Enemy in Sight Page 2

  Bentley turned back; he had been heading for the bathroom.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Stone looked down at the bottle he held. He looked uncomfortable. Bentley came a step nearer, his face curious.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Peter,” Stone started, after a moment. “Everything all right—between you and Moira?”

  Bentley’s eyes narrowed in surprise.

  “I don’t quite know what you mean,” he answered, his voice almost stiff. “There’s nothing between Moira and me. How the hell can there be?”

  “Yes, of course,” Stone said hastily. He was still looking at the bottle. Then he seemed to make up his mind, and lifted his eyes to the other’s. “Just this, me lad. It’s got nothing to do with me, nothing at all. Understand that. But Moira—rightly—has a bit of a reputation. She’s not—er—over-circumspect. A lot of people noticed she came running up from the beach—wild. A few minutes later you came tearing up at a rate of knots, behind her.”

  “So?” Bentley said coldly, as the other paused.

  “Look, boy, your dad’s my best friend. Moira’s poison to any chap she gets mixed up with. I’m not condemning her—damn it all, I asked her down here. It’s just unfortunate that she’s the sort of reckless, beautiful woman who gets herself talked about. And now they’re talking about you.”

  “I see.” Suddenly, Bentley wanted to rid himself of this soft, useless, petty crowd. He felt an urge to get back to the clean, spartan hardness of his destroyer. Apart from Stone, who had been in the first one, these people didn’t know what war was about: swilling their cocktails and telling their dubious stories thousands of miles away from where he had been a few weeks back.

  “Her husband is a bit of a nasty type,” Stone was saying. “I heard he thrashed some pipsqueak of an army captain he caught Moira dancing with—some roadhouse down near Cronulla.”

  Anger at the girl mounted inside Bentley. Mixed with his annoyance at her stupidity in making a show of herself when she had come from the beach was a return of his self-disgust.

  “Maybe he’s got reason enough for turning nasty,” he said curtly. “Now, sir, if you don’t mind, I’ll shower and get under way.”

  “All right,” Stone said quietly. “You don’t mind my telling you all this?”

  “Not at all.” Bentley said. Then he smiled. It must have taken something for Stone to face him with it, even though he was trying to warn and help him. “For information,” he went on, “I won’t be having Moira’s old man after my scalp—regardless of what that mob out there thinks may have happened.”

  He was instantly aware of what he had said about Stone’s guests. But the older man did not seem to mind. He looks as though he agrees, Bentley thought.

  “You can take my car,” Stone said.

  “Hell, no! I’ll get a bus.”

  “Not from here, you won’t. Peak-hour service only.”

  “You’d trust me with a Jaguar?” Bentley grinned, already looking forward to the thirty-mile drive back.

  “You drive a few thousand tons of ship, I suppose you can manage a couple of tons of metal. Leave it near the ship. I’ll take the bus in in the morning, then send someone down from the office to collect the car.”

  “That’s damned decent of you, sir.”

  “Not at all. See you before you take off.”

  Stone nodded, and walked thoughtfully back to his guests. He noted, without seeming to, that some of them were still talking and whispering about what could have happened down on the beach.

  “Damned stupid woman,” he growled to himself, and then forgot her as he walked round with drinks.

  Bentley drove carefully down the concrete path fronting the half-dozen houses secluded in this exclusive retreat. Through the gate, he kept the big car in second gear up the winding hilly road, feeling the power under the long black bonnet, and a little wary of it.

  Through Avalon, then Newport, with the lofty headlands treading masterfully into the sea on his left, and still he could not let the car out. It purred round the sharp bends of the coastal road, as though it knew the long straight stretches of French’s Forest lay ahead, waiting. He was running smartly down the road into Newport when he saw the ship, close-in and heading north. He stopped the Jaguar and watched for a few minutes.

  She was a destroyer, and she drove through the water with her bow-wave spuming from her forefoot and her white wake heaped up astern. The moonlight was so strong he could see clearly her wind-bitten ensign, whipping its red, white and blue folds back over the quarter-deck.

