Battlecruiser (1997) by Douglas Reeman Read Free Book Online Page A

looking, and the police would know all the likely hiding-places by now. That was one face he would rather not see across the defaulters’ table. A good seaman, to all accounts. Now he was a deserter, and far worse.
    And there had been the usual ones who had overstayed their brief liberty. Too much to drink, a woman maybe: it would all drop in Commander Frazier’s lap. He smiled and reached for his cap.
The Bloke.
    He slid open the door and glanced back at the small, businesslike bunk. Stagg would have slept down aft in his own lavish quarters. He closed the door. He probably had the right idea.
    He turned and listened to the muted stammer of morse, the occasional rasp of static.
My ship.
It was still hard to accept, let alone take for granted.
    They would know he was on his way. They always did.
    The Old Man’s coming up. What’s he like today?
    Roll on my bleedin’ twelve!
    Sherbrooke stepped into the gloom of the upper bridge and waited to get his bearings, as the ship’s bows sank slowly into a bank of solid water. Icy spray dashed across the bridge windows like hail, and the clearview screens squeaked in protest.
    He was slowly becoming accustomed to the breadth and size of this bridge, the place of command, the nerve-centre,the eyes and brain of the ship. Dark figures stood around in their familiar positions, although to a layman they might appear casual, or unemployed. Messengers at the rank of polished voicepipes, a boatswain’s mate by the tannoy microphone, somebody gathering up empty mugs from the deck. The navigating officer had the morning watch: he always did. As the senior lieutenant-commander, he was always ready for the dawning of a new day, a time when fatigue and thoughts of breakfast, no matter how ordinary, could make a man careless, vulnerable. And it only took one man.
    Rhodes’s assistant was a young lieutenant named Frost, very keen and eager, who had his leg pulled mercilessly because of the beard he was trying to grow, without much success. At the moment it looked more like something a child might stick to his face for a school pantomime.
    Sherbrooke said, ‘Morning, Pilot. All quiet?’
    Rhodes stood massively beside a clearview screen and gestured toward the rising bank of water. In the faint light, it was the colour of charcoal, but the troughs were like black glass. Higher and higher, so it appeared that the battlecruiser was sliding abeam down an unending slope, unable to resist.
    Then the bows dipped once more and Sherbrooke watched the sea bursting over the forecastle deck and spurting through the hawse pipes, until, barely shaking, the ship raised herself again, the water boiling away over the side, or exploding against gun positions and other fixtures like froth. It looked almost yellow in the poor light.
    ‘We had a signal from
Montagu
, sir, but nothing really bad. One of her boats came adrift and she requested permission to go and search for it.’
    ‘You refused?’
    Rhodes nodded. ‘They know the orders as well as we do, sir. No stopping.’
    Sherbrooke gripped the tall chair which was bolted down on the port side of the bridge. Rhodes made light of it, but many officers in his position, orders or not, would have awakened the captain, if only to keep a clear yardarm. He would make a fine commanding officer when the chance came.
    He glanced through the side windows, which opened onto the flag deck. More anonymous figures in oilskins ducked and pounced, as if taking part in some ritual dance. Occasionally a flag would be unfolded, the bunting very bright against the sombre backdrop before it was stowed away. The lights were ready for the first signal of the day.
All ships will exercise action stations.
    It was hard for men who had just been on watch, as well as for those who had barely slept during the brief respite in their stuffy messdecks, to obey the urgent clamour of alarm bells, even though everyone knew it was an exercise.
    Sherbrooke touched the arms of his chair and