The radio mast squeaked in its mounting above his head and he imagined. Harris and his staff waiting to send off his first signal. He snapped, ‘Flash a signal to Malange, Bunts. Ask her what is happening.’ He saw the hand lamp begin to stammer his message across the narrowing strip of water, and he took time to reassemble his thoughts. Everything had happened so quickly. It was still hard to imagine that it was not just another drill or exercise. He drummed his fingers on the screen. If only both sides would make peace or declare war openly. Then they would know where they stood.

  The bridge messenger said, ‘Fishing boats have started their engines, sir. Lieutenant Oxley reports continuous and confused propeller noises.’

  Jermain nodded. The fishermen would no doubt be unwilling to be involved in anything which might Jeopardise their future freedom. Life was difficult enough for them. Preyed upon by the Chinese and Allies alike, they still managed to drag a meagre harvest from the sea to keep themselves and their village intact in a world gone mad. It would pay them to see nothing.

  The freighter was much nearer now. Less than half a mile away. Already her gaunt upperworks were haloed in weak sunlight, her upper yards shining like ungainly crucifixes.

  He watched the slow stabbing light from her bridge and wondered how Colquhoun was making out.

  ‘Slow ahead. Close up deck party.’

  The signalman said, ‘All resistance has been overcome. Request medical assistance immediately.’ He paused. ‘One seaman dead.’

  Jermain drew a deep breath. ‘Teh the doctor to report to the bridge.’

  Below on the submarine’s casing he could hear the clatter of feet and the subdued mutter of orders as the two vessels drew close together.

  The signalman continued, ‘The passenger, Conway, is badly wounded. Can doctor be sent across?’ The man watched Jermain’s face curiously.

  Jermain kept his voice calm. ‘Tell them we will…’ He broke off as the light began to flicker like a mad thing.

  With disbelief the signalman shouted, ‘They are reporting a submarine, sir! Bearing zero four five!’

  Every pair of glasses was blocked by the freighter’s motionless bulk, and Jermain felt the sudden threat of that brief signal like the stab of a knife.

  The bridge messenger called, ‘Sonar reports contact at red four five, sir! Range six thousand yards!’

  Almost before the words had dropped from the man’s lips the intercom barked, ‘Torpedo running on same bearing, sir!’

  Jermain pushed past the startled lookouts. ‘Signal the Malange to abandon ship!’ He punched the signalman’s arm. ‘Immediate і’

  But even as the light began to stammer the Malange seemed to lift painfully as if on a steep roller. The roar of the exploding torpedo rolled across the water like the clang of a giant anvil, and as Jermain watched he saw the telltale column of spray and brown smoke rising from the far side of the ship even as the shockwave fanned his face with its hot breath.

  The intercom was chattering without a break. ‘Submarine is still surfaced, sir. Has altered course away. Now steering three four zero!’

  All at once Wolfe was in the cockpit at his side, his eyes fixed on the listing ship. ‘We could get that sub, sir. With a homing torpedo we could still catch the bastard!’

  Jermain dragged his eyes from the freighter and the rising death cloud of smoke. ‘The submarine is making for the fishing fleet. Number One. We can’t afford the risk of hitting one of those boats. Stand by with a contact torpedo.’

  Wolfe stared at him. ‘For God’s sake, you’re not going to let him get away? We could dive now and outdistance him within half an hour!’

  Jermain’s voice was cold. ‘We shall stand by the Malange to pick up survivors. Now get below and stand by to fire!’

  He could picture the scene below as his orders were relayed to Drew in the torpedo compartment. One torpedo to explode on contact. It was an unlikely chance.

  A lookout said thickly, ‘She’s beginnin’ to roll over, sir!’

  The freighter was sagging badly, her bows already rising slowly as if in protest. She had bared her bilge keel, and Jermain could see the running figures along the upper deck and the spurting syphons of escaping steam. In a few minutes the sea would reach her boilers. He pounded the screen with his fist as two liferafts splashed over the ship’s side, followed by a small handful of leaping figures.

  It took physical effort to drag his mind clear of the pitiful scene as the freighter began to capsize. ‘Port fifteen. Steer zero one zero.’ He crouched over the gyro repeater. ‘Report when ready!’

