Napier waved his arm and felt his Number Two, Nick Rice, pat his shoulder. A slow and careful dive, twenty, thirty feet, the water pressing the suits around their limbs, the control-panel gleaming as if it would light up the whole ocean. Then up to surface depth again, the bubbles frothing around their heads and visors while Napier made one more check on the compass. There was a strong undertow, a vague cross-current, which would have to be watched and taken into consideration for the last approach.
Napier pictured the target area as he and the others had seen it through the main periscope at full power when Turquoise had risen as close to the surface as her commander had dared. Lush green islands and inviting blue water, the headland little more than a hump with the sheltered water of the natural harbour beyond. Nothing had moved; it had seemed they had the world to themselves, the perfect seascape. And then, brighter even than the reflected glare, they had seen the small but distinct flashes, like some haphazard and meaningless signal. Jessop had said professionally, ‘The MA/SBs are there all right. Probably moored in two groups – the sun’s catching their wheelhouse glass, or something similar. We must have got the right information for once!’
But that was then, just a few hours ago. Now, with every turn of the little propeller, they were drawing closer to something real and hostile, filled with a menace even the bright moonlight could not dispel.
Napier felt his Number Two leaning over to adjust something and wondered what he thought about it. Until he had volunteered for Special Operations, Nick Rice had been a leading telegraphist and had served mostly in destroyers on escort duty. In his late twenties, he was a serious, withdrawn sort of man, but in training and on final exercises they had worked well together, although they had never become quite as close as some of the other teams. Perhaps Rice could not bring himself to trust and have full confidence in an officer he was permitted to call by his first name, like one of his messmates. Or maybe he was waiting to see how they would both react in ‘the real thing’, as Captain Pryce chose to call it.
Napier tried to put everything from his mind, but faces came and went like spirits in the water. His brother; Ross’s obvious anxiety over his safety; the awe with which some of the others regarded him because of his prized decoration, although Ross himself never appeared to notice it. No wonder David had said, ‘The sort of bloke you’d follow anywhere. I know I would!’
Rice was touching his shoulder again, his visor shining in the moon’s cool glow.
Napier saw the trailing cloak of green phosphorescence, and when he twisted around in his seat he realized that more of it was writhing away from the chariot’s propeller. They had been warned to expect this in tropical waters, but it was still something of a shock. Surely somebody would see it once they had worked closer inshore. The phosphorescence Rice had seen must be from the other chariot, leading the way into the attack. He thought of the Canadian’s face during that final briefing. No sign of uncertainty, let alone fear, but then he had taken part in several such attacks, both in Norway and in the Mediterranean. He had even been able to joke about the suicide tablet. In his gentle Ontario drawl he had said, ‘Well, we’ll just have to take their word for it. I don’t suppose anybody’s been able to report whether it works or not!’
Some drifting seabirds rose, flapping and screaming, only yards away. Napier put his arm across his face without knowing why, and then felt angry and ashamed.
He could just make out the glow from the other chariot’s wake. They were about seventy-five yards apart. He eased the throttle to maintain the distance. At any other time they would have been congratulating themselves. It was all going without a hitch – unusual even after so much intense training. It was, many said, still very much a by-guess-and-by-God operation.
Down now. He watched the gauge. Twenty feet, with barely a quiver from the motor. Slight alteration of course. Check time and compass again. He could feel his heart pounding like a sledgehammer, his mouth raw from sucking in air from the cylinders.
Now. He eased the joystick and held it steady until they were running with their heads out of the water in a gigantic spearhead of moonlight rippling on the flat water, making it look like beaten silver. He clung to the controls and tried not to yawn. There they were, the two targets, overlapping at this approach angle, hunched and black in the moonlight. He could even make out the stick-like tripod masts on the moored vessels. Small and fast, like the earlier MTBs, about seventy feet long, according to the Intelligence pack, lightly armed but with enough depth-charges to blow a dozen Turquoises out of the water.
