More dragging seconds until he heard Sheridan guiding the newcomers into the blacked-out bridge. They groped towards him like blind men.
One said, “I’m Archer.” He turned and beckoned to his companion. “Commander Egil Lyngstad, Royal Norwegian Navy.”
They both looked like fishermen, but stank of submarines. Diesel and stale cabbage.
The one called Archer said, “It’s on, sir. Dawn attack. The Norwegian underground are briefed and ready to cripple the local detection unit which might have otherwise interfered. It’s not much of a unit, and is connected mainly with the local anti-submarine nets, and has a sizeable R.D.F. set for surface and air cover. The local Jerry commandant relies more on patrols and the two air bases at Tromso and Banak. On the face of it he’s sitting pretty, and this will be the first time that the underground has tried anything this big.”
Drummond looked at Wingate. “Resume course and speed.”
The tall Norwegian said quietly, “They will succeed, Captain. I have been working with the local group leaders for several months. They have waited and prayed for such a chance to hit the German!”
He spoke excellent English, but sounded drained to a point of exhaustion.
The deck trembled into life again, and the other destroyers faded slightly into the mist. Faintly above the muted fans Drummond heard the dull hiss of inrushing water as the unseen submarine dived back to her proper element.
He said, “We are in your hands, Commander Lyngstad.” In more ways than one. “Warlock will lead as arranged. The main group will follow through the channel.”
The Norwegian nodded gravely. “That is good. I know the channel well, of course. It is a dangerous one, and therefore a double protection for the enemy.” He added harshly, “Until now.”
Wingate said, “I’ve got the chart here, sir. I’ve marked the arranged approach as far as Vannoy Island and Hammer Fjord, after that …”
The tall man laid one hand on his shoulder. “After that, my young friend, it will be up to the enemy, eh?”
“Take him to the chart table, Pilot. No sense in scrabbling about under your damned screen. ” He waited until they had left and said, “He seems a capable character.”
Archer nodded. “A fine man. The Germans have a price on his head, but he goes back time and time again. He has lost his family. They shot them as part of a reprisal for a German soldier getting killed. Afterwards, the local commandant discovered that the German had killed himself by accident. Drunk probably. ” He sounded angry.
“I must call up Captain (D) on the R/T. He’ll be itching to know the verdict.”
The man called Archer said, “Make it brief then. You never know who’s about in these waters.”
Drummond hurried to the Asdic cabinet and groped for the handset.
“W/T office. Get me the leader.”
Beaumont must have been hanging on the line. When he heard the codeword, Lipread, he merely said, “As we planned, Keith. Phase two. You lead.”
Drummond returned to the open bridge, suddenly very alert and on edge. He had anticipated a last-minute change round. Beaumont had hinted at it often enough. Lomond in the lead, with Warlock covering the entrance and watching over the mine-laden Whirlpool. It was probably a right decision. If anything happened to the first ships into the fjord, a change of tactics would be needed, and double quick.
Archer said, “I’m with Military Intelligence, by the way. He grinned. “And am I glad to be in a British ship again!”
“I’ll try and keep it that way. ” Drummond hesitated. “If we catch a packet, I hope you’ve got the right papers?”
Archer patted his jacket. “Of course. ” He grinned. “NAAFI manager.”
Drummond found he had become completely relaxed, remote from any sort of tension. “What else?”
The Norwegian came back with Wingate. He was holding a mug of cocoa.
“All arranged, Captain. We meet a fishing boat a mile or so out. We must leave the exact position to her skipper. An old friend. He will guide us past the point. The rest will be, er……”
Wingate remarked, “Busy?”
“Yes. Very busy.”
Drummond asked him quietly, “Do you have papers to explain your presence on board, if we get into trouble?”
He shrugged. “I will not be taken. Have no fear of that.” He sounded weary. “One more risk is no matter. Not if it means a victory.”
Sheridan crossed the bridge. “Any orders, sir?”
“No. We remain at action stations. But see if you can rustle up some hot drinks for the lads. Go round the ship yourself. Have a word with as many of them as you can. Especially the green ones. You remember what it was like for you. The first time. The grand slam.”
“I will.” Sheridan turned up his collar. “Funny about Captain (D) though.”
“Funny?”
“Keeping well back, I’d have thought, sir.” He pointed above the screen. “Mist is getting worse. Met reports said there could be a pea-souper closer inshore. Still, I suppose he knows what he’s doing.”
Drummond said as he made to leave, “And take care, Number One.” What she had said. “No heroics, just a good, clean job.”
Sheridan showed his teeth. “I don’t know about clean, sir. But thanks. And the same to you.” He was gone.
Drummond settled himself in the chair. A quick time check, although he had already seen the watch in his mind.
“Here we go, Pilot. Revs for twenty knots.”
He heard him speaking into the voice-pipe to the wheelhouse, knew the other ships astern were waiting to follow. Like a bloody cavalry charge. Just over four hours to go. Provided the poor old girl didn’t shake apart as she sliced over the swell. But the sea was smoother now. That could mean that the fog was drawing nearer.
Drummond felt the deck shudder and then begin to vibrate more steadily under the chair. Faster, faster, the old screws slashing the sea into a sharp-edged line which was cut short astern by the swirling mist.
He pictured the destroyers on Warlock’s quarters. Waxwing, commanded by the flotilla’s most junior skipper, Lieutenant James Lovat, R.N. Son of a rich brewer. Young, but deadly in a pitched battle. On the other quarter, Lieutenant-Commander Bill Selkirk in his Ventnor, a tough reservist, a professional sailor in peacetime. The only one to voice doubt at Drummond’s action which had left Warden to perish with most of her company. They had worked very little together, but Selkirk had a reputation for getting things done. The hard way.
Still the revolutions mounted, and he could imagine Galbraith in his rattling, screeching world below the waterline. Watching his gauges, shouting or singing unheard in the din.
And Rankin above the bridge with his fire control team, and Vaughan sitting with his gleaming instruments and his effeminate S.B.A Noakes in the T.S., Keyes at the plot table, young Tyson with the secondary armament aft. And Sheridan. He would be keeping the ship afloat if things went very wrong. Or sitting in this chair if a shell put paid to the Warlock’s captain.
But all in all it was a good team, he thought. Perhaps better than average. He smiled to himself. Each individual captain would be saying just that. He had to, if he hoped to stay sane.
The nearer they drew to land, the more the Norwegian officer seemed to come alive. He stood beside Drummond’s chair, gripping the rail below the screen with both hands, his head moving occasionally from bow to bow, as if he could smell the approaching channel.
“Depth?”
“Thirty-seven fathoms, sir.” Hillier bobbed down to await the next question or command.
Drummond did not look at his watch. He could feel the dawn probing up across the port bow. Apart from the feeling, it was such an unreal situation that the Norwegian’s confidence was reassuring, to say the least. They were dashing through thick, milky fog at twenty knots, with nothing to guide them but Lyngstad’s unwavering skill and local knowledge.