J. E. MacDonnell - 025 Read online

  J E MacDonnell - 025 - The Blind Eye

  CHAPTER ONE

  MANY THINGS ABOUT A battleship's quarterdeck might be expected to strike a destroyer captain as interesting-even extraordinary-so that it was not surprising when Commander Peter Bentley stepped from the gangway platform on to the deck of the flagship in Trincomalee his eyes were attracted directly to the four gun barrels of the after turrets.

  And not simply because he was a gunnery-officer. It was the massiveness of the barrels which drew his attention. They reached from the armoured gun-houses in rigid and steely menace, thicker than his waist, slaty-grey monsters whose rifled mouths could vomit man-high shells weighing close on a ton.

  The six-feet thick breeches of those guns were rooted in gun-houses greater in area than his own destroyer's bridge, and protected from alien entry by an overlay of armoured steel 11 inches thick.

  The respectful pipes of the quarterdeck staff twittered to silence. Bentley was a destroyer captain, but if he had been commanding-officer of the small harbour-defence launch patrolling across the boom entrance, and had come aboard the admiral's ship, he would still have been received with a pipe. A general or an air-marshal would have been met with mere bugles...

  "Good morning, sir," a crisp, pleasant voice greeted, "would you follow me, please?"

  He returned the officer of the day's salute and trailed him to the large hatch leading down under the quarterdeck. The lieutenant was Randall's counterpart, in rank, but where Wind Rode's first-lieutenant had been last seen by his captain in the wardroom in faded khaki shorts and shirt and sandals, this flagship specimen was complete with starch, creases, long stockings, shoes, polished sword belt and telescope.

  They thumped expertly down the almost vertical ladder and Bentley found himself in a huge compartment with white-painted walls and bulkheads and polished corticene floor which might have been the envy of the most fastidious housewife.

  Less than 24 hours before the Fleet, 300 miles east of its base, had been subjected to a heavy and savage air attack. This compartment would have been cluttered with fire-hoses and sand buckets and men in fear-nought suits. Now, Bentley reflected with an inward grin, it looked as though the ship had been anchored in Portsmouth for the past 12 months.

  The Royal Navy may not have founded the Society for Spit and Polish, but it certainly had been an interested spectator at the ceremony.

  "Here we are, sir," the lieutenant said, and halted before a bulkhead door in the after end of the compartment. He inclined his head a little on one side and from the other side of the closed door came a muted murmur of voices. The lieutenant glanced at Bentley.

  "Rear-Admiral Jerrold's still in there."

  Bentley nodded. Jerrold was the flag-officer commanding the cruiser squadron. The thought slipped into his mind that perhaps his own summons to the flagship might be connected with Jerrold's presence; it was quite possible that Wind Rode could be detailed to escort a cruiser on a high-speed mission somewhere.

  He stood there, thinking, his forefinger rubbing across his chin, wondering if he should insist on the lieutenant knocking. The admiral was noted for punctuality; Bentley's summons had read nine o'clock, and it was now almost two minutes past that hour.

  The lieutenant in turn had no qualms about not knocking-not with two flag-officers in conference on the other side of that shut door. His eyes were covertly studying the tall, hard officer in front of him, a man not much older than himself and yet already lord of his own command, a modern Fleet destroyer.

  Bentley had decided, and was forming in his mind the words which would convince the battleship's officer that the destroyerman's presence was connected with the rear-admiral's, when he was saved the trouble.

  The voices came suddenly closer, and the door opened.

  "All right then, Jerrold," came a brisk voice, "we'll leave it at that. Box-barrage at six thousand feet. It might hold `em off."

  Bentley stood at attention, staring straight ahead, not wishing to give the impression that he was listening to this high-level gunnery decision. But he could not help flicking a glance at the officer who sailed under his command a score of fighting ships, including three battleships and upwards of twelve thousand men.

  So that he saw the almost imperceptible and permissive nod the admiral gave to the lieutenant. The junior officer hurried off. Bentley knew why, at the same time as he appreciated the thoughtfulness of the admiral-a flag-officer would shortly be leaving the ship, and the officer of the day, the man responsible for his proper piping and departure, was well down below decks.

  "And you, I presume, are Commander Bentley?"

  "Yes sir."

  Bentley could look directly into the admiral's face now. He had met Sir Sidney Granville twice before, and once again he was affected by the contrast and wind-reddened, almost cherubic face, now smiling, and the alert intensity of the admiral's eyes. The key to the man's whole success and fighting vigour was in those eyes.

  "One of our bright young destroyer boys," Granville smiled at Jerrold, "and an Australian."

  Jerrold nodded, and Bentley said formally:

  "Good morning, sir."

  There was no doubt about Jerrold. He had his cap on, and the tight-skinned face under it was curt and authoritative. The admiral might have been-except for his eyes-a genial type of London office-manager: Jerrold could have been mistaken for nothing but a hard-bitten fighting seaman.

