A Dawn Like Thunder (10 page)

Their mouths came together and she put her hand on his to help him with the buttons.

She felt his hand on her skin, the hesitancy changing to sudden need as he cupped her breasts, lifted them and stroked them until her nipples were hard, painful.

He was kissing her, gently but firmly, her throat, her breasts, the curve of her stomach, until her whole being was roused and slipping out of control. He knelt over her while she reached for him, saw her quick breathing. She found and held him as if they had been lovers for all time.

He was gentle, yet driven by the need to explore her, holding and kissing her like an invader until they could bear separation no longer.

She looked at him with wide, momentarily desperate eyes. She would never think of that other time, when she had been beaten and forced to do things that even now filled her with shame. And then the memory released her and she was surprisingly relaxed as she caressed his tousled hair and said, ‘Now, Charles . . . take me. Do what you like with me.'

Long after they were joined they lay together as if the act had been caught in statuary. On the floor beside the bed the two halves of the pyjamas also lay entwined, symbolic.

Later, she stroked his bare shoulders and his face. She must drive away the past, which had tormented him, and protect him from the future. Her mind hung on the word.
There was no future.
She felt him gently withdraw from her, and prayed he would not wake to see her tears.

And yet I want him so much, in a way I could never have believed. He is rich beyond his own understanding, but he doesn't care, or even accept it.

She let the thought enter her mind as he had entered her.

And he loves me. For what I am. For what he is.
It could not be fought because it was real. It could only be surrendered to.

She held him more tightly. But regrets? Never.

JAMES ROSS STOOD
beside one of the tables and looked at the ceiling as the thundering roar of rain, which had drowned out every sound, suddenly began to recede.

He said, ‘I sometimes wish I'd bought shares in corrugated iron. It seems to roof half the world out here!' Several of them laughed, more relaxed perhaps since Pryce had withdrawn after making only a brief appearance.

The operations room was packed, the air so humid that the old-fashioned overhead fans barely disturbed it.

He said, ‘You may smoke.' He watched the pipes being filled, the duty-free cigarettes being handed round. That, too, was something Pryce never encouraged; unless, like his malt whisky, he smoked in secret.

It was remarkable what the weeks of regular training had achieved. They looked tanned and relaxed, their shirts sticking to their bodies in the damp air. A good mixture, Ross thought. Some familiar faces, others becoming more so with each busy day. A Canadian lieutenant and another from New Zealand had joined the others, and they were all watching him now while a seaman trained a light on the big wall-map. Lieutenant Charles Villiers had arrived only two days ago, in company with Sub-Lieutenant Peter Napier,
David's younger brother. Villiers had already told him how Napier had spoken of little else but his good fortune at having been posted to this force. Apart from his obvious youth, innocence might be a better description, the likeness was unnerving. The same ready grin, the freckles and the chestnut-coloured hair. Ross tried not to look at him. It was like seeing David alive again.

A paymaster-lieutenant who had been appointed as Pryce's secretary was keeping an eye on everything, a notebook on the arm of his chair. No doubt ready to report every detail of the meeting when Pryce required. There were several Wrens too, pencils and pads at the ready, watched with more than just casual interest by the chief and petty officers who were here to answer any questions about the chariots' readiness for sea.

A bearded lieutenant-commander sat cross-legged, a large briar pipe puffing busily while he waited with the others. Apart from the rest, and yet a vital part of the chain, he commanded the submarine
Turquoise
, with which they had been exercising so regularly that it had become almost routine.

The rain had stopped and they could hear the ripple of countless waterfalls splashing down into the darkness outside.

Ross cleared his throat. This was the first time he had met them all together. It gave him a strange sense of responsibility, even pride. He could still not get used to it. In the past he had sat and listened to the briefing reports and had faced up to the consequences of failure or disaster as an individual.

‘We were sent here to seek out targets. We now have one. This operation comes rather earlier than we might have hoped, but speed is of the utmost importance.'

