Cole glanced back at the pilot. The man was barely breathing.
“I don't know. Not well.”
“King?” Peter said. “Bunny's got his good luck token in the inside pocket of his flight suit. He may not be able to see the ridiculous thing, but it might help him to feel it.”
“Sure,” Cole said. “Sure thing.” He turned and, careful not to look at the destroyed face, unzipped the blood-soaked flight suit and felt inside for the stuffed bunny. He found it, covered in blood, pulled it out, and tried to wipe some of the blood on the leg of his flight suit. When he was satisfied that he had done all that he could, he placed it carefully in Bunny's right hand and closed his fingers around it. “Okay,” he said to Peter.
N-for-Nancy
shuddered violently.
“I've got them!” Prentice shouted. “And they've got me, I believe. Some Royal Navy chaps. Everything's garbled. There's a lot of static but I think they've got me.”
There was a high-pitched whine from
N-for-Nancy
's right engine, as if the aircraft were calling for help. The engine was straining to keep
N-for-Nancy
aloft.
“I think this is it, chaps,” Peter shouted over the shrill noise. “She's behaving badly now. Everyone to the rear and latch on to anything not moving.”
“What are you going to do?” Cole said.
“Someone's got to drive the bus, haven't they? I'll be right along when it's my time. Just get back there and hold on to something. Hold tight, King. When we hit, it'll be like slamming into a brick wall. Then we'll skip free and things won't be bad at all. Then we'll hit again and that'll be the worst part.”
“Sounds like you've done this before,” Cole said.
“Once or twice, King. Bunny was at the controls then. I wish to hell he was now. Get aft and take Prentice with you.”
“Okay,” Cole said. “Good luck.”
“Fuck off, Yank.”
Cole slapped Prentice on the back. “We're closing up shop. Let's get aft.”
“But the wirelessâ”
“Forget it.” Cole followed Prentice's gaze to Bunny. “It's no good, Prentice,” he said. He didn't want to abandon the pilot on the floor either, but it was apparent that Bunny wouldn't last long. “Come on. Let's get cracking.”
They found Johnny stuffing parachutes against the bulkhead. He had jettisoned the door and the frigid wind roaring through the opening made it almost impossible to hear. Debris whipped wildly around the interior of the aircraft until it was near enough to the door for the slipstream to suck it out.
“Stay clear of that bastard,” Johnny shouted, pointing at the turret. “She might come loose when we land and crush you. Get on either side of the fuselage and cushion yourself with these parachutes.”
N-for-Nancy
gave a lurch. It was a warning, she was dying and she could give her crew no more time. “Where's Bunny?” Johnny asked Cole. Cole shook his head.
“Right,” Johnny said sharply. “Right. Get settled in. It won't be long now. Peter will try to keep her nose up as long as possible. If she hits a wave head-on she'll explode. If he can drag her tail we'll have some time to inflate the dinghy and get out.”
Cole felt his stomach drop. They were going in now. They were going to ditch. He wedged himself against a parachute and pushed his feet against the step that led up to the turret. Johnny and Prentice were on the other side of the cabin, each waiting for the impact.
Cole wondered what would happen and for the first time in his life he was frightened, really frightened. He had no control over what was going to happen or if he would survive it. He felt his heart pumping wildly and he thought he could feel every movement of every rivet in
N-for-Nancy
. For a moment he thought the aircraft was alive and he wondered if fear was causing him to hallucinate.
He thought of Rebecca and the last time that he had seen her, asleep on the couch, and he wished that he had left a note or awakened her to say good-bye, or something. But he didn't and he wondered how much of a bastard he had been to her and if perhaps he could have done more to help her.
He thought about praying but he didn't believe in God, not in any real sense, just some nebulous unformed entity that people spoke of with reverence but to his logical, educated mind simply could not exist. No atheists in foxholes, he had heard before, and maybe that was right but he did not seek God as
N-for-Nancy
dropped slowly to oblivion; he inventoried his failures and regrets. There they were, listed on a tally sheet for him to check off, and it seemed that he had more than his share on the negative side of the ledger.
