Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) (34 page)

She adjusted her cap and stared at herself in the mirror.

Her heart told her otherwise, and she knew it had already been decided.
For both of us.

While there was still time.

The dream had been hazy and disjointed but was now suddenly expanded into nightmarish proportions. Vague shapes were concentrated into one presence, then a mouth, all teeth, filling his mind like a screen. The sound was enough to waken the dead, laughing, jeering, threatening, high up like a vast, vaulted building. He was hitting out, trying to stifle the din, throwing himself from side to side as if to get away.

There was something else now, a pressure, a force, perhaps fighting back at him.

It was dying, the picture suddenly dim, while the pressure on his shoulder continued.

And there was another voice now. Even, but insistent.

‘Come on, old chap. Wakey, wakey.’

Sub-Lieutenant Michael Lincoln opened his eyes wide and stared at the stooping figure by his bed. The silence was complete, and he knew that his blanket and pillow
were undisturbed. Another twist of the dream. Only his breathing remained fast and uneven.

The small cabin he shared with another junior officer was in darkness, but for a reading lamp which was alight by the other bed. The occupant lay on his back, snoring gently, a magazine still open across his chest.

Lincoln vaguely recognized the officer who had roused him, then he was suddenly wide awake. The lieutenant was from Operations.

‘What is it? I’m not on call.’ He was not making sense.

‘Sorry to do this to you, old chap. But they want a team right away. One has already gone out, and the other officer has reported sick.’ He grinned. ‘So it’s you.’

Lincoln sat up slowly. He had had a few drinks in the mess before turning in; word of his Mention in Despatches had got around. He was not a heavy drinker and he was not on call. And he was going on leave tomorrow.

‘When do they want me?’ He was sitting on the side of the bed now, although he did not recall moving.

The lieutenant replied cheerfully, ‘Right now. The army have sent transport.’

He watched Lincoln walk to the wash basin and sluice his face with cold water. He could not leave until he knew it was safe to go, certain that Lincoln would not flop back down on the bed.

‘Where?’ He was wide awake now.

‘Poole again. The brown jobs aren’t sure when it dropped, maybe last night, maybe earlier when those others were reported.’

Lincoln thought of the empty chair, and the dog. ‘When Dicer bought it.’

‘Yep.’

Somehow he got into his working rig and comfortable boots, patted all his pockets and glanced at the sleeping officer in the other bed.

‘Lucky sod!’

It was cold outside, and very dark. Not even a star or a wandering searchlight beam to break it. And quiet; hard to compare it with the noisy, bustling place he knew during the day.

He examined his feelings. Nervous? Apprehensive? Not yet. It would probably all be over and done with by the time he got there. Poole was about twenty miles away, and army drivers were not known for hanging about.

‘Your rating has been sent for, by the way.’

Downie’s first incident since the explosion aboard the
Latchmere
. He thought suddenly of the leave he had been granted.
Going home.
In her letter his mother had been full of it. Somehow or other the news of his Mention had got into the local newspaper. She was so proud, she said. That made it even worse. How could he go through with it?

Suppose Downie’s memory came back? That one fragment of time when he must have seen and realized what was happening.

He thought too of his father. It must have taken the bluster out of him, for a change.

The lieutenant said, ‘I’ll give you the details and you can get going.’

He would be off watch shortly, and in bed soon afterwards.

It was glaringly bright in the Operations lobby, and he saw Downie sitting on a locker, his satchel by his feet. He looked remarkably fresh and wide awake.

Lincoln had not shaved; he doubted if Downie ever did.

‘All set?’

Downie nodded. ‘It’ll still be dark when we get there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I think I know the place.’

Someone handed Lincoln his package. Orders, observations, conclusions. And a map.

The army transport was waiting, engine revving impatiently, a fifteen hundredweight Chevrolet truck, the Royal Engineers markings and scarlet wings faintly visible in the shaded police lights by the gates. They squeezed into the front seat and the Chevvy jerked into motion.

Downie remarked quietly, ‘The lieutenant’s dog has gone, sir.’

