A Dawn Like Thunder (39 page)

Tucker glanced around. ‘D'you think we'll catch them with their pants down?'

Ross smiled, his eyes distant. He had been reminded of Peter Napier.
A piece of cake.
And before that, of David.

‘It's all
ifs
, Mike. You know how it is.
If
Major Sinclair manages to set his raiding party down without being jumped,
if
Lieutenants Walker and Challice can place their warheads under the tanker and do it without setting off an alarm, and
if
all the other diversions work out . . .' He shrugged. ‘Then I think we have a fair chance.' He saw Sinclair by the lowered periscopes. The complete fighting man, Ross thought, something that even the stained denims could not disguise. Ammunition, grenade pack, pistol and binoculars. When he turned slightly to look at the clock, Ross saw the commando dagger and water-flask.

Sinclair said, ‘Still calm up top?' He hurried on without waiting for an answer. ‘I'd like to get my boats on deck and assembled as soon as we surface. No sense in hanging about. If we get separated, my chaps know where to meet up. Not that far from our little trip before, eh?' He smiled. ‘Makes it simpler.'

Ross asked, ‘You know this whole area well, Major?'

‘Pretty well.' He grinned. ‘You know the Corps motto,
By sea and by land.
That's all right in this cohort, as that silly ass Pryce would call it!' It seemed to amuse him
greatly. Then he raised his wrist and Ross saw the black compass strapped to it like a watch. But larger, and probably sharper, than any watch. It was like a cold hand upon his spine. He was back there beside the road, turning the dead girl's body in his arms. Seeing the deep scratch beneath her breast . . .

Sinclair raised his eyebrows. ‘Never seen one of these before? Better than a white stick in the bloody jungle, I can tell you!'

He saw one of his men waiting for him and snapped, ‘Don't give it a thought. If the plan misfires I'll get you out of it. It's surprising what a few gold sovereigns or the nasty end of a revolver can do for you when you need it most!'

As he strode off Tucker remarked, ‘With all respect, sir, I really don't like that officer.'

Ross said curtly, ‘I didn't hear that.'
What is the matter with me?
Sinclair had been nowhere near that road on the night of the murder. Pryce had made sure of that; so had the Provost Marshal's men. If there had been even a shadow of doubt Sinclair would not have been sent on this mission. But all he could hear was Tucker's comment.

Tucker said, ‘He's married, isn't he, sir?' He saw him nod. ‘Then I pity her, whoever she is.'

Ross thought of what Charles Villiers had told him, and of that which he kept bottled up inside. But he could not, must not discuss it. It was too late, even if somebody had slipped up where Sinclair was concerned. He stared at the shining deckhead, the tell-tale wires which had been taped to the various fittings so that nobody would fall over them.
A floating bomb.

Tucker saw his eyes and said,' Did I tell you about my kid sister, sir? Got herself knocked up by some Yank.'

Ross smiled. The olive branch. None could do it better.

He pictured the old Colonel, alone, or with his friend the
doctor. It must seem strange without Victoria coming to see him whenever she was off duty. After tomorrow, nothing would ever be the same for any of them.

Tybalt
surfaced slowly, the water still streaming and gurgling from the bridge and conning tower as the first figures appeared from below. The sea was very calm, with a slow, undulating swell like breathing.

Ross wedged himself in the forepart of the bridge and snapped open the main voicepipe. The moon was very bright, touching the wet hull and the sea itself with trailing patterns of silver. It made him feel naked, although the hydrophone operator had reported that the area was empty of ship movements. He stared at the great expanse of stars. The sense of nakedness was merely an uncomfortable delusion; he knew that from experience. If any aircraft chose this moment to fly over, it would see nothing.
Tybalt
, like any surfaced submarine, would be like a small black stick, lost amidst the moonlight on the sea's face.

He pictured the chart in his mind. The nearest land was less than six miles beyond the dark wedge of the bows. With some twenty-seven fathoms under the keel, there was still enough room to manoeuvre. He peered at his watch, the luminous dial very clear in the glacier light. Like that night when she had come to him, her body held in the moon's glow like a living statue.

