“Sorry, sir. Difficult to say. I suspect he’s bringing some of his pals along to see us and he’s giving himself a spot of elevation, probably to act as a marker. Only a guess, of course.”
“Your guesses have an unfortunate habit of being too damned accurate for my liking.” Findhorn lapsed into silence and sank his teeth into a corned beef sandwich.
Half an hour passed, and still the scout seaplane stayed in the same relative position. It was all rather nerve-racking and necks began to ache from staring up so fixedly into the sky. But at least it was obvious now that the ‘plane had no directly hostile intentions towa’rds them.
Another half-hour passed and the blood-red sun was slipping swiftly, vertically down towards the rim of the sea, a mirror-smooth sea that faded darkly towards the blurred horizon to the east, but a great motionless plain of vermilion to the west, stretching far away into the eye of the setting sun. Not quite mirror-smooth on this side — one or two tiny islets dimpled the red sheen of the water, standing out black against the level rays of the sun, and away to the left, just off the starboard bow and maybe four miles to the south-south-west a larger, low-lying island was beginning to climb imperceptibly above the tranquil surface of the sea.
It was soon after sighting this last island that they saw the seaplane begin to lose height and move off to the east in a long shallow dive. Vannier looked hopefully at Nicolson.
“Knocking-off time for the watch-dog, sir? Off home to bed, likely enough.”
“Afraid not, Fourth.” Nicolson nodded in the direction of the retreating plane. “Nothing but hundreds of miles of sea in that direction, and then Borneo — and that’s not where our friend’s home is. He’s spotted a pal, a hundred to one.” He looked at the captain. “What do you think, sir?”
“You’re probably right again, damn you.” Findhorn’s smile robbed the words of any offence, and then the smile slowly vanished and the eyes became bleak as the seaplane levelled off about a thousand feet and began to circle. “You are right, Mr. Nicolson,” he added softly. He twisted painfully in his seat and stared ahead. “How far off would you say that island there is?”
“Two and a half miles, sir. Maybe three.”
“Near enough three.” Findhorn turned to look at Wil-loughby, then nodded at the engine. “Can you get any more revs out of that sewing machine of yours, Second?”
“Another knot, sir, if I’m lucky.” WiUoughby laid a hand on the tow-rope that stretched back to Siran’s boat. “Two, if I cut this.”
“Don’t tempt me, Second. Give her all you can, will you?”
He jerked his head at Nicolson, who handed over the tiller to Vannier and moved over beside the captain. “What’s your guess, Johnny?” Findhorn murmured.
“What do you mean, sir? Kind of ship it is, or what’s going to happen?”
“Both.”
“No idea about the first — destroyer, M.T.B., fishing boat, anything. As to the other — well, it’s clear now that they want us, and not our blood.” Nicolson grimaced. “The blood will come later. Meantime, they take us prisoner — then the old green bamboo torture, the toenails and teeth, the water treatment, the silos and all the usual refinements.” Nicolson’s mouth was only a white gash in his face and his eyes were gazing at the sternsheets where Peter and Miss Drachmann were playing together, laughing at each other, the girl as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Findhorn followed his gaze and nodded slowly.
“Yes, me too, Johnny. It hurts — just to look at them hurts. They go well together.” He rubbed his grey-grizzled chin thoughtfully. ‘Translucent amber’ — that was the phrase some writing johnny used once about his heroine’s complexion. Blasted fool — or that was what I thought then. I’d like to apologise to him some day. Really incredible, isn’t it.” He grinned. “Imagine the traffic jam if you brought her back to Piccadilly.”
Nicolson smiled in turn. “It’s just the sunset, sir, and your bloodshot eyes.” He was grateful to the older man for deliberately diverting his train of thought and, remembering, he quickly became serious again. “That bloody awful gash. Our yellow brethren. I think there should be some payment on account.”
Findhorn nodded slowly. “We should — ah — postpone our capture, perhaps? Let the thumb-screws rust a while longer? The idea is not without its attractions, Johnny.” He paused, then went on quietly: “I think I can see something.”