Lincoln watched the feeble headlights swinging over some bushes. He did not have the heart to tell Downie that he had heard Captain Chavasse had ordered that all stray dogs in the establishment were to be put down.

For some reason it had disturbed him, and he was surprised by it.

He said, ‘Get this one over and we can get away on leave. Just what we need!’

Downie said nothing and Lincoln cursed himself for forgetting. Downie had nowhere to go and nobody to greet him, not even a dog any more.

It was a bumpy, uncomfortable ride, made worse by the sappers’ loose gear clattering around in the back of the truck. The driver said nothing, which was probably just as well, Lincoln thought, with the road being so twisting and narrow as they headed inland to take a short cut, until they emerged near the sea again.

The journey took almost an hour, and when they reached the main road to Poole harbour the sky was only just beginning to lighten.

Eventually they found and were stopped by an army checkpoint. Then onto another road; they could have been in Africa for all Lincoln could tell.

The Chevvy came to a quivering halt by the now familiar barrier and parked military police vehicles.

A young Royal Engineers captain came towards them. ‘So you got here, then? I had to be here earlier, and I wasn’t even on duty!’

Lincoln realized that he was more on edge than he had been prepared to admit. He snapped, ‘Neither was I,
sir
! Now, if you’ll just fill in the details
we
can get on with the job!’

The captain peered past him into the truck as if he expected to see a whole squad of sailors. Then he looked at Downie. ‘Bit young for this, aren’t you?’

Lincoln said calmly, ‘Eleven major incidents, Captain.’

An M.P., barely able to hide a smile, said, ‘Two hundred yards up, sir. They’re building a factory there. Engineering, and machine parts. Only half finished.’ He pointed vaguely into the gloom. ‘But it’s right beside the main road, close to the railway as well. It’s all cordoned
off.’ He glanced at the captain. ‘My chaps are there to guide you.’

The truck lurched forward again, and the driver shook out a cigarette packet while he steered with his other hand. He grinned broadly. ‘Fag, sir?’ He obviously disliked the captain and was showing his appreciation.

‘Thanks.’

The sapper gestured to Downie. ‘What about you, chum?’

Downie shook his head. ‘No, but thanks. Makes me cough. My father . . .’ He broke off.

They came to the last barrier. Always the same, Lincoln thought. The civilian policeman, still unfamiliar in a steel helmet after four years of war. A handful of soldiers, nothing else. He had not done many jobs as yet, but Lincoln always had the same feeling, as if time had stopped. The youth beside him had seen and done it again and again. He should have been given a medal. He thought how it had almost slipped out, something about his father. There was nobody to be proud of
him
, and he had earned it.

They stood beside the truck. It was silent now, until the return trip. Lincoln shivered. Or not . . .

They started off along the road, their footsteps unusually loud. There was a cold breeze from the sea, and here and there he could see the distinct outlines of trees, and the first small houses. All empty? Where were their owners?

A bird of some kind rose squawking from some bushes and he exclaimed, ‘God, that made me jump, Gordon!’

He felt Downie turn to look at him, his face pale against the bushes. Because he had inadvertently called him by name? Or simply because he had remembered it? He saw some builders’ carts and wheelbarrows and piles of new bricks. How his father would like to get his hands on those . . . Then he saw the frame of a building, perhaps an unfinished wing of the new factory.

They stumbled over ballast and broken bricks, and found their way between cement-mixers and still more bricks, like a wilderness. Hard to imagine it full of people, with traffic on the road, and the sea somewhere beyond. You could smell it. Tangy and strong, like the coast.

He stared up at the steel framework and saw the tell-tale marker fluttering in the breeze.

They had both slowed down, as if the sound of their approach might rouse the beast.

That must have given the locals a shock, he thought.

It would be light in about half an hour. He peered at his watch.

‘We’ll take a break, okay? Then we’ll have a look-see.’ So casual, so adult. What would his father have to say about that?

Downie said, ‘If it’s been here for more than two days, it might be a dud.’ He was thinking aloud, perhaps remembering a particular incident. ‘But one of their new fuses can last longer. We were told that some months back.’

Lincoln glanced at him.
Before I came.
Theirs must have been a very close and dangerous relationship. It happened. But it was wrong. Unnatural.

