"Fox, Anthony - Threat Warning Red" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fox Anthony)

Ashton glanced round at the OOW. 'I'll take her.' He told Comerford, 'Shan't need you, pilot. If you're going down, tell the Commander I'd like a word at his convenience.'

'Aye aye, sir.' He was ready for some breakfast; and it was decent of George Henry to dispense with his services. It was also somewhat untypical: there was a certain rigidity both of manner and behaviour from Devon's captain nowadays. Physically he was immensely strong: right now, for instance, he'd had two hours' sleep, and twenty-four hours ago he might have had three or four, but he was alert, vigorous, ready for another day-and-night stretch of work. Unfortunately he expected similar powers of endurance in his subordinates. When Comerford, after twenty-six hours on his feet at one stage of the recent NATO exercises, had been seen yawning, Ashton had suggested he should report to the doctor for a check-up.

The rigidity came out in several areas: in his attitude to disciplinary matters, and a refusal to listen to accounts of difficulties such as machinery breakdowns. And it wouldn't be making his outlook any sunnier now to know that his ship was running on only one boiler. The mechanical seal on the main feed-pump to the starboard one had failed during the basin trial in Kiel on Thursday of last week, prior to departure on the Monday. Devon's Engineer Commander had reported the defect to Ashton and at the same time signalled SPDC, the Spare Parts Distribution Centre at Newcastle, for a replacement. But a strike by loaders at Heathrow had left them still without the spare on that Sunday night when they were due to sail at 0800 next morning.

'Why don't we have a spare on board?'

'We do normally, sir, but we had to hand it over- to Shropshire at Den Helder and there was supposed to be a replacement on the way, but------'

'Either you forgot to order it, or it didn't come and you forgot to chase them?'

'I was going to explain, sir------'

'I don't want explanations, Chief. I want heads of departments I can rely on. What are you going to do about it?'

'We could fit an emergency packing. But that's very unreliable. We can get the spare flown to Oslo now, though, so we'd only be without it for a few days - and meanwhile------'

'Make the emergency repair, but don't flash up that boiler. Make sure the spare seal does reach us in Oslo. Do I have to warn you -' sarcasm creeping in now - 'to arrange in advance for Customs clearance?'

Comerford went down the steps into the thwartships gangway, and into his chartroom. He found Hunt, his yeoman, at work inside. Hunt was a radarman and a volunteer for this job, which consisted mainly of keeping charts and reference books up to date.

'Don't you eat breakfast nowadays?'

Hunt looked round. 'Had it, sir. Wanted to make a start on these north Norway corrections.'

After Oslo, they'd be going north. Comerford heard the yeoman shout, 'Executive, sir!' and Ashton's order into the microphone, 'Starboard fifteen. Revolutions one-five-zero.' Devon was heeling to the turn as he passed behind the bridge and turned aft on the port side, passing the top of the Ops Room lift and then the ladder down to the captain's flat. But that thought about George Henry Ashton's stiffness of manner - and odd thing was that he seemed to shed it when he was out of his own ship. With the Americans, for instance - when he visited Fermenger he was a different man. He was a buddy of the Canadian skipper's too, and of the Dutchman's, with any of them he was - quoting Doug Cooper, head of the WE (standing for Weapons Electrical) department, and Doug having known him from an earlier commission in some other ship - 'Like he used to be - you know, human?'

Comerford rattled down the ladder to the flat outside the wardroom. The door of Alec Holliday's office, labelled COMMANDER, was ajar, and that snarling sound was Holliday's voice going nineteen to the dozen. Not, obviously, a good time to interrupt. However...

'Oh. Sorry if I'm------'

'What the bloody hell------'

Devon's executive officer cut short the explosion, and drew a calming breath. 'All right. What is it, Frank?'

He was really quite a mild-mannered man. Dark, thinning hair and a narrow, tanned face. Distinctly uptight at this moment, though, and there was an air of tension pervading the group of junior officers compressed into the narrow cabin. Comerford wondered what they'd done - or not done - to earn the Commander's wrath this early in the day. He told him, 'Captain wants a word, sir. He's on the bridge. Sorry to bust in.'

'All right. Thank you.' He'd turned back to his audience. 'Now look here------'

Comerford backed out. With the crowd in the narrow space there wasn't room to get out any other way. As he stepped backwards into the flat, someone passing at speed crashed into him, tripped, and staggered on, muttering oaths. Comer-ford's head bounced off the door-jamb: Holliday roared, 'What the fuck is going on out there?'

'Quaint, the old sailor-talk ...' Hooky Winters, Devon's chaplain, had fetched up against the bulkhead: he was, leaning on it, looking surprised. 'Charging backwards out of cabins should be a disciplinary offence.Same as reversing into main roads.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Yes, you should be.' Hooky pushed himself off the bulkhead. It was the shape of his nose that had won him the nickname. And as a padre who'd done such things as parachuting into the Borneo jungle with Royal Marine commandos he could perfectly well stand being knocked about a bit. Comerford said, 'Didn't know you were so fragile.' He nodded towards the wardroom door. 'Coming in for some breakfast?'

'I am indeed.' The chaplain rested a hand on Comerford's shoulder. 'But I've just heard the BBC news broadcast, Frank. Have you?'