  Yet he was two wide ranks away from Granville, and immeasurably distant in power and responsibility.

  "There's nothing else, sir?" Jerrold said.

  "That's all. Do you mind...?" nodding at Bentley.

  "Of course not, sir. I know my way. Goodbye, sir. Bentley."

  You do not salute below decks in a British warship, nor can you salute with your cap off. Bentley was already at attention. He answered:

  "Goodbye, sir," and Granville stepped back into his cabin.

  "Come on in, Bentley."

  Bentley stepped in over the coaming and at the admiral's gesture he shut the door. There was another man in the huge cabin, he saw, a petty-officer steward, hastily emptying two ashtrays.

  Obviously the steward had been present at the earlier discussion, but now the admiral said:

  "That will do, Jackson. Until further orders I do not want to be disturbed."

  "Aye, aye, sir," the steward answered, and left the cabin at once.

  "Sit down, Bentley. Cigarette?" Bentley took one from the wooden box, murmuring his thanks, wondering why this interview was to be so obviously confidential. He was not in the least alarmed that it might be unpleasant-an admiral of a Fleet was not in the least averse to delivering his rockets publicly, by signal, and for him to send for a junior officer to censure him the offence would need to be grave indeed.

  Commander Bentley was no nominee for sainthood, but neither had he blotted his copybook enough to warrant that sort of interview.

  "I suppose you're wondering what this is all about?"

  The face looking back at him was quizzical, completely pleasant, the blue eyes magnetised to his with an intensity that Bentley felt was wholly natural, and permanent.

  "I have given it some thought, sir."

  "And what have you come up with?"

  "Nothing, I'm afraid, sir. Unless it might be some-well, secret sort of mission for a destroyer."

  "Near-miss, Bentley. The damn thing's secret enough, believe me! But nothing in the nature of a mission. Does that disappoint you?"

  That was all, just those four words. Yet Bentley, competent captain and normal human being, knew with absolute certainty that the words were intended to convey that the admiral was acquainted with his earlier lone-handed missions in Wind Rode.

&nbs
p; He knew also, with the same definiteness, that that would be the only praise he and his ship would receive from this responsible officer.

  "I suppose it does a little, sir. Being a destroyerman yourself, you will appreciate the-ah-comfort's of detached duty."

  The admiral, twenty ships and 12,000 men regardless, was also human. "You knew I had a destroyer?"

  "Yes, sir. Dover Patrol in the first war, Dogger Bank..."

  "I see. Well, now..." The voice changed, relegating confidences to their rightful limbo. Bentley leaned forward a little.

  "I want your ship to carry out the trial of a new and highly secret weapon, Bentley. The back-room fellows of the Underwater Weapons Research Section at the Admiralty have developed the thing, and they've sent it out to me for testing."

  Granville saw the questions forming in his listener's face and he answered one of them.

  "Why out here? I don't know. Unless the weapon's so important that it has to be tested in a comparatively remote area." He leaned back in his chair and fumbled in his pocket, drawing forth a key on a chain. "As a destroyerman, you will appreciate its importance."

  While Bentley waited, silent, the admiral unlocked the long drawer running under the top edge of his desk and drew out a photograph. Even before he was shown what the photograph portrayed, Bentley guessed that an enemy power would give a king's ransom for a look at it, yet it was kept locked in a desk drawer. But that desk was in an admiral's cabin in a British battleship. There could hardly be a safer place...

  Granville tossed the large square of celluloid on the desk.

  "There you are," he said.

  Bentley took it up. His first reaction was disappointment. His imagination had been stirred by the admiral's words, and by his novel position alone with him in his guarded cabin. And for what? Something that looked like an enormous, fat shell, but not pointed like a projectile, bearing instead a softly rounded nose. "Well?" said the admiral.

  "I've never seen it before, sir," Bentley admitted. "But it looks to me something like an outsize torpedo warhead." Still staring at the photograph, he shook his head. "I can't imagine the size of a torpedo needed to carry a thing like that. Every tube in the destroyer flotillas would have to be redesigned." He smiled, apologetically. "I'm sorry, sir, but it seems to me our torpedo warheads are sufficiently powerful as they are."

  "Strange," said the admiral, "that our thoughts should run along the same lines. At first, that is. A destroyerman's mentality, I suppose. No, Bentley, that is not a torpedo warhead. Yet it is designed to be fired from a torpedo tube."

  Bentley looked at the admiral, back again at the photograph. Then he said:

  "Yes, sir."

  "Neither I nor the scientists are half-witted, Bentley," the admiral answered the two resigned words, his mouth twitching. "This beast here," a forefinger tapping the photograph, "is an anti-submarine weapon."

  Bentley's eyes flicked up to his face.

  "A depth-charge?"