They were barely moving now and Napier had lost sight of the other chariot completely. Just as well. He was almost thinking aloud. If I can see them, the enemy can see us. His skin was hot and clammy and he felt sick again. The moored boats were tied to a large pontoon or lighter. He snapped open his visor and took a deep breath. Whatever the mooring was, it was filled with fuel; so too was the other one. Ready to top up the boats if they were ordered out to investigate a possible intruder. But nothing moved. It might easily have been another exercise, with that red-faced chief petty officer nodding approvingly at the end of it. ‘Well done, Mr Napier, you could have cracked an egg that time!’
But the voices from the past seemed to mock him. What did they know? Back there, safe and comfortable in their world of tradition and regularity. What do they know?
He was just in time to readjust the pump and motor controls before the lighter loomed right over them, solid, like a cliff.
They slithered alongside and came to rest just beneath the surface.
The impact was probably little enough, but it felt like a fall of rock. Napier felt the rough metal scrape past and then come to a halt. He peered blindly at the surface, waiting for the lights, the shots. And the agony.
He thought of Lieutenant Walker’s chariot. A quick glance at the clock told him that the other team had probably done its work and was even now preparing to leave, and head back to the submarine.
Rice had already slipped into the water alongside, and was waiting to release the massive eleven-hundred-pound warhead and attach it by its magnets to the moored lighter. His movements showed no sign of anxiety or hesitation, and if he had been alarmed by their clumsy arrival beside and below the target, he did not show it. Teamwork. Take your time . . . Don’t get in a panic. He was shouting into his mask, I’m not in a panic! I never panic! The realization of what he was doing helped to steady his nerves. He leaned over to grip Rice’s shoulder, then turned back to the controls and prepared to adjust the water in the trimming-tank once the warhead had been released. He pressed his hand to his suit and tried to determine his heartbeat.
It was done. Down there Rice would already be able to hear the relentless tick of the fuse. He felt suddenly wild, light-headed, as if his oxygen supply had become tainted. When this lot went up, fuel lighter, boats and maybe depth-charges as well, they’d hear it in bloody Whitehall!
He allowed the chariot to rise slowly against the lighter, then opened his visor. In spite of the stench of high-octane fuel, the air tasted like wine.
And here was Rice, slow and careful as he pulled himself level before opening his visor.
Napier exclaimed, ‘Bloody good show! We did it!’ There was a crack in his voice and he did not sense Rice’s sudden tension. ‘Well, chop-chop, old lad – let’s get the hell out of it!’
Rice peered up at the nearest boat, the small wheelhouse and a solitary machine-gun very clear in the glacier light. ‘When we came alongside, we must have got a wire caught.’ He pointed vaguely to the afterpart of the chariot, his arm half submerged. ‘It’s wrapped around the screw and rudder. We must have been moving too fast.’
Napier peered down at him, his mind frozen. ‘We’ll soon shake it off once we get going. Now climb aboard.’
Rice did not budge. ‘You’ll pull the shaft out of the sleeve if you try. We’d not make more than a cable or so.’ He sounded stubborn, suddenly angry.
‘What sort
of wire?’
‘I expect it was left dangling by some dockyard matey. It doesn’t much matter, does it?’
Napier tried to think clearly, the seriousness of the discovery hitting him like a fist. It would be hard enough to rendezvous with Turquoise in any case, without faulty steering and the possibility of a complete breakdown.
Rice sensed his despair and said, ‘Didn’t you say there was a beach not far from here?’ He added more urgently, ‘Let’s go for it. I can free the prop and rudder as easy as spitting!’
Napier was staring at the land’s darkness, where even the moon was held at bay. He said, ‘They might see us.’
‘They?’ It was almost scornful. Insolent, but for the circumstances. ‘Jesus, they’d have been here by now with all this row going on!’
Napier peered at him. ‘Sorry. Not your fault. Didn’t mean to snap at you.’ He made up his mind. ‘Let’s do it.’
