The Burning Blue by Bickers Richard Townsend

Author:Bickers, Richard Townsend [Bickers, Richard Townsend]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2015-02-10T16:00:00+00:00

Eight

Touch-down at 0415, only five minutes outside their ETA: a decent feat of navigation by Mollison, respectable flying by the captain and second pilot. Crushing tiredness, aggravated by the cyclic nadir of human vitality at that hour. A drive to the Ops building during which they dozed, gummy-eyed and dry-mouthed. Half an hour in the Ops room and Intelligence office, giving an account of themselves: the fault in the ASV which Fitzgerald had eventually managed to put right ten minutes before it was time to leave the patrol area: the contact that had vanished: the search that had yielded no result. Another drive. The Ops canteen... bacon and eggs... freshly made tea... the crew that had preceded them still there, arguing loudly... presently the crew that had followed them... more loud voices... no one else had had a contact... to bed at last long after 5am. Awake seven hours later... bath and shave... bristly as a hedgehog. A couple of half-pints in the bar with Garner and Mollison... a few words with Horton... more talk with Horton over lunch while the other two peeled off with friends of their own age and rank. Cold glances across the room from Tennant, but no approach.

And now this. Horton’s office. Horton at his desk. Tennant bolt upright in a straight-backed chair, imposing his height and presence on them.

Tennant’s eyes hard, his voice misleadingly neutral.

“This wireless-operator of yours, Flight Sergeant Fitzgerald: he’s not an experienced ASV operator, I gather. Previous tour on Hudsons, before ASV was introduced. Is he sufficiently trained?”

“I’d say he’s more than competent, sir,” Crisham replied.

“Odd that the ASV went on the blink at the crucial moment... and came right again just as you were at the end of your patrol.”

“It was my operator who managed to repair it, sir.”

Tennant made no comment. He looked at Horton. “And you tell me that nobody can find anything wrong with it now, Andrew?”

“That is so, sir. Apparently the flight sergeant corrected the fault very efficiently.”

“Well, we must put it down to the perversity of fate... or the cussedness of inanimate objects... that it went wrong when it did. I understand you had a good contact, Crisham?”

“According to the operator, yes. Obviously I didn’t see it myself.”

“What did you do when you lost contact?”

“Reduced height to a hundred feet and exposed the Leigh Light.”

“At what range?”

“Something under two miles, as far as one could tell.”

“You might have done better to delay putting on your light.”

“If we had had the ASV to tell us precisely how far we were from the target, that is what I would have done. Obviously.”

“Yes, obviously.” Tennant’s lips twisted. “And your square search was fruitless?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps there was nothing there in the first place?”

“I suppose that is always a possibility. But my operator was very definite about it.”

Tennant rose. “Well... better luck next time.” He stood up and went out of the room without another word.

Horton gave Crisham an uncertain look, then dropped his eyes and occupied himself with the filling of a pipe.

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