfort. Fucking discomfort. Sickening, anyway, to have lost so much time. Having started really rather brilliantly. Even after the delay of the first submersion he’d had Valiant abeam just after 0200. Passing her at a distance of about 500 metres she’d been clearly visible in silhouette against the land-glow, with light showing on deck near her stern and a picket boat with its navigation lights burning in the process of securing at a boom on her port side for’ard. One of the droppers of charges, he’d supposed; they’d be doing it in something like two-hour watches. A great floating castle of a ship, though: which should by this time have de la Penne and Bianchi either already under her or maybe coping with her enclosure of anti-torpedo nets.
If they’d survived that rodeo-like business in the entrance, of course.
But with Valiant just abaft the beam to starboard, he’d also had the interned French ships in sight – just – to port. (This had been before the second prolonged period of submersion – quarter of an hour, maybe, before those launches had started making a nuisance of themselves.) The French ships were grey, not dazzle-pointed, and with no shore lights behind them would have been near-impossible to make out if he hadn’t known where to look for them. Aerial reconnaissance pictures had shown where each of them was lying in relation to the others, and he’d memorized it all, also their respective silhouettes. Reciting their names to himself as from that long range he picked out the indistinct shapes of the larger units: battleship Lorraine, cruisers Duquesne, Suffren, Duguay Trouin. Beyond them to his right, to the north of them, not visible at all from this distance and from water-level, would be the destroyers Le Fortune, Basque, and Forbin.
Soon after, he’d been forced down again, in the dive that had wasted so much time. Heading towards the French, then finding one of the boats had virtually followed him, so having to get back past the others, back towards the coaling arm. And soon after surfacing, being put down yet again, by a fast-moving launch that passed almost right over the top and held straight on – fast enough that he hadn’t had to stay down for more than a few minutes, this last time.
But now – breathing fresh air again, no patrol boats in sight and the only explosions far enough off not to be any bother. Incredible. When half an hour ago they’d been like fleas on a dog’s back. He had the coaling arm in sight to starboard, the cranes on it gauntly skeletal against the glow beyond, and his luminous diver’s watch showed 0315.
By this time warheads definitely should have been slung under the bilges of both battleships and the tanker – which would be Martellotta’s target, for sure; if there’d been an aircraft-carrier present one would have seen it on the way here. Emilio was making himself think calmly, methodically, not to panic over the loss of time, the distance he had still to cover and his continuing – although not worsening, he told himself – personal discomfort… The worst thing being that even if he could get on with it now without further interruption, he’d still be so far out of step with the others that the alarm might be raised before he got to his own target. Let alone before he had the job done and could get away. Although one saving grace might be that the others were all in that outer basin. Even if he and Maso were under their target when the alarm was raised out there, they wouldn’t necessarily be affected by it.
Thinking of Maso again, though – whether he was still wearing his breathing-set…
He’d turned in his seat, to check on this, and Maso wasn’t there.
Christ almighty…
He was there – under the surface. Reaching down, groping for him, Emilio found him slumped forward, face down – still masked. Unconscious, or dead: his thought at that moment was of oxygen poisoning. Dragging him up, then holding him above water – using only one arm, the other reaching to get the pig back on course. A foot up then, to the controls – bloody acrobatics – to hold her as she was going – in fourth gear and no time for more diversions or delays, Maso alive or Maso dead… Back to him now: cursing steadily, holding him up by one arm while he pulled the mask off his face.
Christ… Vomit: the mask had been full of it. Tipped out now, and he’d let the mask go. Maso’s face already washed clean – but lifeless, or—
No nose-clip. The nose-clip stopped you inhaling carbon dioxide. He’d been breathing poison. For how long? Out of oxygen, collapsed, knocked the clip off then?
He was supposed to know his business. To be one of the best, for God’s sake… Well – you picked the stupid bastard!
Spare breathing set, out of the tool locker?
Hopeless. Impossible, here and now. Even if he was alive. Which he probably was. Might not remain so much longer, but—
Dilemma. At least – it wasn’t, really. The answer would have been – in different circumstances – to get him ashore. The coaling arm was close by, you’d try to resuscitate him there. But it would mean giving up – failure. Not on. Not even to be considered. Having come this far, for Christ’s sake…
Holding him up with his left hand, Emilio used the other to slap his face. To and fro, using the palm and the back of the hand, Maso’s head jerking this way and that. ‘Maso! Wake up, damn you!’
