Алистер Маклин - South by Java Head

“And I say you’re talking nonsense!” There was hostility now in every line in Van Effen’s face. “Let us put it to the vote, Mr. Nicolson.” He looked round the boat. “How many of you are in favour of–”

“Shut up and don’t talk like a fool!” Nicolson said roughly. “You’re not attending a political meeting, Van Effen. You’re aboard a vessel of the British Mercantile Marine, and such vessels are not run by committees but by the authority of one man only – the captain. Captain Findhorn says we offer resistance – and that’s that.”

“The captain is absolutely determined on that?”

“He is.”

“My apologies.” Van Effen bowed. “I bow to the authority of the captain.”

“Thank you.” Feeling vaguely uncomfortable, Nicolson transferred his gaze to the submarine. It was clearly visible now, in all its major details, less than a mile distant. The seaplane was still circling overhead. Nicolson looked at it and scowled. “I wish that damn’ snoop would go on home,” he muttered.

“He does complicate things rather,” Findhorn agreed. “Time is running out, Johnny. He’ll be up with us in five minutes.”

Nicolson nodded absently. “We’ve seen that type of sub before, sir?”

“I rather think we have,” Findhorn said slowly.

“We have.” Nicolson was certain now. “Light A.A. gun aft, machine-gun on the bridge and a heavy gun for’ard – 3.7 or 4-inch, something like that, I’m not sure. If they want to take us aboard we’ll have to go right alongside the hull – beneath the conning-tower, probably. Neither of the two guns can depress that far.” He bit his lip and stared ahead. “It’ll be dark in twenty minutes – and that island won’t be much more than half a mile away by the time he stops us. It’s a chance, a damn’ poor chance at that, but still…” He raised the glasses again and stared at the submarine, then shook his head slowly. “Yes, I thought I remembered that. That 3.7 or whatever it is has a big armoured shield for its gun-crew. Some sort of hinged, collapsible thing, probably.” His voice trailed off and his fingers beat an urgent tattoo on the rim of the gunwale. He looked absently at the captain. “Complicates things rather, doesn’t it, sir?”

“I’m not with you, Johnny.” Findhorn was beginning to sound tired again. “Afraid my head’s not at its best for this sort of thing. If you’ve got any idea at all–”

“I have. Crazy, but it might work.” Nicolson explained rapidly, then beckoned to Vannier, who handed the tiller to the bo’sun and moved across. “Don’t smoke, do you, Fourth?”

“No, sir.” Vannier looked at Nicolson as if he had gone off his head.

“You’re starting tonight.” Nicolson dug into his pocket, fished out a flat tin of Benson and Hedges and a box of matches. He gave them to him, along with a few quick instructions. “Right up in the bows, past Van Effen. Don’t forget, everything depends on you. Brigadier? A moment, if you please.”

Farnholme looked up in surprise, lumbered over a couple of thwarts and sat down beside them. Nicolson looked at him for a second or two in silence and then said seriously: “You really know how to use that automatic carbine, Brigadier?”

“Good God, man, yes!” the Brigadier snorted. “I practically invented the bloody thing.”

“How accurate are you?” Nicolson persisted quietly.

“Bisley,” Farnholme answered briefly. “Champion. As good as that, Mr. Nicolson.”

“Bisley?” Nicolson’s eyebrows reflected his astonishment.

“King’s marksman.” Farnholme’s voice was completely out of character now, as quiet as Nicolson’s own. “Chuck a tin over the side, let it go a hundred feet and I’ll give you a demonstration. Riddle it with this carbine in two seconds.” The tone was matter-of-fact; more, it was convincing.

“No demonstration,” Nicolson said hastily. “That’s the last thing we want. As far as brother Jap is concerned, we haven’t even a fire-cracker between us. This is what I want you to do.” His instructions to Farnholme were rapid and concise, as were those given immediately afterwards to the rest of the boat’s company. There was no time to waste on lengthier explanations to make sure he was fully understood: the enemy was almost on them.

The sky to the west was still alive and glowing, a kaleidoscopic radiance of red and orange and gold, the barred clouds on the horizon ablaze with fire, but the sun was gone, the east was grey and the sudden darkness of the tropical night was rushing across the sea. The submarine was angling in on their starboard quarter, grim and black and menacing in the gathering twilight, the glassy sea piling up in phosphorescent whiteness on either side of its bows, the diesels dying away to a muted murmur, the dark, evil mouth of the big for’ard gun dipping and moving slowly aft as it matched the relative movement of the little lifeboat, foot by remorseless foot. And then there had come some sharp, unintelligible command from the conning-tower of the submarine; McKinnon cut the engine at a gesture from Nicolson and the iron hull of the submarine scraped harshly along the rubbing piece of the lifeboat.

Nicolson craned his neck and looked swiftly along the deck and conning-tower of the submarine. The big gun for’ard was pointing in their direction, but over their heads, as he had guessed it would: it had already reached maximum depression. The light A.A. gun aft was also lined up at them – lined up into the heart of their boat: he had miscalculated about that one, but it was a chance they had to take. There were three men in the conning-tower, two of them armed – an officer with a pistol and a sailor with what looked like a submachine gun – and five or six sailors at the foot of the conning-tower, only one of them armed. As a reception committee it was dismaying enough, but less than what he had expected. He had thought that the lifeboat’s abrupt, last-minute alteration of course to port – a movement calculated to bring them alongside the port side of the submarine, leaving them half-shadowed in the gloom to the east while the Japanese were silhouetted against the after-glow of sunset – might have aroused lively suspicion: but it must have been almost inevitably interpreted as a panic-stricken attempt to escape, an attempt no sooner made than its futility realised. A lifeboat offered no threat to anyone and the submarine commander must have thought that he had already taken far more than ample precautions against such puny resistance as they could possibly offer.

The three craft – the submarine and the two lifeboats – were still moving ahead at about two knots when a rope came spinning down from the deck of the submarine and fell across the bows of number one lifeboat. Automatically Vannier caught it and looked back at Nicolson.

“Might as well make fast, Fourth.” Nicolson’s tone was resigned, bitter. “What good’s fists and a couple of jack-knives against this lot?”

“Sensible, so sensible.” The officer leaned over the conning-tower, his arms folded, the barrel of the gun lying along his upper left arm: the English was good, the tone self-satisfied, and the teeth a white gleaming smirk in the dark smudge of the face. “Resistance would be so unpleasant for all of us, would it not?”

“Go to hell!” Nicolson muttered.

“Such incivility! Such lack of courtesy – the true Anglo-Saxon.” The officer shook his head sadly, vastly enjoying himself. Then he suddenly straightened, looked sharply at Nicolson over the barrel of his gun. “Be very careful!” His voice was like the crack of a whip.

Slowly, unhurriedly, Nicolson completed his movement of extracting a cigarette from the packet Willoughby had offered him, as slowly struck a match, lit his own and Willoughby’s cigarettes and sent the match spinning over the side.