Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) by Douglas Reeman Read Free Book Online Page B

Section almost as soon as he had passed out of
King Alfred
as another Wavy Navy officer.
    They had met several times, had even completed part of the mine warfare training at Roedean together. A man you could trust with your life.
    He replied, ‘The plane might be a minelayer. A Junkers 188. Not used as such normally, but you never know. Clive Sewell will have a pretty good idea. Otherwise it would all have been tidied up by now.’
    He saw the driver’s hair catch on her collar as she turned slightly. Listening? Or keeping her distance? She had applied for a transfer back to Plymouth, a base where she would be too busy to remember. To blame.
    Brayshaw straightened his back and exclaimed, ‘Here they are!’ He seemed genuinely excited, free, for an hour or so, from Admiralty Fleet Orders, signals onevery subject, inspections and official functions, and Chavasse’s daily routine eccentricities, of which apparently there were many.
    Another group of khaki figures and two parked jeeps, and, further along, a field ambulance, the red crosses very stark in the sunshine. Like blood.
    There were also blue uniforms. Something of a relief.
    Brayshaw said, ‘May not take too long, eh?’ He saw Masters’ hand move to the scar on his face. He knew quite a lot about Lieutenant-Commander David Masters: how he had turned his back on the sea and had thrown himself into the private, deadly world of mine disposal, becoming one of
Vernon
’s leading authorities before arriving in Dorset. Dedicated, and yet something more. A man who would be attractive to women, although he had heard nothing about that.
    Masters said, ‘Here comes somebody who’ll know.’ He had not heard Brayshaw; he had been recalling Fawcett’s comment. The mine was cheap to produce: it caused costly delays. It would certainly play hell with the exercise at Portland which he had been invited to observe. The admiral would be livid.
    He studied the figure by the roadside as the car rolled to a halt. Tall and square, with a strong, weathered face, he wore no oilskin or protective clothing over his reefer jacket, as if he were oblivious to the bitter air. Short grey hair beneath his cap, and medals from another war. He carried the single thin stripe of a warrant officer on his sleeve, a Gunner (T) from the Portland team. Another old sweat. What might have happened without them?
    The man saluted, fingers very straight to his peak, as if on parade. Chavasse would have approved.
    He said, ‘Bird, sir. I got the message that you were comin’. Managed to keep the gawkers away.’ Clipped, formal. Efficient. In the navy anybody named Bird was always called Dicky. Masters could not imagine anyone who would dare with this formidable gunner.
    He climbed out of the car and glanced around. A stone wall, and another big field beyond. It could have been anywhere.
    Bird said, ‘I’ll show you, sir.’ He pushed open a gate and indicated some deep mud. ‘Watch yer step, sir.’
    Masters turned and looked back. The sea in the background, the car with one door hanging open. Brayshaw had gone round to sit beside the driver, perhaps to get a better view.
    A few of the soldiers were tossing stones at a tree stump in some sort of contest. Eager to go, bored with it. Only the quietly throbbing ambulance was a reminder.
    He was still surprised that he could walk and climb without becoming breathless, or checked by the pain in his back, like those first months after he had left hospital.
    Bird watched him grimly. ‘Over there, sir. Follow that line of bushes.’
    Masters studied the side of the field and took out his binoculars. A slight adjustment, and the scene seemed to leap at him. He took another breath and looked again. The aircraft must have been partially under control when it had plunged out of the dawn sky. The field must have appeared safe, and a desperate, perhaps injured pilot didnot have much choice; the hedge would slow if not halt his landing. It was clear enough now in