Knife Edge (2004) by Douglas Reeman

will be told nearer the time, right?”
    Boyes relaxed slightly. So Piggott did not know, either. It was that important.
    Somebody called, “Some more are comin’, Sarge,” and added self-consciously, “Sir!”
    There were three of them, a sergeant and two corporals.
    Boyes said, “Demolition party, sir. Come across from Kowloon,” and said abruptly to his opposite number, “I’m Boyes. This is Lieutenant Piggott.”
    He looked at the officer. “We can move off now, sir.”
    Piggott was regarding the other sergeant.
    “Then you must be Sergeant Blackwood.” He seemed to rock back on his heels, a little mannerism Boyes had already noticed. “A pretty famous name in the Corps, or has been. Something to live up to. But on this mission we put all personal odds and ends to one side.”
    Boyes waited, and was not disappointed.
    Piggott said, “Just follow my example, right?”
    “Boat comin’!”
    Boyes watched Piggott’s pale outline move to the opposite side of the jetty, and said, “Welcome aboard. Steve, isn’t it?” They shook hands, and there was a brief, unspoken question.
    Boyes said, “He’s got a lot to learn, but . . .”
    The other sergeant’s teeth were white in a broad smile.
    “Yeah.
But.
Says it all. And thanks. We’re going to get along fine.”
    Boyes nudged his arm. “Sure thing. Just follow my example!”
    The others turned as they both laughed. It couldn’t be all that dicey.
    A boat surged alongside, a smaller, faster version this time, and the marines clambered into it. Lieutenant Blondie Piggott, correctly, entered last. Operation Ratcatcher could now begin.
    “There she is! Starboard bow!” The seaman’s oilskinned arm showed briefly above the choppy water as the helm went over, and the motor’s pitch eased for the first time since they had climbed aboard. It had begun to rain, too, warm and refreshing against the skin, but making the lights along the shore seem far away, alien.
    Ross Blackwood took a firmer grip as the coxwain swung the little craft on to a different course. There were only three men in the boat’s crew, shining occasionally like wet seals as the tiller swung this way and that, and prior to this nobody had said a word. They knew their jobs, and any attempt at conversation was pointless anyway. He could feel Irwin pressed beside him, bouncing up and down with the hull’s lively motion, twisting around from time to time to peer astern, but otherwise keeping to himself.
    A dark, wet night; it could have been anywhere, but suddenly, rising over them like a grey breakwater, was the ship. No challenges or flashing signals, no fuss at all. One moment they had the black waters to themselves, dashing it seemed into nowhere, and now she was here. H.M.S.
Taunton
, one of the TON class, so called because every ship’s name ended in ‘ton’, had been originally designed and built as a small coastal minesweeper. Dozens had been constructed during and in the wake of the Korean War, with every kind of non-magnetic material to lessen the chance ofdisaster. As some wag had said at Naval Operations, they must have fast been running out of ‘tons’ when the last vessels were launched. Now they had changed roles, and most had been relisted as patrol vessels, ideal for this part of the world.
    They were almost alongside, and Ross saw the
Taunton
’s brightly painted pendant number,
P1095
, passing just above his shoulder. A new life for a veteran ship. She must be at least fourteen years old by now. Launched at the famous yard at Cowes on the Isle of Wight, which had been the birthplace of so many wooden vessels, motor torpedo boats, rescue launches, and sweepers. Now they were back to building luxury yachts for those who could afford them; and there were a growing number who could. He had been serving in Ulster when the great new liner
Queen Elizabeth II
, ‘QE2’ as she was already affectionately known, had made her maiden crossing to the States. The year his father had