  He felt a fierce, lonely pride as he looked at this ship. She, too, was lonely, as he had been back there among those careless civilians; aboard her were three hundred men, who would soon know again what war was. She was speeding north, and in that direction there lay only trouble.

  His eyes still on the destroyer, he felt restlessness fill him. His mouth felt sour from too much hard liquor and cigarette smoking; the trained boxer, he felt annoyed that in these three weeks in Sydney he had relaxed out of condition. It was an unreasonable annoyance, he knew, for no one had held him down and poured the stuff into his gullet.

  He let out the clutch and the car rolled down the hill. The sooner he got to sea the better. That thought made him smile. A month before, his only desire, as with the rest of the wardroom, had been to get to Sydney and relax away from the constant threat of air or submarine attack. Now he was anxious to get back into it ...

  The shopping centre was empty of traffic. The car swished through quickly. He saw the red M.G. parked opposite a splash of light from a late-closing fruit shop. Automatically, he swung his head as he passed and saw Moira inside, at the counter. Cigarettes, probably. He realised that he had lifted his foot from the accelerator, and with an inward grin knew why—he felt again the touch of her naked leg along his, knowing that she was his for the taking.

  With a feeling composed partly of frustration, and of knowledge of what he would have had to do to assuage it, he put his foot down suddenly. The big car snarled up the long hill out of the town, gaining speed rapidly and effortlessly.

  He had forgotten Moira by the time he reached the French’s Forest road, in the pleasure the car gave him. He was not an expert driver, but the road here was straight and smooth. He saw the unrestricted sign coming at him in the powerful headlights, and, playing a game with himself, put his foot down as soon as it drew level. The car leaped.

  In a few seconds, it seemed, the needle was steady on seventy. He noticed, without surprise, a car’s distant lights in his rear-vision mirror. They’ll stay back there, he grinned, feeling exhilaration in the quiet snarl of the engine and the rush of wind past his window. Then he saw that he was being overtaken.

  Automatically, he eased off on the throttle. He should have guessed it could only be a fast sports car, and he should have known who would be driving it. As the M.G. whipped past, he saw her clearly in the side-thrown light from his headlamps—her lovely face set and intent, a bandanna round her black hair, both slim hands clenched on the wheel. Then she was past, and swinging in again to the left side of the road.

  Acting on impulse, he sent the big car after her. They had gone a quarter of a mile, and he was drawing up to her, right on her tail, when a corner loomed up. He could see the road curving, outlined by the white posts.

  “Blasted fool,” he muttered against himself, and eased his foot back. The M.G. whipped round at undiminished speed, but the Jaguar coasted. He thought of blowing his horn, but stopped himself. They had enough to talk about already, without his chasing her.

  Far ahead, the racing sports car’s red tail-lights swept round another curve. When he got up to it, there was nothing in sight ahead of him. He settled back in the bucket seat and forgot Moira in the pleasure of driving.

  Chapter Two

  THE NEXT MORNING after breakfast, showered, shaved, immaculate in starched khaki shorts and shirt, back again into routine, B
entley walked leisurely aft in the sunshine on to the quarter-deck. He saluted as he crossed the brass strip denoting the quarter-deck, and came up to the navigating-officer, officer of the forenoon watch, and his friend.

  “Well, where the hell did you win that?” Pilot asked, without preliminary. “Is it really yours?”

  “I wish it were,” Bentley grinned back. “There’ll be someone coming down this morning to collect it—belongs to a friend of mine. If I’m not around, do the decent and turn it over, will you?”

  “Uh huh,” Pilot nodded. He looked at the Jaguar beside the gangway, long and sleek and black, shining. “By the way,” he went on, turning back. “The Old Man wants to see you as soon as you’ve had breakfast. In his sea cabin.”

  “Oh? What’s up? Raging—or pleasant?”

  “Just his normal vinegary self. I’d say it’s a routine matter. Unless you’ve been cutting up ashore, as per usual.”

  “You know me,” Bentley grinned “Keep-It-Clean Bentley.”

  “Yeah,” Pilot said sourly. “You’ve got the name—and you get the game. You’d better get up there—first-lieutenant, sir.”

