Redcap (34 page)

Shaw’s eyes strained ahead through the spray-filled darkness, bile wrenching at his stomach and leaving his throat raw as it came up. With James beside him, he watched the distant line of ghostly surf breaking off the entrance to the Tuross River. There was a distant and foreboding drumming in the air, as of tons of water flinging down.

James had to shout even in the wheelhouse, his mouth close to Shaw’s ear. He yelled, “It’s no good. We wouldn’t have a hope of getting in there—or anywhere else, I reckon. We’d split like matchwood.”

The gale howled above them, eerily.

Shaw said, “I think you’re dead right, sir.” Then he clamped his mouth tight, and swung the wheel. The M.T.B. turned again to the northward, heading up once more fot Sydney, and James lurched back to his motors. Just keep upright in that plunging, rolling little craft seemed to take all the life out of a man after a while. Shaw’s eyes were red-rimmed, stung with salt, and anxious, increasingly anxious. His speed was in fact just a little better than he had dared to hope, but that seemed, to be about the extent of his luck.

As he fought the gale almost blindly, held the boat steady in the breaking, swooping seas, his body chilled through with the icy cold, Shaw prayed. The one hope now lay in the overtaking of the
New South Wales
. Shaw fought against an almost overpowering urge to sleep, kept his drooping eyelids apart with difficulty as the M.T.B. bumped on.

Spanning the northward seas, reports from Australia had already indicated to the men behind the threat that the British liner had passed Wilson’s Promontory inwards for Sydney Heads. Their instruments recorded no explosions, and these and their intelligence services told them that Lubin had failed to operate REDCAP as planned and that the first part of the project had miscarried. It was undeniably unfortunate, but the advantage and the initiative still lay with them, and they were ready to follow up the alternative the moment the explosion took place aboard the liner and REDCAP ceased to exist.

With REDCAP gone, the way would be clear and before the other Powers collected their wits, the missiles would have done immense damage and would have paved the way for the steam-roller of the follow-through, the consolidation once the fall-out had dispersed. Together with the squadrons of troop-carrying planes and jet fighters, the transports were ready to move the moment the action signal was flashed from their Central Government. That signal would come as soon as the world’s Press tapes brought the message, the message that would tell them that the
New South Wales
had blown up in Sydney harbour.

During the morning the gale began to blow itself out and the seas subsided a little, but, thanks to that high stern-wind throughout the night and despite Sir Donald’s earlier reduction of speed, it was in fact well before noon that the
New South Wales
stopped engines and lay-to, rolling heavily in the swell outside the Heads, flying the signal for a pilot. And it was getting on for twelve-thirty when the pilot-cutter crept out through the entrance, making rather heavy weather of the passage.

All eyes were on the pilot-cutter, first link with journey’s end; and, in those waves which were still comparatively high, no one noticed the little M.T.B. crashing up from the southward. At the lee gunport door the liner’s Staff Commander, standing by to receive the V.I.P.s, sent down the jumping-ladder and hoped none of the landlubbers was going to miss it and fall in. In the event all was well; and a few minutes later Sir Donald was welcoming the General Manager and the State Premier on his bridge. After a few brief words he excused himself and turned to the pilot, who was an old friend.

The pilot shook his hand warmly, said: “It’s good to see you again, Captain. You’ve got a nice ship, right enough. Sorry I’m adrift, but we had to wait for one or two blokes. . . .” He jerked his head towards the harbour entrance. “They’ve got a real Sydney welcome, back there, my word! I never seen anything like it.”

“In this weather?” Sir Donald walked out into the wing, with the pilot behind him. “I don’t care for this wind. It’s going to make it tricky.”

“Get away with you, it’s moderated a lot!” The pilot, a stout, cheery man, chuckled. “Worst of you deep-water men. Don’t feel safe when you see the land, eh?”

“Come now—you’ve been a deep-water man yourself, Frazer.” The Captain looked round. “Well—-if you’re all ready, I’m going in. Right?”

“Right, Captain. We’ll make Pyrmont pretty near on time, I reckon.” He glanced up at the sky, then over at the swell rolling up against the Heads. He added, “I’ll tell you something. It’s going to clear a little more soon.”

“Good. And now I’ll tell you something, Frazer.” Sir Donald took a deep breath. “I’ve never been so damn glad to see Sydney in all my life!” The pilot gave him a look of inquiry, but Sir Donald was already walking away. Going into the wheelhouse, he ordered briskly: “Half ahead, port ten.”

