He shouted, “It’s all right, Triska. It’s them!” He was shaking with excitement and relief now, but he still had to wait until they were within range of his torch; powerful as it was, it wasn’t a signalling projector and it would be dim by comparison and extremely difficult to read, so low in the water, in that filthy night with the breaking seas obscuring it. He doubted if any of the look-outs of the fleet would see his unlighted little boat itself. Soon, when he had tacked across to close the distance and the range seemed right, he began sending.
The dots and dashes flickered out, spotting the water ahead of the open boat, directed at the frigate on the fleet’s starboard bow. Well clear of the others, she was his nearest ship.
There was no reply.
Majestically the ships steamed ahead, bearing down to pass him. Shaw cursed aloud, oaths ripping back along the wind. Those bloody signalmen on the flag decks of the fleet — asleep, the whole goddam lot of them…
Fury didn’t help. Shaw tightened his lips, went on flashing. The ships remained silent, not speaking to anyone in the night, proud and haughty and self-contained.
That torch just wasn’t getting there.
Still no reply. But then, a moment later, the ships began a private conversation between themselves, a conversation conducted with flashing lights from the Flag to all ships in company. Shaw watched in alarm, reading the signals as well as he could.
And then — very slowly, very majestically — the black shapes moved. The green light of the leading ship seemed to swing round to starboard and then vanish, to be replaced soon by a red one.
The escorts were turning.
Detaching from the fleet to pick him up? The signals hadn’t looked like that, though Shaw was admittedly rusty on fleet procedure these days. They were turning too far… soon Shaw, watching in growing consternation, could see the port sidelight of the Invincible as the carrier slowly turned towards him — turned to approach, but went on turning. They wouldn’t turn the whole fleet to investigate a flashing light!
Triska shouted at him, “Peter… what is happening? Have they seen us?”
“I — don’t — know!” His voice was high, savage, and bitter. “They’re turning in succession… towards us, yes, but—”
He broke off as his heart was forced at last to accept what his brain had told him already. The fleet was turning. Turning right round through 180 degrees, swinging back for home. Shaw’s lips flattened back against his teeth almost in a snarl and he went on flashing, flashing uselessly, flashing like a senseless maniac who couldn’t help his actions.
Above the high whine of the wind he heard Triska crying.
Twenty-three
The leviathans of the fleet, standing high above the escorts, the bitter, restless seas rising up their grey-painted plates and then streaming back again to join the whitened foam of the wakes, were busy with their own affairs as their bridge personnel prepared to execute the turn for home.
The chief communications yeoman on the Admiral’s staff crossed the bridge of the flagship and reported to Carleton.
“All ships acknowledged, sir.”
The Admiral, a tall, lugubrious and heavy-faced man of deliberate movements, nodded. Dressed in a thick sweater, monkey-jacket and greatcoat, Careful Carleton had come up to the bridge to watch the turn after he had been called with the changed orders from the Admiralty, and had insisted on lamp signalling rather than R/T. It was a fad of his that the communications staff should be exercised on lamps whenever possible… he shivered suddenly in that bitter wind. He wasn’t sorry to be going home, not at all sorry, even though he would be going back to a country, if not already at war, then certainly on the brink of it now that the Vulcans were going in. Soon he would have to break the news to his ships’ companies. He rehearsed religiously in his mind the orders he would have to give so as to shift his command from a peace footing to a war footing… he ran a hand across his eyes and then became aware that the chief yeoman was still waiting expectantly and he nodded again, shrugged his big-boned body deeper into his greatcoat as the rain swirled into the collar, and said, “Very well, chief yeoman. Executive.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The chief yeoman saluted the Admiral’s back and turned away. The lights winked out again as the short executive order to start the turn was passed to the fleet. The flagship’s officer-of-the-watch, after a nod from the Flag Captain, bent to the wheelhouse voice-pipe and ordered twenty degrees of starboard wheel. The flagship began her slow, bulky swing, heeling over a little to port as the rudder took effect and centrifugal force acted upon her; and it was right in the middle of that turn that something was seen out in the heaving waste of water.
“Captain, sir!” This was the flagship’s own yeoman, sharp and breathless. “Green one-oh… looks like a light flashing. Can’t read it yet, sir. It’s very faint—”
“What’s that?” The Admiral lifted the night-glasses which were hanging from his neck on a length of codline and steadied them on the bearing, which narrowed to come dead ahead and then moved across to port as the aircraft-carrier went on swinging. “It’s an open boat, by God… Flag Captain, negative the last order! Fleet to resume previous course. Quickly — those damn frigates’ll turn onto ’em!”
As the orders went out Carleton held tight to the bridge screen, staring out ahead. As the ships turned away to port he let out a long breath and said, “That’s as near as I hope I ever get to running someone down! Silly beggars… some confounded Kola fisherman, I suppose, not burning his lights.” He moved his shoulders irritably. “Flag Captain, make to the starboard escort: Report names of officer-of-the-watch and look-outs. And you’d better shake up your own people. Someone’s going to answer for this!”
When the ships had resumed their course Carleton asked loudly, “Well? Anyone read that light yet?”
“Yes, sir, just got it.” The chief yeoman came across towards him. “He’s using a pocket torch, I reckon, sir, and it was tricky to read.” The man sounded puzzled, unbelieving. “He says he’s a Commander Shaw.”
Carleton stiffened, then barked urgently, “Well — go on, man! What does he say?”
“It’s vital he speaks to you personally, sir, and if you were altering course for home he suggests you negative the order.” The chief yeoman glanced up, expecting fireworks, but they didn’t come.
Carleton said, “Oh. He says that, does he?”
“Yessir.”
“Blunt, isn’t he?” Carleton smiled briefly and turned to the Flag Captain, who was also showing signs of astonishment. “Commander Shaw has spoken. We obey. We hold our course, for the time being at least. Be so good as to tell the fleet so. And meanwhile, call up Petunia. Give her the bearing in case she still hasn’t got it and tell her to detach and pick up Commander Shaw. She’s to bring him alongside and send him aboard by breeches buoy.”
A net was lowered from just below the break of the frigate’s fo’c’sle as she swept up alongside. A Neil Robinson stretcher was sent down for Lawrence Carew and then Shaw and Triska scrambled up the net. They were taken at once to the wardroom without being bothered for explanations and they were given tots of neat Navy rum. Warm, dry clothes were hastily rustled up and they changed into them there and then; and within a few minutes they were alongside the carrier, under the lee of her vast, towering side, and waiting to be put into the breeches buoy for the short transfer across the windswept sea lashing up between the ships. The frigate’s doctor had said that in his opinion Carew hadn’t long to go, but that he would be better off in the big ship with her steadier motion and superior resources. So Carew was also sent across and he and Triska were taken to the sick-bay as soon as they were aboard the carrier. Then the frigate swung away and raced ahead of the flagship to resume her station on the bow.