Battlecruiser (1997) by Douglas Reeman Page A

back in harbour. She was sighted heading for the Lofoten Islands.’
    Stagg asked sharply, ‘Where do
you
think she is, Pilot?’
    Rhodes answered without hesitation. ‘Bodø, sir. A big fjord on the Norwegian mainland. The Jerries built a military airfield there.’ He saw the rear-admiral raise his eyebrows. ‘It was in A.I.s, sir.’
    Sherbrooke said, ‘What else?’
    Rhodes looked at him directly. ‘
Minden
made contact with a Russian destroyer and some minesweepers.’ He turned to the rear-admiral, but Sherbrooke knew he was still speaking to him. ‘She sank all of them. No survivors.’
    Sherbrooke repressed the memories. There was nothing they could have done. It was far more important to discover why
Minden
had come out and had headed for the one anchorage where there was strong air cover, and where she would be better placed for another sortie further south, or even an attempt to enter the Baltic and return to Germany.
    But the cold reason of strategy eluded him. All he could see was the dark, crouching shape of the cruiser, her guns firing and reloading with the precision of a machine, a single weapon.
    Stagg said, ‘Keep us informed, Pilot.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I shall stroll aft . . . for some
lunch.
’
    Then he replaced his cigar case in one pocket, his face deep in thought.
    ‘We shall be working-up with
Seeker
for a few days until the two big convoys are through. Who knows, we might get a crack at your bloody
Minden
, eh? But I doubt it. Now, if it was
Scharnhorst
, that would really be a feather in the proverbial cap.’
    Sherbrooke felt the tension draining away. Perhaps Stagg was right after all. Hold personal feelings at a distance. Eyes always on the main chance . . . He almost smiled. Stagg would be a vice-admiral at this rate before anybody realized what had happened!
    Stagg remarked in an almost matter-of-fact tone, ‘We’ve been so damn busy I didn’t have a chance to speak to you about the funeral. Many there?’
    Sherbrooke shook his head, seeing again the drab clothing, the vice-admiral and his unsmiling Wren driver.
    ‘Just a few relations – some of our lot, too.’
    Stagg regarded him thoughtfully. ‘What about Jane . . . ah, Mrs Cavendish? Was she taking it well?’ He laughed, without humour. ‘Of course – I forgot. You were quite keen on her once yourself, weren’t you?’ He picked up his cap, regarding the two rows of bright gold leaves. ‘Well, now’s your chance, Guy.’
    When he had gone, still smiling, Sherbrooke waited for a few moments, signing Rhodes’s log book, giving himself time.
    He thought of her face when they had spoken together, the poise and the strength of the woman. He thought, too, of the smart Armstrong-Siddeley car in which Captain Charles Cavendish had died alone. Like the shattered photograph, it had been no accident, and Stagg knew as much.
    He heard feet outside the door, probably Rhodes, waiting to announce the next alteration of course. The ship needed him, but not as much as he needed her.
    He strode out of the chart room, and saw the relief on Rhodes’s bearded face. After all, ships were bombed, torpedoed and sunk by shellfire every day of the week. It was their world: survival was the only prize.
    He climbed into his chair, realizing that he had not eaten since the previous evening. ‘Dodger’ Long would not be happy about that.
    He leaned forward to peer at the wide, flared bows, the sea lifting and falling away on either side as the stem sliced through it, the deck glistening with spray.
    ‘Time to alter course, Pilot?’
    Rhodes gave a broad grin. ‘Course to steer is zero-one-zero, sir.’ He watched the captain’s hand touch the arm of his chair: something personal, private. Like his eyes, when the Chief Tel had brought up the signal about the German cruiser. It was something Rhodes knew he might never share, or truly understand.
    ‘Bring her round. Make a signal to the escorts to alter course in