‘What do you make of the oil slick, sir?’ Scott asked casually, peering over the side as he lifted his sextant from its case.
Hamilton glanced down at the sea. The surface of the water was streaked by oil and, for a few moments, he assumed it must be coming from Rapier’s own damaged tank. A more careful examination, however, revealed that the rainbow tinted trail stretched well ahead of the submarine’s beam. So it couldn’t be leaking fuel from the bunker. At first he thought it must mark the grave of a recently sunken ship, but the slick was too long and narrow◦– and the oil seemed fresh rather than dirty. He called Scott over for a discussion.
A detailed search with their binoculars revealed that the slick was spreading over a wider area to the south, rather than to the north and, significantly, it seemed to be thicker on the surface ahead of the bows where it had apparently had less time to disperse. Having compared notes, they agreed that the slick was following the direction of the wind which was blowing astern and from the south. Consequently, the source lay somewhere to the north. Any further speculation was abruptly ended by a sudden shout from the port look-out.
‘Ship hull down and dead ahead, sir!’
Hamilton put the binoculars to his eyes and saw the ungainly sails of a large junk peeping coyly over the rim of the horizon.
‘Full ahead together! Deck parties to stand by.’
But even as Rapier increased speed towards the distant vessel Hamilton could feel his optimism slowly evaporating. The oil on the surface boded bad news and the fact that the junk was drifting before the wind and away from the rendezvous position suggested that something was seriously wrong.
By the time Rapier had drawn close to the drifting vessel, the black slick polluting the surface was thicker and the acrid fumes rising up from the sea was making the eyes of the men on the bridge of the submarine smart and sting. Streaks of oil were now clearly visible down the sides of the junk and the flapping rudder showed she was not under control.
‘Foredeck party topsides at the double.’
By the time Morgan’s men had emerged from the gun tower and assembled on the foredeck, less than a hundred yards of oil polluted water separated the two vessels. Rapier was lying broadside on to the wind and Hamilton had to brace himself against the motion of the submarine as his binoculars scanned the abandoned junk for signs of life. But the decks were empty and the scattered oil barrels clattering noisily against the bulwarks and sliding from one side to the other as the boat rolled in the swell, warned him that disaster had already struck.
The deserted junk posed no apparent danger, but Hamilton knew the value of caution. It was tempting to assume that the abandoned vessel was harmless◦– but he remembered the Royal Navy had often employed a similar ploy during the Kaiser war when their deadly Q ships hunted Germany’s U-boats to death by masquerading as innocent merchantmen. And, despite the evidence of his own eyes, he wanted to make sure he was not walking into a trap. Bending over the voice pipe he ordered the helmsman to circle the junk at half-speed.
Rapier moved slowly across the stern and started to pass down the lee side of the abandoned vessel, while Hamilton continued to search the deck and upperworks for some sign of the crew.
‘Christ Almighty! What the hell’s that…?’
Hamilton broke off his examination of the poop as he heard Scott’s shocked exclamation. A chilling undertone of horror in the navigator’s voice sent an involuntary shiver down his spine and he turned his attention to midship section of the junk. The blood drained from his face as he saw the reason for Scott’s incredulous shout.
A naked body was spreadeagled against the side of the deckhouse. It hung suspended like a limp starfish, the wrists and ankles secured by ropes to the four corners of the primitive wooden structure, with the head drooped forward and the exposed flesh covered with hundreds of crawling flies. The breeze blowing the tangled black hair across the face made recognition impossible, but a quick inspection with the binoculars revealed that it was the body of a woman.
Hamilton’s hands trembled as he lowered the glasses. Although it was impossible to see the woman’s face, he knew instinctively that it was Chai Chen. Bringing his emotions under control and taking a deep breath, Hamilton stepped away from the rail and moved towards the voice pipe.
‘Stop motors… slow ahead starboard.’ Rapier’s bows swung towards the junk and he leaned over the for’ard screen. ‘Morgan! I’m going alongside. Use a grappling hook to secure for boarding.’
Returning to the starboard wing he waited for the submarine to drift closer. He forced himself not to look at the obscenity of the tortured girl stretched rigidly against the side of the deckhouse and he concentrated all of his attention into the task of bringing Rapier safely alongside the abandoned junk.
‘Stop starboard motor… slow astern both. Full starboard helm.’
Morgan balanced himself on the edge of the ballast tank, swung the weighted rope like a cowboy with a lasso, judged the distance with an expert eye, and let go. The grappling hook soared up from the deck of the submarine, landed squarely over the weatherworn bulwarks in the bow of the junk, and the line pulled taut as the deck party hauled in the slack.
‘Line secured, sir.’
‘Take over, Alistair. Keep her close alongside.’ Hamilton swung his leg over the conning tower coaming and shinned down the iron rungs to join the gunner’s mate and the men waiting on the foredeck. ‘Well done, Chief. I’m going aboard first. Once I’m safely over I want you and two men to follow and back me up.’
Clinging to the life line, Hamilton edged gingerly down the slippery slopes of the weed-encrusted ballast tank, balanced himself precariously at the water’s edge and carefully gauged the swing of the submarine as the two vessels drifted together in the wind. At exactly the right moment, he leapt across the narrow gap, grabbed for a handhold, and hauled himself up the slab side of the junk onto the deck. Pausing at the rail, he signaled to Morgan to follow and then made his way along the oil-stained deck towards the wooden shelter amidships.
As he came around the side of the deckhouse and saw Chai Chen’s body at close-quarters for the first time he stopped, held on to the rail for support, and was violently sick in the scuppers. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and steeling himself forward he started to unfasten the ropes Mihoro had used to secure his victim in position.
Chai Chen was dead. And the ugly cuts and burns on her body showed that her death had not been easy. Hamilton tried not to look as he freed the ropes binding her wrists and ankles and lowered the pitiful remains of the girl onto the deck with a gentle compassion surprising for a man with his reputation.
‘Anything I can do, sir?’ Morgan asked as Hamilton found a length of ragged canvas with which to cover the body.
Rapier’s commander knelt beside Chai Chen in silence and it was not until the gunner’s mate repeated the question that he came out of his reverie.
‘Thanks, Chief◦– I can manage. But there’s one thing you can do. Most of the De Gama Company’s junks are fitted with old Packard automobile engines◦– I remember Alburra telling me about them during one of my visits. I daresay this one’s the same as the others. See if you can locate some cans of petrol. Bring one to me and use the others to soak the decking and upperworks.’
Morgan returned a few minutes later to find Hamilton still kneeling beside the makeshift shroud. He put a two gallon can of Amoco on the deck in front of the skipper and then made his way to the stern to help the other submariners sprinkle the remaining gasoline containers over the weather worn woodwork of the junk.