Read Online Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) by Douglas Reeman - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Reeman
Tags: Historical/Fiction
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new type of weapon, unknown to us until today. Strong enough to be dropped from an aircraft without exploding on impact, but small enough to be used against moving targets, ships or personnel.’
Chavasse had snapped, ‘We can’t jump to conclusions. We don’t know anything for certain.’ It had been an open rebuke.
Masters had said, ‘But for Lieutenant Sewell’s persistence, and the information he relayed to his assistant, that might be true, sir. But I believe we have discovered something important, perhaps vital.’
He had sat down, and had seen Brayshaw give him an almost imperceptible nod. Sympathy or support, he could not decide which.
Brayshaw had stayed with him all day. They had continued on their way to Portland, where the flag lieutenant had told them the proposed exercise had been postponed, if not cancelled, due to the incident, and that the admiral was either too angry or too busy to hold the meeting. He stared at the shuttered window nearest to him. He would have to go back to that house again. He could not recall if he had told the driver, or even if he had eaten anything. Every bone and muscle was aching, but he knew he would not rest or sleep.
We obey orders, we do as we’re told, we live, we die.
Was it that simple?
Across the table, Lieutenant-Commander Philip Brayshaw carefully folded yet another batch of signals and tapped them into shape.
He had seen the strain on Masters’ face as he had described the burned-out aircraft, and the explosion before that, and shared the emotion of Sewell’s last words. But even that had been forced into the background by what he had seen for himself following the thunderclap of the explosion. Soldiers running with spades and extinguishers, the big warrant officer calling his own men but striding off without waiting for them. And the ambulance, suddenly coming to life and moving down the road very slowly, as if it had a will of its own. Brayshaw had still been sitting in the front passenger seat, the door wide open; he had long legs, and there was a better view of the field from the front of the Wolseley.
The Wren driver had not spoken, other than to answer a question he had asked. He did not know her very well, but had seen her often when she was driving some V.I.P. A very attractive girl, he thought, but withdrawn, even hostile if somebody tried to get too chummy. A good driver, too. He had heard somewhere that her father was a doctor, and he had been the one to insist that she learn to drive just before the war.
The explosion had come without warning. He could vaguely recall twigs being ripped from some of the bare trees as if caught in a strong gale and earth and mud spattering the car’s roof, although he knew they were a mile or more from the fallen aircraft. And then thesmoke, drifting over them and staining the sky, like something obscene.
He had felt the sudden grip on his wrist, her gloved hand bruising the skin. He had been torn between trying to comfort her and finding out what had happened. All he could remember were her eyes, wide, but not afraid. Pleading, unable to get the words out of her mouth.
He had said something, he did not know what; there were never the right words anyway. Like those carefree faces in the mess you never got to know, but wished you had after they had bought it in some incident, or even during a practice run with an explosive device.
And then they had appeared by the sagging gate, although he knew that some time must have elapsed. Masters, the binoculars swinging around his neck, his uniform covered with mud . . . Brayshaw could see him now, as if it was still happening. Pausing, offering his hand to a young sailor as he lurched against the gatepost.
Masters had called to him, ‘Stay put, Philip! It’s all over, I’m afraid.’ Then he had opened the rear door and said, ‘Get in. You’ve had about enough for one day.’
The rating had stared at him, had opened his mouth to protest or refuse, but instead had
Chavasse had snapped, ‘We can’t jump to conclusions. We don’t know anything for certain.’ It had been an open rebuke.
Masters had said, ‘But for Lieutenant Sewell’s persistence, and the information he relayed to his assistant, that might be true, sir. But I believe we have discovered something important, perhaps vital.’
He had sat down, and had seen Brayshaw give him an almost imperceptible nod. Sympathy or support, he could not decide which.
Brayshaw had stayed with him all day. They had continued on their way to Portland, where the flag lieutenant had told them the proposed exercise had been postponed, if not cancelled, due to the incident, and that the admiral was either too angry or too busy to hold the meeting. He stared at the shuttered window nearest to him. He would have to go back to that house again. He could not recall if he had told the driver, or even if he had eaten anything. Every bone and muscle was aching, but he knew he would not rest or sleep.
We obey orders, we do as we’re told, we live, we die.
Was it that simple?
Across the table, Lieutenant-Commander Philip Brayshaw carefully folded yet another batch of signals and tapped them into shape.
He had seen the strain on Masters’ face as he had described the burned-out aircraft, and the explosion before that, and shared the emotion of Sewell’s last words. But even that had been forced into the background by what he had seen for himself following the thunderclap of the explosion. Soldiers running with spades and extinguishers, the big warrant officer calling his own men but striding off without waiting for them. And the ambulance, suddenly coming to life and moving down the road very slowly, as if it had a will of its own. Brayshaw had still been sitting in the front passenger seat, the door wide open; he had long legs, and there was a better view of the field from the front of the Wolseley.
The Wren driver had not spoken, other than to answer a question he had asked. He did not know her very well, but had seen her often when she was driving some V.I.P. A very attractive girl, he thought, but withdrawn, even hostile if somebody tried to get too chummy. A good driver, too. He had heard somewhere that her father was a doctor, and he had been the one to insist that she learn to drive just before the war.
The explosion had come without warning. He could vaguely recall twigs being ripped from some of the bare trees as if caught in a strong gale and earth and mud spattering the car’s roof, although he knew they were a mile or more from the fallen aircraft. And then thesmoke, drifting over them and staining the sky, like something obscene.
He had felt the sudden grip on his wrist, her gloved hand bruising the skin. He had been torn between trying to comfort her and finding out what had happened. All he could remember were her eyes, wide, but not afraid. Pleading, unable to get the words out of her mouth.
He had said something, he did not know what; there were never the right words anyway. Like those carefree faces in the mess you never got to know, but wished you had after they had bought it in some incident, or even during a practice run with an explosive device.
And then they had appeared by the sagging gate, although he knew that some time must have elapsed. Masters, the binoculars swinging around his neck, his uniform covered with mud . . . Brayshaw could see him now, as if it was still happening. Pausing, offering his hand to a young sailor as he lurched against the gatepost.
Masters had called to him, ‘Stay put, Philip! It’s all over, I’m afraid.’ Then he had opened the rear door and said, ‘Get in. You’ve had about enough for one day.’
The rating had stared at him, had opened his mouth to protest or refuse, but instead had
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