Free Battlecruiser (1997) by Douglas Reeman Page A

to the sloping bridge windows. The fog was thicker, as though they were charging into a solid barrier.
    He heard himself snap, ‘Slow ahead! Reduce to seven-zero revolutions!’ He saw Drake watching him. ‘
Bloody do it!
’
    He steadied himself against the captain’s chair and felt the pressure against his thigh as the great ship began to lose way. The destroyers, provided they were awake and their radar was working, would see what was happening. If only . . .
    He winced as the red eye began to flicker, and the admiral’s handset gave its usual unpleasant squawk.
    He snatched it up. ‘Bridge, sir! Officer of the watch here.’ He got no further.
    Stagg sounded querulous. ‘I know who you are! Why the hell have you reduced speed?’
    Evershed tried to swallow but his mouth felt like sand.
    ‘The radar, sir.’ He looked up as a hand reached past him and took the handset. It was Sherbrooke.
    ‘All right, Guns. I’ve got the weight.’ He raised the instrument to his ear. ‘Captain, sir. Radar’s on the blink. I shall signal the escorts. I’d like to sound action stations, then clear lower deck, just in case.’
    He paused, expecting an argument or worse. He could feel the others watching him, and had sensed the sudden tension even as he had entered the bridge.
    Stagg muttered, ‘If you think so.’ Another hesitation. ‘Good thinking. I’ll come up.’
    Sherbrooke looked round. Rhodes, the navigatingofficer, was already here, perhaps summoned by the same instinct which had spoken to Sherbrooke himself in his small sea-cabin, as clearly as any human voice.
    ‘Sound off. Call up Commander Frazier and put him in the picture. Boats and rafts, just like the real thing.’
    He saw the lieutenant, Drake, watching him. ‘Nothing to do?’ Then he smiled. ‘See if you can rustle up something to drink, will you?’
    He could feel them relaxing. So easily done. Like his men on that day when so many had died.
Trust.
    The bells were screaming between decks and men were stampeding to ladders and watertight doors.
    Sherbrooke glanced at the gyro repeater. ‘Steady on one-six-zero.’ Then he touched the arm of the chair. ‘Easy, girl, you’ve made your point!’
    Only Evershed heard him, but still it did not register; all he could think about was the moment when something had failed, snapped, and he had been left helpless, unable to move or think. Like somebody who had discovered a terrible affliction in himself, a weakness he had always believed could not exist.
    Figures were moving about, the newcomers hurrying to their action stations, the voicepipes and telephones stammering and buzzing like beetles in a tank.
    The navigating officer was beside him, his eyes in shadow.
    Rhodes said quietly, ‘Better get going, Guns. Your control team will be waiting for their lord and master.’
    Evershed strode past him without a word. They could have been strangers.
    Sherbrooke climbed into his chair and listened to the final reports coming in.
    ‘Ship at action stations, sir!’
    Sherbrooke had been aware of Evershed’s confusioneven as he had entered the bridge: it was as if he had already sensed it, and the sensation that something in the pattern was wrong had brought him from the stuffy privacy of his sea-cabin.
    It had been a long night; maybe Evershed was feeling the strain.
    We all are.
    Several things had become clear.
Minden
was out of her anchorage, and the Admiralty signals had hinted that she might be heading west. Their information had probably been received from agents in Norway, people who daily risked their lives and those of their families and friends to, send off vital information as quickly as possible before the German military police could fix an exact radio bearing on their transmission. The rest was too terrible to contemplate: doors being smashed in, men and women being dragged away to face the interrogation and torture of the Gestapo. No wonder these members of the Resistance were hated and feared by