He stirred. A tremor: and his head lifting… Emilio thinking. Ah right, so he comes along… Wouldn’t be any damn use, but – shaking him, hard: ‘Maso – hear me?’
What he heard was a launch – power-boat – flat-out, coming straight at them and already just about right on top of them.
Twisting back – already knowing it was finished, that they were done for… The launch – big, MAS-boat sized, was his impression, and travelling fast, right up on the plane – must have come around the end of the coaling arm – its corner, end of the wide straight part where there were railway lines and sheds. The pig had slewed off course again, was broadside-on to the high, flared bow, out-flying sea. He’d flooded the diving-tank, and it was the tank – between him and Maso – that took the blow of the launch’s forefoot as it smashed over, the pig over on its port side, going down like a stone and the launch powering on over. Emilio, in that explosion of noise and violence, aware mostly of the stunning impact – double, like being hit by a train from behind, flung forward against – well, the weather-shield, and the trim-pump handle thrusting into his lower belly: then, semi-conscious if even that – passive acceptance that nothing he could do now would make any difference.
Trying to get his mask on. Reflex action. Any brain behind it would have asked Why bother? In limbo – blind, numb, no idea where he was or what he was about. Pain – that, for sure – and a notion, of some ordeal yet to come. Well – the launch – coming back. As one would, in their shoes… He was on the seabed, had – he thought – heard receding screws, but hearing nothing now. Deaf as well as blind? If the men in that boat had known what they’d hit they’d have been back over the top again by now. Dropping charges: wouldn’t need to drop many, for Christ’s sake!
Taking their bloody time about it…
Breathing oxygen, now. Consciousness returning more or less completely, in the first breaths of it. Remembering Maso’s state, minutes or seconds ago, and from the harbour- plan – still imprinted in his mind – that they’d be in about twelve metres here. He – Emilio – had been concussed, probably still was to some extent, and the back of his diving suit had been ripped open. Still astride the pig, hurting all over, and the pig half over on its side with its forepart partially embedded in silt. It was possible – just – that the people in the launch – or whatever kind of craft it had been – hadn’t been aware of hitting anything at all. Or might only have known they’d bumped over some object in neutral buoya
ncy. He was working his left foot out of the mud under the pig’s side. The motor had stopped, and the diving-tank was a crumpled mess of steel plating with razor edges. He guessed the battery compartment might have been cracked open: and that would have stopped the motor. His next thought – query – was whether the timer-mechanism of the self-destruction charge would work.
And Maso… He was maskless, and trapped under the pig. On closer inspection – by feel – only one leg was, the pig lying across that thigh. You couldn’t see, only feel: feeling for signs of life, and not detecting any. His fingers moved from the mask hanging on Maso’s chest, up over the chinless face. The nose had been crushed – he felt a point of bone in it – and the forehead too. The forehead was a pulp. There wasn’t anything that could be done about the pig, either. If one had been close to the target one might have dragged it along the seabed, but – he told himself: You’re out of the game now.
Well. Out of that game.
One’s own damn fault. Bothering about Maso: allowing that distraction…
Crouching, staring up. Thinking that if the launch had rammed deliberately, or if they’d had any idea what they’d rammed, it would certainly have been back over the top by now. In fact you’d be dead, by now.
Don’t need this suit… Destruction of suits and breathing gear as well as of the pigs themselves was standard procedure, and imperative. Here, it would be easy – if the self-destruct mechanism worked. Blow the whole lot up together. Maso certainly had nothing to lose. So – get out of the suit first. It was only an encumbrance of flapping rubber. Keep the breathing-set on until you’re ready to go up. How far to swim from here? Referring to the harbour-plan again, he thought it would be less than a kilometre. His movements were slow, he noticed – ultra-slow, reminiscent of a sloth’s he’d once seen in a zoo. Or maybe it only felt that way. He didn’t think he’d had any bones broken, anyway. Just – hammered. Pulverized… Although strangely he wasn’t aware of cold, now.
Love For An Enemy Page 34
