'Thou shalt not,' Findhorn agreed. 'But he's right, Miss Drachmann, in that you shouldn't be quite so ready with your disbelief. Mr. Nicolson knows what he's talking about. Only three men in England, he said ? and one of them is his uncle.' He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. 'But I didn't bring you here to discuss surgery or to give me the pleasure of refereeing a slanging match. Mr. Nicolson, we appear to have run out of ?? '
He broke off abruptly, fists clenching tightly by his sides, as the klaxon above his head blared into sudden, urgent life, drowning his words as the raucous clangour, a harsh, discordant, shocking sound in a confined space, filled the dining-cabin. Two longs and a short, two longs and a short ? the emergency action stations call. Nicolson was first out of the room, Findhorn only a pace behind him.
To the north and east thunder rumbled dully along the distant horizon, sheet-lightning flickered intermittently all round the Rhio straits, on the inner vortex of the typhoon, and, overhead, the half-seen clouds were beginning to pile up, rampart upon rampart, the first huge, tentative raindrops spattering on the wheelhouse top of the Viroma, so heavily, so slowly, that each single one could be heard and counted. But to the south and west there was no rain, no thunder, just an occasional flash of lightning over the islands, half-seen, half-imagined, far off and feeble flickers that left the darkness more impenetrable than before.
But not quite unpenetrable. For the fifth time in two minutes the watchers on the bridge of the Viroma, elbows braced against the wind-dodger and night-glasses held hard and motionless against their straining eyes, caught the same signal winking out of the darkness to the south-west ? a series of flashes, about a half-dozen in all, very weak and not lasting more than ten seconds altogether.
'Starboard 25 this time,' Nicolson murmured, 'and opening. I would say it's stationary in the water, sir.'
'As near as makes no difference.' Findhorn lowered his binoculars, rubbed aching eyes with the back of his hand, and raised the glasses again, waiting. 'Let's hear you thinking aloud, Mr. Nicolson.'
Nicolson grinned in the darkness. Findhorn might have been sitting in the front parlour of his bungalow at home instead of where he was, in the eye of a typhoon, not knowing which way it would break, with a million pounds and fifty lives in his hand and a new, unknown danger looming up in the darkness.
'Anything to oblige, sir.' He lowered his own binoculars and stared out thoughtfully into the darkness. 'It might be a lighthouse, buoy or beacon, but it's not: there are none hereabouts, and none I know of anywhere that have that sequence. It might be wreckers ? the gentlemen of Romney, Rye and Penzance had nothing on the lads out here ? but it's not: the nearest island is at least six miles to the south-west and that light's not more than two miles off.'
Findhorn walked to the wheelhouse door, called for half speed, then came back beside Nicolson. 'Go on,' he said.
'It might be a Jap warship ? destroyer, or something, but again it's not: only suicide cases like ourselves sit out in the middle of a typhoon instead of running for shelter ? and, besides, any sensible destroyer commander would sit quiet until he could give us the benefit of his searchlights at minimum range.'
Findhorn nodded. 'My own way of thinking exactly. Anything you think it might be? Look, there he goes again!'
'Yes, and still nearer. He's stationary, all right… Could be a sub, hears us as something big on his hydrophones, not sure of our course and speed and wants us to answer and give him a line of sight for his tin fish.'
'You don't sound very convinced.'
'I'm not convinced one way or the other, sir. I'm just not worried. On a night like this any sub will be jumping so much that it couldn't hit the Queen Mary at a hundred feet.'
'I agree. It's probably what would be obvious to anyone without our suspicious minds. Someone's adrift ? open boat or raft ? and needs help, badly. But no chances. Get on the intercom to all guns, tell them to line up on that light and keep their fingers on their triggers. And get Vannier to come up here. Ring down for dead slow.'
'Aye, aye, sir.' Nicolson went inside the wheelhouse and Findhorn again raised his night glasses to his eyes, then grunted,in irritation as someone jogged his elbow. He lowered his glasses, half-turned and knew who it was before the man spoke. Even in the open air the fumes of whisky were almost overpowering.
'What the devil's happening, Captain?' Farnholme was irate, peevish. 'What's all the fuss about? That damn' great klaxon of yours just about blasted my ears off.'