What have I given my life for?
he wondered, and the answer came immediately:
to satisfy my own ambition
âan ambition that had nearly consumed him and did destroy any relationship that he was fortunate to have. But inside, as
N-for-Nancy
lost altitude and he saw Prentice's lips moving rapidly in prayer, he knew his arrogance would never permit him regrets. Regrets meant that he had been fallible and he just couldn't accept that notion when he was this close to death.
But that didn't silence the fear.
Oh God, he could see through the open door and the waves were becoming larger, becoming more distinct, taking on shape and characterâblue-green hillocks with white, frothy crests. The plane was getting lower and soon it would be even with the waves and an instant after that, impact.
N-for-Nancy
fell slowly and Cole watched the waves rise to meet them, and as the waves neared, his nerves grew taut, twisted so tight that he knew they would snap.
They were lower now, skimming over the tops of the waves. They must be biting into hillocks, destroying the crests, but there was no sound except the roar of the open door and the high-pitched whine of
N-for-Nancy
's one, pitiful engine. He could smell the sea. The scent was sharp, clean, and for some reason it comforted him.
Atlantic City. His parents took him to Atlantic City when he was a boy and he let the waves roll him onto the shore, feeling his body scrape along the sand, giving himself up to the power of the ocean.
There was a bump behind them and
N-for-Nancy
shuddered harshly as the fixed tail wheel dug into the waves.
A second later
N-for-Nancy
collided with the sea.
Chapter 23
The Admiralty, London, England
Â
A low light from the hallway flooded Bimble's office, followed by a soft knock on the door. Bimble, who had been working at his desk by the light of a small lamp, looked up wearily. The moon might crash into the sun, German ships might gobble up British cruisers, and the end of the world might be on hand, but nothing, nothing must interfere with the reports required by Their Lords of the Admiralty, completed in the proscribed manner, and within the specified time. Bloody nuisance, Bimble labeled it, sailing a wooden desk with paper sails.
“Sir Joshua?” It was Hawthorne. The light gathered around the outline of his body like a halo.
“Yes,” Bimble said, rubbing his sore eyes. “What's the time?”
“Just after four.”
“A.M. or P.M.?”
“In the morning, Sir Joshua. We've received some news. Harland has called to say the Home Fleet's going out.”
“High time. Never known Townes to be so slow about things.”
“Not all of them,” Hawthorne said. “
KG V
and
Rodney
. Three cruisers and assorted destroyers.”
Something in Hawthorne's tone told Bimble that he had more information.
“Well?” Bimble said curtly.
“Our intelligence chaps picked up a transmission from the German vessel and a return message from Group North. Our chaps have finally been able to determine her name. She's the D.K.M. Sea Lion.”
“
Sea Lion
?” Bimble said. “She's not on the registry.”
“She's not any place, sir. No one has heard of her so we're left to suppose that she is the vessel that Commander Hamilton's men happened upon. The H-class.”
“The class that was never built?” Bimble said, his irritation rising. “We know nothing more than her name, do we, Hawthorne? We don't know where she is or what she intends to do?”
“We do know from the transmissions that it appears that she wants to return home by way of the Bay of Biscay.”
“Brest or St. Nazaire?”
“We don't know,” Hawthorne said. “But our chaps are on it. They feel that they can determine that and her location from her radio transmissions.”
“For them to do so,” Bimble said, searching through the clutter for a cigarette box, “she must do something that she has not shown a penchant for doing as yet.”
“Sir Joshua?”
“She must fill the airwaves with continued transmissions. She has been maddeningly closemouthed. We can't count on her becoming talkative now, can we?”
“No.”
“No. Indeed. All right, Hawthorne. Let me get back to this foolishness.”
“There is something else, Sir Joshua.”
Bimble lit a cigarette, took a deep draw, and blew the smoke into the darkness. “Go on.”
Hawthorne stepped aside and motioned into the hallway. A thin figure stood in the doorway. Even in the gloom Bimble could see that it was a Royal Navy officer.
“With your permission, Sir Joshua, this is Lieutenant Anthony. He's with the Wireless Telegrapher section. Shall I turn on the light?”
