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?”