  "Precisely. It holds more than a ton of a new explosive, Torpex."

  "My God," Bentley said softly.

  "Precisely," the admiral said again. "If it works, the radius of a destroyer's lethal attacking area is vastly increased. I have the calculations here somewhere, but without bothering about them I can tell you this-if this thing explodes anywhere in the vicinity of a submarine, just one of them, mind you, the strongest U-boat will be crushed flat both by the explosive blast and the transmitted pressure of the surrounding water. You understand?" Bentley understood perfectly. Wind Rode's depth charges weighed 300 pounds, and they held what was then regarded as a highly efficient explosive, amatol. This new weapon held more than two thousand pounds of an even more powerful disruptive.

  His trained thoughts ran on and the admiral answered them.

  "There are two complications," he said quietly. "First, the charge is so large and heavy that existing depth-charge throwing equipment cannot handle it. Hence the tube firing. And if it works as expected, one tube-loading will suffice for one submarine. The second complication is more serious."

  He glanced up at Bentley and the destroyer captain answered the look: "Speed?"

  "Exactly. And that is the main purpose of this initial trial of the weapon. We know that an explosive charge as heavy as that could have unhappy effects on a firing ship's rudder and screws. Unless she is travelling at a high escaping speed. Even then the back-room boys' calculations could be wrong. But there is only one way to find out."

  "Yes, sir. Er-where is the weapon now?" "In A-turret's magazine. Crated in a wooden box." The admiral's finger tapped again at the photograph. "There are three men on this station who have seen this, Bentley. The Fleet torpedo-officer, myself-and now

  you. You follow me?"

  "Perfectly, sir."

  "Not a word, not a suggestion of a word, must leak out about this. I doubt if there are any German agents in Ceylon, but the same cannot be applied to Japanese. Once we have tested the thing, and it is a success, it will matter little if word gets around. In fact, it might be a good thing if the enemy learns we have a secret weapon that makes a submarine kill certain."

  "Yes, sir. When will the trial take place?"

  "It will be about three weeks before we're ready. A Reserve officer will join your ship for the test. He is a lieutenant-commander, but I wouldn't be impressed by his junior rank if I were you."

  Bentley's lips twisted in a small smile. The lieutenant-commander would certainly be a scientist; he had himself in his own ship a Reserve officer, Lieutenant Peacock, who held, as well as his two navy stripes, a Doctorate of Science from Melbourne University, and who had forgotten more about asdic sets than the regular Navy operators knew.

  "No, sir. I imagine we will be conducting the test alone?"

  "Not at all. I will synchronise it with a Fleet sailing. I want to see that thing go up myself."

  "I understand, sir." He paused before his next question. Not that he would mind, at all, giving his men some hard-earned leave, in a decent sort of port; but Trincomalee was not renowned for its recreational facilities, and they would be better off occupied at sea than stagnating in this type of harbour.

  "You said three weeks, sir. My ship won't be held here for that time?"

  "Not at all. You will carry on your normal escort and screening duties. In any case I haven't enough destroyers to relieve you from Fleet duties, even if I wanted to."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well now, that's about all, for the moment. Keep your tubes normally loaded until you receive a certain package." The admiral butted his cigarette.

  Even in face of that dismissing gesture Bentley said: "If you don't mind my asking, sir... why was Wind Rode selected for this test?"

  "Because you have a new ship, and a fast one," the admiral answered briskly. "I don't want an engine-room breakdown with that thing about to explode."

  "I see. Thank you, sir."

  "I cannot stress strongly enough the importance of speed in this, Bentley. If you are travelling at less than 30 knots it is quite possible that you could have your whole stern fractured, if not blown off. You understand that?"

  "I'm convinced, sir," the younger man smiled.

  "All right then. Depth-settings and other calculations will be decided on later. This morning I wished merely to put you in the picture."

  The senior head nodded and Bentley stood up quickly. He was reaching for his cap when the admiral said, musingly:

  "I imagine pretty well your whole ship's company knows I sent for you?"

  The interview had been pleasant. The admiral, once you avoided those eyes, was a very pleasant man. Bentley risked it.

  "I imagine they expect me to come back either With the Victoria Cross, sir, or on a stretcher..."

  "M'mmm." Not a very bright joke, Bentley decided. The admiral continued:

  "There will have to be some acceptable reason why I sent for you. Let me see-what was that last fracas I heard you got into? And made no attempt to get out of? East
of here, wasn't it?"

  "We did run into a Jap cruiser squadron south of the Indies, yes, sir."

  "To their sorrow, I understand. Very well then. You may tell your first-lieutenant and officers that I sent for you to congratulate you and the ship's company."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "And," the admiral offered a quizzical grin, "as I don't wish to be thought a liar, even in this restricted company-congratulations, Bentley, on a fine piece of fighting seamanship."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "You can find your own way up through the labyrinth?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Goodbye."