  Pilot drew the last word out. Bentley made a quick feint for his belly, then came up and tapped him lightly on the cheek. Pilot had not time to move.

  “I’d bash you down for that,” he grinned, “only that you can’t win against senior officers.”

  Bentley turned and looked professionally round the ship. Pilot’s words had brought home to him again a fact which he could hardly believe himself, yet. For five weeks now he had been first-lieutenant of the ship, second-in-command of a large and powerful fleet destroyer, with a four-ringed captain in command. He had gained this post through the death, in action, of the former first-lieutenant, but the part he remembered was that he had gained it. And now, being first-lieutenant, his captain wished to see him, on one of a hundred possible subjects.

  “I’ll get up there,” Bentley decided.

  “That might be a good idea,” Pilot grinned. “I’ll look after the Jag—and its owner when she comes down.”

  “The owner wears pants.” Bentley moved off towards the bridge.

  “You’re slipping, chum,” Pilot murmured after him.

  Watching the broad shoulders and lithe walk of the new first-lieutenant, Pilot thought what a hell of a difference there was in the ship now—with Hawley, the sneering, irascible late first-lieutenant—gone.

  Not having been ashore when Bentley’s raiding party blew up the Jap aerodrome, 1 Pilot did not know the full details of how Hawley, a coward in the typhoon, had rehabilitated himself magnificently under torture by the Japs. Young minds in war forget easily and soon: Pilot was now only concerned with the fact of the ship’s blossoming into efficient contentment under Bentley’s wise and experienced competence.

  He saw Bentley run up the ladder leading to the fo’c’sle and returned to the business of looking after the ship from the quarter-deck.

  Captain Bruce Thornton Sainsbury, V.C., was of average height, less than average width, with a face to which no averages could apply. He had the heart of a fighting tiger, and the face of a prim schoolteacher. But he had been in command of destroyer Scimitar for two battle commissions, and there was no one on board still deceived by his facial appearance.

  At his desk in his cabin, he lifted his gaunt head and called “Come in,” as a knock came on the door. Bentley entered, his cap held under his right arm, and said:

  “Good morning, sir. You sent for me?”

  “Yes, Number One. Take a pew.”

  The captain moved a chair sideways with one foot, and Bentley sat down. Sainsbury put a quizzical furrowing on his forehead and a thin smile on his thin lips.

  “I have here,” he said, moving his finger at a signal, “word from Staff Officer Operations.” Bentley leaned forward slightly. “He wants to see both of us at ten o’clock, at headquarters.”

  The captain picked out a cigarette from the box and put fire to the end. Then he added, casually:

  “The admiral will be there.”

  Bentley had been thinking fast, but it did him no good—he had precious little to go on. Admirals might—rarely—send for captains of destroyer flotillas; they never bothered with lieutenants, unless it were to metaphorically cut their throats. And Bentley could think of nothing he had done to deserve that violent fate. He sat back and asked, more as a matter of form:

  “Any ideas what’s up, sir?”

  “Yes.” Sainsbury answered surprisingly. The vinegary grin appeared.

  “It seems we made some sort of a reputation with that amateur commando raid of yours on the Jap airfield. It also seems we’re stuck with the reputation. You know the Navy—do a good job in our particular field, and you’re the boy from then on.”

  “Yes, sir. But what’s this all about?”

  The captain glanced at his watch.

  “I think the admiral would like to tell you himself. Then there can be no feeling that I’ve influenced you to back out.”

  Bentley’s intent eyes narrowed. Whatever it was, it must be damned nasty for Sainsbury to talk of backing out.

  “You’ve got half an hour,” the captain went on. “I’ll meet you at the gangway. We’ll walk up—be pleasant in this sunshine.”

  He leaned forward and took up a sheaf of papers. Acknowledging his dismissal, Bentley rose at once and stepped quietly out into the passage. He passed the chart-room, saw that it was deserted, and walked in, closing the door behind him. He knew he would not be disturbed here. And he wanted to think.