He moved to the map and pointed with a long pair of brass
dividers. ‘Here we are, Trincomalee. From this point the attacking force will head due east, then around the northern reaches of Sumatra and into the Malacca Strait.' He thought he saw the hint of a smile on Villiers' lips. An old memory perhaps, or something else entirely. ‘This track has been used for months by our submarines, for landing reconnaissance parties and agents and recovering them when their missions were completed. A hard job at the best of times, and the confines of the Strait have added to the difficulties.' He glanced at the bearded submariner and saw several heads turn towards him. ‘Bob Jessop is no stranger to those waters, and he will be carrying the chariots and their crews to this destination.' The dividers made the map shiver. ‘Salanga. Intelligence have reported that the Japs are building a new r.d.f. installation there, as near to radar as makes no difference. Because of the many islets and other hazards, our submarines always have to surface some six miles away. In the past, for landing special parties, that has been barely sufficient. But we have now learned that the enemy has moved three or four MA/SBs into the nearby harbour.'

He saw one of the Wrens bend over to ask Peter Napier something and added, ‘Sorry. Motor Anti-Submarine Boats. Not exactly a fleet, but with some form of advance warning just one of them would be enough to tear out of harbour and pinpoint our submarine.'

Peter was watching him intently and Ross noticed that his hand, which had been resting against the Wren's on the table, did not withdraw.

‘We will complete final arrangements tomorrow, but the two chariots for the operation will be Lieutenant Walker's and the new arrival, Sub-Lieutenant Napier's.' He saw some surprise, perhaps resentment, on the faces of the others at the latter choice, and said calmly, ‘Peter Napier's chariot is newer and of slightly different design. It is what
he has become used to.' They were in fact faster, had a better range and carried almost double the charge of Torpex in their warheads.

He tried not to watch Peter's elation, as if it was one huge game. A privilege and a prank rolled into one. He saw him grip the girl's hand and whisper something, and the way she looked back at him.

It was then that he noticed the Wren petty officer, Victoria Mackenzie. She had been sitting slightly behind the other choice, Lieutenant Walker, the Canadian, her hair very black and shining in the hard lights. She too was taking notes. As he spoke she looked directly at him. ‘Operation
Emma –
this seems only right as it is timed for Trafalgar Day. I think the little admiral would have approved.'

He watched their faces, more composed now. Remembering those other raids, familiar faces which had not returned. He said, ‘I do not have to remind you of the very real danger in this or any other such plan. If you are captured . . .' He paused. ‘No, let's think of
Emma
.'

He was caught off guard by a sudden outburst of clapping and stamping feet. He saw Walker, the Canadian, applauding and grinning at him and tried not to think that after tomorrow they might never meet again.

The door banged open and they all stood up as Pryce thrust into the room. He looked directly at Ross and then waved one hand in front of his face. ‘What a bloody stench in here! Thought the whole place was going up in smoke!' Then he smiled. ‘There will be drinks in the wardroom tonight, gentlemen. In the chief and petty officers' mess too. Compliments of Rear-Admiral Dyer.' He coughed and added wryly, ‘
Ossie.
Though God knows how we'll get the money from him!'

For most of them it was the closest thing to a joke Pryce had ever been heard to make.

The meeting began to break up, the invisible barriers between officers and other ranks asserting themselves once more.

Pryce said, ‘Went well, I thought. Good show.'

‘I'd like to go along in
Turquoise
, sir.'

He had expected, at best, an argument, but Pryce nodded. ‘Capital. This time anyway. It might have to be called off at the last minute. Your being there would keep up morale.' He nodded again, his hawk nose like a beak. ‘Good thinking – er, Jamie.'

Ross turned to look for the girl named Victoria but she had already gone.

In twos and threes they left the building, trying to avoid the moonlit puddles as they made their way back to the makeshift wardroom.

Pryce sat alone in his office, staring at the door.
One jump ahead.
Instinct or some inner warning, he never questioned it.