“No.”
Hawthorne nodded at Anthony to begin.
“My division survails U-boat transmissions, Sir Joshua. We keep pretty close tabs on who is out there and what they have to say. Of course these are all coded messages so we detect and copy the messages, in code, and send the information up to Crypto. They are the fellows who actually determine what's being said. My best man at that sort of thing is Watkins. Twenty years in W.T., sir.” Anthony hesitated. “He's come up with some information, Sir Joshua. I'm not quite sure what it means.”
“Continue,” Hawthorne prodded the officer.
“Yes, sir. Everything that goes out for U-boat W.T. transmissions goes through Goliath, that's their network, and everything that comes in from them takes the same route.”
“I understand what you're saying, Anthony,” Bimble said. “What is the point?”
“Yes, sir,” Anthony said. “Watkins was told to monitor those fifteen boats lined up west of Greenland. These U-boats kept the air burning with W.T. transmissions. Watkins got their call signs easily enough. It's very odd, you see, because U-boats are naturally chatty, but these blokes are working overtime at it. So he began to track them.”
“That's what he's paid to do, isn't it?” Bimble said.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Fifteen U-boats, fifteen call signs, all matched up. He was quite certain about that.”
“We know there are U-boats out there,” Bimble said, pinning Hawthorne with a fierce glare for wasting his time with this nonsense. “We know the number and the general location and for reasons that you aren't to know they are causing us some concern.” Bimble's tone became harsh. “That is why you are doing your job, but for the life of me I don't know why you are here at this ungodly hour wasting my time.”
“Well, sir, this is where it gets a bit queer,” Anthony said, unfazed by Bimble's outburst. “You see, every W.T. has his own way of keying, fisting, we call it. That is to say, how he taps out a message. Watkins can close his eyes and tell who's on the other end by just listening to the transmission.”
“And?”
“He noticed something very odd and started keeping track, giving the operators' names, you know. Fifteen U-boats, fifteen call signs, fifteen operators, fifteen names.” Anthony handed a slip of paper to Hawthorne, who handed it to Bimble.
“What does this mean?” Bimble said, holding the list under the feeble light of the desk lamp.
“It's the enemy W.T. operators that Watkins named. Those that he identified. The W.T.'s sending out all of those transmissions.”
“William,” Bimble read, “Robert, and Thomas.”
Anthony nodded.
“Are you telling me,” Bimble said, “that you've only been able to account for three U-boats?”
“In a manner of speaking, sir,” Anthony said. “But more to the pointâWatkins has been able to account for three W.T.s. There's three chaps out there pretending to be fifteen. They switch call signs but it's three W.T.s and only three. I'd stake a month's pay on it.”
“Three U-boats masquerading as fifteen,” Bimble said thoughtfully. He looked up. “How sure are you about your chap? Watkins?”
“Sir Joshua, I've worked with Watkins for eight years and he's got the keenest mind when it comes to wireless telegraphy that I've ever seen. The man's ability to understand the nuances of radio transmissions is absolutely frightening. When he told me what he'd found I spent nearly ten hours listening to the transmissions with him to see if he might be mistaken. He identified the elements of each that I was to listen to, at almost the moment that the transmission began. There are three, Sir Joshua. I'm convinced of it. Three W.T.'s sending those messages.”
Bimble studied the list of names again and nodded. “Thank you, Anthony,” he said. He leaned back in the chair and tossed the paper on his desk as the young officer left. “What a bloody mess.”
Hawthorne waited for a signal to speak. It came with a simple “Well?” from Bimble.
He moved to the desk, took a sheet of stationery from a pad, and sketched out the situation. “Here is where we thought the fifteen U-boats were.”
“And may still be,” Bimble said.
“Perhaps, Sir Joshua. Here is
Prince of Wales
.” He drew an X. “Here is where we think
Sea Lion
is.” He drew a large circle. “If those chaps are right,
Prince of Wales
can turn west now and make a high-speed run to Newfoundland, chancing the U-boats.”
“If there are only three U-boats. But see here, suppose Jerry has his three out front as skirmishers, with twelve behind covering a much smaller area with a much better chance of getting
Prince of Wales
?”
