Now, as I think of it, the south-west wind carries its message of fear and I cringe away from it because of her, and my heart misgives me when the wind scale rises. I fear because of what it did to her, and the cold terror comes to me, as did the ice then on the driving rain.
That night, however, I was sure, confident: I had weighed the opposing forces, so I thought, and although the margin was small, there was still a margin.
I ordered Feldman, 'Put on the upper deck floodlight. I also want every light in the ship switched on.'
He gaped incredulously, simply repeating my order without inflexion in his voice. 'Put on the upper deck floodlight. All fights on the ship to be switched on — aye, aye, sir.'
There was a kind of cold automatism in my actions. I even debated quickly whether I should not fire a second flare. It would be madness to fly over the sea…
I knew he would come.
I had no real idea of Walvis Bay's position. My dead reckoning was pure guesswork. On the chart it looked businesslike, but I myself considered that we had been driven much farther south than it indicated and that the whaler was now somewhere between the Clan Lindsay Rocks and Cape Morgan, a treacherous headland whose shallow waters stretch out to sea for about half the distance-five miles — Walvis Bay was supposed to be from the coastline. It was impossible to compute how near or far we were from land.
I had to inject some morale into the jellying Feldman. He might do anything with the ship while I went up aloft to signal Alistair.
'No. 1,' I said, trying to keep the contempt out of my voice. 'You've been wondering why I have pushed the ship on a night like this, and why I disregarded the storm warning.'
He simply gazed owlishly at me.
I had to make the escapade look good, on the surface at any rate. My results would have to justify this lie — later.
'I have sealed orders, which I am permitted to reveal at 1845 hours,' I said. I almost laughed at my own pompousness. I sounded like Feldman himself.
'The Buccaneer squadron is due to make mock attacks tonight on the main South African ports. My brother will lead the attack on East London shortly after seven this evening …' Feldman was taken aback. I could almost see the slow tumblers clicking into place in his brain.
'Alistair and I discussed the possibility of a storm when he came aboard in Durban. We-that is, the authorities, my brother and myself — arranged that this ship would be used as a datum point for the East London attack. I had to have her in position by seven o'clock, whatever the conditions. It's nearly that now. My brother will pick up the ship on his approach run. Hence the lights. Because of the storm, I decided on the canister flare, just to make sure he spotted us.'
Jubela grunted as though the wheel were hurting him.
I added quickly, 'The Buccaneer will be flying very low, very fast. He intends to come in under the radar defences.'
Feldman glanced at the clock. Five-to-seven.
'I'll get the lights on right away, sir.'
I breathed a sigh of relief. At least, he was acting now like a seaman and a man. The lie had been necessary, I told myself, to get him back on his feet.
Feldman returned. 'All lights on, sir. Upper deck floodlight on. Flare plunger ready.'
My anxiety slipped out before I could check myself. 'I want you to keep a tight eye on the plane, once he's passed over.'
Feldman had regained his poise and correctness. 'If he comes from any quarter but ahead, I won't see him from the bridge, sir. Especially in this.'
Two minutes to seven.
Hurry!
'Come up aloft with me,' I said. 'Let's move!'
It was impossible to keep one's feet on the cramped section of deck near the radiosonde hut — miraculously still standing — without hanging on. The orange canister flare, the size of a football, was still firmly in position. Firing wires led back to the hut. The wind had taken on a solid roar: speech was out of the question. We could not hear the remains of the radar sweep bashing itself to fragments directly above our heads. The whaler was completely awash and it was easy to see the reason for her lethargy: she could not shake off one wave's burden before the next overtook her.
I needed both my hands free to fire the flare. I gestured to Feldman. He grabbed a bight of rope to lash me to the lifelines. A lurch brought us crashing together shoulder to shoulder, throwing us to the deck. I managed, somehow, to keep the firing plunger from smashing on the metal deck. I pulled myself upright and splayed myself against the wall of the hut, clasping the plunger against my chest.
It was Feldman who saw the Buccaneer first.
'There she is! ‘
His words were blown away by the wind, but his gesture was plain. I thought for a moment it was a ship, but Feldman was right. The lights were coming in fast, winking and blinking under the plane's belly and atop the high tail which is such a distinguishing feature of the Buccaneer.
It was Alistair all right.
I jammed down the firing pin.
The ship, the mast, the funnel, the sea — even, it seemed, the pencil-like shafts of rain-stood out in soft rose, not red. The giant Roman candle effect appeared to colour the swirl of low-flying cloud. With a silence that was uncanny, the aircraft hurtled at the ship, so low that as it swept overboard the streaming wet fuselage was suffused in rose light, through which I caught a glimpse of the blinking red aircraft light and the five-pointed symbol of the South African Air Force, representing the five bastions of the Cape of Good Hope
Castle. The Buccaneer was certainly living up to its reputation as the lowest-flying strike aircraft in the world. The high tail flashed past.
Feldman was excited, grinning. He shoved his mouth close to my ear. 'She's going to turn. . coming back. . look. .'
His words and the storm were drowned momentarily by a shattering roar. The noise of a jet engine, when a plane is travelling as fast as Alistair was, seems to be slightly behind it. The thin metal wall of the radiosonde hut vibrated like an eardrum.
Half-dazzled by the flare, I saw the flashing lights tilt slightly as- the Buccaneer began to bank to port. Alistair, having located and identified Walvis Bay, was about to make a wide circle and come round for a second beat-up of the ship. My danger message had got across!
How long were the plane's lights visible at its speed and our reduced range of vision-five seconds? Ten seconds? Less?
We could still see them winking.
Then they went out, as if they had been switched off.
CHAPTER SIX
Feldman, looking strangely large in the unreal light, turned to me, gesturing and grinning that the incident was over. At least he seemed to have snapped out of his previous attitude. He made a wide sweep of his free arm, hanging on with the other, as if to indicate that he had expected Alistair to have completed his circuit and come back over Walvis Bay. Then he grinned again and shrugged his shoulders, surprised that he had not done so.
I still faced the direction in which the Buccaneer had disappeared. The flare burned lower.
With the same sort of slow shock that one feels in the presence of an inescapable, evil reality-I felt now as I did once when I came face-to-face with a black mamba rearing man-high on a forest path in Natal-I knew I would never see Alistair alive again.
The Buccaneer's lights had winked his last farewell to me; I had watched him go to his death. How or why, I did not know, but the instinctive realization was there, as surely as the moment Tafline stepped under the photograph of the Waratah, she became part of its tragedy. In the numbness of that moment on the icy sea-and-rain-drenched deck, I turned to the recollection of her in my cabin. I, in reconstructing the Waratah's night of doom, had brought doom to my brother, and added yet another victim to her charnel-house. The power of the seas was puny alongside that other force, which stood with its headman's axe dripping and bloody in the night