Rice let out a sigh. He’d seen officers crack before: as a telegraphist, he had been one of the privileged few to be allowed into that separate world of the bridge and those who controlled it. But in the Western Ocean, the killing ground as the men on convoys called it, there were always your mates around you, others to take the strain when things got bloody. He watched the sub-lieutenant as he closed his visor and reached down to his controls. Here, my son, there’s just us.
The chariot backed slowly away from the moored shapes. Set against the violent beat of his heart, Napier imagined he could hear the fuse ticking.
They stood side by side in the shallows, the heavy chariot swaying and thrusting against them like a dying dolphin.
Rice said between gulps of air, ‘Nearly got it off!’ He peered down and exclaimed, ‘Sod it! I’ve dropped the cutters!’
Napier wanted to look at his watch, but was afraid of what it might tell him, like the ceiling of stars that seemed to be getting paler by the second.
‘Let me!’ He snapped down his visor and almost fell, caught in some weed while he groped like a madman until he could feel the cutters’ warm metal.
He stood up, confused but vaguely pleased that he had been able to do something. He thrust them out and then realized that Rice was standing as before, gripping the hydroplane but quite motionless.
Napier opened his visor. ‘Here!’ He sensed the change and asked, hoarsely, ‘What is it, man?’
Then he saw them, pale against the dark undergrowth, three figures, each as motionless as Rice. As in a nightmare, he could neither move nor call out; even his pounding heart seemed to have stopped.
Rice was fumbling with his suit, perhaps trying to get to his pistol. One of the still figures moved, so fast that Napier did not see him leave cover. The next instant he felt a man’s arm around his throat, pressing him backwards until he could not swallow. His reeling mind recorded only the dull gleam of steel, the man’s steady breathing as he tightened his grip and balanced himself for the kill.
A harsh English voice snapped, ‘Easy!’ A small probing light flashed into Napier’s eyes, blinding him before it moved on to play across the restless chariot.
The voice sounded angry, or was it strangely disappointed? ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ As another, taller figure squeaked across the sand he added contemptuously, ‘Christ, they’ll be sending them out in their bloody prams soon!’
Napier swayed and would have fallen but for a steadying grip on his arm. The short, stocky figure who had seized him so expertly and poised a blade across his throat was peering at him, shaking his head and grinning hugely.
Napier managed to say, ‘I might ask . . .’
The one who had spoken first, crisp and authoritative now, said, ‘Sinclair, Royal Marines. We’ve been busy too. Arrived thirty-six hours ago. All done.’ He and the other man chuckled. ‘You were lucky just now. The Gurkhas don’t usually stop to ask the time of day!’
Rice managed to say, ‘No Japs, then.’
‘Not any more. They’re all with their ancestors. Except for one.’
Two more Gurkhas, dressed in filthy, camouflaged denim battle-dress, were manhandling a soldier down to the water’s edge. He was gagged and had his hands tied behind him.
Napier stepped back, his mouth tasting of vomit. It was a Japanese soldier. Even in the gloom he could recognize the uniform, just like the illustrations in the Intelligence manual.
The one named Sinclair said, ‘He’s the engineer – his men were working on the installation. It’s his satchel I want.’ Then he smiled: afterwards, Napier thought he could have been ten thousand miles from this terrible place. The torch moved to the man’s tunic, ripping it open like tearing a piece of newspaper. Sinclair dragged the small satchel from him and said with satisfaction, ‘The boffins will want to see these. Bloody useful stuff, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Rice said quietly, ‘I think we should leave, sir.’
But Napier was watching the prisoner’s eyes in the small beam of light. Terrified, pleading, resigned – did they, too, know what to expect?
Sinclair came back from his thoughts. ‘If you see Captain Pryce, give him my best.’ He laughed. ‘We’ll be making our own way back, eh, Tom?’ Then he looked at the pinioned Japanese soldier and said curtly, ‘Deal with it!’