The
New South Wales
vibrated into life, made inwards for the entrance between the great green mounds of the Heads. And then, as if in sudden golden welcome, the sun came streaming through a cloud-break which showed the brightest of blues in the gap. The rays of that sun streamed down across the liner, lighting her decks, bringing up the white-capped blue water inside the Heads, sparkled on that wind-blown, superb harbour, on the fresh green of the seaward-sloping stretches of the land, on the distant buildings of Sydney. As his ship moved in, Sir Donald could see the Manly ferry from Circular Quay turning to the north of Middle Head to heave-to just clear of the channel on the Manly side, so that her milling crowds of passengers could get a nice close-up view. The harbour seemed to be crammed with other craft as well, smaller boats, anything in fact that floated.

The
New South Wales
moved in, like a great gull on the waters, a vast and towering gull. Her decks were lined deep with passengers crowding to the rails. And then, as she moved on faster and neared the Heads, the officer-of-the-watch, who had been looking in puzzlement through binoculars to port, came across to the Captain.

He said, “Captain, sir. There’s a small boat making up to us. It looks like Commander Shaw aboard, and he seems to be signalling.”

As the hours passed and he’d come up infinitesimally closer to the liner but never quite close enough to see more than her top superstructure, Shaw had found hope diminishing and had begun unwillingly to see that the lack of any ability to make contact was going to lose him this last battle after all. It had been a useless endeavour.

He swore aloud between his teeth, the oaths ripping out into the tearing wind.

And then, as the gale lessened, the liner appeared to reduce speed and he began to close the gap faster. Just after eleven-thirty he saw her turn off the Heads and then stop.

That gave him his chance and he felt a thrill of hope. But, just as he’d got to within some six cables of the liner, she’d got under way again and was steaming inwards. Luck, however, was with him just a little yet, for her turn for entry brought her across his course.

He yelled down the voice-pipe to James in the engine-room, his shout cutting through the wind. “Come up, sir—and quick. Bring one of the others.”

James was up in a flash with one of the security men, looking pale and ill. Shaw yelled in James’s ear, “I’m going to try to send a semaphore message from the foredeck and hope they’ll see me. . . . Can you hold on to my legs?”

James nodded, his face set. “I’ll hold you, all right.”

Shaw hauled himself up, clambered out into the open, met the full remaining force of the wind and thanked God the gale had declined. James wound the screen down and he and the other man reached through and wrapped their arms tightly round Shaw’s legs, holding him upright.

Desperately he began waving his arms, calling up the
New South Wales
, praying that some one would see him.

He let out a great gasp of relief when a small figure ran into the liner’s high bridge-wing and a signal lamp beamed out its acknowledgment across the water. Bracing himself against the motion of the vessel, he passed his message:

EXPLOSIVE CHARGE IN NUMBER FIVE DOUBLE BOTTOM 

PLACED BY ENGINEER SIGGINGS. DO NOT REPEAT NOT FLOOD 

TANK. WILL BOARD YOU.

Upon the liner’s bridge Sir Donald Mackinnon swung round on his Staff Commander. He snapped, “Stanford, get a pilot-ladder down from the starboard gunport right away. I’ll stop her and give Shaw a lee. Meanwhile nothing’s to be said to alarm the passengers. I’ll pass further orders shortly.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Stanford about-turned, ran for the ladder. Sir Donald said, “Stop engines. Slow astern together, wheel amidships. Get me the Chief Engineer on the phone.”

The
New South Wales
backed slowly away from the South Head.

Shaw brought the M.T.B. fast round the liner’s great bluff counter. She bucketed and wallowed in the seas. When he had rounded the stern and come into the lee provided by the high, sheer decks, the motion was easier, but the little craft was smaller and lighter than the pilot-cutter and was taking the weather that much the worse.

Shaw grasped James’s shoulder, yelled close to his ear: “Take the wheel . . . I’ll stand by to jump. I suggest you go right on into the harbour after I’m clear.”

James nodded, took over the wheel from Shaw, edged the boat in towards the
New South Wales
. Hundreds of faces peered down at them. Shaw, clinging to a stanchion, looked upwards at the towering decks, at the fluttering dresses, the coloured shirts. Closer and closer, so slowly—too slowly— they came. The pilot-ladder, half borne along the wind blowing round the stern, swung out from the gunport. Closer, closer . . . inching in, holding back so as not to be thrown violently by the surging waves against the liner’s side and split like a nut . . . and then, as a lift of ‘the sea took the M.T.B. nearer to that dangling, rope-sided ladder, Shaw tensed his leg muscles and jumped.

