"He's right," Carrington interrupted calmly. "I've got 'em, too."
"So have I, sir!" Bentley shouted.
Turner wheeled back to the mounted glasses, looked through them briefly, stiffened, looked round at Chrysler.
"Remind me to apologise some day!" he smiled, and was back on the compass platform before he had finished speaking.
"Signal to convoy," Vallery was saying rapidly. "Code H.
Full ahead, Number One.
Bosun's mate?
Broadcaster: stand by all guns.
Commander?"
"Sir?"
"Independent targets, independent fire all AA. guns?
Agreed?
And the turrets?"
"Couldn't say yet... Chrysler, can you make out------"
"Condors, sir," Chrysler anticipated him.
"Condors!" Turner stared in disbelief. "A dozen Condors!
Are you sure that...
Oh, all right, all right!" he broke off hastily. "Condors they are." He shook his head in wonderment, turned to Vallery. "Where's my bloody tin hat?
Condors, he says!"
"So Condors they are," Vallery repeated, smiling.
Turner marvelled at the repose, the unruffled calm. "Bridge targets, independent fire control for all turrets?" Vallery went on.
"I think so, sir." Turner looked at the two communication ratings just aft of the compass platform-one each on the group phones to the for'ard and after turrets.
"Ears pinned back, you two.
And hop to it when you get the word."
Vallery beckoned to Nicholls.
"Better get below, young man," he advised. "Sorry your little trip's been postponed."
"I'm not," Nicholls said bluntly.
"No?" Vallery was smiling.
"Scared?" "No, sir," Nicholls smiled back. "Not scared.
And you know I wasn't."
"I know you weren't," Vallery agreed quietly. "I know, and thank you."
He watched Nicholls walk off the bridge, beckoned to the W.T. messenger, then turned to the Kapok Kid.
"When was our last signal to the Admiralty, Pilot?
Have a squint at the log."
"Noon yesterday," said the Kapok Kid readily.
"Don't know what I'll do without you," Vallery murmured. "Present position?"
"72.20 north, 13.40 east."
"Thank you." He looked at Turner. "No point in radio silence now, Commander?"
Turner shook his head.
"Take this message," Vallery said quickly.
"To D.N.O., London... How are our friends doing, Commander?"
"Circling well to the west, sir.
Usual high altitude, gambit from the stern, I suppose," he added morosely. "Still," he brightened, "cloud level's barely a thousand feet."
Vallery nodded. "'FR77.
1600.
72.20,13.40.
Steady on 090.
Force 9, north, heavy swell: Situation desperate.
Deeply regret Admiral Tyndall died 1200 today.
Tanker Vytura torpedoed last night, sunk by self.