He tried to clear his mind. Nothing else mattered,
could
matter, until the job was done. Observation, conclusion. Method. No chances, no bullshit. A magnetic mine was indifferent. Merciless.

He was wandering again. Suppose he stopped? Not cracked up, or lost his nerve, but simply stopped? It was not just his life. He shook himself, as in the nightmare. He knew all that.

He turned his head as Downie walked to a half-finished wall that came almost to his chest.

‘What is it?’

Downie returned. ‘Sand, builder’s sand. Tons of it, by the look of it.’ Even in the dim light he could see him nodding, and the familiar, unconscious frown. ‘I could see a bit of parachute, directly under the marker.’ He paused, perhaps making up his mind. ‘It’s in there. Half-buried, that’s my guess.’

Lincoln stood up and felt another shiver run through him. The breeze from the sea must be getting stronger, although he knew it was not.

He was taller than Downie, and was able to see the great bank of sand without effort. Planking and a work bench of some kind. He felt his stomach contract. And the darker outline of the mine, at a forty-five degree angle. He faced it. The fuse would be under the bank of sand, no matter which type of mine it was.

Digging would be out of the question. Unless it was a dud. How many had died thinking just that?

He looked at his watch again. The face was clear now; he could even see the cuff of his favourite sweater poking out from beneath his battledress.

He said, ‘I’m going down to have a look.’ He tried to pass it off as a casual remark. ‘You run out the intercom wire, just to keep you out of mischief, eh?’

Downie did not move. ‘I’ll stay with you. It needs two.’ He was looking at him, his eyes like shadows in his face. ‘Besides, I’ve done it before.’

Lincoln wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
Tell him! Order him to do as he’s told!
But instead he heard the jeering laughter, saw the mouth, and the teeth.

He said, ‘I might be wrong. I could make a mistake, you don’t know.’

He thought Downie shrugged.

‘I trust you.’

Lincoln loosened his belt and fingered the tools in his pockets. As he looked up again he saw the nearest rooftop for the first time.

In a matter of minutes he could be dead. They both might be dead. He thought of another subbie with whom he had trained. He had been killed on his first mission, a magnetic mine, maybe a twin of this one. They had not found a badge or a button. He had simply disintegrated.

There was no choice anyway.

He said flatly, ‘Let’s do it, then.’

Using any kind of spade or tool was out of the question. If anything metal came into the mine’s magnetic field it would end right there and then.

Using their bare hands they began to dig and scoop the heavy, wet sand. The air was as cold as ever, but after a few minutes Lincoln imagined he was sweating. There
was sand everywhere, in his hair, inside his sweater and underwear, between his teeth.

And all the time it was getting lighter, so that small items stood out, an undisturbed tray of enamel mugs, where some workmen had been interrupted by something. An old and tattered
Daily Mail
and an empty cigarette packet. He paused and rested on both hands, feeling his lungs pounding. He must be out of condition. The thought made him want to laugh out loud.

He saw Downie, almost on his back, one leg hidden by the great trunk of the mine, and wondered what his father had been like. He would have been proud of his sonright now . . .

Once he paused, breathless, to peer at his watch. They had been burrowing like moles for almost an hour.

Downie had produced a small brush from his satchel and was busy clearing away the last of the sand.

Just one wrong move now.
Lincoln dragged himself over and down into the trough and said, ‘Let me.’ He took the brush and used his fingers to feel the way around the final curve of metal. It was like ice.

He said softly, ‘Got it.’ Their eyes met over the angled mine. ‘Hold your breath, Gordon!’

Again, it was like watching somebody else, or going through the drill as they had under training. The spanner in his hand was warm from his pocket.

He blinked rapidly as the wind blew some sand into his eyes.
‘Damn!’

Downie reached across the mine, his arm inches from the fuse, and dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. Lincoln noticed in those few seconds that his hand
was bleeding badly, cut on something in the sand. He recalled what Masters had told him about Downie’s skill, and his ability to remain calm as he had been sketching the details of a mine while his lieutenant had been on the other end of the intercom. Doing it . . .