  The messenger said, ‘Three tube ready, sir!’ Another pause¿ ‘Echoes distorted by fishing fleet, sir, but submarine still surfaced and increasing speed. Bearing now green two zero. Range six thousand five hundred.’

  Jermain levelled his glasses and stared helplessly at the drifting haze. He could imagine the fishing boats scattering before the escaping submarine, just as he could picture the Temeraire’s complex firing controls plotting and estimating the range and bearings. ‘Fire when ready, Number One.’

  Still the seconds dragged past. Then through the bridge microphone he heard Wolfe’s voice, angry and terse. ‘Fire Three!’

  The hull gave a slight jerk as the single torpedo left the tube. Nothing more. Not a hint of the murderous charge or the small powerful screws behind it.

  ‘Starboard ten. Steer one one zero. Stand by to pick up survivors!’

  The minutes passed and eventually the messenger reported, ‘No contact, sir.’ The torpedo had missed. A homing torpedo would have found and destroyed the other boat whatever her manœuvre, and Jermain was still not sure of his real reason for not firing one.

  Almost gently the big submarine nosed its way between the pieces of nodding flotsam and the widening patch of oil and coal dust. The Mdange had vanished as if it had never been, and the bobbing heads in the water seemed painfully few. Heaving lines were already being thrown, and some of the sailors were lowering themselves into the sea to help the weak and the injured aboard.

  Wolfe appeared again on the bridge. He did not look at Jermain but watched intently as the girl was hauled half naked from one of the liferafts.

  His voice shook with anger as he said, ‘I hope she was worth coming back for! You’ve thrown everything else away!’

  12

  Play it Cool

  Jermain climbed briskly up the varnished accommodation ladder which hung down the side of the American submarine depot ship. Beneath the soles of his shoes he could feel the rubber treads of the ladder soft and clinging in the blazing afternoon sun, but he made himself run up the last few steps, knowing that otherwise the weariness in his legs would drag him to a halt.

  He reached the top and paused on the polished grating, his hand to his cap as the formal salute was given by the waiting side-party of white uniformed seamen and stiff-backed marines. A large, corpulent captain in neatly starched khakis stepped forward and thrust out his hand.

  ‘Welcome to Taiwan, Commander.’ He studied Jermain’s tired face. ‘Sorry we couldn’t let you have time to get settled, but the boss wants to see you.’

  Jermain looked back over the rail towards the sheltered anchorage where the pale grey warships sweltered in neat ranks beneath their awnings and limp flags. The Nanlien Inlet, on the north-east coast of Taiwan, but to his tired eyes it could almost be Cornwall. On either side of the inlet the lush green trees swept right down to the water, leaving neither beach nor reef to identify it with the Far East. Take away the warships, and ignore the pointed roof-tops of a distant town which showed briefly between the banks of trees, and he might have been back in his childhood.

  Jermain said, ‘Thank you for your help, sir.’ It sounded inadequate.

  The Temermre had come alongside the depot ship that forenoon after speeding for two days from that place where the Malange had been sent to the bottom with neitiier warning nor reason. Two days of strain and tension, as each man within the hull waited and wondered what the next landfall would bring.

  By some sort of miracle Conway was still alive. During the voyage he had lain in a drugged coma, watched over continuously by Griffin and Jill Conway. To Jermain it seemed incredible that he had carried the girl with him in the same submarine which now lay resting below the depot ship’s shadow. Incredible, for he had seen her for barely minutes, and spoken even less.

  Once he had tom himself from the inrush of signals and fresh instructions and the urgent business of preparing his reports and had visited the silent group in the sick bay. Conway had looked smaller and older inside the cot and had stared at Jermain’s features without recognition.

  The girl had said quietly, ‘He keeps saying they must have misunderstood him. It’s uppermost in his mind.’ She had been wearing a sailor’s shirt and trousers, her hair still dishevelled with salt water.

  Griffin had told him later that he had deliberately kept Conway under strong drugs. The shock of learning of his wife’s death would destroy any remaining chance of survival.

  Jermain had spoken directly to the girl across the cot. ‘I tried, Jill. I tried to get to the ship in time.’ How stupid the words had sounded. Like an excuse. Like an epitaph.

  She had stared at him gravely. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, David. Not now. Not here.’ She had looked around the sick bay like a trapped and helpless animal. ‘If I start to think about what happened I shall break! And he needs me. I know he needs me!’ She had turned away, her eyes clouding.

