Randy chuckled as he scanned the Pioneer compass. “‘In his right mind,’” he repeated.
A rogue wave pushed PT-155 heavily to starboard, shaking the little craft. DeLong increased the throttles, his lips set firmly as he spun the wheel and fought to bring the boat back on course.
“What’s the scoop, Commander?” Cole said, watching DeLong’s boat-handling with appreciation. He was a natural helmsman, feeling the vibration of the 155 boat through the decking and wheel, almost capable of steering a true course with his eyes closed.
“Scoop?”
“Well, we’re going to Normandy? Right?” Cole watched as Edland mulled over his response. “Commander,” he said, nodding in the direction of the invasion fleet, “there are several thousand clues out there. I don’t think your telling me anything is going to betray the invasion.”
Edland replied: “Judging from our position, we’re shielding McNamar’s Task Force. U. They formed up out of Plymouth and Torquay. North of them is Task Force O. North of them is the British and Canadian Task Force.”
“I guess in the task force scheme of things,” DeLong said, “we’re kind of near the bottom.”
“Okay,” Cole said to Edland’s explanation. “That makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” Edland asked.
“Where we are,” Cole said. “What we were ordered to do. When we get the word we’re to lay back along this line and sit tight.”
“For how long?” Edland said.
Cole shrugged. “Until Barney passes that word to me that we’re supposed to roll.” Even in the darkness he could see Edland’s concern. “What’s the matter, Commander? You look a little green around the gills.”
“I thought that we might have an opportunity…”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Cole said, shaking his head. “None of that privateer stuff. I know that you were hoping to see one of those super boats. Welcome to PT boats, Commander Edland. Those also serve who freeze their ass off in the middle of nowhere. When you decided to come along, I told you not to get your hopes up. It looks likes twelve knots is all we’re going to do on this mission, so I’d sit back and relax if I were you.”
“Doesn’t the possibility of running into one of those boats at least excite your interest?”
“At this stage of the war, a warm bed and a hot cup of coffee are all I need to excite my interest,” Cole said. “Look, Commander. Maybe you look at this thing as an intellectual exercise. I don’t. I’m a long way from the classroom and the groves of academe. We come out here, do our job, and go home. You’ve got your orders — I’ve got mine. That’s it. So…”
“My orders are nebulous,” Edland said.
Cole’s eyes narrowed. “Come again?”
“Strictly speaking, I wasn’t ordered to come on this mission. In fact, strictly speaking, I was told, specifically, not to.”
“Well, this is a fine time to tell me.”
“If I’d told you before, you wouldn’t have taken me along.”
“Why, you lying S.O.B.,” Cole said, shaking his head. After a moment he smiled. “You know, Commander, there just might be hope for you yet.”
“Hey, Skipper,” Barney’s voice sounded scratching over the squawk box.
Cole pulled the microphone off the mount. “What’s up, Barney?”
“Firedancer reports targets, two-one-four. Range, about fifty miles. Speed, twelve knots.”
“Okay, Barney. Stand by.” Cole held the microphone close to his chest in thought. He glanced at DeLong and received a puzzled look in response.
“Wrong direction,” DeLong said.
Cole rubbed his jaw nervously, his mind playing over the information. Something was coming from the direction of the French coast, not heading toward it. “Wrong everything.” He pressed the TALK button. “Barney? Did Firedancer send out an IFF?” Identification, Friend or Foe. It was a signal that was supposed to help Allied aircraft and ships distinguish between friendly and enemy forces, but the Germans had caught on to it quickly and used it to confuse the Allies. Now it was seldom used — better to be wary.
“Let me check, Skipper.”
Cole pushed the binoculars into Edland’s chest and said: “Here. Hold these.” He pulled the signal lamp from its cradle, positioned himself so that the light was aimed at the other boats, and clicked it twice. It was the signal to stand by — it was a warning that something was up.
Hardy rolled his eyes in disgust when W/T passed the inquiry on to him. “Any respect that I had for Cole has now officially evaporated,” he said. “Why should I give away my presence simply because I don’t know who is roaming around in the darkness? IFF indeed. Why not ring bells and set off rockets? Does that make sense to you, Number One? Was I obtuse in making the target’s position known?” He had heard the word used on a BBC broadcast of a quiz show and was so impressed with the sound of it that he asked Beatrice what it meant. He saw Beatrice’s pencil hover over the sketchpad on the kitchen table before she answered: “I’m sure that I don’t know, Captain Hardy.” Obtuse. Somehow it rhymed with confuse and Hardy affixed the same meaning to both. He must have confused Cole.
“Shall I answer in the negative, sir?” Number One said.
“Negative? Of course, Number One. Did we issue an IFF? Did I order it done?”
“No, sir.”
“Well. There you have it. Tell Cole that I did not, and you might add that I am not in the habit of giving away my position to any Tom, Dick, or Harry wandering about the sea.”
“Indeed, sir,” Land said, uncovering the voice tube and whistling up W/T for the reply to Cole. Pure Hardy. As prickly as a barnacle.
“The idea of sailing about in those little cockleshells addled the man,” Hardy said, and then added, proud of his newly acquired vocabulary: “Probably obtused the poor soul.”
Funker Lerch appeared at the bridge hatch. “Fregattenkapitan,” he said to Reubold, “Zickelbein’s decoding a message.”
Reubold turned the wheel over to Kunkel. “Maintain speed and course.” He slipped down the hatch and moved forward to the radio room, squeezed into a small space on the port side between the bridge and the gun well. It was difficult to move in the cramped space with the bulky life vest on, but he insisted that every man on deck wear one when they were out to sea. Those men assigned below needn’t worry; they’d probably be dead before they got a chance to inflate the vest. Reubold stood to one side and behind Zickelbein. Every S-boat carried three W/T operators: one to man the wireless, one to code or encode messages, and one to run the complicated Schussel M cipher machine. He saw Zickelbein shake his head in uncertainty.
“Let’s have it, Zickelbein. It’s supposed to be a secret from the enemy, not from me.
“Oh,” Zickelbein turned in surprise. “Sorry, sir. T-22 reports some activity in the Channel. ‘Large convoy.’ Le Havre passed that up to Seekreigsleitung and now Seekreigsleitung says not to worry about it. But I just received a transmission from B-Dienst on Offizier M ordering all T-boats and S-boats to stand by for instructions.”
“And not twelve hours ago they told us ‘nighty-night. ’ Where is T-22 now?”
“I don’t know, sir, but they are stationed at Le Havre. I think they’re with the Fifteenth Vorposten.”
Reubold glanced at the tiny radar at Zickelbein’s elbow.
“Naxos?”
“Nothing, sir,” the seaman said, following Reubold’s glance. He went a step further. “We haven’t picked up anything. No W/T traffic at all.”
Reubold’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing. Come, come Zickelbein. Someone has to be saying something to someone.”