Free The Horizon (1993) by Douglas Reeman Page B

decks brought them to their senses again. They seemed stunned, as if their lives were no longer in control, and something enormous and terrible was about to take over.
    Rear-Admiral Purves, slumped in the captain’s bridge chair, rested his chin in one hand while the watchkeepers stood restlessly around him.
    He said, ‘Time?’
    The navigator replied, ‘Two-thirty, sir.’
    Captain Soutter levelled his binoculars over the screen and stared into the darkness. The ships astern and abeam had already turned in one huge arc in a south-easterly direction towards the peninsula, and yet the sea could have been empty.
    Purves leaned over the arm of the tall chair. ‘Better get on with it.’
    Soutter moved nearer to exclude all the others in the crowded bridge. ‘Another half-hour, sir?’ He was almost pleading. ‘The boats will be overloaded as it is.’
    Purves leaned back in the chair and said, ‘The sea’s good and there’s been no sign of trouble. Keep to orders.’
    Soutter clenched his fists in the darkness. ‘Stop engines.’
    After a moment or two the four great screws stilled and the ship tilted uneasily, like a wild animal sensing danger.
    Soutter said, ‘Carry on, Tom.’
    The commander waited, wanting to help, but very aware of the admiral’s brooding shape.
    ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
    On deck he found most of the marines silently observing the carefully rehearsed operation as the way went off the great ship. The boats were warped alongside where the troops waited in squads and sections, their officers moving amongst them to pass final instructions.
    Coleridge found the senior army officer and they shook hands without any emotion. Jonathan Blackwood watched as the first troops clambered down the prepared wooden ladders and into the waiting boats. Just a few jokes in the darkness, a grin or a handshake for friends about to be separated, the dull clink of muffled weapons. A few of the marines called down to the pitching boats, ‘Keep yer ’ead down, chum!’ and ‘See you in the pub!’
    Lieutenant-Colonel Waring strode along the deck and barked, ‘Can’t you keep these people quiet?’ He jabbed at someone with his stick. ‘Take that man’s name!’
    A marine corporal muttered, ‘Stupid prick!’ Then he saw Jonathan beside him and stared at him anxiously.
    Jonathan turned away. Embarrassed or angry? Probably both.
    Then very slowly the boats were allowed to drift astern until they formed dark clusters on their tow lines, the steam pinnaces already puffing smoke as they prepared to take over the work as soon as the prescribed position was reached.
    Jonathan felt the deck tremble and watched as the overloaded boats fell further astern until they were movingsafely after the parent ship. Hidden in darkness other ships, men-of-war and transports would be doing the same, preparing their armada of small boats: David and Goliath.
    Coleridge put down a deck telephone and remarked, ‘The Old Man’s not pleased.’ He saw Jonathan’s uncertainty, or sensed it. ‘Come up with me – we’ll not be opening fire until daylight. I think the Captain likes to have you around. No strings, you see?’
    They reached the upper bridge as orders were repeated or passed down to other parts of ship.
    ‘All engines slow ahead, sir, revolutions seven-zero.’
    ‘Course South-fifty-East, sir.’ That was Rice.
    Below the bridge, the director control with its powerful range-finders and gunsights squeaked slightly and swivelled towards the port bow. Like a giant medieval helmet, Jonathan thought, inside which Lieutenant John Quitman and his team were preparing their three main turrets, to support an advance or to cover a retreat. To a gunnery officer like Quitman it was not emotion but arithmetic that would win the day.
    A signalman said in a hushed tone, ‘Land, sir! Dead ahead!’
    Soutter raised his glasses. It was more of a hint than something solid. But he had studied his charts well, with Rice at his side. He had formed a