Ian Slater - World in Flames

“How dreadful.” The Gravol hadn’t worked yet, and she felt so ill, she thought she was going to throw up.

When the bus reached the Mallaig police station, it was an anticlimax for the girls of St. Mark’s, who had thought they were in sole possession of knowledge of the accident. But the police said someone had already called it in. That being the case, Robert told the desk sergeant he was surprised he hadn’t seen any ambulance or rescue vehicle passing them on the way in.

“Ah,” replied the desk sergeant good-naturedly, “we wouldn’t be using flashing lights unless it’s an extreme emergency, sir. Air raid regulations, you see.”

The sergeant took down the statements from the three of them, spun the log book about, thanked Miss Sawyers and Wilkins for their help, and informed Robert that “the super’d like a word with you, Captain Brentwood, if you don’t mind, sir. I’ll have the corporal make Mrs. Brentwood a cuppa. Come inside the staff room if she likes, sir.”

“Thanks.”

The superintendent had Brentwood draw up a chair. “Well, Captain, I know you’re not a police officer, but I’d appreciate your assessment of the situation. In your line of country, I expect you’ve seen a few injuries?”

“Yes,” acknowledged Brentwood. “Well, from what I saw through the shattered window, I’d say the car was forced off the road, then they were shot. Both between the eyes — at short range. Bullet holes in the windshield. You couldn’t do that at speed — I mean, from a moving vehicle.”

“Were the doors locked, Captain?”

“I think so. If I remember correctly, on the way up here, the bus driver said he’d had to reach in through the shattered window glass to pull up the lock.”

“Silly man,” said the superintendent.

“He told me he used a handkerchief,” said Robert.

“Oh, aye. But now any other fingerprints on the door lock are probably gone.” The superintendent paused, running fingers through thinning white hair. “You’ve no idea of the weapon, I suppose?”

“Small-bore, I’d say. Neat hole in the forehead — the back of the skull was something else.”

“Strewn about, was it?”

Robert sat back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, face grim with the recollection. “Never seen anything like it.”

The superintendent was nodding. “A high-vel, most probably,” he mused. “Not much noise, faster than most, with a mercury-filled head. They like twenty-two-caliber. That’d explain the back-of-the-head business.” He looked across the desk at Brentwood. “Did none of the girls see tha’?”

“No. Wilkins, the bus driver, kept them away.”

“And quite right, too. How’s your wife taking this?”

“She’ll be fine. I told her it was an accident. I doubt she believes me but, well, when she’s feeling better, maybe…”

“Not much of a honeymoon you’ve had, lad?” the superintendent cut in.

Robert couldn’t remember telling him they were on their honeymoon. The sergeant saw his surprise. “Oh, we’ve been given the gen on you, lad. Ever since our boys got on to them in Surrey.”

“You’ve circulated their descriptions, I hope?” said Brentwood.

The corporal came in with two teas and the station’s ration of Peek Frean biscuits on a tray.

The superintendent dunked a chocolate sandwich, tapping it on the large mug showing President Suzlov being kicked in the butt. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m not with you. How do you mean—’circulated their descriptions’?”

“Well, I mean whoever’s chasing us. Whoever’s trying to kill nuclear sub captains. Of course, I know they’re special Soviet agents — SPETS, I suppose — but I assume you know what they look like by now — or don’t you?”

“Och, mon, you’ve got it all mixed up. “ ‘Twas those bloody Prices who were gunning for you. Hoping for a lonely place on the stretch after the ferry. If our boys hadn’t caught up with ‘em, you’d be dead, lad.”

Brentwood slowly put his tea down on the superintendent’s desk. “Then who in hell were—” He gave the superintendent the description of the young newlyweds they’d met in the B and B. The ones with the confetti still in their hair.

The superintendent fished a file from his top drawer and, opening the folder, passed over an ID kit sketch. It was them. “The ‘charmers,’ we call ‘em,” said the super. “Real charmers, they are. Bastards change their name every other week.” The super hesitated. “Captain Brentwood, I hate to say this, but — well, first of all, I’d better make sure I’ve got the right info from London. Your naval attaché informed us your leave’s up in a few days. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Now, this is up to you, mind, but if I were you, I’d get back to Holy Loch. Out of danger — if you see what I mean?”

“How about my wife?”

“It’s you they want, lad. Not her. ‘Sides, we’ll keep a close eye on her. We do it for a lot of you chaps. But they’ve not grabbed any of the womenfolk yet. They know we’d never give in to a kidnapping situation. No, as I say, it’s you they’re after.”

There was a long silence, broken finally by the superintendent. “Would you like a wee dram of something stronger in that tea?”

“Yes,” Robert Brentwood replied, “I would.”

“Corporal?”

While they were waiting, the superintendent told the nuclear sub skipper, “She won’t like it, of course — wives never do— but tell her you’ve got orders to sail a few days earlier. Won’t be much of a Christmas, I’m afraid.”

Brentwood nodded tiredly. He realized that then and there, police protection or not, he was going to give Spence Senior his.45, along with the police ID sketch of the two charmers from the B and B. And he was going to tell Richard Spence that if either of the charmers ever showed up around the Spence house, he was to call police emergency straightaway. And if he couldn’t he was to shoot the charmers dead.

Robert Brentwood took the tea and double Scotch in one gulp. It wasn’t safe anywhere.

Coming down toward the postage-stamp-size deck of the carrier, Shirer knew it would be his last chance. He had the carrier’s meatball centered, the green dots either side of it confirming he was on the right glide path, despite the buffeting of the crosswind. The wind had blown the deck clear of fog, and while the salt spray on his cockpit obscured his view, it wasn’t enough to trouble him.

While flying in pattern to use up his fuel, he’d had time to psyche himself up for a barricade engagement should he fail to make a clean-trap, hooking the three wire. Besides this, there was the four wire, and providing he could keep the Tomcat’s ass low, nose high, most of the braking would be over before the nose could lunge and take out the fighter’s Hughes radar and the long-range Northrop target-TV. If all went well, he’d halt the plane fast enough so that even if he slid, the Tomcat would stop before reaching the net. His major problem, which the LSO calmly reminded him of, was that unlike the normal landing when, after hitting the deck at 150 miles an hour, the pilot kept the engine at 75 percent power, ready for touch and go should there be anything wrong, Stirrer’s approach on Bingo fuel would be his only one. And with the barricade up, the Tomcat would be fully committed once it touched the deck, Shirer having to immediately cut power. If he hit the net at three-quarter power, he could “total” any or all of the other aircraft clustered cheek to jowl on the cramped parking area of the flight deck, the carrier able to house only half her aircraft belowdecks.

“Beautiful, two oh three,” came the landing officer’s voice. “Beautiful — on the glide path — on the glide path—”