Wondering why it had not been picked up earlier, Barratt realized that it must have come up from the south-east, close to the water, screened from the destroyer’s radar by Maji Island. It was soon sighted, a Catalina flying at no more than a hundred feet above the sea. Making for Restless it pulled up in a steep climb as it drew close, passed overhead with a noisy roar then, banking steeply, it began to circle the ship. An Aldis lamp winked from the fuselage.
The First Lieutenant came clattering up the ladder on to the bridge. Barratt, scarcely aware of his arrival, glared in frustration as Restless's signalman gave the ‘go-ahead’. The Catalina’s lamp winked again and began, slowly by naval standards, to transmit its message, the signalman calling aloud the words as he read them: Stand — by — for — urgent — message — drop.
The signalman acknowledged, lowered his Aldis lamp. ‘Any reply, sir?’
‘None.’ Barratt’s voice was flat, hostile. ‘Let him get on with his bloody drop. The quicker the better.’ He turned to Dodds. ‘Stop engines. Slow astern together.’
The Navigating Officer passed the order to the wheel-house. The note of the turbines dropped. Seconds later the ship shuddered as the astern turbines took over.
Barratt turned to the First Lieutenant. ‘Get a couple of hands to standby in the waist to pick up the drop. Double quick.’ The order was barked, a measure of the Captain’s anger.
The Catalina completed another wide circle round Restless before drawing ahead. With engines throttled back it flew straight and level into wind, a few hundred feet above the sea. Shortly before crossing ahead of the destroyer it released a canister, its long be-ribboned tail fluttering down behind the container until it splashed into the sea on Restless's port bow.
The Catalina passed over once more, waggled its wings in salute, climbed steeply and flew off to the north. Barratt gave it a last long look of disgust. ‘I wonder whose bright idea that was? It’s completely buggered our low-profile act.’
A bridge phone rang. Dodds answered, listened, his eyes on the sea. ‘Will do,’ he said. He hung up the handset, went across to the compass platform where the Captain sat looking wet and depressed. ‘Canister’s recovered, sir,’ he said. ‘Number One’s bringing it to the bridge.’
Barratt frowned, shrugged. ‘Have it sent down to my cabin. I’m going to change into something dry. Put the ship back on the patrol line, revolutions for sixteen knots. Over to you.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Barratt got up from the chair, had a last look round the horizon and went below.
Dodds felt sorry for the Captain, understood how he felt about the Catalina. What message could be so urgent that it had to be dropped by canister rather than transmitted by W/T? All HM ships at sea maintained a listening watch whether or not they observed wireless silence. Kilindini knew that. Why resort to a method which so blatantly drew attention to Restless's presence? Particularly since it was known to be the last thing Barratt wanted. The Japs, only a few miles away, would certainly have heard the Catalina and seen it circling.
It was a bridge messenger and not the First Lieutenant who brought the canister to the day-cabin. Barratt thought he knew why. He’d ignored Sandy Hamilton when he’d come to the bridge during the drop. It hadn’t been deliberate; it was simply that he’d been too upset by the Catalina’s intrusion to think of anything else at that moment. He’d make amends later. Have a friendly chat with Number One. Send for him shortly.
But now for the canister. He unscrewed the lid, removed the waterproof bag, took from it the sealed envelope, opened it and took out a sheet of notepaper. Unfolding and smoothing it, he laid it on the desk blotter. Frowning as he read, he exclaimed, ‘Bloody cheek,’ pushed the message away, looked despairingly at the silver-framed photograph on the desk top: Caroline and himself outside Raffles. He picked up the notepaper, looked at it again. The printed heading made clear whence it had come; the members’ reading and writing room of the Mombasa Club. It bore that day’s date, 23 November, 1942, but there was no name or signature to indicate its origin. Once again he read the typed message: Afraid your Nelson act not going down well at Navy HQ. Captain (D) coming down in tomorrow morning's Catalina to board you — leaving here 0400 unless you have by then responded to the recall signal. Situation serious. This message is unofficial, personal and strictly confidential, its existence unknown to Navy HQ. Best of luck.
Barratt had no idea who was responsible. It wouldn’t be Captain (D), or the SOO, or for that matter anybody reasonably senior in the Royal Navy. Too unorthodox for that. Might be an RNVR or a Wren, not that he knew anyone in Kilindini well enough for them to bother much about him. Or was it RAF? After all, the pilot of the Catalina must have known who gave it to him to drop. He realized that the anonymous sender was trying to be helpful. It was a friendly act. And it had already achieved something: it had made up Barratt’s mind finally. Once Captain (D) arrived matters would be taken out of his hands. There was no point now in considering the alternatives. It would have to be Operation Maji — Mark Two and it would have to be that night.
The clock over the desk showed 1728. Another seven or eight hours. He’d have to put Number One in the picture, finish the briefing notes, and get the act together.
Tomorrow morning's Catalina — leaving here 0400. He managed a humourless laugh. With any luck it would all be over by 0400.
Twenty-six
‘You sent for me, sir?’
‘Yes, Number One. Sit down.’
The First Lieutenant lowered his considerable bulk on to the settee. Barratt turned the desk-chair to face him. ‘Time for us to have a chat,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t an opportunity on the bridge with that Catalina messing about.’ The Captain’s smile was warm, friendly. Tve had to make a decision. Like to discuss it with you.’
‘Orders in the message drop?’ suggested the First Lieutenant, his eyes on the canister at the far end of the settee.
‘Information, not orders, Number One. The message has affected my decision. But I want to give you an appreciation of the situation as I see it — and the possible courses of action I’ve had to consider.’ Barratt paused. ‘Now — for a start — we know exactly where the submarine is and, thanks to last night’s recce and the gen from Aba Said and his dad, we have a good idea of what goes on in the creek. You can take it as read that the Catalina’s recent performance has told the Japs that we’re sitting here waiting for them. So they won’t come out. Simple as that.’
The First Lieutenant nodded agreement. ‘Neutral territory. Warship puts in for urgent repairs. Safe haven until she’s ready for sea. The Japs are on a good wicket.’
Barratt glanced at the First Lieutenant with a doubting frown before going to a scuttle to look across the sea to where the dark hump of Maji Island reared itself above a dusky skyline. In the spacious, well-furnished day-cabin the only indication that the ship was at sea was the distant hum of turbines and the occasional creak of the superstructure as Restless responded lazily to the ground swell.
Barratt went back to his desk. Resuming where he’d left off he said, ‘Now for the possible courses of action.’ His eyes were on a pastel of the Singapore waterfront on the opposite bulkhead. It had been a present from Caroline.