Lieutenant-Commander Bentley was crouched behind his binnacle. His stare was fixed with unblinking intensity on the stem of the leading cruiser. Both big ships were racing at them side by side—even if they had had time to swerve apart in the few seconds which had elapsed since Wind Rode had burst from the smoke, it is doubtful if they would have bothered; who would expect a lone destroyer to close the range of three cruisers and a destroyer flotilla?The same terrible instinct of judgment which stood behind him in the boxing-ring told Bentley in advance what the cruiser would do. His rangefinder eyes balanced its speed and direction, his right hand flicked up above his head, he whipped his hand down and his voice rang out in the ominous silence;"Fire!"

Everything was ready.It would take only seconds now for A-turret to go into action.He lifted himself up and one of the cordite numbers, a young able-seaman, said:"Ah ... is Dart back yet, sir?"Gerard sank back quietly on the seat. So they knew. Not the full circumstances, but they were aware that he had sent the destroyer off on her rescue mission. Of course they would know, he told himself—news travels like a breath of wind in a ship ... especially the sort of news that concerns an officer confined to his cabin.

Lieutenant Geoffrey Landis was a skilled young surgeon, assured, confident in his own competence and in hospital procedure.But aboard destroyer Wind Rode he had to conform to strict Navy discipline—and his surroundings were a far cry from a well-equipped hospital. How would he handle a sickbay full of major casualties ... working with suicide bombers howling down, the ship jumping and knocked sideways under fire, the guns blasting their heads off?

"That boat back there is a complete submarine - in miniature. About fifty feet long, including propeller, rudder and hydroplanes. That reduces your living space to something nearer thirty-five feet. You have no torpedo tubes, no armaments. You're not meant to be found or to fight a battle. From now on you're a sneaker. Inoffensive - until you release your side cargoes. Each one of those holds four tons of amatol explosive and a time clock. You drop those under that Jap cruiser's bottom and then run for your life."Peter Bentley had three weeks to learn to handle the midget submarine - three weeks to accomplish the secret and deadly mission that could be the turning point of the whole war.

"Your ship is to carry out the trial of a new secret weapon, Bentley ... the success of which makes future submarine kills certain. Your own speed is of the essence ... less than thirty knots and the Wind Rode could be destroyed.""Trouble is," Bentley said, "a merchantman's been torpedoed with the victorious Jap submarine perhaps lurking to complete the kill."Randall was puzzled. "Submarines haven't been sighted so far west before, and then there's the large formation of enemy aircraft spotted dead ahead... how could the Japs travel so far without refuelling?"Bentley dismissed immediately his own suggestion that they were shore based. "Obviously, there must be carrier out there ... it's too far from the Nicobars or Sabang." Irrespective of where it was, Bentley knew he had to destroy that refuelling point, do it completely, and with all the speed Wind Rode could muster to avoid destroying itself in the process...

Bentley looked toward the shore. Beyond the dunes lay Rommel's headquarters—and it would be heavily-guarded.He was not concerned with the guard around the immediate precincts of the headquarters—that would be the commandos' pigeon, and one they were specially trained to creep up on and pluck.But what did concern him was that the Germans would have a sufficiency of 88 millimetre high-velocity guns, the famous anti-tank weapon of the Africa Corps. Their range was well over half a mile ... They could fire armour-piercing shell, and in parts Wind Rode's thin skin was not as tough as a tank's. He would have to wait close inshore for the commandos, for they would need to be taken off swiftly once the balloon went up. And if the German guns ranged on him, his ship would make a beautiful target, waiting out there off the beach.

H. M. A. S. Scimitar was ordered to join the American Fleet, but it soon became clear that the Americans didn't have much time for the Aussie battleship. Even when Scimitar's commander, Bruce Sainsbury V.C., reported that a secret Japanese airstrip was operating somewhere in the area, the warning was dismissed. Then the Japanese hit the fleet, and hit it hard. Sainsbury volunteered to comb the ocean for the island airstrip, and promised to destroy it when he found it. If anyone could pull off such a dangerous mission, it was the Scimitar's crew. But there was a weak link that might just turn a potential victory into a terrible defeat. Because one of Scimitar's officers was a glory-hunter. Worse than that, he was also a coward ...

"Stand-by torpedo attack!" the order rapped out.Not more than half a mile away, bulking huge at that close range, came the enemy cruiser."Port thirty," he snapped down the voice pipe, and over his shoulder at the torpedo officer "Fire when your sights come on!" Torps was crouched over his pronged sight. His voice came crisp and clear: "Fire one, fire two, fire three, fire four ...""Midships!" the captain roared.The wheel came off her, and at once she heaved up from her acute lean. Then Pelican's ancient guns snapped their challenge at the grey monster racing alongside them.And, clear in the silence between broadsides, a sharp buzzing from the engine-room voice pipe. Pilot answered it and Dutchy Holland heard the chief's voice from where he stood."Bridge. That bloody bearing's gone. I've got to shut down on the starb'd engine."Pilot stared at Holland and the captain raised his hand in acknowledgement. He did not speak: he could not...

They were in the minefield now.Every instant the men inside, listening, waited for a projection on the hull to catch on a wire and drag the root's explosive bulb down. In the control-room, Grayson, his breath coming in fast shallow gasps, stared at the depth gauge—seventy ... eighty ... ninety-five!