"An hour!" Carrington exclaimed. "And they'll be here.
My God, sir," he went on wonderingly, "they're really out to get us.
We've never been bombed nor torpedoed at night before.
We've never had the Tirpitz after us before.
We never------"
"The Tirpitz," Turner interrupted. "Just where the hell is that ship?
She's had time to come up with us.
Oh, I know it's dark and we've changed course," he added, as Carrington made to object, "but a fast destroyer screen would have picked us-Preston!" He broke off, spoke sharply to the Signal Petty Officer.
"Look alive, man!
That ship's flashing us."
"Sorry, sir." The signalman, swaying on his feet with exhaustion, raised his Aldis, clacked out an acknowledgment.
Again the light on the merchantman began to wink furiously.
"'Transverse fracture engine bedplate,'" Preston read out. "'Damage serious: shall have to moderate speed.'"
"Acknowledge," said Turner curtly. "What ship is that, Preston?"
"The Ohio Freighter, sir."
"The one that stopped a tin fish a couple of days back?"
"That's her, sir."
"Make a signal.
'Essential maintain speed and position.'" Turner swore. "What a time to choose for an engine breakdown... Pilot, when do we rendezvous with the Fleet?"
"Six hours' time, sir: exactly."
"Six hours." Turner compressed his lips. "Just six hours, perhaps!" he added bitterly.
"Perhaps?" Carrington murmured.
"Perhaps," Turned affirmed. "Depends entirely on the weather.
C.-in-C. won't risk capital ships so near the coast unless he can fly off fighter cover against air attack.
And, if you ask me, that's why the Tirpitz hasn't turned up yet, some wandering U-boat's tipped him off that our Fleet Carriers are steaming south.
He'll be waiting on the weather... What's he saying now, Preston?"
The Ohio's signal lamp had flashed briefly, then died.
"'Imperative slow down,'" Preston repeated. "'Damage severe.
Am slowing down.'"
"He is, too," Carrington said quietly.
He looked up at Turner, at the set face and dark eyes, and knew the same thought was in the Commander's mind as was in his own. "He's a goner, sir, a dead duck. He hasn't a chance.
Not unless------"
"Unless what?" Turner asked harshly. "Unless we leave him an escort?
Leave what escort, Number One?
The Viking-the only effective unit we've left?" He shook his head in slow decision. "The greatest good of the greatest number: that's how it has to be.
They'll know that.
Preston, send
'Regret cannot leave you standby.
How long to effect repairs?'"
The flare burst even before Preston's hand could close on the trigger.
It burst directly over FR77.
It was difficult to estimate the height, probably six to eight thousand feet, but at that altitude it was no more than an incandescent pinpoint against the great band of the Northern Lights arching majestically above.
But it was falling quickly, glowing more brightly by the sound: the parachute, if any, could have been only a steadying drogue.
The crackling of the W.T. speaker broke through the stuttering chatter of the Aldis.
"W.T.-bridge.
W.T.-bridge.
Message from Sirrus:
'Three survivors dead.
Many dying or seriously wounded.
Medical assistance urgent, repeat urgent.'" The speaker died, just as the Ohio started flickering her reply.