Between The Hunters And The Hunted by Steven Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

Morrison’s face.
    The tanker continued to explode, showering the surrounding sea with flame.
    â€œGod help those poor sailors,” Baird heard Engleman whisper. He turned his attention back to Morrison. He could see the telephone receiver tremble in the young officer’s hand.
    â€œYes, sir. Right, sir. We’re ready, sir.” Morrison’s eyes found Baird’s in an unspoken plea.
    Baird turned quickly. “All right, you Jack-my-Hearties, stand by. Smartly now or it’s over the side with the depth charges you go. When these splash I want six more on the rack faster than you can light a Woodbine.” He made sure that his crew was in place before turning back to Morrison. The officer replied with a tiny nod, or perhaps it was nothing more than a tremble. Suddenly his hand tightened on the receiver.
    â€œYes, sir,” he said and then raised his arm and shouted to the crew. “On my mark!” Baird gripped the gate release handle and rested his foot on the gate lock pedal.
    â€œNow!” Morrison shouted.
    Baird stomped on the pedal and jerked the lever back. The gate flew open and depth charges began to roll out of the rack. He heard the sharp crash of the port and starboard Y-throwers as the charges propelled the depth charges far away from Firedancer and into the darkness. The depth charges at his feet clattered down the track, a tiny train in motion, and suddenly they were gone. He knew that somewhere in the darkness below him they sank innocently, indifferent to the cold.
    Astern, the sea boiled and vomited white, throwing frothy water far into the air. Immediately after there was a low boom in the darkness as the sound of the explosion reached the surface. The depth charges from the Y-throwers exploded seconds after and Baird felt the exhilaration of battle—that sharp, hot burst of power that tightens your muscles as taut as bowstrings.
    Training does it—routine, step after step until it becomes as natural as breathing. Rote, don’t think, don’t consider, fall into the rhythm of action until nothing exists but the immediacy of duty. Training does it—make sure that everyone knows where to be and what to do and when to do it so that no moment, no movement is lost. Flesh-and-blood machines, Baird called them, unfeeling beasts whose shouts and commands fill the air to accompany the sounds of actual machines swinging into action.
    He looked at Morrison for further orders and saw the officer hang the receiver in the cradle with a dejected look.
    â€œWe’re to stand down,” Morrison said morosely.
    â€œStand down?” Baird said.
    Morrison exploded. “Yes, damn you!” He was turning to make his way to the Y-mounts when he stopped and looked back. “And you’ll address me as sir, Chief Torpedo Gunner’s Mate Baird! Is that clear?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Baird said, “it is.” Torps Baird cocked an eyebrow at his depth charge party and pulled a packet of Churchman’s Number 1’s from his duffel.
    Blessing’s eyes grew large as Torps lit the cigarette.
    â€œThat’s a captain’s table for sure. Smoking without permission.”
    â€œOh, and you think Johnny’s going to pick out my Churchman in the light of a burning tanker?” Baird shook his head in disgust, snuffed out the cigarette, and threw the carcass over the side. “Here? Engleman. Go track down Lord Nelson and see if he wants us to reload these racks.” After Engleman left, Baird took Blessing by the shoulders. “Boy Seaman, I’m twenty-eight years in Andrews and this is the closest that I’ve ever been to a goat fuck. Heed my words, Boy Seaman, for every word is true and certain. If we come out of anything that we go into, it won’t be because of the sawdust heads on the bridge.” He blew a breath and watched the vapor snatched up and carried over the stern. “Next time that we tie up I’ll