HMS Ulysses. Alistair MacLean

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      ‘Not now, Carslake. We’ll discuss it later.’ He made no attempt to conceal the dislike in his voice. ‘You may carry on, Lieutenant. Hartley—a word with you.’

      Hartley stepped forward. Forty-four years old, CPO Hartley was the Royal Navy at its best. Very tough, very kindly and very competent, he enjoyed the admiration of all, ranging from the vast awe of the youngest Ordinary Seaman to the warm respect of the Captain himself. They had been together from the beginning.

      ‘Well, Chief, let’s have it. Between ourselves.’

      ‘Nothing to it really, sir.’ Hartley shrugged. ‘Ralston did a fine job. Sub-Lieutenant Carslake lost his head. Maybe Ralston was a bit sassy, but he was provoked. He’s only a kid, but he’s a professional—and he doesn’t like being pushed around by amateurs.’ Hartley paused and looked up at the sky. ‘Especially bungling amateurs.’

      Vallery smothered a smile.

      ‘Could that be interpreted as—er—a criticism, Chief?’

      ‘I suppose so, sir.’ He nodded forward. ‘A few ruffled feathers down there, sir. Men are pretty sore about this. Shall I—?’

      ‘Thanks, Chief. Play it down as much as possible.’

      When Hartley had gone, Vallery turned to Tyndall.

      ‘Well, you heard it, sir? Another straw in the wind.’

      ‘A straw?’ Tyndall was acid. ‘Hundreds of straws. More like a bloody great cornstack…Find out who was outside my door last night?’

      During the middle watch, Tyndall had heard an unusual scraping noise outside the wardroom entry to his day cabin, had gone to investigate himself: in his hurry to reach the door, he’d knocked a chair over, and seconds later he had heard a clatter and the patter of running feet in the passage outside; but, when he had thrown the door open, the passage had been empty. Nothing there, nothing at all—except a file on the deck, below the case of Navy Colt .445s; the chain on the trigger guards was almost through.

      Vallery shook his head.

      ‘No idea at all, sir.’ His face was heavy with worry. ‘Bad, really bad.’

      Tyndall shivered in an ice flurry. He grinned crookedly.

      ‘Real Captain Teach stuff, eh? Pistols and cutlasses and black eye-patches, storming the bridge…’

      Vallery shook his head impatiently.

      ‘No, not that. You know it, sir. Defiance, maybe, but—well, no more. The point is, a marine is on guard at the keyboard—just round the corner of that passage. Night and day. Bound to have seen him. He denies—’

      ‘The rot has gone that far?’ Tyndall whistled softly. ‘A black day, Captain. What does our fire-eating young Captain of Marines say to that?’

      ‘Foster? Pooh-poohs the very idea—and just about twists the ends of his moustache off. Worried to hell. So’s Evans, his Colour-Seargeant.’

      ‘So am I!’ said Tyndall feelingly. He glared into space. The Officer of the Watch, who happened to be in his direct line of vision, shifted uncomfortably. ‘Wonder what old Socrates thinks of it all, now? Maybe only a pill-roller, but the wisest head we’ve got…Well, speak of the devil!’

      The gate had just swung open, and a burly, unhappy-looking figure, duffel-coated, oilskinned and wearing a Russian beaverskin helmet—the total effect was of an elderly grizzly bear caught in a thunderstorm—shuffled across the duckboards of the bridge. He brought up facing the Kent screen—an inset, circular sheet of glass which revolved at high speed and offered a clear view in all weather conditions—rain, hail, snow. For half a minute he peered miserably through this and obviously didn’t like what he saw.

      He sniffed loudly and turned away, beating his arms against the cold.

      ‘Ha! A deck officer on the bridge of HM Cruisers. The romance, the glamour! Ha!’ He hunched his oilskinned shoulders, and looked more miserable than ever. ‘No place this for a civilized man like myself. But you know how it is, gentlemen—the clarion call of duty…’

      Tyndall chuckled.

      ‘Give him plenty of time, Captain. Slow starters, these medics, you know, but—’

      Brooks cut in, voice and face suddenly serious.

      ‘Some more trouble, Captain. Couldn’t tell it over the phone. Don’t know how much it’s worth.’

      ‘Trouble?’ Vallery broke off, coughed harshly into his handkerchief. ‘Sorry,’ he apologized. ‘Trouble? There’s nothing else, old chap. Just had some ourselves.’

      ‘That bumptious young fool, Carslake? Oh, I know all right. My spies are everywhere. Bloke’s a bloody menace…However, my story.

      ‘Young Nicholls was doing some path. work late last night in the dispensary—on TB specimens. Two, three hours in there. Lights out in the bay, and the patients either didn’t know or had forgotten he was there. Heard Stoker Riley—a real trouble-maker, that Riley—and the others planning a locked-door, sit-down strike in the boiler-room when they return to duty. A sit-down strike in a boiler-room. Good lord, it’s fantastic! Anyway, Nicholls let it slide—pretended he hadn’t heard.’

      ‘What!’ Vallery’s voice was sharp, edged with anger. ‘And Nicholls ignored it, didn’t report it to me! Happened last night, you say. Why wasn’t I told—immediately? Get Nicholls up here—now. No, never mind.’ He reached out to pick up the bridge phone. ‘I’ll get him myself.’

      Brooks laid a gauntleted hand on Vallery’s arm.

      ‘I wouldn’t do that, sir. Nicholls is a smart boy—very smart indeed. He knew that if he let the men know they had been overheard, they would know that he must report it to you. And then you’d have been bound to take action—and open provocation of trouble is the last thing you want. You said so yourself in the wardroom last night.’

      Vallery hesitated. ‘Yes, yes, of course I said that, but—well, Doc, this is different. It could be a focal point for spreading the idea to—’

      ‘I told you, sir,’ Brooks interrupted softly. ‘Johnny Nicholls is a very smart boy. He’s got a big notice, in huge red letters, outside the Sick Bay door: “Keep clear: Suspected scarlet fever infection.” Kills me to watch ‘em. Everybody avoids the place like the plague. Not a hope of communicating with their pals in the Stokers’ Mess.’

      Tyndall guffawed at him, and even Vallery smiled slightly.

      ‘Sounds fine, Doc. Still, I should have been told last night.’

      ‘Why should you be woken up and told every little thing in the middle of the night?’ Brooks’s voice was brusque. ‘Sheer selfishness on my part, but what of it? When things get bad, you damn well carry this ship on your back—and when we’ve all got to depend on you, we can’t afford to have you anything less than as fit as possible. Agreed, Admiral?’

      Tyndall nodded solemnly. ‘Agreed, O Socrates. A very complicated way of saying that you wish СКАЧАТЬ