It was just a blur as the kukri flashed across the man’s shoulder. He did not even cough, but Napier saw the blood like black tar pouring across his torn tunic as they let the corpse drop into the water.
Napier himself would have fallen if Rice had not helped him to board the chariot. His hands were like claws as he started the motor and Rice pulled the chariot round to face open water.
Rice clambered into his seat and all at once they were moving, moving.
When Rice turned to look at the small beach it was empty, as if the whole nightmare had never been.
Turquoise was there, with the other chariot’s crew already safely below. Napier, through all of it, the fear and finally the stark horror, had somehow known that Ross would be waiting for him.
The sky was perceptibly lighter when Napier opened the valve to flood the chariot and send it to the bottom. A few pats on the back and some gruff words of greeting as they were both dragged aboard. Hatches slamming, the hull vibrating more noticeably as the submarine began to turn in a tight circle. Faces glanced at them as they were led and half pulled through the boat, and Napier imagined he heard the surge of water under pressure as they began to dive.
And then he was in the wardroom again with all the curtains open, all the bunks empty. He sat down while two of the handling party began to strip off his rubber suit.
Ross handed him a mug of cocoa, well laced with rum. It could have been soda for all he could taste of it.
Ross watched him gravely. The first mission. Would there be another?
He asked quietly, ‘How was it, Peter?’
Napier looked at the hand on his wet shoulder and almost broke. He replied in a whisper, ‘Piece of cake.’ He looked up, his eyes blurred. ‘Really!’
Ross put down the mug by his elbow. ‘We’ll talk later.’ He smiled and wondered what had happened, afraid that he already knew.
At seven o’clock in the morning, while Turquoise was running comfortably at a depth of ninety feet, the two chariot charges exploded, and only minutes later the other laid by Sinclair and his raiding party followed suit.
Operation Emma was over.
6
Thoughts of Home
JAMES ROSS PICKED up the coffee cup but it was empty, although he could not recall drinking it. Pryce’s office seemed so still and quiet after the busily contained world of the submarine. This was unreal, with the distant clatter of a single typewriter and the occasional strident call of a telephone.
Captain Ralph Pryce stood with his back to a window, quite motionless and watchful, as he had been while Ross had leafed through the small clip of signals.
Ross felt crumpled and tired and wondered why he could not accept it, come to grips with it. He said, ‘So you knew, sir? Before we
sailed.’
Pryce said curtly, ‘Of course I knew. It was my decision. It was, I hope, the right one. What you yourself would have done under the circumstances.’
‘Perhaps.’
All in white, Pryce seemed to shine against the background of swaying palms and an empty blue sky. Shirt and shorts perfectly pressed, the straps on his shoulders gleaming in the filtered sunshine like gold bars.
‘There was nothing you could have done. I made full enquiries while you were away with the team. Everything that could be done was done. Your mother has . . .’
Ross said quietly, ‘Step-mother.’ Because of the sunlight, he did not see the prickle of annoyance on the captain’s face. An oversight, which he should have noticed or known about.
He stared at the signals again. His father had never complained about health problems, and he was careful to keep up with his medical inspections, if only for the Admiralty’s sake: most of his salvage contracts were with them. It had been a small wreck near Portland Bill. One of his crew had reported a corroded unexploded bomb jammed in the bridge superstructure just above the surface. Nobody would move it until the sappers of the bomb disposal squad had arrived. Ross could almost have been there, could even hear his father’s voice: Why, you silly wee man, the bomb’s a dud! D’you want to lose another day’s work?
The bomb had been a dud, but in wrenching it free Big Andy had suffered a heart attack, and had died soon afterwards at the nearby naval hospital.
Pryce said, ‘Leave would have been out of the question – agreed?’
Ross nodded. Too late anyway. He should have guessed something was wrong. Pryce had sent his own car to pick him up as soon as he had landed from the submarine’s depot-ship. Even Turquoise’s bluff commander had seemed unusually subdued when he had seen him over the side this morning.
A Dawn Like Thunder Page 9
