Read Online H. M. S. Ulysses by Alistair MacLean - Free Book Online Page B

situation, to say the least, is somewhat—ah—delicate.’ Nicholls grinned, but the smile didn’t touch his eyes. ‘Not to mention the fact that the crew don’t know that they’re off to Murmansk again—although they must have a pretty good idea.’
    â€˜Mmm.’ The Kapok Kid nodded absently. ‘Don’t suppose the old man’ll try to play it down—the hazards of the trip, I mean, or to excuse himself—you know, put the blame where it belongs.’
    â€˜Never.’ Nicholls shook his head decisively. ‘Not the skipper. Just not in his nature. Never excuses himself—and never spares himself.’ He stared into the fire for a long time, then looked up quietly at the Kapok Kid. ‘The skipper’s a very sick man, Andy—very sick indeed.’
    â€˜What!’ The Kapok Kid was genuinely startled. ‘A very sick . . . Good lord, you’re joking! You must be. Why—’
    â€˜I’m not,’ Nicholls interrupted flatly, his voice very low. Winthrop, the padre, an intense, enthusiastic, very young man with an immense zest for life and granitic convictions on every subject under the sun, was in the far corner of the wardroom. The zest was temporarily in abeyance—he was sunk in exhausted slumber. Nicholls liked him, but preferred that he should not hear—the padre would talk. Winthrop, Nicholls had often thought, would never have made a successful priest—confessional reticence would have been impossible for him.
    â€˜Old Socrates says he’s pretty far through—and he knows,’ Nicholls continued. ‘Old man phoned him to come to his cabin last night. Place was covered in blood and he was coughing his lungs up. Acute attack of hæmoptysis. Brooks has suspected it for a long time, but the Captain would never let him examine him. Brooks says a few more days of this will kill him.’ He broke off, glanced briefly at Winthrop. ‘I talk too much,’ he said abruptly. ‘Getting as bad as the old padre there. Shouldn’t have told you, I suppose—violation of professional confidence and all that. All this under your hat, Andy.’
    â€˜Of course, of course.’ There was a long pause. ‘What you mean is, Johnny—he’s dying?’
    â€˜Just that. Come on, Andy—char.’
    Twenty minutes later, Nicholls made his way down to the Sick Bay. The light was beginning to fail and the Ulysses was pitching heavily. Brooks was in the surgery.
    â€˜Evening, sir. Dusk stations any minute now. Mind if I stay in the bay tonight?’
    Brooks eyed him speculatively.
    â€˜Regulations,’ he intoned, ‘say that the Action Stations position of the Junior Medical Officer is aft in the Engineer’s Flat. Far be it from me—’
    â€˜Please.’
    â€˜Why? Lonely, lazy or just plain tired?’ The quirk of the eyebrows robbed the words of all offence.
    â€˜No. Curious. I want to observe the reactions of Stoker Riley and his—ah—confederates to the skipper’s speech. Might be most instructive.’
    â€˜Sherlock Nicholls, eh? Right-o, Johnny. Phone the Damage Control Officer aft. Tell him you’re tied up. Major operation, anything you like. Our gullible public and how easily fooled. Shame.’
    Nicholls grinned and reached for the phone.
    When the bugle blared for dusk Action Stations, Nicholls was sitting in the dispensary. The lights were out, the curtains almost drawn. He could see into every corner of the brightly lit Sick Bay. Five of the men were asleep. Two of the others—Petersen, the giant, slow-spoken stoker, half Norwegian, half Scots, and Burgess, the dark little cockney—were sitting up in bed, talking softly, their eyes turned towards the swarthy, heavily-built patient lying between them. Stoker Riley was holding court.
    Alfred O’Hara Riley had, at a very early age indeed, decided upon a career of crime, and