‘Come!'
It was a hesitant tap at the door.

He looked at her impassively. ‘Ah, Victoria. You've got something?'

She crossed the office to his desk. ‘I have just decoded it, sir.' She looked quite shocked, without her usual self-assurance.

‘But you know what it says?' He softened his voice slightly. ‘Come on, Victoria. I'm not a mind-reader.'

For an instant, but no longer, her tawny eyes flashed with anger.

She said, ‘It's addressed to you, sir. Restricted.'

It was brief. He could almost feel her watching him as he read it.

He said, ‘Lieutenant-Commander Ross's father has been killed in a salvage accident.'

There was a long silence. Then she asked, ‘Will you tell him, sir, or . . . ?'

He toyed with the idea of offering her a drink, and dismissed it just as quickly.
One jump ahead. Never forget.

It would not do. At any enquiry, let alone a court martial, the gesture might well be seen as something very different.

He said, ‘Can you keep a secret?' He saw her flinch as if he had sworn at her. ‘Until Operation
Emma
is over, one way or another? There's nothing he can do, and it might deflect his attention from the job in hand. You do see that.'

‘I – I suppose so, sir.'

Pryce began to relax very slightly. The chink in the armour. ‘You saw and heard them in Ops this evening. You were there. They're depending on him, surely you must have seen that?'

She stared at the signal on his desk as if it were something obscene. ‘I shall tell nobody, sir.'

He said, ‘Not even the Colonel.'

She looked at him, calm again, defiant, the Victoria he trusted. ‘No, not even my father, sir.'

The door closed and after a momentary hesitation he put a match to the signal and let it burn to ashes.

The girl stood on the wet pathway and looked at the moon. Then she heard footsteps and saw a white figure looming out of the darkness. It was the new sub-lieutenant, Peter Napier. There was some special link between him and Ross, but she could not decide what it was.

He asked brightly, ‘Have you seen Lieutenant-Commander Ross, my dear?'

So young, she thought, so very young, not like the others, who were young only in years.

She shook her head. ‘No. He's not with Captain Pryce.'

‘They're all waiting for him.' He sounded lost, suddenly unsure, and she recalled Pryce's incisive voice as if he had just spoken.
They're depending on him, surely you must have seen that?

‘I was wondering. When this stunt is over, perhaps we could have a run ashore together?'

She was glad he could not see her face. He seemed to be doing quite well with the Wren who had sat beside him at the meeting. Perhaps anyone would do.

She said coolly, ‘We'll have to see.' Then she turned impulsively and added, ‘Good luck with
Emma.
We'll all be thinking of you.'

She watched him melt away. Another hero? Or another telegram?

She considered Pryce again. So cold, so certain of everything. He always referred to her father as ‘The Colonel'. So that she should never be allowed to forget.

She heard noisy singing from the wardroom, and wondered if Ross was there with his soft-spoken friend, the other new arrival, Villiers.

Somebody else was hurrying in that direction: it was her superior, Second Officer Clarke.

‘Glad I caught you, Victoria. Can you hold the fort for me for a couple of hours? I'll fix it with Base Operations.' She could barely contain her excitement as she faced towards the singing.

‘Of course, ma'am.' Who would she be sleeping with next? She never seemed to have any trouble.

She watched the other woman continue towards the wardroom; she was almost running.

Then she stared into the greater darkness where even the lights would not reach.
What is wrong with me?
Some heavy drops of warm rain fell on her shirt. She was alone.

The
Turquoise
's wardroom, like most of its kind, was small, compact and functional. The bunks that filled much of the compartment mostly had their curtains drawn, their
occupants clinging to this small measure of privacy before going on watch again or returning to their other duties.

Ross sat at the table, toying with his mug of sweet tea and listening to the familiar sounds of a submarine running submerged, her electric motors making barely a tremble. A calm sea, the skipper, Bob Jessop, had said, and so it had been for the five leisurely days it had taken them to reach this point on the chart.