Read A Ship Must Die (1981) for Free Online Page B

that it matters to me, of course. I knew her brother quite well. But he’s dead now. Bought it off Libya eighteen months back.’
    ‘I see.’
    Blake saw Weir’s freshly laundered overalls approaching the door. They were already black with grease to mark the extent of his tour around the engine and boiler rooms.
    ‘Be ready to move, Chief. Early tomorrow is my guess. What’s still missing will have to wait.’ He thought of Stagg’s
make do.
‘If there is a raider, we’ll have to keep our wits about us. We’ve two cruisers for the job, but one hell of a lot of ocean to cover.’
    Weir placed a newspaper over one of the chairs and sat down gingerly.
    ‘It wouldn’t be the Navy if we weren’t expected to do the bloody impossible.’ He caught sight of Moon through the hatch and nodded. ‘Thank you, a dram would suit fine.’
    Blake watched him affectionately. He would never really know Weir. Not in a thousand years. But they suited each other well. More to the point, they both suited the ship.
    Fairfax saw their quick exchange of glances. He felt excluded, cheated in some way.
    Blake said, ‘You can go ashore if you like, Victor. I can ring your home number if a flap starts.’
    Fairfax picked up his cap. ‘No, sir, I’ll stay. I’ve things to do.’ He put his glass on the table and left.
    Blake shrugged. ‘What did I say?’
    Weir showed his teeth. They were uneven and spiky, like a terrier’s.
    ‘Give him a chance. He feels out of it. He’ll fit in. Eventually.’ He tossed back the whisky. ‘Hell, I’ve even learned to put up with Number One after all this time!’
    Still at her berth, her shadow leaning over with the dying sunlight,
Andromeda
was content to wait. For her next chance. Her return to the killing ground.

3
Evidence
    THE SS
ARGYLL
CLANSMAN
, twenty days out of Sydney on passage to Cape Town, faced another bright morning and an empty sea. The water was calm with just a deep swell like heavy breathing to change the hues of its dark blue water. In spite of her clean lines, the ship was pushing up a great moustache of foam at her bows, with the wake streaming away from her powerful screws like something attached to her hull. For the
Argyll Clansman
was a fairly new refrigeration ship, and her holds were packed from keel to deck beams with frozen carcasses, which with luck would be broken into rations for the people in Britain.
    The first mate stood on the starboard bridge wing, puffing at his pipe, his nose twitching to the aromas of frying bacon which drifted from the galley funnel. It was still very early, but the boatswain was moving around the hold covers with a party of seamen, getting some of the work done in time to beat the scalding heat of the day.
    God, he thought grimly, we’ll feel the difference in England. It was winter there, and a bad one too, from all accounts.
    The quartermaster said softly, ‘Old Man’s comin’ up, sir.’
    The mate turned as the master stepped on to the freshly scrubbed gratings, his binoculars slung around his neck. That was unusual.
    ‘All quiet, Mister?’
    The mate nodded. ‘Making good twelve knots, sir. We’ll be at anchor on time.’
    The master grunted. ‘I’ll not be sorry to see Table Mountain again, believe me.’
    A seaman brought mugs of tea to the bridge, and from the radio room came the usual stammer of morse and static.
    The master said, ‘No more news of the
Bikanir
, I suppose?’
    The mate smiled. The Old Man would have been the first to be told. They had had an Australian sloop as escort, but after the garbled distress signal from the
Bikanir
she had gone off somewhere. Just like the Navy. Always dashing about the ruddy ocean and making a show. He sensed the deck’s steady tremble under his shoes. The ship felt safe, confident. But with a raider about you could not take anything for granted.
    ‘Smoke, sir. Port bow.’ The masthead lookout was wide awake.
    Master and mate bustled across the wheelhouse and out on to the