  Griffin had given a brief shake of the head. ‘Later, sir. Maybe later.’

  But that time had not come. All too soon they had come into the orbit of the American command and another opportunity had not arrived.

  Within minutes the submarine had been swamped by Americans. The Malange’s few survivors had been ushered away with swift but gentle efficiency Jermain had been faced by two American liaison officers, one of whom carried the usual bag of waiting information and instructions. When he had finally tom himself away the girl had gone. One of the Americans had patted his arm. ‘It’ll be okay. Commander. Every goddamn thing will be taken care of!’

  After all, what else had he expected? Even his own men seemed to be avoiding his eye. As if they anticipated his fate and wanted no share of his failure.

  The captain said abruptly, ‘I guess we’d better go right on up.’ He led the way past the saluting sailors and through a wide screen door. There was a smell of fresh polish. An air of practised efficiency which Jermain had noticed as he had conned his boat alongside. To the Americans this was no manoeuvre, no show-the-flag mission. This was as near to real war as made no difference.

  The captain said over his shoulder, ‘Don’t pay too much heed to the admiral. He’s a great guy in his way, but he likes to act a little!’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t underestimate him either!’

  A marine clicked his heels together outside a door with four stars above it. The captain became more formal and said, ‘I’ll go on in.’ He smiled. ‘Take it easy, Commander, you’re an ally, not a prisoner of war!’

  Jermain tried to relax. The captain’s words had hit home. He felt alien and unsure of himself. The American flags, the strange accents, even the ship seemed to have a different feel to it. It was stranger still to realise that it was only two months ago he had left that other depot ship in the bleak Gareloch. Two months, and thousands of miles. High hopes and sudden death. The hopeless love of a girl, already lost in a memory.

  Beneath the visor of his cap the marine stared at him unwinkingly. Jermain looked down at his own creased white uniform which he had dragged hastily from his metal trunk. Hardly a fitting representative of the Royal Navy, the commander of the Temeraire.

  The captain walked from the door. ‘Okay. You can go in.’ He strolled away whistling to himself, and Jermain found himself in the big cabin alone with the American admiral.

  Admiral Arnold J. McKelway was a very small man. He was dressed in neat khakis and was chewing thoughtfully on a fat cigar. But his face commanded instant attention. It was tanned and wrinkled like tooled leather, and the eyes which watched Jermaines approach across the claret-coloured carpet were like bright pieces of washed glass.

  McKelway said brusquely, ‘Welcome to my command, Jermain. Take a seat before the sweat cuts you down to my size!’ He flicked open his shirt across a scrawny chest and directed a portable electric fan across it.

  He continued in the same irritable tone, ‘I’ve read your report, Jermain. Quite a potful! The cigar rolled to the opposite side of his mouth. ‘Pity about the M.P. But I guess if you feel strongly enough about an ideal you can expect to risk your life once in a while.’ He turned over some papers on a table. ‘Our boys knocked off a couple of those PT boats you were shadowing. But nothing much else happened. There’ll be other times though.’

  Jermain clutched the arms of his chair and wondered if he was dreaming. No mention of the way he had left the patrol line. Hardly a regret about the torpedoing of an unarmed freighter.

  He said, ‘I don’t quite understand, sir. Did you read my report about the submarine?’

  McKelway’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Ah yes. The submarine. I read about it.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a pity you couldn’t have got a tinfish into him.’

  Jermain rose to his feet. ‘Look, sir. I want to make myself clear. The submarine attacked without provocation. But I had to attend to the survivors.’

  ‘So you say, Commander.’ McKelway’s face was masklike. ‘You did what you thought right, so what?’ The dgar bobbed up and down in time to his words.

  ’Well, isn’t something going to be done about it?’ Jermain’s despair was putting an edge in his voice.

  ‘As I see it, Jermain, you were the only one who could have done anything, as you put it.’ He shrugged. ‘But you put your clean, humanitarian principles first.’

  ‘Conway was on an important mission…’

  McKelway laughed quietly. ‘You British kill me, Jermain! You really do! You talk as if we were at peace, or something. Don’t you ever read the papers? Hell, where is all that Churchillian stuff about blood and fire?’

  Jermain said hotly, ‘I am under your orders, sir. But I don’t have to accept that kind of reasoning!’

