A Dawn Like Thunder (36 page)

He thought of the faces again. The Canadian lieutenant Bill Walker would be in charge of the chariots; Major Trevor Sinclair was to supervise the landing party once the
target had been reached. Surprise was everything. Without it, they were dead and buried.

He looked over at the drink on the bedside table, some of the Colonel's special malt. ‘Make you sleep, my boy!' But even that had been said with a certain sadness. Ross had known plenty of men who had drunk themselves stupid before an operation. A good defence, but not for long.

He had kissed Victoria goodnight on the veranda. Like parting at a railway station; it was nothing new. No words when they were needed so badly, then so many when it was too late and the train was moving from the station.

Charles Villiers would be thinking of it, too. Remembering . . . The hotel off St James's owned by the Villiers family. Yes, he would be thinking of his girl right now; and every time he bumped into Sinclair it would remind him of what could never be.

If only.
He stared at the ceiling. If only what? The war would step between them; yet but for the war they would never have met. Never seen her? Never heard her laugh? He rolled over and reached for the glass.

For an instant he believed that he was dreaming, had imagined it. Round the bend.

She stood in the doorway beyond the filmy curtain, framed against the darkened corridor, all in white, her feet bare on the carpet.

Then she closed the door and deliberately locked it. ‘I came.'

He swung himself out of the bed and through the netting like a dream, and held her against him. He could feel her heart beating against him, the thrust of her breasts as if she could barely breathe.

She said, ‘I had to. I feel no doubt, no shame. I could not bear to lie there, aching for you, knowing what we must go through together.'

He kissed her hair, saw her eyes shine in the moonlight as she raised her mouth to his. She was trembling but her body was warm, even hot, and he knew what it had cost her,
was
costing her while they kissed with an intimacy unfamiliar to them both.

She looked down as he pulled at the ribbons of her gown and allowed it to fall to the floor. For a while longer he held her at arms' length, knowing that this was meant to happen, that even if she had protested it might have been too late.

He laid her carefully on the bed and watched the moon drench her tanned body, so that the skin shone in the cold light like bronze. He sat beside her, kissing her, exploring her neck, her uplifted breasts, feeling her excitement rising to match his own as he stroked her nipples and the smooth curve of stomach. He did not even recall throwing off his underpants to lie naked beside her; he knew only that she wanted him as much as he needed her. Not merely an act, not some passing encounter, but passion, real and overwhelming.

She was kissing him again, her mouth seeking his, their tongues meeting like temptation itself.

She arched her back and gasped as he slipped his hand deeper. There was no more time. Perhaps there never was.

She looked at him as he lifted over her, her eyes like flames in the moonlight.

She gasped, ‘I can't wait! Not any more! Take me, Jamie! Take me!'

It was like nothing else, and he heard her cry out just once as he found and entered her.

Then and only then she murmured, ‘I couldn't wait. It had to be.'

Her head lolled against his shoulder but when he made
to move away she held him tightly. ‘No. Stay, Jamie. I want to feel you inside me.'

Eventually they slept, and the moon moved, and left them in peace.

CAPTAIN RALPH PRYCE
rested his elbows on the depot-ship's guardrail, but withdrew them instantly as the heat penetrated his drill sleeves. The sun was high overhead and even the ship's tightly spread awnings afforded very little relief.

He said, ‘It's all in the Intelligence pack. I've checked it myself.' He glanced at Ross's profile. ‘I don't have to tell you about ditching them.'

‘No, sir.' Ross watched the outboard submarine with professional interest as white-clad seamen bustled across the brows with sacks, boxes and every kind of supply for the next patrol. More heavily built than the other submarines, she bore the old pre-war K lettering to mark her as one of the Royal Netherlands Navy's East Indies Fleet. Ross had often wondered what it must be like for such men. Free Dutch, Free Norwegians and all the others. Still fighting the common enemy, with the terrible knowledge that their own countries were overrun and occupied. How would we feel, he thought. Would we still be able to fight with such determination and at such risk if London and Edinburgh were thronged with German uniforms? If every ration-card, postage stamp and newspaper came only with the enemy's consent?

