“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 point — Watkins 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?”
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 it — just 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.