  McKelway’s face hardened. ‘You are under my control only in part. Commander. If you were one of my boys I’d have kicked your ass for you!’ He threw the cigar into a wastebasket. ‘I have never heard such sanctimonious crap in all my life! Just try to see further than your goddamn British pride, will you?’ He stood up and walked to his wall map. ‘You say there’s no war on? Since the Second World War the United States has lost nearly a quarter of a million boys killed and maimed to defend freedom.’ He glared. ‘To defend America and Britain!’ He waved a small hand. ‘Hell, I know your country has its own problems, too, but I don’t hear your government standing for any outside criticism either!’

  Jermain sat down. ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘Now?’ He rubbed his thigh. ‘There will be the usual communiqué.’ He tapped a signal pad. ‘It’s right here.’ He skimmed briefly through the typed sentences. ‘The S.S. Malange was seized by unknown terrorists and was intercepted by Her Majesty’s Submarine Temeraire. The ship sank after an internal explosion and the survivors were landed at a Taiwan port.’ He stared at Jermain’s frowning face. ‘That about winds it up.’

  Jermain felt the walls closing in on him. It was mad. Unreal, No mention of the two shadowing warships. Not a word about the torpedo attack.

  He heard himself say flatly, ‘I understood you to say that we are fighting a war, sir. This communiqué hardly bears that out!’

  The admiral ignored the sarcasm. ‘You say this submarine fired a torpedo, Commander?’ He spread his hands. ‘Well, so did you. But whereas you got no hit, the other skipper managed to sink the freighter.’ His face became intent. ‘I am trying to get you to see it through the Reds’ eyes! If I release this story to the world press, you’ll be crucified! The Reds will deny they had a submarine in the area. They’ll say that they wanted to meet Conway. That their ships were going to welcome the Malange, or some such crap.’ He stared hard at Jermain. ‘And they’ll say that you torpedoed the Malange!’

  Jermain’s face felt tight with anger. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’

  ‘Is it?’ McKelway sighed. ‘You returned with one fish fired. There’s no evidence but your word that a Red submarine ever existed.’ He waved down Jermain’s angry retort. ‘I believe you. But that doesn’t count for much outside the fleet. Who gave the sighting report, anyway?’

  ‘My boarding officer. Colquhoun.’ He had a brief picture of Colquhoun’s anguished face as he had been pulled from the water. But for Oxley’s report he might have disbelieved Colquhoun himself. The young officer seemed completely crushed and broken by Archer’s death. He could have been mistaken. No one else in the boarding party seemed sure of anything.

  McKelway grunted. ‘You also reported a submarine when you were on the exercise with my task force.’ He drummed his fingers. ‘It’s all very strange. And very dangerous.’ He seemed to be thinking aloud. ‘Your boat is fully equipped with the best detection gear in the world. The Commies have nothing like it; yet. But they still got neat enough to hit and run. Very strange!’

  ‘Are you saying that I’m mistaken, sir?’

  McKelway gave a cold grin. ‘I make you mad, Jermain. It’s a habit of mine. I can’t stand yes-men, and you certainly don’t come in that category.’ He frowned. ‘If there is a submarine on the loose, I want it. Otherwise,’ he shrugged, ‘They’ll get cocky and go after big game. A carrier maybe.’

  ‘Or a Polaris submarine!’ Jermain felt the sweat running over his chest. The admiral’s unruffled manner defeated his own anger.

  ‘Could be.’ McKelway glanced at his watch. ‘So you see, it’s better to play it cool. No need to tell the Reds what we think we know. Let’em make one more move, and then we’ll be ready!’

  McKelway walked to a scuttle. ‘We’re learning, Jermain. But it takes time. We’ve got to make ourselves fight with their weapons.’ He looked at the waiting communiqué. ‘You failed to fire a homing torpedo because you were afraid of killing a few fishermen. Yet the Reds fired a torpedo smack into the Malange, knowing it would kill a lot of their own men aboard!’ He grinned. ‘They weren’t to know you were there. A Limey sub right on the doorstep. By putting it in the communiqué it will kill their little plan stone dead. I’ll bet they intended to kill Conway if they couldn’t take him alive and blame it on the Americans, and so drive another wedge between us!’ He stared fixedly at Jermain’s eyes. ‘There’s no rift between us, is there, Commander?’