He came clear of the deck, grabbed, got his hands round the ropes just above the ladder’s bottom rung. He sensed rather than saw the M.T.B. fall away and turn to head clear, vaguely heard James’s shout of good luck. Clinging to the very end of the swaying ladder he felt the sea surge over his legs, his knees, his thighs. He clung on for his life, felt the drag-back as the water fell away again, struggled to get his feet on to that bottom rung. The huge side of the liner, its tiered decks looming over him like a precipice, a precipice edged with staring faces, made him feel giddy as he looked up. He knew he couldn’t hold on for much longer; and then he felt himself rising, being drawn upwards, bumping on the plates as the men at the gunport door hauled away on the ladder, pulling him up bodily. He bore off with his feet, and then hands reached out to help him in through the ship’s side and, as he almost fell inboard, everything swam before his eyes, the foyer was going up and down, up and down . . . he felt all in, finished and done. But there was so much to do yet, so much to do ... he pulled himself together, gasped:

“The charge . . . it’s due to go up maybe any time now. Siggings knows. . . .”

Grimly, thin-lipped, the Staff Commander interrupted. “Siggings jumped ship in Melbourne. The Chief’s going down himself, and—”

“I’m going down.” Shaw passed a hand over his damp, hot forehead. “I’ve a good idea what the thing looks like so I’ll find it quicker and I may be able to dismantle it.”

The moment Shaw was reported aboard, Sir Donald turned his ship round to the northward and stood well clear of the Heads. He ordered a message to be sent to the signal station at the Outer South Head for transmission to the Captain of the Port at Garden Island, telling him what had happened and that the
New South Wales
did not intend to enter but would proceed to sea as soon as possible. Sir Donald asked for a lighter to be sent out to off-load REDCAP, adding that in the meantime he intended clearing his ship of all passengers and non-essential crew, lowering the boats to head into the harbour. He asked the Captain of the Port to provide fast naval launches to meet his lifeboats and give them a tow inwards.

The Staff Commander said warningly, “It’s not going to be easy to get the boats away safely in this sea, sir. It’ll be tricky to off-load REDCAP, too.”

“I know that, Stanford.” The Captain passed a hand across his eyes, trying to still the shake in his fingers as he did so. He looked very old and tired, Stanford thought. “We’ll just have to do our best—and pray. Pray for all we’re worth. There’s nothing else we can do, Stanford—unless Shaw gets that charge away in time.”

“I understand, sir. Are there any further orders?”

Sir Donald nodded. “Get the boats swung out right away and see them lowered to the embarkation deck. I’ll speak to the passengers and ship’s company myself over the tannoy. When they’re all at stations, close all watertight and firescreen doors. I don’t suppose it’ll do much good, but I’ll try to contain any explosion as much as humanly possible within the ship. Pass the word to all heads of departments that I’m going to abandon in ten minutes. They’ve got that much time to detail the absolute minimum of men who’ll be essential to off-load that crate and then steam the ship out. Those men will stand fast when the order’s passed to abandon.”

The Staff Commander saluted, turned silently away. Sir Donald Mackinnon, his face quite expressionless, walked over to the broadcaster and pressed the switch down.

Shaw had been taken below, right to the bottom of the ship. He had found the Chief Engineer going down the manhole leading into the double bottoms beneath the engine-room. He said, “Chief, I’m going.”

The Chief glanced up at Shaw. “One of my own engineers put the thing there, so they tell me,” he said quietly. “It’s my job to get it out.”

“No!” Shaw’s voice was urgent. “I know about these things. Chief, I’ve got the better chance. You’ve got to believe that, for everyone’s sake. You’ve got to.”

Their eyes met again; the Chief said, “Well—all right, if you really think so.”

“I do.”

The Chief hauled himself up and Shaw went forward, squeezed his body through the small opening into a coffinlike steel space, a space so low that he could barely even move on hands and knees for the lack of headroom. The best way, he found, was to go along on his stomach, squirming snake-like. The compartment stank to high heaven, close and fetid even though fresh air was seeping in from the open manhole, was now in fact being blown in by a fan. Here—thirty-odd feet below the waterline—he had but one thin steel shell of bottom plating between him and the sea; above him was the whole fifty thousand tons, all the many decks of the
New South Wales
. As he squirmed along he knew that if anything should happen now he would be utterly unaware of it, that there could be no excape for him whoever else might survive. The narrow place closed him in as he wriggled painfully forward, trailing an electric-light bulb on a wandering lead, forcing his aching body through a tight aperture in the ship’s steel ribs, one of a series which crossed the double bottoms at close intervals. It was a nightmarish place to be in; Shaw’s hands were sticky and slippery with sweat and grease as he edged along, his heart pumping away. The atmosphere down there was beginning to affect him badly, making his head ache worse than ever, a pain so abominable now that lights seemed to flicker across his eyes. His whole body trembled.