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  The charges went over, and some evil fate exploded them right outside the forward engine-room; the possible weak spot. An engine-room artificer stood before his huge bank of wheels: behind him, the force of the hammering explosions burst a rivet from her side. The steel particle flew across the engine-room with the force of a bullet.

  But it wasn’t the rivet that hit him. Outside that tiny hole the deep ocean was thrusting against the hull, clamping round it with a pressure of hundreds of tons per square inch. As the rivet exploded into the room, it was followed by a thin, horizontal jet of water; a jet under such enormous force that it was solid, like a thin, steel rapier. The jet struck the artificer in the neck, a trifle behind his left ear. Before he knew what had hit him, the jet bore into his head like a gimlet, smashing the lower part of his brain, careering round inside the bony cranium of his skull with ten times the damaging effect of a bullet. He fell backward, and in a twinkling the water-jet gouged his left eye from its socket in the dead face.

  J E MACDONNELL 2: TARGET UNIDENTIFIED

  By J E Macdonnell

  First published by Horwitz Publications in 1957

  ©1957, 2022 by J E Macdonnell

  First Digital Edition: September 2022

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate

  Series Editor: Janet Whitehead

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “STRIKE ME!” INVITED the dockyard policeman. “This bloke looks brand-new.”

  “Yeah?” The sergeant narrowed his eyes against the glare of the morning sun. “His rings are. All right, stand by to receive.”

  The uniformed figure walking deliberately towards Garden Island dockyard gates was fifty yards distant up the bitumen road. Which gave the police sergeant—an invalided gunner’s mate from a nasty action in the Mediterranean a year ago—time to automatically finger the knot of his tie, pull his blue uniform coat down and straighten the rigidly-set peak of his cap.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  Two right arms came up in a salute that left the extended fingers quivering—you saluted four-ringed captains like that.

  “Good morning.” The answering voice was thin, and penetrating—the sort of voice used to rising above ocean gales. Its owner peered at the sergeant with one eye closed a trifle more than the other. “Oh, hello, Hobden.”

  “How are you, sir?”

  The captain nodded. “Where shall I find Scimitar? She was to fuel this morning, I believe?”

  “Berthed at Cruiser Wharf, sir. Astern of the carrier.”

  The sergeant’s voice was clipped, efficiently respectful. The expression on his weathered face was also respectful, tempered with a look of slight wonder.

  “I see. Thank you. Nice morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your leg? Still give you trouble?”

  “Not that you’d notice, sir.” The sergeant grinned—not too widely, just the right size grin to match the interested tone of the captain’s voice. “But they whipped one of me kidneys out, sir. That chunk of Eyetie shell …”

  “M’mm. Well, it’s nice to see you up and about again, Hobden.” The captain nodded, and walked on.

  The sergeant stared after the thin figure.

  “Jeez!” ejaculated his subordinate. “Cobbers with a four-ringed skipper! Where’d you come across him?”

  “Just a shake,” the sergeant replied. He stepped quickly into the little office separating inward and outward traffic, and picked up a phone.

  “Destroyer Scimitar, please,” he said, and waited. His lips were whistling soundlessly, his eyes still on the straight back and swinging, gold-ringed arms of the officer.

  “Hello, Scimitar? Main Gate here. Stand by to receive your skipper. Eh? Yep. Just gone through. Okay. That’s all right. So long.”

  The sergeant—he had been a petty-officer in the Navy—replaced the phone slowly. Though he would never admit it, he was enjoying the look of interest on his waiting companion’s face.

  “Well?” the policeman said.

  “Oh, old Sainsbury and me’ve been shipmates for a long time. He was skipper-lieutenant-commander then—when we ran into that Dago Fleet in the Med.”

  “But that was only a bit more than a year ago. How come—two and a half rings then, four rings now? Bit of a bright boy, eh?”

  “Yeah. You could say he was a bright boy,” the sergeant grinned. Both men looked after the captain, now crossing the huge dry dock, in which a twelve thousand-ton cruiser sat on her bare bottom. “Remember that stoush a couple of months back up north? Destroyer rammed a Jap cruiser.”

  The policeman nodded his head slowly, and his tongue rubbed back and forth along his upper lip.

  “So that’s the bloke?” he reflected.

  “That’s the bloke. They gave him a gong, of course, and gave him his fourth ring, apparently.”

  “So that’s the bloke who rammed that Jap?” the policeman said again, in the same wondering tone. “Strike me! You’d never think it. He looks like ... hell, I dunno.”

  “He looks like a maiden aunt,” the sergeant grinned. “We used to call him ‘Aunty’. Just goes to show, eh? He looks like a school-teacher and fights like a rattlesnake. Yeah. A bright boy, all right.”