  Destroyer officers are young men, and capable of quick thinking—they have to be. Bentley was not lacking in this faculty, and he now brought his analytical mind to bear on what crumbs of information had been given him. They were crumbs—the only definite knowledge he could wrest from Sainsbury’s words was that Scimitar was to be engaged on some sort of hit-run operation, acting in independent command; and that it was going to be damned dangerous.

  But why should his presence be required? And why should the captain suggest, however obliquely, that he might want to back out? How the hell could the first-lieutenant back out of anything the ship might be engaged in?

  He butted his second cigarette in the brass ashtray with savage stubs of his fingers. Then he looked down at himself, and decided he was smart enough, even for an admiral. But the Number One cap might be better. He walked quickly below to his cabin to get it.

  They walked along the pier and headed towards the huge dry-dock; headquarters squatted on the hill above them. The captain made no reference to the coming interview, nor did Bentley broach it. Sainsbury talked pleasantly enough, of inconsequential things, but he had already intimated he wanted no discussion about this strange summons.

  There was friendliness between both officers, yet there was also an abyss—not the considerable gap of four-ringed captain and lieutenant, but the unbridgeable cleft of captain and junior officer. Bentley was as likely to mention the coming interview as he was to slap his companion’s face.

  They walked past the rigid sentry, and into the high, cool corridors of Naval Headquarters. Bentley had never been here before. As they passed wide, low windows, he glanced out at the busy dockyard below, and the expanse of blue harbour. He stared, then touched the captain lightly on the elbow. Sainsbury followed Bentley’s eyes. The submarine, a large, ocean-going vessel, was sliding like a great black slug past Bradley’s Head, making for the dockyard.

  “M’mm.” Sainsbury grunted, his voice not surprised. “Voracious, the latest of the V-types.”

  “She’s not going to operate from here, surely, sir?”

  Sainsbury hesitated. Then he said, enigmatically. “No. Only once.”

  He stopped at an oaken door, and knocked.

  The S.O.O. opened the door—tall, bald, vulturine. He said, “Hello, Bruce,” to Sainsbury, and nodded to Bentley. Then he turned round and spoke to a man seated behind a wide old desk
.

  “Captain Sainsbury, sir. Lieutenant Bentley.”

  Bentley had never shipped with this admiral. He had not even seen him close-up. He saw now a seamed, leathery face, and was surprised to note it capped profusely with thick black hair, without a trace of grey, and, bounding its southern end, a stump of a chin which spoke for itself.

  “Come on in.” the admiral invited, in a voice like a bugle. He shook hands with Sainsbury, then held out his big hand to the lieutenant, eyeing him keenly.

  “Good morning, sir,” Bentley said.

  “Huh,” the admiral grunted. “Nice piece of work on that ’drome, young fellow. Now I’ve got another job for you.”

  Here it comes. No preliminaries, straight on the knocker. Navy all over.

  “Sit down.”

  Bentley sat in front of the admiral, while Sainsbury walked quietly over to one side and leaned back against the low window-sill. He glanced sideways, and saw that the submarine Voracious was now passing Pinchgut Island, her hammer of a snout aimed for the berth ahead of his own destroyer. His head turned back when the admiral said:

  “Midget submarines, Bentley. You’ve heard of ’em?”

  “Yes, sir. But that’s all.” His eyes flicked sideways to the S.O.O., who stared back at him without expression.

  “We have one here now. Of course you know that, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.” Bentley’s mind was racing. His face was intent, as usual, and outwardly unaffected.

  “Strange that you should sight that thing last night.”

  There it was again—the third time. Come on, let’s have it!

  “I say strange,” the admiral went on, “because you’ll be seeing a devil of a lot more of this midget submarine.” He leaned forward and made a steeple of his twin fingers in front of his nose, so that Bentley could see only the piercing blue eyes.

  “I’m giving you command of this submarine, Bentley.”

  Bentley’s heart played postman at his ribs. The thrill of the word “command” was mixed with, swamped under, the sense of his insufficiency. He had some knowledge of a normal submarine—it was part of his training. He knew nothing of the new, queer weapon whose existence was vaguely rumoured among his colleagues.