Nicolson had his glasses to his eyes at once. He stared through them for a moment, caught a glimpse of a craft hull-down on the horizon with the golden gleams of the setting sun striking highlights off its superstructure, lowered the glasses, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Seconds passed, then he lowered the binoculars, his face expressionless, and handed them in silence to the captain. Findhorn took them, held them steady to his eyes, then handed them back to Nicolson. “No signs of our luck turning, is there? Tell them, will you? Trying to raise my voice above that damned engine is like having a set of fish-hooks dragged up my throat.”
Nicolson nodded and turned round.
“Sorry, everybody, but — well, I’m afraid there’s some more trouble coming along. It’s a Jap submarine, and it’s overtaking us as if we were standing still. If he’d appeared fifteen minutes later we might have made that island there.” He nodded forward over the starboard bow. “As it is, he’ll be up on us before we’re much more than half-way there.”
“And what do you think will happen then, Mr. Nicolson?” Miss Plenderleith’s voice was composed almost to the level of indifference.
“Captain Findhorn thinks — and I agree with him — that they will probably try to take us prisoner.” Nicolson smiled wryly. “All I can say just now, Miss Plenderleith, is that we’ll try not to be taken prisoner. It will be difficult.”
“It will be impossible.” Van Effen spoke from his seat in the bows, and his voice was cold. “It’s a submarine, man. What can our little pop-guns do against a pressure hull. Our bullets will just bounce off.”
“You propose that we give ourselves up?” Nicolson could see the logic of Van Effen’s words and knew that the man was without fear: nevertheless he felt vaguely disappointed.
“Why commit outright suicide — which is what you suggest we do.” Van Effen was pounding the heel of his fist gently on the gunwale, emphasising his point. “We can always find a better chance to escape later.”
“You obviously don’t know the Japs,” Nicolson said wearily. “This is not only the best chance we’ll ever have — it’s also the last.”
“And I say you’re talking nonsense!” There was hostility now in every line in Van Effen’s face. “Let us put it to the vote, Mr. Nicolson.” He looked round the boat. “How many of you are in favour of——”
“Shut up and don’t talk like a fool!” Nicolson said roughly. “You’re not attending a political meeting, Van Effen. You’re aboard a vessel of the British Mercantile Marine, and such vessels are not run by committees but by the authority of one man only — the captain. Captain Findhorn says we offer resistance — and that’s that.”
“The captain is absolutely determined on that?”
“He is.”
“My apologies.” Van Effen bowed. “I bow to the authority of the captain.”
“Thank you.” Feeling vaguely uncomfortable, Nicolson transferred his gaze to the submarine. It was clearly visible now, in all its major details, less than a mile distant. The seaplane was still circling overhead. Nicolson looked at it and scowled.
“I wish that damn’ snoop would go on home,” he muttered.
“He does complicate things rather,” Findhorn agreed. “Time is running out, Johnny. He’ll be up with us in five minutes.”
Nicolson nodded absently. “We’ve seen that type of sub before, sir?”
“I rather think we have,” Findhorn said slowly.
“We have.” Nicolson was certain now. “Light A.A. gun aft, machine-gun on the bridge and a heavy gun for’ard — 3.7 or 4-inch, something like that, I’m not sure. If they want to take us aboard we’ll have to go right alongside the hull — beneath the conning-tower, probably. Neither of the two guns can depress that far.” He bit his lip and stared ahead. “It’ll be dark in twenty minutes — and that island won’t be much more than half a mile away by the time he stops us. It’s a chance, a damn’ poor chance at that, but still . . .” He raised the glasses again and stared at the submarine, then shook his head slowly. “Yes, I thought I remembered that. That 3.7 or whatever it is has a big armoured shield for its gun-crew. Some sort of hinged, collapsible thing, probably.” His voice trailed off and his fingers beat an urgent tattoo on the rim of the gunwale. He looked absently at the captain. “Complicates things rather, doesn’t it, sir?”