  The “bright boy,” unaware of this assessment of his personal and professional character, strode towards his ship, his eyes and nose taking in all the bustle of a great dockyard in wartime. Below him and to his right, workmen were lined up along the cruiser’s grey and dirty hull, scraping at the barnacles of a long commission at sea. The sound of their long-handled scrapers made a pleasant and compacted metallic sound in the quiet morning sunlight; ahead of him a blacksmith was testing the links of a length of heavy anchor cable flaked out on the ground, striking the links expertly with a hammer, listening for the different sound which would reveal to him a crack in a link of this vital equipment; the captain heard the clatter of a riveting drill, and the powerful whine of a huge electric crane as it plucked out the docked cruiser’s gun turret as a dentist would pull out a tooth.

  He halted on the other side of the dock, and looked with interest at the cruiser. Below the gun turret, now dangling from the crane’s wire, a gaping hole pierced her side. The jagged edges were blown inwards, which told him that a torpedo had caught her. Armour-piercing shells would have penetrated first before bursting, and the hole’s edges would have been twisted outwards.

  It was a sobering and thought-provoking sight, especially to a man who would be taking his own refitted ship to sea in the morning, and the captain’s lips were pursed together as he walked on. Then he sighted, astern of a looming aircraft carrier, his own destroyer—and, as always, he forgot everything else in the pleasure of looking at her.

  H.M.A.S. Scimitar was very long, and low. But there was a chunkiness about her, an impression of powerful solidity. She was instinct with purpose—purpose right down her lean length, from the high, sharp bow to the much lower stern. Her stem, looked at from ahead, as Sainsbury was seeing it, rose from a knife-edge at the water’s touch in a graceful and perfectly symmetrical flare to meet her upper-deck guard-rails; her stern was rounded, and sloped aft a little from the edge of the quarter-deck down to meet the water: a business-like stern, solid, one of the strongest parts of her, built to withstand the whirling thrust of the huge screws, and to support, rivetted to her under-belly, the brackets in which the driving shafts spun.

  Every inch of her was offensive. She was designed for one simple function—to carry explosive destruction at extremely fast speeds to other floating islands of men, no matter what the size of the ship which held them. She was a destroyer, almost brand-new, and short of a torpedo-boat there was nothing on the sea which could catch her.

  A queer, lifting pride in his thin breast, Captain Sainsbury, newly-promoted, walked up to the gangway.

  The first-lieutenant. Lieutenant Snelling, was waiting for him, warned by the sergeant at the main gate. As the captain set his foot on the lower step of the gangway Snelling nodded. The quartermaster’s pipe shrilled out, a piercing blast of respect for Scimitar’s commanding-officer. All along the upper deck men stiffened to attention, facing aft towards the gangway.

  Sainsbury glanced up, at the ramrod stiff forms of Snelling and the officer of the day, their hands rigidly at the salute, then at the men along the upper deck. This was a deliberate glance. Some captains, coming back on board, received the deference to which
they were entitled with a casual, limp salute. But not this one. Sainsbury believed that when men paid him respect, they should also know that he appreciated it. Through that one swift glance, every one of the seamen standing to attention knew that their captain recognised their courtesy, and was acknowledging it.

  Then Sainsbury was over the gangway, his own hand extended in the salute, which not only answered the two officers’ salute, but also paid the traditional homage to the quarter-deck.

  The piercing cadence of the pipe died away. The men along the deck relaxed, and went about their work, though now and again a curious glance would be cast towards the three officers. For Scimitar had been completely repaired after her smashing contact with the Japanese cruiser north of New Guinea, and all hands guessed they would not have much longer to enjoy the various delights of shore leave.

  “Good morning, Number One,” Sainsbury greeted his second-in-command crisply. The captain’s gaze, like his voice, was unusually penetrating, but he did not need this particular quality to notice the difference in Snelling. A few weeks ago, on their first commission up north, when the ship had not even been worked-up properly, Lieutenant Snelling had not been at all impressed by the auntyish, vinegary and austere appearance of his new captain. Nor had the captain felt very happy about his unsure, bawling, uncooperative first-lieutenant. But events had altered all that. 1

  Now Snelling, as he smiled back in answer to Sainsbury’s greeting, was relaxed beneath the customary exterior of respect. He had seen what this aunty fellow could really do, and now the first-lieutenant’s respect was more than customary—it was complete, and a little wondering.

  “Morning, sir. We’ve completed fuelling. Ammunition is topped-up. The engine-room’s at one hour’s notice. All hands on board, sir.”

  Thus, in a score of words, Snelling had told the captain that destroyer Scimitar was in all respects ready for whatever the Naval Board had in mind for her.

  “Thank you, Number One. Now, if you please, I would like the navigator, the engineer, the gunner, and yourself in my sea-cabin. At once, please.”

  The last injunction was unnecessary, as both officers knew well enough. Any “request” from the captain was an order to be obeyed instantly; and, in any case, all the officers mentioned were waiting impatiently for this summons. It would tell them much of what they were extremely eager to know.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Snelling answered crisply, and turned to the officer of the day.

  Sainsbury walked forward along the iron-deck, the midships part of the ship. He now had his cap under his arm—this gesture, as old as the Navy, told the working seamen about the decks that their captain did not want any marks of respect paid to him as he walked past them. They could continue their work.