“Perhaps the U-boats are within range of air reconnaissance from St. Johns. Surely the Americans will help us with air reconnaissance? They did with
Bismarck
.”
“Perhaps,” Bimble said. “But the fact is we don't know where the missing twelve U-boats are or what they plan to do.”
“They could have been arrayed south of
Prince of Wales
as a means of trapping her if she continues on that course. The three to the west acting as beaters, if you will, driving
Prince of Wales
south. So if
Prince
turns west now, she is safe.”
“Yes,” Bimble said. “From the U-boats. But with
Sea Lion
behind her, and we have no idea where, she can then turn southwest and cut
Prince of Wales
off.”
“But she has no idea where
Prince of Wales
is.”
“If we can pick up W.T. transmissions between Group North and
Sea Lion
,” Bimble said, “the Germans can pick up W.T. transmissions between us and
Prince of Wales
. Besides,” he said, picking up the stationery, crumbling it into a ball, and throwing it into the dustbin next to his desk, “we don't know where
Sea Lion
is. She could be within sight of
Prince of Wales
at this very moment. Have you at least some good news to share with me about Coastal Command's search?”
“I'm afraid not, Sir Joshua. They've got everything capable of flying aloft. The only news that they passed on is that one of their Hudsons went down.”
Bimble crushed out the spent cigarette in the blackened glass ashtray at his elbow. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that she crashed into that damned German battleship, wouldn't it?”
Â
Â
Cole felt himself being swept along. He had no idea where he was, no recollection of anything; just a sense of movement. He couldn't see anything, but that wasn't important, not that he shouldn't be troubled by itâjust that for some reason sight was out of his control as was a sense of danger, or fear, or even concern. It was all very strange. He bumped against something solid and woke up.
He was outside
N-for-Nancy
, or at least the back half of her. Her tail was hanging in the air and he saw the trailing edge of her wings just below the surface of the water.
She must be intact
, Cole thought, but he couldn't see her nose.
He pushed away from the fuselage and looked for the door. Most of it was underwater and he suddenly realized that he was alone.
“Johnny! Prentice!” he shouted. A wave slapped him in the face for disturbing the tranquility of the wreck site with his shouting and he swallowed a stomachful of water. It tasted of gasoline and oil. He retched heavily and vomited. The stench of it almost made him vomit again. He paddled away from the scene, thankful for the buoyancy provided by his Mae West. “Peter?” He spun around, searching the water. “Hey!” He looked back at
N-for-Nancy
and saw that she was settling lower into the water. He thought for a moment about swimming back and trying to get inside the aircraft. Maybe one of the men was trapped inside, or maybe he could find the life raft. But he shrank from the thought of entering
N-for-Nancy
for any reason. She could suddenly sink and he would be trapped in her forever.
“King!”
Cole looked around frantically, trying to locate the source of the voice.
“King. Over here.”
It was Johnny. He was in the bright yellow life raft about thirty yards behind Cole. The gunner was alone.
Cole heard a gurgling noise and saw
N-for-Nancy
slowly slide beneath the waves. He was still staring at the site when Johnny called to him.
“For Christ's sake get into the dinghy, King. You'll freeze to death in no time if you don't get out of the water.”
Cole thought it strange that Johnny was worried about him freezing to death as he swam to the raft. He wasn't cold at all. He thought it would be worse if he got out of the water and into the life raft, but he didn't have time to consider itâhe felt Johnny's hands grasp the fabric of his flying suit and drag him into the life raft.
“Help me along, will you?” Johnny pleaded.
Cole slapped heavily at the life raft until he managed a handhold, and pulled himself inâfalling awkwardly into the tiny craft. He lay still for a moment, drained from the exertion, sucking in great gulps of air. “Where's . . . ?” he managed to gasp.
“Dead,” Johnny said. “We're it. Poor young Prentice smashed his brains against the gun support frame. The other two never had a chance. We must have bounced off our tail and driven the nose right into the sea. Bloody bad end for good men. How about you? Anything broken or cut?”