K-21 was the Dutch submarine which had lifted Mike Tucker and Peter Napier to safety. Once
Tybalt
left Trincomalee, the Dutchman would follow. Her commander was well used to these waters; in peacetime he had probably been based out here, at one of the ports mentioned by Richard Tsao which were now in Japanese hands.

Pryce was saying, ‘Our people in Singapore got the recognition signals from Richard Tsao. They might be changed – we can't be sure . . .'

‘Of anything, sir.' He turned and looked at Pryce, surprised by this unusual display of uncertainty. They both straightened up and walked across the depot-ship's broad deck; it seemed like a parade-ground. A few seamen paused in their work and looked up as they passed. Like those who had also been watching in Trincomalee's Royal Navy Yard, where they had been driven, to be collected by the depot-ship's smart launch.

Faces that watched them, but what did they see? Brave men or fools, heroes or lunatics? Ross had even hoped that she would somehow have been able to drive them, although he knew it was impossible. It had been bad enough when he had left the estate: Victoria once more in uniform, smiling at him and holding up her cheek to be kissed. Did her father sense the difference in their manner? If he did, he was good at concealing it. Would she tell him that they had been lovers, giving and taking without hesitation and without regrets? If he did not already know, he had probably guessed.

All he had said was, ‘Come back, Jamie.' He had put his arm around the girl's shoulder and for the first time Ross had seen her resolve falter.

Just a few hours ago. It was already a lifetime.

With Pryce, he reached the opposite rail and looked down at the partly-concealed
Tybalt. A
few figures were
moving on her casing, and the chariots had been carefully stowed in their special containers, which, if seen from the air, should be taken for deck cargo. The chariot crews had had no time to practise launching their craft from the containers, but as they had always said in those long-ago days of training in Scotland,
it will be all right on the night.

But
Tybalt
was different in another way. The air above her after-casing was blue with drifting diesel exhaust, and the throaty growl of her engines was returning her to life.

Two of
Tybalt
's original company had volunteered for Operation
Trident.
‘Insisted' would be a better description, and Pryce had accepted both of them without hesitation. One was the boat's first lieutenant, and the other, equally valuable, was the Chief, a senior commissioned engineer. The latter had passed it off scornfully by saying, ‘I'd hardly leave the old girl in the hands of a bunch of amateurs!' Pryce had thanked him, and had said nothing of the fact that the Chief's wife and son had been reported killed in an air-raid.

Pryce said, ‘We've just got to get the marines and the Gurkhas packed aboard and that will be it. You can leave on schedule.'

Ross stared at the glittering water, the sedate line of anchored troopships. Like that other time: slip out under cover of darkness. Like the assassin. He looked at his watch. What would she be doing now? Back at operations with all her signals and codes. Essential to Pryce and to the men of Operation
Trident.
But unknown at the Admiralty, like so many others. He smiled.
Like me.

Pryce saw the smile and was partly satisfied.
Trident
,a three-pronged attack, was entirely his creation. There would be no mercy if things went wrong. Others would make certain of that.

‘By the way, Jamie.' He hesitated; he still found it hard
to share such confidences. ‘That war-correspondent will be going out in the Dutch boat. He's been a bit of a menace, a security risk in my view. But the admiral likes him, so that's the end of that.'

Ross thought he had misheard. ‘But the Dutch boat may become completely involved, sir.'

Pryce said coldly, staring into the light, ‘Good experience for him. Unique, if what I've heard is true.'

Then he turned towards him. ‘I'll be off then, Jamie. I'm more use to you back in my H.Q. than out here being nostalgic' He glanced once more at the boat alongside. ‘Strange, don't you think? Like our fathers . . . the same challenge.'

Ross ignored it, suddenly impatient to go. ‘If anything happens, sir . . .'