He said, ‘Open the forrard hatch.' At least they would not have to keep it open and vulnerable when the chariots were eventually launched from their protective cases aft. Dark figures moved around the four-inch gun and he heard some tackle being dragged along the casing. A less war-like use for it this time: the gun, with block and lowering gear lashed to its muzzle, would be used like a derrick to launch Sinclair's collapsible boats, with the men already packed
inside them. The sea was calm, and this should avoid any risk of capsizing them on the submarine's bulging saddle-tanks. Marines and Gurkhas loaded with weapons and grenades would sink like stones.

He spoke directly into the voicepipe. ‘The first boats are on deck, Number One. Shut the hatch when I say the word.'

He watched the dark shapes move from the hatch, and first one then another of the boats was opened out near the gun. One figure stood motionless in the centre of all the preparations. Ross knew it was Sinclair.

Unreachable and unafraid. No wonder his men respected him. Or was it not respect, but fear?

There were a few splashes and then the paddles took charge, taking the boats clear of the swaying hull. The next pair were already in place. What would the people at home think if they could see their sons and brothers preparing here to risk everything without argument or protest?

A lookout said, ‘All away, sir.' He was whispering.

‘Close the hatch.' Again Ross stared at the sky. It was as if they were the only creatures alive.

‘Chariot party in position!'

The first lieutenant was proving his worth. He would trim the boat down just enough to allow the handling party to release the chariots, but not enough to sweep them over the side.

Ross looked around for the boats, but they had been swallowed up completely despite the moonlight. He thought of Sinclair's heavy wrist-compass . . . the cold, nude body in the rain . . . Villiers' gratitude when he had been confronted unexpectedly with Sinclair's pretty wife . . . Did he know? Did he suspect?

He thrust the thoughts away angrily. ‘Ready to launch!'

He saw the froth of the first propeller, somebody waving at the conning tower as he himself had often done. He raised his arm in a private salute while the two-man submarine backed away to avoid damage or collision.

Down below at the helm, Mike Tucker would be sharing it. Reliving the numbing excitement and the fear.

‘Second one's away, sir.' The seaman sighed. ‘Never volunteer!'

Ross scanned the night for movement. The flares of fishing boats perhaps, but otherwise there was nothing.

He rubbed his eyes to hold any weariness at bay. A lot might depend on the alertness of the enemy depot-ship's men. But provided they had discovered nothing about this operation from some unknown source, the first moves should be a complete surprise.

He thought of the main target, the
Java Maru.
In happier times she had been on regular runs from Japan to Hong Kong and Singapore, as well as other Far Eastern ports. In those casual days when strict security was a joke, it would have been simple for such a well-known visitor to record all the warships and defences, the regiments and the preparations, if any, for possible hostilities. No wonder men like Richard Tsao were determined that it would never happen again, and were prepared to fight for what they believed in: their own independence.

Men clambered up and past him before vanishing below to prepare for the next hours of waiting.

No turning back. The chariots were on their way, miniature submarines in a vast ocean. Elsewhere, Sinclair's men were paddling towards the land, probably too busy to consider the risks awaiting them.

‘Clear the bridge.' The lookouts were gone in seconds, glad to be joining the rest of the skeleton crew.

He could picture the faces in the control-room, waiting
to sever the last link. A quick look at the stars and the endless pattern of silver beyond the bows.

‘Take her down, Number One. Periscope depth.'

Then he closed the voicepipe.
Begin the attack.

JAMES ROSS LOOKED
at the control-room clock and then at the few men who would remain here until the last possible moment. How empty the boat had seemed when he had walked through it, from the fore ends and the empty torpedo tubes, then right aft to where Arthur Pound,
Tybalt
's original Chief, had been watching over his engines and electric motors as if this were a normal patrol. One with a return trip.

There had been a few grins, but mostly there was only a set determination now, something almost physical.