  They did so—which gave Sainsbury an excellent opportunity of studying them. He noticed, with satisfaction. that, though the ship was in dockyard routine and the men were in overalls, their dress was clean; they all wore caps; they laughed now and then as they worked on paintwork or ropes or guns; two petty-officers, in charge of the upper-deck work, stood to attention as he passed, regardless of the position of his cap, and their faces as they met his gaze were respectful and open—contented, satisfied faces. The upper-deck itself had been cleaned up of the impedimenta of weeks of dockyard work, and the paintwork gleamed glossily; boats’ falls were coiled down neatly, ready for running: he noticed, without seeming to, that the pins of the guard rail stanchions were greased, and not rusted in.

  These were the things that speak to a seaman in clear and definite language. This was a happy ship; she was clean, and therefore she was efficient. And, of course, as he knew well enough, she had been proved in action.

  He walked slowly on to the foc’s’le, up to where the line of steel ran right across the deck. Here they had welded what amounted almost to a new bow on her, after her original stem had been smashed back for twenty feet when she had driven herself into the rearing side of the Jap cruiser. He examined the foc’s’le carefully, but, so far as he could tell, the ship was the same as when she was first launched. An excellent job, he thought to himself. I mustn’t push her nose in again like that if I can help it. Then the inward smile died as the memory of that terrible morning seared itself through his brain.

  He looked out over the calm blue water of the harbour, and he saw a wind-whipped sea, a belching giant, smashing at his ship with sledge-hammer blows of eight-inch guns, racing closer and closer ... the last moment before they hit, the shearing, buckling collision, the seconds of quiet hell as the cruiser’s big guns swung round and down to blast them to pieces at twenty yards’ range ... Captain Sainsbury shook his head, angry with himself that the scene could still shake him so much. He turned from the now-ordered foc’s’le and walked quickly to his sea cabin under the bridge.

  He had barely seated himself before the chart on the bolted-down steel table in his cabin before a knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” he called. Three men stepped into the room behind Snelling.

  Had he been in the mood for it, and not full of what was before him, Sainsbury might have appreciated the significance of these four particular men entering the captain’s cabin at the same time. In their presence (with himself) was bound up the whole purpose of the powerful destroyer.

  The navigator was a fair-headed, angular lieutenant, with an almost ludicrous upward tilt to the end of his nose, and buck teeth. He had as his main characteristic fingers which plucked continuously at the lick of hair which curved in a blond cascade down over his forehead. He pulled and twisted at it, wrapping it round and round his forefinger, as if he were trying to shape it with a curling-iron. He was doing that now. He could also work out a sun-sight or a star-sight in a matter of minutes—Sainsbury had once seen him do it on the back of a matchbox. Most other navigators in his experience took half a page of a large notebook to work out the ship’s position. Scimitar’s safe conduct through the Seven Seas was in his hands. He was known by nothing else than Pilot.

  The engineer was also tall, so much so in fact that he had to bend his head as he came through the door. He was, as always on board, dressed in white overalls. He was the lord of Scimitar’s fifty thousand boiler-room horses, which, in terms of super-heated steam, could jet fiercely on to her big turbine blades and drive her deep-set screws and three thousand steel tons at thirty-six knots.

  And last, as befitted his comparatively junior position, came the gunner. He was older than all the other officers present, and had been promoted from the lower deck; He was a thickset, nuggety build, with a weathered face the colour of old leather, and his eyes were keen, as though they had been polished by the wind. With the exception of Sainsbury—an old shipmate—the gunner had forgotten more than the others knew about practical gunnery and seamanship. He could control the eight big guns of a cruiser, and he could put an eye-splice in 4½-inch steel wire rope in forty-five minutes. He loved the captain in the privacy of his mind like a son; and he was as dependable as anchor-chain.

  They ranged themselves round the table before the captain. Sainsbury looked up. “For God’s take, Pilot, leave that hair alone—or pull the damned tuft out!” Repetition had taken any trace of anger from the words.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Pilot absently, his eyes on the chart. He put his hand in his pocket.

  “Now, then.” Sainsbury looked at each of them in turn. A good team, he was thinking—a solid team ... now. “This morning I was called up to headquarters at Potts Point.” They waited, knowing that that meant sailing orders. “The big boys seem to think that we’ve got to prove the gongs they gave us for our last little fracas.” He smiled thinly, and they smiled back, obediently. A captain’s jokes are always funny—unless they’re told to an admiral, who can afford not to laugh.

  “We sail at nine tomorrow morning.” He took up a packet of cigarettes and slowly lit one. His statement had started trains of thought in his audience. Pilot couldn’t wait to learn where they were going—he had to make sure they carried all the relevant charts; the engineer (Chief to all hands) was thinking in terms of distances, fuel, fresh water, that bearing he’d had replaced on the starb’d shaft; and Snelling was thinking, hungrily, of the professor’s daughter he’d met two nights before at a cocktail party, and who, it seemed, was only too ready to be lifted from the atmosphere of cloistered innocence in which she’d spent all of her young life.