A Dawn Like Thunder by Douglas Reeman Page A

was alone.
    The
Turquoise
’s wardroom, like most of its kind, was small, compact and functional. The bunks that filled much of the compartment mostly had their curtains drawn, theiroccupants clinging to this small measure of privacy before going on watch again or returning to their other duties.
    Ross sat at the table, toying with his mug of sweet tea and listening to the familiar sounds of a submarine running submerged, her electric motors making barely a tremble. A calm sea, the skipper, Bob Jessop, had said, and so it had been for the five leisurely days it had taken them to reach this point on the chart.
    He could hear gentle snores from one curtained bunk and some restless thrashing about from another. Should the scream of the alarm klaxon shatter the stillness he knew from experience that these same men, like the others who were resting throughout the boat, would be at their stations in seconds, some of them probably not even realizing how they had got there. They had surfaced during the night to start the noisy diesel engines in order to charge the precious batteries and ventilate the boat. It would be the last time until the operation was finished. Or cancelled. He glanced at his watch: seven in the morning. He tried to remember what the time had been when Nelson had sighted the combined fleets of the enemy on this October day.
    He heard sounds from the galley, which was only paces away, its smells of cabbage-water and greasy food constant reminders.
    A whole day before they would leave
Turquoise
and head for the land.
    And I will not be going with them.
    He opened his chart very carefully on the table, but even so the snoring stopped for a few moments. He could almost hear the unspoken complaint:
Don’t forget the poor bloody watchkeepers!
    As if on cue, a pair of feet emerged from a bunk and Peter Napier slid down beside him. He looked tousled but fresh, and Ross guessed that he probably did not have toshave yet in any case. He asked, ‘Want a look?’ and studied him as he leaned over the chart. How old was he – nineteen, twenty perhaps? And yet he seemed so much younger.
    He said, ‘We’ve just passed through the Great Channel, see? The Nicobar Islands to the north of us, and Sabang and the tip of Sumatra about forty miles to the south. Plenty of room, and over a thousand fathoms under the keel.’ He smiled. ‘For the moment, anyway.’
    Napier touched the chart. ‘And that’s our destination?’
    â€˜Salanga Island is at the top of the Malacca Strait, which is about one hundred and sixty miles wide around there. It narrows quickly after that – even a submarine would find it tight. So if the Japs are putting some sort of radar on the island, it would make these landing operations even more hairy.’
    He watched his hand move on the chart as if it were thinking and planning independently. ‘Just follow the drill. If you think the observations don’t match the reports, you pull out.’ When Napier said nothing, he touched his arm.
‘Right?’
    â€˜A piece of cake.’ He turned and looked at Ross, momentarily uncertain. ‘You wanted me out of this, didn’t you? Because of what happened to David. But, you see, I
needed
to do it. When it was offered, I took it with both hands!’
    Ross nodded. So like David for those few seconds: brown eyes, the vivid emotion on the face. Like that day he had wanted to call off the mission – the cruiser and the floating dock. David had not thought it was a ‘piece of cake’.
    â€˜I’m sorry. I felt responsible.’ They both smiled. ‘I still do.’
    The messman paused by the curtained entrance. ‘Breakfast in about fifteen minutes, gents.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Tinned bangers and powdered egg! Just the job!’
    Ross sighed. They must have stomachs made of iron.
    â€˜By the way.’ Napier sounded casual. ‘I met that pretty Wren before we