Silver Stars (Front Lines #2)(37)
They are still a quarter of a mile from the beach. There are no life rafts, and there is no chance of swimming in the dark waves with their gear.
The engine is restarted and with lots of frightened cursing from the coxswain, the boat attempts to pull itself off the sandbar.
No dice. The water churns, the boards screech, but the boat does not move. Half a dozen soldiers strip off their gear and jump into the seething, waist-deep water and try to push the boat off, but the sand beneath their boots gives them no purchase and they are hauled back aboard, soaking and shivering.
They are a small boat, utterly helpless, a perfect target with the dawn now just beginning to paint the sky a soft and hazy navy blue.
The first shell lands fifty feet astern.
11
RAINY SCHULTERMAN—ABOARD HMS TOPAZ, NORTH ATLANTIC
“Wha . . . wha . . . where am I?” Cisco is suddenly awake.
He thrashes in his hammock and realizes he has been lashed into it with ropes, trussed up with all the knot-bending skill of a military service that has been tying nautical knots since the days of Sir Francis Drake and the Spanish Armada. Cisco is held in place by a virtual illustrated encyclopedia of knots.
Cisco’s hammock is in the torpedo room, all the way at the front of the boat. It’s a cramped, greasy space smelling of industrial solvents, unwashed bodies, stale tobacco, fresh tobacco smoke, farts, cheese, and oil. There appears to be a thin sheen of oil on virtually every surface, including on the tan canvas of the hammock.
The crew are dressed in a sort of liberal approach to uniforms, some of the men wearing neatly belted dungarees with shirttails tucked in, while others wear bulky fisherman’s sweaters or stained shirts open at the neck with sleeves rolled up. The officers are only marginally more formal.
The submarine has refueled and provisioned in the Azores, and throughout the entire boat every nook and cranny is stuffed with powdery loaves of fresh Portuguese bread, pineapples, cabbages, bananas, onions, butter, and wheels of pale-yellow Azorean cow’s milk cheese. They have also replenished their store of torpedoes, which lie sinister in steel racks just astern of the tubes, ready to be fed in. The torpedoes surprised Rainy on first sight, being much bigger than she expected, each just over 21 feet long, weighing 3,452 pounds, 750 pounds of which is the TNT warhead.
A passing sailor summons Rainy, who is just finishing dinner in the petty officers’ (NCOs’) mess. It is an amazingly cramped little room of upholstered benches completely dominated by a table, so seating oneself at the table requires a fair bit of twisting and squirming.
Rainy finds Cisco cursing a blue streak and threatening sailors who are entirely unimpressed but willing to kill some of the boredom by listening to him rant.
“Get me the fug out of these ropes!” Cisco demands in a roar.
“If you calm down, we can let you go,” Rainy says.
“I’ll cut your fugging balls off!”
“Shall I quiet him down for you, miss?” an eager blond-bearded seaman asks, brandishing a large wrench.
“Cisco, you need to get control of yourself,” Rainy says. “They really don’t like panic around here.”
“Panic? Who’s panicking?” He makes an effort to quiet down. The effort does not alter the murderous look on his face, but he stops kicking and squirming. At a nod from Rainy, the sailor with the wrench reluctantly unties him.
“Limey sons of bitches,” Cisco snarls as he rolls out and stands up. But he does not threaten anyone further, and the gaggle of onlookers, disappointed not to have a fight, return to their duties.
Lieutenant Commander Alger appears, weaving his way with casual grace through the veritable thicket of forehead-smashing pipes, brackets, gauges, and waterproof doors. Rainy has already smacked her head twice, and she’s a foot shorter than the commander.
Rainy has noted that no one salutes aboard the Topaz, but training compels her and she snaps a salute.
“Now, now, none of that,” Lieutenant Commander Alger says mildly, returning her salute. He’s in young middle age, with a jagged scar that crosses his lips and gives him a piratical air. His beard, neatly trimmed, is brown, like his hair. He has an impressive bent pipe of wonderfully rich polished wood. From time to time he emits a small cloud of sweet bluish smoke that Rainy would normally find nauseating but which at the moment is masking the strong body odor smell of the red-haired rating behind her. Lieutenant Commander Alger’s expression and speech are alert, active, curious, and focused.
An intelligent man.
“We find the confined space really doesn’t allow for a lot of saluting and snapping to attention,” Alger says in a drawl that manages to be both upper class and casual. Then, with a sudden flash of wit, he adds, “You are also free to grow a beard and mustache.”
Rainy smiles. “Thank you, Commander. I have a great-aunt who would take you up on that.”
He’s surprised by her quickness and nods in acknowledgment of her riposte. “How are you making do? Did you dine?”
“I did, sir, and very well. The pineapple for dessert was wonderful.”
“I’m afraid the Azorean wine is not the very best, and the shops were plumb out of Madeira. How then is our civilian passenger?”
Rainy looks at Cisco, who is either intimidated by the captain’s rank or by his posh English accent and remains momentarily passive. He takes the captain’s outstretched hand, but scowls as he does it.