Pryce said, ‘I know. All taken care of. What we used to say in those first impossible days. “You can have my egg if I don't make it”.' His tone hardened. ‘But you will.' He looked briefly into Ross's level grey eyes, unable to confirm his suspicions. He had never understood why they allowed women to serve alongside officers and ratings, and still expected everything to remain normal. Bad enough for the civilians. He shut it from his mind. ‘Good luck.' Then, surprisingly, he saluted.

Ross watched him leave, lightly down the varnished accommodation ladder to a swaying launch. It could have been a scene from peacetime, he thought, wondering what on earth Pryce would do when it all ended.

Tybalt
's first lieutenant, a regular officer named Tom Murray, was waiting in the control-room, his eyes everywhere as he observed the comings and goings of seamen and marines, most of whom were total strangers to him.

‘All set, Number One?'

Murray smiled. The easy use of his title had done much to break down any last barriers.

‘Everything's stowed, sir. The marines have got their boats folded and handy near the forrard hatch. Rather them than me.'

Ross looked around at the gleaming dials and gauges, the periscopes shining greasily in their wells. Above the navigator's table someone had even found time to polish the builder's plate,
Camell-Laird, 1939.
The boat was the same age as the war. They built fine submarines, but not to be used like this, on a one-way ticket.

Murray said quietly, ‘She'll not let you down. She's a good lass.'

‘Is that why you volunteered?' Then he shrugged. ‘I have no right to ask. I'm sorry.'

Murray shook his head. ‘You have every right, sir. You more than anyone. I just thought you should have somebody who knows her funny ways.'

They both laughed, breaking the tension. Mike Tucker, who had been appointed acting-coxswain for the mission, paused by a watertight door and saw the difference in Ross immediately.
She was his girl.
Whatever happened now, nothing could change that.

Ross turned, his eyes questioning. ‘You look pretty pleased with yourself, Mike.'

Tucker thought of the girl in nurse's uniform. It wouldn't be wrong or disloyal. Not now. Her name was Eve.
I must have looked a right twit.
‘I'll tell you some time, sir.' The grin came back. ‘You won't believe it!'

The first lieutenant watched and listened. He had never really got to know Tarrant, the previous C.O. This one he felt he had known all his life.

Ross said, ‘I'll speak to everybody an hour before we cast off.'

‘The officers, sir?'

He smiled. ‘Everybody. Provided there are no foul-ups we've got just four days to iron out the creases. That means everybody, right?'

Murray grinned. ‘Understood, loud and clear, sir!'

At sunset, without ceremony or fuss,
Tybalt
cast off her wires and lowered her flag.

Ross stood on the narrow bridge with the lookouts and listened to Tucker repeating his orders through the voicepipe. He felt the easy lift and thrust of the raked stem and turned to watch as a car headlight probed briefly from the dark mass of land.

He bunched his hands into fists inside his coat and tried not to think that it might be the only time. The last farewell.

He heard the main periscope move in its sheath, easing away the stiffness of time in harbour.

He thought of her in his arms, the frenzy and the gentleness of their embraces.

Ross knew he was not alone. Not any more. No matter how far or to what end, she was with him.

‘First Lieutenant requests permission to relieve you, sir.'

‘Very well.' He heard the man's feet on the ladder, felt the air being sucked past him to feed the growling diesels.

He glanced once more towards the land. But there was nothing.

He adjusted his thoughts as the lieutenant's head and shoulders came through the hatch.

I couldn't wait! It had to be!
It was as if she had spoken aloud.

He dropped quickly on to the ladder and left Murray to make his own private farewell.

Captain Ralph Pryce stood, arms folded, and watched the guards on the main gate checking a civilian van before
allowing it to enter. Behind him, his makeshift headquarters building sounded busy, alive: he heard the clatter of a typewriter and at least two telephones in use at the same time.
The first day.
He glanced at the big wall-map and pictured the submarine, probably submerging for the first time after using full speed to find open water and seclusion. Heading due east, into the sun.

He turned and looked at the Wren officer who was sitting, legs crossed, while she checked through the list of instructions he had just given her.