Free Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) by Douglas Reeman Page B

café-restaurant to adjoin it. The navy, the war, and separation had put paid to that, and he never spoke of it now. His wife had gone off with an American serviceman. It was only evident when the mail boat came alongside, and Shannon received nothing.
    His second hand in the engine room was Stoker Petty Officer Maginnis, who had served in a light cruiser, but had changed to something livelier when the chance came his way. Larger than life, always ready with a tot of rum and some boozy song, he should have got on Shannon’s nerves. Chalk and cheese . . . maybe what they both needed.
    Foley was thinking of his conversation with Masters. A man who thought deeply about every aspect of the job, quick to ask a question if he needed something clarified. Interested, and interesting. It was hard to believe there were only four years between them.
    Foley knew about the most recent incident, and the officer who had been killed. He even thought he might have met him at some time; the navy was like that. And the young seaman Masters had taken under his wing ashis assistant was on board too, acting as messenger. In Motor Launch 366, everybody had at least two jobs.
    Masters was saying, ‘When we get in, I’d like to discuss the exercise with you.’
    Foley turned swiftly as a lookout called, ‘Light, starboard bow, sir! Low down!’
    It was Signalman Chitty. It would be.
    Foley pressed his mouth to the voicepipe. ‘Chief, dead slow, watch your revs. There’s something in the drink.’ It was as if he had shouted, but he knew he had not even raised his voice.
    He reached out and took Allison’s arm. ‘Pass the word, Toby. Nice and easy . . . Got it?’ He felt him nod and released him.
    It could be anything.
Never take chances.
    He pictured the chart they had been studying, well-worn where it was folded over the table; shelf was a better description. Frayed by countless calculations and fixes, stained at the edges with circles from mugs like the one he was still holding. Part of the boat. Of himself.
    He glanced at the sky. In two hours it would be daylight. In three or less, they would be alongside.
    Allison asked, ‘What is it, d’you think?’
    Foley held out his hand and felt somebody take the mug. ‘A corpse, most likely.’ He sensed that Masters had turned towards him. Surprised, perhaps, at the unnecessary brutality of his answer.
    He moved to the opposite side of the bridge and stared down at the sea alongside, the bow wave, snaking away, but not even breaking. Black glass. He thought of allthe other such lights he had seen. They didn’t last for long; usually they didn’t need to. Sometimes a couple clinging in a last embrace. But one had to die first. And occasionally they were in groups.
    Allison said quietly, ‘I had to pick up a man who’d been washed overboard in a gale. We lowered a whaler.’ Nobody said anything and he fell silent again.
    Masters said, ‘What do you reckon, Chris?’
    The casual use of his name caught Foley off balance. It was probably the timing: returning to base, the last hours when men became too relaxed, even careless. Thinking of tomorrow. Of somebody.
    He answered, ‘An airman, I expect, sir. One of theirs, one of ours – either way, trying to get home. I’ll let Air-Sea Rescue know the score later on.’
    He moved to the compass and peered at it, his eyes showing briefly in the feeble glow. It was routine. There was no point in losing time to stop and haul a corpse aboard. Unless . . .
    Masters said, ‘You’re not happy about it?’
    Foley shook his head. ‘You never know.’ He looked at the small, bobbing light. Suppose there was someone clinging to life by a thread, still able to hear, to feel the muted tremble of the boat’s engines. Then being left, the bitter cold reaching for the kill.
    I should never need reminding.
    He said, ‘Tell Harrison to stand by, starboard side forrard. I’ll try and touch alongside.’ He reached out as the anonymous figure made to scurry