Free To Risks Unknown by Douglas Reeman Page B

last-chance command, all that he was fit for after his experiences. Now it was quite obvious that he might not even be good enough for
her
, if what he had seen in Scarlett’s face could be believed.
    He knew he was getting edgy again, and he tried to hold back the sudden flood of despair and resentment with something like physical force. He looked at the ship with her bridge and upperworks shimmering in the heat as if burning from within. He had not wanted her, nor did he have any feeling which he could mark down as either pride or enthusiasm. But the thought of losing her, just like that, was almost more than he could bear, and the realization filled him with anger and disbelief.

4. The Raid
    CRESPIN WITHDREW HIS head and shoulders from beneath the oilskin hood across the bridge chart table and walked over to the gyro repeater. In those few minutes while studying the chart and memorizing the final bearings and soundings he had almost lost his night vision, so that he had to wait, forcing himself to stand beside the compass until he could see the black edge of the bridge and the endless flow of pale stars beyond.
    Then he crossed to the voice-pipes. ‘Starboard ten.’ How loud his voice sounded. ‘Midships, steady.’ From the corner of his eye he watched the luminous compass card ticking round. ‘Steer two-three-zero.’ His busy mind barely recorded Joicey’s acknowledgement from the wheelhouse, and he was more conscious of his heart pounding noisily against his ribs.
    Scarlett had certainly chosen his night well. As black as pitch and with a faint haze across the sky which made the stars seem very far away.
    He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to midnight. He wanted to go back to the chart table, to make one more check, but he instantly dismissed the impulse. It was pointless now, for across the bows, stretching away on either hand was the blacker, more solid shadow of Pantelleria. It was about the same size as the Isle of Wight, yet when Major Barnaby had spread his chart on the wardroom table just two days ago it had looked so small and meaningless, a mere grit against the greater land masses above and below it.
    Now it was here, and very real indeed. The
Thistle’s
engine was throttled down to dead slow, with hardly enough revolutions to give her steerage way, yet with each passing minute the shadow of land seemed to swell in size as if to reach out and enfold the little ship and crush the life out of her. The small radar repeater beside the voice-pipes added to the impression. The distorted outlines seemed to writhe like phosphorescent weed, the picture further twisted by a mass of back-echoes, so that it looked as if the island was alive.
    The sea was dead calm, not even an occasional whitecap to break its oily swell. That was another reason for such a slow approach. Any sudden burst of spray from the ship’s stem would be seen instantly by any watcher on the shore.
    Wemyss’ big figure crossed the bridge silently like a cat. ‘Getting close, sir. I make it about a mile.’
    He was speaking in a hushed whisper. It was strange how the nearness of danger made men do that, Crespin thought. And how much louder the ordinary shipboard noises seemed to have become in the last few crawling minutes. A flapping halyard was like the crack of a whip, some lookout’s nervous cough a thunderclap.
    Crespin plucked at the front of his shirt. In the lifeless air and after the sweat of the day it felt like a damp rag.
    â€˜Go to the chart room, Number One, and tell Commander Scarlett. Then get aft and keep an eye on the soldiers. I don’t want any noise when the rafts go over the side.’
    Wemyss’ outline melted into the darkness and once more Crespin was very conscious of the tension around him. The ship had been at action stations for hours, and he could almost feel the gunners straining their eyes into the darkness, their hands clammy with excitement and