Hillier took the rolled signal and lurched across the unsteady deck where Drummond clung to the voice-pipes.
“From Admiralty, Sir. Intelligence reports that battlecruiser Moltke has been seen in Norwegian port of Trondheim. She has accompanying escort of destroyers, numbers unknown. Aerial reconnaissance terminated by fog. Signal ends, sir.”
Wingate came back frowning. “Captain Beaumont wanted to draw your attention to that signal, sir.”
Drummond watched him. “Well?”
“He said something like, it’ll make no difference.” He frowned again, trying to remember the exact words. “Or, it can make no difference.”
“I see.”
He did not. What the hell had got into Beaumont? Perhaps the German ship and what she had done to the Conqueror had so affected him, the very fact she was in Norway, and apparently in good shape, was more than he could bear.
“He wants you to call him up when you stop oiling, sir.”
“Very well.”
But when Warlock completed her replenishment and idled clear of the heavy tanker, Beaumont was quite normal over the R/T.
“Well, I thought you should give it your attention, too, Keith. We have to think of everything. Don’t want that bloody ship coming amongst us without any warning, eh?”
Drummond had already thought about that, although there seemed little reason for more German units coming north. Unless they knew. And the flotilla would be without radar on the final approach, to cut the chance of detection to a minimum.
Sheridan came to the bridge. “All secured, sir. No casualties, except one seaman with a cut finger.”
“Good. ” He pulled the signal from his pocket. “Read this.”
Sheridan’s features were controlled. “So she’s back, sir.” When he looked up his eyes were hard. “That bloody Moltke!”
“I don’t think she’ll be anywhere near us. But in case there are some extra destroyers about, we’d better be on our toes. Pass the word to Guns for me.”
“Look, sir.” Sheridan stood closer to the chair, excluding the others on the bridge. “I’ve been thinking about this operation. If anything happened …”
Drummond asked quietly, “To me, is that what you mean?” “Well, yes.” Sheridan looked uncertain. “Would I have to retain the position of half-leader?”
“‘No. Don’t worry about that, Number One. When we get to grips with the enemy it will be every ship for herself. There’s no other way in a close action.”
“I see, sir. I hope you didn’t mind my mentioning it.” “Not at all. ” He was seeing him ih a different light again. He asked quietly, “I thought you wanted promotion?”
“Yes, I do. But not in the middle of a damned battle, sir!” He smiled. “I’ll bear it in mind, Number One, believe me!” The yeoman shouted, ” Ventnor’s hauled down her pendant, sir! She was the last alongside!”
Drummond stared across at Lomond, at the diamond-bright light which winked from her bridge.
Tucker said, “Take up station as before, sir. ” He was breathing heavily. “Ships in column form close order.
“Acknowledge.” Drummond looked at Sheridan. “Next stop Norway.”
Sheridan smiled tightly. “Looks like it, sir.”
Drummond felt the navigating officer watching from the compass platform. “Take her round, Pilot. Course and speed as directed by leader.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Warlock gave a jaunty toot to the two oilers and then swung away in a wide curve, her consorts closing in behind her, their funnel smoke lying on the sea’s face like a greasy curtain.
“From Santiago, sir.” Tucker lowered his glass. “Good hunting.”
“Make.” Drummond watched the signal lamps winking up and down the two small columns. “To Santiago. Will be very, repeat very pleased to see you again.”
It was a game. He often wondered if the enemy wasted a similar amount of time with playful signals. Perhaps they took their war more seriously.
“Course is one-seven-five, sir.” The light blinked again. “Revolutions for fifteen knots.”
“Very well.”
He settled down in the chair and stared at the horizon. It was mistier now. And vaguely menacing.
Part one was over. Part two was about to begin.
“This mist is like nothing I’ve ever seen, sir.” Wingate’s voice was hushed, as if he was afraid someone beyond Warlock’s cork-screwing bows might hear.
“Yes.”
Drummond tried to sit back in his chair, to retain an outward show of calm, no matter what he actually felt. In the strange half-light, as the ship moved slowly towards a darker horizon, great patches of mist eddied past the bridge, clinging momentarily to fittings and signal halliards before gliding away astern like demented spirits.
Close on either quarter, two other destroyers, Waxwing and Ventnor, were still just visible, ghostly shadows, blotted out occasionally by the mist, only to reappear knife-sharp again like watchful guardians.
Out of sight astern Lomond and the rest of the group followed discreetly, waiting to give support or cover a retreat if something went wrong.
Drummond heard a voice snap out a reprimand in the gloom as somebody dropped a metal object on the deck. It seemed like a thunderclap. The ship was at action stations, and would be until the operation was over or cancelled.
Wingate added, “The nearest point of the Norwegian coast is one hundred miles ahead, sir. Give or take a foot.”
“I’m glad to know you are so confident.”
Drummond raised his glasses and swore under his breath as a sharp movement off the port bow showed itself as a tiny cat’spaw along the crest of a deep swell. Once, radar had been a joke. Now, with everything shut down, he realised how much they had all come to depend on it. This was like wearing blinkers.
But it was the moment of decision. When they would know. By dawn they would be hitting the Norwegian fjord, or running like naughty boys for open water and Kimber’s air-cover.
Hillier said quickly, “Asdic reports strong echo at Green four-five, sir!”
Drummond peered at his luminous watch. It was almost midnight.
“Get ready, Yeoman!”
Suppose it was a U-boat?
“Asdic reports submarine surfacing, sir!”
“Object on the starboard bow!” The lookout’s voice was cracked.
“Stop engines!”
Even one hundred miles out from the enemy occupied coast it was no time to make unnecessary signals. The destroyers would see Warlock’s dying wash. It would be all they needed. Unless something had gone wrong, of course, and it was a U-boat.
As the muted engines died away and the sea noise intruded into the open bridge, Drummond heard the muffled roar of compressed air as the submarine blew her main ballast and lurched to the surface.
The yeoman said, “There it is, sir! The signal!” “Acknowledge.”
He held his breath as Tucker used a tiny flashlight no bigger than his fist. It was hard to accept that any submarine could be friendly. He still half expected the rattle of cannon fire, or the deafening explosion of a torpedo inside Warlock’s guts.
“Pass the word. Boat-handling party on the double! And no noise!”
Feet padded along the deck, and he thought he heard Sheridan speaking a man’s name in the darkness.
It must be worse for the submarine commander, he thought. On the surface in enemy waters, trimmed well up so that he could launch his little dinghy, he might have expected an even greater trap. German patrol ships instead of Warlock and her companions.
“Boat approaching to starboard, sir.”
“Very well. Tell the lookouts to keep alert.”
He saw the small dark blob moving up and down across the deep swells, the paddles making white arrowheads as they lunged at the water. A heaving line, hands groping for the scrambling net, and then the dinghy was already heading back to her parent vessel with barely a pause.