Read Online San Andreas by Alistair MacLean - Free Book Online Page A

least, according to Dr Singh. It was being far out on the port wing of the bridge that saved them—they were away from the direct effects of the blast.’
    â€˜How come they got so badly burnt, sir?’
    â€˜I don’t know. They can hardly speak, their faces are completely wrapped in bandages, they look more like Egyptian mummies than anything else. I asked the Captain and he kept mumbling something like Essex, or Wessex or something like that.’
    The Bo’sun nodded. ‘Wessex, sir. Rockets. Distress flares. Two lots kept on the bridge. The shock must have triggered some firing mechanism and it went off prematurely. Damnable ill luck.’
    â€˜Damnably lucky, if you ask me, Bo’sun. Compared to practically everybody else in the superstructure.’
    â€˜Does he—does he know yet?’
    â€˜It hardly seemed the time to tell him. Another thing he kept repeating, as if it was urgent. “Home signal, home signal,” something like that. Over and over again. Maybe his mind was wandering, maybe I couldn’t make him out. Their mouths are the only part of their faces that aren’t covered with bandages but even their lips are pretty badly burnt. And, of course, they’re loaded with morphine. “Home signal.” Mean anything to you?’
    â€˜At the moment, no.’
    A young and rather diminutive stoker appeared in the doorway. McCrimmon, in his middle twenties, was a less than lovable person, his primary and permanent characteristics being the interminable mastication of chewing gum, truculence, a fixed scowl and a filthy tongue: at that moment, the first three were in abeyance.
    â€˜Bloody awful, so it is, down there. Just like a bloody cemetery.’
    â€˜Morgue, McCrimmon, morgue,’ Patterson said. ‘What do you want?’
    â€˜Me. Nothing, sir. Jamieson sent me. He said something about the phones no’ working and you would be wanting a runner, maybe.’
    â€˜Second Engineer to you, McCrimmon.’ Patterson looked at the Bo’sun. ‘Very thoughtful of the Second Engineer. Nothing we require in the engine-room—except to get that jury rudder fixed. Deck-side, Bo’sun?’
    â€˜Two look-outs, although God knows what they’ll be looking out for. Two of your men, sir, the two ward orderlies below, Able Seaman Ferguson and Curran. Curran is—used to be—a sailmaker. Don’t envy him his job but I’ll give him a hand. Curran will know what to bring. I suggest, sir, we have the crew’s mess-deck cleared.’
    â€˜Our mortuary?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜You heard, McCrimmon? How many men?’
    â€˜Eight, sir.’
    â€˜Eight. Two look-outs. The two seamen to bring up the canvas and whatever required. The other four to clear the crew’s mess. Don’t you try to tell them, they’d probably throw you overboard. Tell the Second Engineer and he’ll tell them. When they’ve finished have them report to me, here or on the bridge. You too. Off you go.’ McCrimmon left.
    The Bo’sun indicated the two Colts lying on the table. ‘I wonder what McCrimmon thought of those.’
    â€˜Probably old hat to him. Jamieson picked the right man—McCrimmon’s tough and hasn’t much in the way of finer feelings. Irish-Scots from some Glasgow slum. Been in prison. In fact, if it wasn’t for the war that’s probably where he’d be now.’
    The Bo’sun nodded and opened another small wall locker—this one had a key to it. It was a small liquor cupboard and from a padded velvet retainer McKinnon removed a rum bottle and laid it on the Captain’s bunk.
    â€˜I don’t suppose the Captain will mind that either,’ Patterson said. ‘For the stretcher-bearers?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ The Bo’sun started opening drawers in the Captain’s table and found what he was looking for in the third drawer, two leather-bound