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

felt them press into his ribs as the great hull swayed upright again.
Reliant
had been described as a lucky ship. Compared with some, this must be true. It was said that when Günther Prien, one of Germany’s first U-Boat aces, had forced his audacious and seemingly impossible entry into Scapa Flow and torpedoed the battleship
Royal Oak
, with appalling loss of life, his sights had first been on
Reliant.
And at Jutland, when the battlecruiser squadron had come under direct and heavy fire, her steering had inexplicably jammed, the rudder helpless to prevent her from steering in a wide circle, away from the embattled squadron, and almost certain destruction.
    Unfortunately, luck was not always enough.
    There were more voices, low, contained, formal.
    Because of me.
    It was Frazier, his face reddened by the wind and icy spray.
    ‘Good morning, sir.’
    ‘Morning, John.’ He waited. Frazier would have been right around the ship already: he never took anything for granted. But Sherbrooke felt no closer to him than at their first meeting.
    ‘Any special orders, sir?’ He did not even bother to hold onto anything, he was so used to the ship.
    ‘Damage control, John, but this time replace the officers and petty officers with more junior ones. Good training.’
    He glanced at the radar repeater in the forepart of the bridge. The invisible eye. In the early days, it had been just a dream.
    ‘And let the Royal Marines exercise Y Turret with local control. We may not always be able to rely on miracles.’ He saw the young Lieutenant Frost peering at the bridge clock, the boatswain’s mate examining the tannoy. It was almost time.
To be cursed by every man aboard.
He smiled. It might even bring Stagg to the bridge.
    A messenger lowered his face to a voicepipe. ‘Forebridge?’ He turned toward Sherbrooke. ‘From W/T, sir. Signal.’
    ‘Send it up.’ It was probably a ship in distress somewhere, a convoy under U-Boat attack, an R.A.F. plane down in the drink. Important, but outside their concern.
    A figure appeared on the bridge: it was the chief telegraphist, Elphick, another man up and about early, making sure his department was on top line.
    Sherbrooke opened the signal, feeling their eyes upon him, sensing a certain relief at the break in routine.
    Afterwards, he tried to recall exactly how long he hadsat with the signal pad in his hands, the neat, firm printing meaning nothing, as if it were mocking him.
    Eventually he said, ‘Immediate from Admiralty. Air Reconnaissance report that the German cruiser
Minden
is at sea.’ He was conscious of the coldness of his voice, the flatness. ‘Believed to have left Tromsø two days ago.’
    Rhodes, the professional, was the first to speak. ‘It was reported to be foul weather at that time, sir.’
    Frazier said, ‘She could be anywhere by now.’ He looked at the others. ‘Not here. Anywhere.’
    Sherbrooke scarcely heard. He picked up the solitary handset opposite his chair, the one with the small red light on it, like a baleful eye.
    Stagg answered immediately, as if he had been expecting it.
    ‘Bloody people! Don’t they know how important it is to watch every single move?’ Then there was a short pause. ‘
Minden
, eh? The one you met up with?’
    Sherbrooke said, ‘Yes, sir. The one that sank my ship.’
    He replaced the handset, and said, ‘Exercise Action Stations, if you please.’
    Frazier hesitated. ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’
    Just for those seconds, they were alone. Not captain and subordinate, but two men.
    Sherbrooke laid one hand on his sleeve. ‘I hope to God it never happens to you. It’s something . . .’
    The rest was lost in the screaming clamour of alarm bells and the slam of watertight doors.
    Sherbrooke slid from the chair and walked to the chart table. It had been a damned close thing.
    Rear-Admiral Vincent Stagg sat comfortably on a chart cabinet and crossed his legs. ‘Weather’s easing. Should be at Seydisfjord on time.’ He glanced