Ross said, ‘As soon as it's full daylight they'll be looking for us when we don't appear anywhere near Penang. It should be too late by then. We'll go straight in. I'll want a handling party on deck, and the forward hatch open to make it appear genuine. I can't dive the boat anyway, it's too shallow there for comfort. We could get stranded before we were anywhere near the target.' He looked around at their intent faces. ‘
Straight in.
We'll open the bow doors and scuttle her slowly – the main hatch will do the rest. We shall clear the boat and fire the fuses.' He saw Villiers nod, living his part of it. A three-pronged attack, what Pryce had wanted. The two chariots at the far end of the anchorage,
Sinclair's landing party, and the final hammer blow,
Tybalt
herself. They all knew what to do: only the survivors would know if it had worked. In war that was always the worst part, as he had heard his father say so many times. Young men dying, bravely and without hesitation. But they would never know if their sacrifice had been worthwhile.

He looked towards the conning tower. ‘I'm going up.' He saw the gratitude on Mike Tucker's face as he added, ‘You come with me. I think we can safely leave Number One and his team to make the last run-in.'

He pulled himself up the ladder, the rungs very cold under his fingers.
Or is it me?
He heard Tucker humming to himself as he followed close behind him, as if he had been done some immense favour. The old firm.

They had surfaced for the last time around midnight, the stars partly dimmed by layers of drifting cloud, like smoke. It would be a hot day again. Shortly after surfacing they had passed the two tiny islands of Goh Raja Yai and Goh Raja Noi and had fixed their position exactly before steering almost due north. Ross had watched the gyro repeater ticking round, the chart a ruthless reminder that they were on course, with the Malay Peninsula reaching out across the bows to embrace or crush them.

The two tiny islands, like tips of sea-bed mountains, had been a great help. But they must have torn the keels out of many lesser vessels over the centuries.

‘The information is that the Germans have two Arado seaplanes at Penang. One will be sent to look for us, I expect.' He was amazed that he could joke about it. ‘Provided their Nippon friends have bothered to tell them!'

Tucker said, ‘And if we can't get out of it . . .'

‘We'll go overland. Anything. I'm not throwing in the towel for anybody.'

Tucker sounded satisfied. ‘That goes for me, too. I don't fancy a second helping of their hospitality!'

They felt the bridge shudder as the Chief cut the motors and brought the powerful diesels into play. Right on time. What was he thinking about? His dead family, how it might have been? Ross pushed it from his mind. There was no room for pity now. There never was.

‘One thing, Mike.' He looked up at the German ensign as it flapped weakly in the damp air. ‘If we get a chance . . .'

Tucker's grin was very white against the sea's backdrop. ‘I guessed you'd think of that. I've got
Tybalt
's White Ensign right here.'

Ross tensed as a lookout said, ‘I think it's getting a bit lighter to starboard, sir.'

‘Yes. It is. Call the gun crews.' The handling party. They would be cut down in seconds if the surprise did not work. It took real guts to stand on an exposed deck while they approached the target. Ross clenched his pipe in his pocket so hard that he was surprised it did not snap. They
had
real guts. Otherwise they would not be here.

Some birds rose flapping and screeching as the submarine's bow-wave sluiced over their resting place. Ross watched them until they had vanished into the darkness. Tonight the birds would be back again.
By then . . . ?
Men clambered past them, and practised fingers soon had the heavy machine-guns mounted and ready.

Ross found himself thinking of his father. Was this how it had been for him? Two men alone on a tiny conning tower in that obsolete submarine, with all hell breaking loose around them? Big Andy and Ralph Pryce's father, side by side. He glanced quickly at his companion.
Like us.

He leaned forward to watch as other figures appeared near the four-inch gun. He hoped they had remembered to lay out some mooring wires to make the boat appear normal
to anybody who was on watch when they burst in. He had the chart fixed in his mind as if it were printed there: the scattered islets and the larger island of Salang with its harbour at Phuket. To the east of it was the anchorage. A good choice. Ross smiled faintly. Unless you were the idiot who was trying to crack it.

It was so sudden, like the glow of an unexpected flare. It was the sun, barely making an appearance, but in no time at all . . . Ross swallowed hard; his mouth felt like leather. He ducked over the voicepipe.