But, but-----"
"He's firing by radar, sir," Bowden interrupted.
Suddenly the metallic voice sounded tired. "He must be.
He's also tracking by radar, which is why he's keeping himself in line with our bearing on the Adventurer.
And he's extremely accurate... I'm afraid, Admiral, that his radar is at least as good as ours."
The speaker clicked off.
In the sudden strained silence on the bridge, the crash of breaking ebonite sounded unnaturally loud as the transmitter slipped from TyndalFs hand, fractured in a hundred pieces.
The hand groped forward, he clutched at a steam pipe as if to steady himself.
Vallery stepped towards him, arms outstretched in concern, but Tyndall brushed by unseeingly.
Like an old spent man, like a man from whose ancient bones and muscles all the pith has long since drained, he shuffled slowly across the bridge, oblivious of a dozen mystified eyes, dragged himself up on to his high stool.
You fool, he told himself bitterly, savagely, oh, you bloody old fool!
He would never forgive himself, never, never, never!
All along the line he had been out-thought, outguessed and out-manceuvred by the enemy. They had taken him for a ride, made an even bigger bloody fool out of him than his good Maker had ever intended.
Radar!
Of course, that was it!
The blind assumption that German radar had remained the limited, elementary thing that Admiralty and Air Force Intelligence had reported it to be last year I Radar, and as good as the British.
As good as the Ulysses's, and everybody had believed that the Ulysses was incomparably the most efficient, indeed the only efficient, radar ship in the world.
As good as our own-probably a damned sight better.
But had the thought ever occurred to him?
Tyndall writhed in sheer chagrin, in agony of spirit, and knew the bitter taste of self-loathing.
And so, this morning, the payoff: six ships, three hundred men gone to the bottom.
May God forgive you, Tyndall, he thought dully, may God forgive you.
You sent them there... Radar!
Last night, for instance.
When the Ulysses had been laying a false trail to the east, the German cruiser had obligingly tagged behind, the perfect foil to his, Tyndall's genius.
Tyndall groaned in mortification.
Had tagged behind, firing wildly, erratically each time the Ulysses had disappeared behind a smoke-screen.
Had done so to conceal the efficiency of her radar, to conceal the fact that, during the first half-hour at least, she must have been tracking the escaping convoy as it disappeared to the NNW., a process made all the easier by the fact that he, Tyndall, had expressly forbidden the use of the zig-zag!
And then, when the Ulysses had so brilliantly circled, first to the south and then to the north again, the enemy must have had her on his screen-constantly.
And later, the biter bit with a vengeance, the faked enemy withdrawal to the south-east.
Almost certainly, he, too, had circled to the north again, picked up the disappearing British cruiser on the edge of his screen, worked out her intersection course as a cross check on the convoy's, and radioed ahead to the wolf-pack, positioning them almost to the foot.
And now, finally, the last galling blow to whatever shattered remnants of his pride were left him. The enemy had opened fire at extreme range, but with extreme accuracy, a dead give-away to the fact that the firing was radar-controlled.
And the only reason for it must be the enemy's conviction that the Ulysses, by this time, must have come to the inevitable conclusion that the enemy was equipped with a highly sensitive radar transmitter.
The inevitable conclusion!
Tyndall had never even begun to suspect it.
Slowly, oblivious to the pain, he pounded his fist on the edge of the windscreen.
God, what a blind, crazily stupid fool he'd been!
Six ships, three hundred men. hundreds of tanks and planes, millions of gallons of fuel lost to Russia; how many more thousands of dead Russians, soldiers and civilians, did that represent?
And the broken, sorrowing families, he thought incoherently, families throughout the breadth of Britain: the telegram boys cycling to the little houses in the Welsh valleys, along the wooded lanes of Surrey, to the lonely reek of the peat-fire, remote in the Western Isles, to the lime-washed cottages of Donegal and Antrim: the empty homes across the great reaches of the New World, from Newfoundland and Maine to the-far slopes of the Pacific. These families would never know that it was he, Tyndall, who had so criminally squandered the lives of husbands, brothers, sons-and that was worse than no consolation at all.
"Captain Vallery?" Tyndall's voice was only a husky whisper.
Vallery crossed over, stood beside him, coughing painfully as the swirling fog caught nose and throat, incinated inflamed lungs.
It was a measure of Tyndall's distressed preoccupation that Vallery's obvious suffering quite failed to register. "Ah, there you are.
Captain, this enemy cruiser must be destroyed."
Vallery nodded heavily.
"Yes, sir.
How?"
"How?" Tyndall's face, framed in the moisture-beaded hood of his duffel, was haggard and grey: but he managed to raise a ghost of a smile. "As well hung for a sheep.... I propose to detach the escorts, including ourselves, and nail him." He stared out blindly into the fog, his mouth bitter. "A simple tactical exercise, maybe within even my limited compass."
He broke off suddenly, stared over the side then ducked hurriedly: a shell had exploded in the water-a rare thing-only yards away, erupting spray showering down on the bridge.
"We, the Stirling and ourselves, will take him from the south," he continued, "soak up his fire and radar.
Orr and his death-or-glory boys will approach from the north.