Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

The mine was too close to the Chesil Beach, that strange ridge of stones which ran parallel to the coast, right down to the northern part of Portland Bill itself. It was an eerie place even in daylight, the graveyard for many ships through the centuries, although some were said to have been lured here by wreckers.

Now, with the breeze sighing against the wet stones, and the knowledge that the mine was just offshore on a sandbar, it would make anyone’s flesh creep.

Sherwood said, ‘It’s low water. This has to be done quickly. If the parachute breaks adrift, or the mine is thrown up on this beach, we’ll not get a sniff at it.’ The two sappers nodded together. They had probably defused enough bombs and mines in their time. They would not be here otherwise. One said, ‘We’ve rigged the line for tomorrow.’ Sherwood lowered himself to the ground and sniffed the bitter, damp air. Tomorrow might be too late. Why did he think that? Was it because he knew his nerve would not last until then?

‘It’s got to be now. I’ll need two good lights.’ He laughed to break the sudden tension. ‘The black-out will have to put up with it!’

‘What’s all this about lights?’

Vice-Admiral Hargrave, followed by two aides, marched down the beach.

Sherwood murmured, ‘God, it’s getting like a flag-day!’

The vice-admiral studied the map and then said, ‘You’re right, Sherwood.’ So far he had not spoken to Bliss at all. ‘See that it’s done.’ One aide hurried away. To the other he snapped, ‘Tell the police inspector to get on with the evacuation. Those cottages up there, and anyone else who might—’

Sherwood was crouching beside his bag. ‘Get blown up, sir?’

The vice-admiral chuckled. ‘Sorry about that.’

Sherwood took Wakeford’s thin arm and led him away from the others. ‘According to the map there’s part of a concrete wall which the Royal Engineers built here as an exercise. Run the telephone line up to that and keep out of sight.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sherwood touched his lips; they were bone-dry. ‘Look, I can’t keep calling you Leading Writer Wakeford, now can I, under these sorry circumstances. What’s your first name?’

Wakeford looked at the beach. ‘Horace, sir. A name I have always detested.’

It was suddenly very necessary to find and keep close contact with this gentle man. He would probably be the last one to hear his voice; would need to write it all down, so that the next poor idiot – He persisted, ‘What did the kids at school call you behind your back?’

Wakeford seemed to brighten up. ‘Stinky, sir, because of my job.’

‘So be it.’ Sherwood handed him his cap. ‘The inshore sounds are a nuisance. I must be able to hear.’ He gripped his arm. ‘Off you go. If I say the word, hit the deck sharpish!’

Wakeford stared at him in the darkness. ‘If, I mean, sir, how long?’

Sherwood picked up his bag. ‘If the fuse goes, there’s usually about twelve seconds to play with.’

Wakeford watched him stride down the beach where more anonymous figures hovered at the water’s edge, while some stood in the sea itself, holding a small rubber boat.

Sherwood saw the sappers paying out a field-telephone line while they waded through the shallows, pushing the boat ahead of them. Once the tide began to turn it would be too late yet again. As he held on to the boat and sloshed through the water with the others, Sherwood tried to remember everything he had learned about this type of mine. Packed with over fifteen hundred pounds of deadly hexanite. Enough to knock down several streets, or demolish a cruiser.

A sapper switched on one of the lights, and Sherwood could imagine the consternation on the shore. It was so close it was startling, lying half-submerged, the torn parachute vanishing into the shadows of deeper water. The mine was cleaner than usual because of the sea. The one he had dealt with before had been grimy with black filth from the exhaust smoke of the plane which had unloaded it. He could see the identifying letters and figures shining in the hard beam, the way it appeared to roll about in the current. But that was only a trick of the light -otherwise he would be dead.

‘All right, Sergeant, take your chaps off now.’ The men moved back into the surrounding darkness.

Sherwood felt the sea breeze like ice on his face. He had tried to make it sound encouraging for Wakeford’s sake. Twelve seconds. Maybe. But here the real difference was that there was nowhere to run, no empty house, or garden wall, or as in one incident, pressed against a railway embankment. That one had exploded and he had seen two complete railway carriages fly over his head as if they were paper kites.

He tested the telephone. ‘D’you hear me, Stinky?’ He made himself chuckle, although he felt as if the breath was being strangled out of him.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Write this down. It’s a Type Seven. That’s the only classification we have to go on so far.’ He measured it with his eye, moving the light an inch at a time until the beam was shining beneath the slopping water. ‘About nine feet six long, I’d say.’ He paused to tug his bag clear of the water on to a small hump of sand. The sea sounds seemed so loud out here. The tiny purr of the fuse would probably pass unheard. Not that it would make any difference anyway.

‘I’ve found the fuse.’ He fumbled for his special callipers, the ones he used to prevent it from moving and coming to life. He wiped the spray, or was it sweat, from his eyes. The callipers locked on to the keeping ring which held the whole fuse in position.

Sherwood rocked back on his heels. ‘There’s something wrong.’ He did not realise he had spoken aloud.

‘What is it, sir?’

‘Not sure.’ He peered into the water again. Was his mind playing tricks or was it already deeper?

it’s too easy, Stinky. All I have to do is unscrew it, just like the earlier models.’

Wakeford said, ‘Be careful, sir.’

Sherwood smiled despite his raw nerves. Careful. Commander Foulerton had died trying to defuse one of these mines. He was a true expert, a professional. Otherwise, this mine might indeed be one of the easy jobs. Lucky to have been washed clean by the sea, to have come to rest the right way up.

Sherwood moved slowly along the mine, his free hand feeling it as if it was alive.

He returned to the fuse again and touched the keeping ring with his fingertips. A few turns, and the whole thing would slide out. Not easy, but not impossible.

It was then that his hand began to shake as if he had a fever. He put the light in his bag and gripped his wrist with the other hand. For Christ’s sake, not now! He tried again. If they were on dry land, he would risk attaching a tackle to the hoisting flaps. As if to mock him the wind ruffled his hair, and part of the sodden parachute floated against his thigh like a shroud.

There was no more time. His whole body was quivering. What he had always dreaded more than anything.

He picked up the lamp again and began another careful inspection. A voice seemed to jeer at him. You’re putting it off. It’s over. Why not give the brute a kick and end it all right now?

He tried to cling to fragments of memory, like a man caught in a dying ship’s final whirlpool. Her voice on the telephone. When was it, one, two hours ago? Was that all?

He pulled out the special spanner he had had made for himself at Vernon. Foulerton had probably used the original one.

He stared wildly at his flickering reflection in the water. Hoisting flags’. It seemed to scream out at him so that he almost dropped the lamp.

He spoke carefully on the field telephone. ‘Stinky. This mine has hoisting flaps. They stopped using them eighteen months ago.’