Shaw’s lips moved in a silent prayer.
So far, he didn’t think anything had been noticed. If it had been, perhaps it was being put down to poor station-keeping on the cruiser’s part, a failure to allow for the small alteration made by the Flag, an alteration that had just kinked her wake.
Seven minutes.
In seven minutes now the rest of the fleet would be abeam of the tower. Before that time the Cochrane had to start the run and before that time too she would have hit the tower. Captain Wilson, also watching the clock, looked round at Shaw and lifted his eyebrows. Shaw nodded in reply and at once Wilson bent to the voice-pipe beside him and said quietly, “All right, Chief. Emergency Full Ahead.”
The same order was passed to the wheelhouse and the telegraphs went over. Far below the Engineer Officer heard that order and saw the telegraph indicators swing forward, back, forward again in confirmation. Automatically he completed an entry in the log and nodded to a junior officer who was with him on the starting-platform; at once levers were pulled over in each of the four engine-rooms. The ladders and platforms and dials and gauges began to shake and clatter as though they were coming free of their moorings, as though the engines would sheer the holding-down bolts. The shafts, spinning dizzily already, spun faster and faster, and a sound as of generating heat and energy filled the enclosed steel spaces as the screws bit into the water to send the cruiser leaping forward.
Shaw waited, his heart beating fast and almost choking him, his nails digging hard into his palms, as the engine pitch increased. A shudder ran right through the old ship and the water frothed up alarmingly below her counter, coming nearly to quarterdeck level as sheer speed pushed her stem down. There was a deep though subdued roar from below, coming to them from the ventilators, as all four screws thundered ahead.
The Lord Cochrane seemed to hurtle through the water, wind screaming along her decks. Surely that helicopter was going to notice something now… she simply couldn’t miss it!
The old cruiser drew level with the flagship.
On the carrier’s bridge the Admiral was letting loose all hell, putting on a convincing act for the benefit of the low-flying helicopter’s crew. Signals, phoney signals, flew between cruiser and carrier, upbraiding, explaining, speaking of sudden chaos in the engine-room. No chances at this stage, Careful Carleton had warned — act naturally. They were doing so. All was apparent hair-tearing and confusion as the Lord Cochrane began to race ahead, coming up now to the leading frigate and steering inside of her to port; and a moment later the chief yeoman sang out, “Helicopter calling the Flag, sir… asks, What is going on?”
Wilson snapped, “Admiral’s reply?”
“Just a minute, sir… Admiral says, God knows I don't.”
Shaw grinned briefly.
Five minutes — and now they were well ahead of both the Flag and the leading frigate. Bending, Shaw took a quick bearing on the tower and then he gave the action-order to the wheelhouse: “Starboard ten!”
The repeat came quiet, phlegmatic, from the cruiser’s chief quartermaster: “Starboard ten, sir.” A moment later, “Ten of starboard wheel on, sir.”
And now — dead on the tower. Shaw snapped as he watched the bearing closely, “Midships — steady!”
“Steady, sir. Course 183, sir.”
“Steer 183.” Shaw’s voice was hoarse, cracked with excitement now. “Lovely, Chief Q.M.! Keep her right there. Keep the wake as dead straight as you possibly can, or they’ll know the helm’s not jammed.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Shaw glanced at Wilson. “Right, sir.”
Wilson stepped aft to the tannoy and switched on. He said steadily and clearly, “This is the Captain speaking. Clear lower deck, clear the fo’c’sle — all hands muster aft. You all know what to do. Keep well aft of the bridge from now on. Hold tight and — good luck to you all.” He let go the switch and went quickly to the engine-room voice-pipe. “All up, Chief. Clear all engine-rooms, leave everything just as it is. We’ll hit in about four minutes, may be less.”
Then he turned and looked aft at the chief yeoman. “Yeoman, hoist the N.U.C. balls and call up the Flag by light. Tell the Admiral that our steering’s jammed. Make it convincing and try to ensure that the helicopter reads you. Tell the main transmitting-room to warn Moltsk on port wave to the same effect and apologize in advance for any damage we may do…” He broke off. The R/T loudspeaker had come alive, and an excited voice in Russian was yelling thirteen to the dozen. It was answered by another. Wilson said, “Shaw, you speak Russian — what’s all that about?”
“Helicopter talking to Moltsk. They’re assuming already that our steering’s jammed.” He listened attentively. “Moltsk is telling the guard ship to intercept!” He looked up, pointed to the port bow. Some distance off, a lean grey destroyer was waiting. “There she is!”
They held on, tense and expectant, silent, as the Lord Cochrane rushed on to her destruction. The Marine Band had gone, all the men had left the fo’c’sle and scrambled aft. On the bridge only Shaw and Wilson and the chief yeoman were left. The wind tore across them, spray flew aft along that wind as the water was whipped up by the racing bow, whipped up and flung back through the hawse-pipes and over the bullring, up over the guard-rails.
Shaw said, “We’d better stand by for real fireworks when they hoist it in that we aren’t putting our engines astern.”
Twenty-six
From the Defence Minister in Moltsk dockyard the word was radio-ed at once to the tower. They all knew, those sweating men in the well at the fissure entry so far below, what was going to happen. The Tower Commandant had told them over the internal broadcast-system.
His voice high and sharp with fear, he had said, “One of the British heavy ships is going to hit us within the next two or three minutes. We must fire immediately. It is vital, I repeat vital, that the sealing door be shut the moment the last connexions are made to the firing-circuit. You will obey your orders. Obedience alone can save you. You will be brought up at once when the door is sealed. Any man who tries to use the lifts before that will be shot. That is all.”
Below, after that, men worked feverishly, fumbling in their haste, sweating in their consuming fear. They could all guess what would happen when the cruiser hit; the panic in the Commandant’s voice had told them more than his words. They would die instantly down there as the hurtling tons of water dropped clear down the lift-shafts with smashing force and fell on them to squeeze their bodies flat, and then, if the door was not shut in time, hurl them forward on the racing avalanche into the fissure, to mingle with the nuclear death that would never fire, send their shattered fragments on into the very earth itself. Somehow those last few vital connexions were made and up in the makeshift, hastily adapted control-room just below the flat roof of the tower, a series of red lights came up, one by one. The controllers, sitting before those lights and before batteries of dials and levers, also faced certain death as the vital seconds ticked past so swiftly; each second meant that they had less chance of getting clear even if the firing could still be successfully carried out — and that in itself was becoming doubtful now.
Or was it?
The cruiser hadn’t hit yet and the guard ship, the loudspeakers now told them in metallic tones, was already rushing in to intercept. As the speakers clicked off again, a hand began to move slowly round a large clock-face before the Chief Controller.