'I'm sorry about that, Brigadier.' Findhorn's tone was even polite and disinterested. 'Our emergency signal. We've sighted a suspicious light. It may be trouble.' His voice changed, subtly. 'And I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave. No one is allowed on the bridge without permission. I'm sorry.'
'What?' Farnholme's tone was that of a man being asked to comprehend the incomprehensible. 'Surely you can't expect that to apply to me?'
'I do. I'm sorry.' The rain was beginning to fall now, faster and faster, the big fat drops drumming so heavily on his shoulders that he could feel the weight of them through his oilskins: yet another soaking was inevitable, and he didn't relish the prospect. 'You will have to go below, Brigadier.'
Farnholme, strangely, did not protest. He did not even speak, but turned abruptly on his heel and vanished into the darkness. Findhorn felt almost certain that he hadn't gone below, but was standing in the darkness at the back of the wheelhouse. Not that it mattered; there was plenty of room on the bridge, it was just that Findhorn didn't want anyone hanging over his shoulder when he had to move fast and make fast decisions.
Even as Findhorn lifted his glasses the light came on again, nearer, this time, much nearer, but fainter: the battery in that torch was dying, but it was more than strong enough to let them see the message being flashed: not the steady series of flashes of the last few times, but an unmistakable S.O.S., three shorts, three longs, three snorts, the universal distress signal at sea,
'You sent for me, sir?'
Findhorn lowered his glasses and looked round. 'Ah, it's you, Vannier. Sorry to drag you out into this damned deluge, but I want a fast hand on the signal lamp. See that signal just now?'
'Yes, sir. Someone in trouble, I take it?'
'I hope so,' Findhorn said grimly. 'Get the Aldis out, ask him who he is.' He looked round as the screen door opened. 'Mr. Nicolson?'
'Yes, sir. Ready as we can be, sir. Everybody lined up with their guns, and everybody so damned edgy after the last few days that I'm only afraid that someone may fire too soon. And I've got the bo'sun rigging up a couple of floodlamps, starboard side, number three tank, and a couple of A.B.s ? all we
can spare from the guns ? getting a scrambling net out over the side.'
'Thank you, Mr. Nicolson. You think of everything. How about the weather?'
'Wet,' Nicolson said morosely. He pulled the towel more tightly round his neck, listened to the clack of the Aldis trigger and watched the beam lancing its way whitely through the sheeting rain. 'Wet and stormy ? going to be very soon. What's happening and where it's going to hit us I haven't a clue. I think Buys Ballot's law and the book on tropical storms are about as useful to us here as a match in hell.'
'You're not the only one,' Findhorn confessed. 'We've been an hour and fifteen minutes now in the centre of this storm. I was in one, about ten years ago, for twenty-five minutes, and I thought that was a record.' He shook his head slowly, scattering raindrops. 'It's crazy. We're six months too early ? or too late ? for a real hurricane. Anyway, it's not bad enough for that, not for a real force twelve job. But it's far out of season and a complete freak in these waters at any season, and that must be throwing the book of rules out of kilter. I'm certain that we're at the point of recurvature of the storm, and I'm almost certain that it will break north-east, but whether we'll find ourselves in the dangerous quadrant or??-'
He broke off abruptly and stared at the tiny pinpoint of yellowing light winking mistily through the pouring rain. 'Something about sinking. What else does he say, Walters?'
''Van Effen, sinking'. That's all, sir ? at least I think it was that. Bad morse. The Van Effen.'
'Oh, lord, my lucky night.' Again Findhorn shook his head. 'Another Kerry Dancer. The Van Effen. Who ever heard of the Van Eftenl You, Mr. Nicolson?'
'Never.' Nicolson turned and shouted through the screen door. 'Are you there. Second?'
'Sir?' The voice came from the darkness, only feet away.
'The Register, quickly. The Van Effen. Two words, Dutch. Fast as you can.'
'Van Effen? Did I hear someone say 'Van Effen'?' There was no mistaking the clipped Sandhurst drawl, this time with an overtone of excitement in it. Farnholme's tall shadow detached itself from the gloom at the back of the
