Shout at the Devil - Smith Wilbur (лучшие книги .TXT) 📗
"Let's go down into the plotting room." Sir Percy heaved his bulk out of the chair, and headed for the door.
His shoulders hunched, massive jaw jutting, Admiral Howe brooded over the plot of the Indian Ocean.
"Where was this column intercepted?" he asked.
"Here, sir." Green touched the vast map with the pointer.
"About fifteen miles south-east of Kibiti. It was moving southwards towards..." He did not finish the statement but let the tip of the marker slide down on to the complexity of islands that clustered about the mouth of the long black snake that was the Rufrii river.
"Admiralty plot for East Africa, please." Sir Percy turned to the lieutenant in charge of the plot, and the lieutenant selected Volume 11 of the blue-jacketed books that lined the shelf on the far wall.
"What are the sailing directions for the Rufiji mouth?" demanded the Admiral, and the lieutenant began to read.
"Ras Pombwe to Kikunya mouth, including into Rufiji and Rufrii delta (Latitude 8" 17S, Longitude 39" 20"E). For fifty miles the coast is a maze of low, swampy, mangrove-covered islands, intersected by creeks comprising the delta of into Rufiji. During the rainy season the whole area of the delta is frequently inundated.
The coast of the delta is broken by ten large mouths, eight of which are connected at all times with into Rufiji." Sir Percy interrupted peevishly, "What is all this into business?"
"Arabic word for "river", sir."
"Well, why don't they say so? Carry on."
"With the exception of Simba Uranga mouth and Kikunya mouth, all other entrances are heavily shoaled and navigable only by craft drawing one metre or less."
"Concentrate on those two then," grunted Sir Percy, and the lieutenant turned the page.
"Simba Uranga mouth. Used by coasting vessels engaged in the timber trade. There is no defined bar and, in 1911, the channel was reported by the German Admiralty as having a low river level mean of ten fathoms.
"The channel is bifurcated by a wedge-shaped island, Rufiji-ya-wake, and both arms afford secure anchorage to vessels of large burden. However, holding ground is bad and securing to trees on the bank is more satisfactory. Floating islands of grass and weed are common."
"All right!" Sir Percy halted the recitation, and every person in the plotting room looked expectantly at him. Sir Percy was glowering at the plot, breathing heavily through his nose. "Where is Blikher's plaque?" he demanded harshly.
The lieutenant went to the locker behind him, and came back with the black wooden disc he had removed from the plot two months previously. Sir Percy took it from him, and rubbed it slowly between thumb and forefinger. There was complete silence in the room.
Slowly Sir Percy leaned forward across the map and placed the disc with a click upon the glass top. They all stared at it. It sat sinister as a black cancer where the green land met the blue ocean.
"Communications!" grunted Sir Percy and the yeoman of signals stepped forward with his pad ready.
"Despatch to Commodore Commanding Indian Ocean.
Captain Joyce. HMS. Renounce. Maximum Priority. Message reads: Intelligence reports indicate high probability. "You know something, Captain Joyce, this is bloody good gin." Flynn O'Flynn pointed the base of the glass at the ceiling, and in his eagerness to engulf the liquid, he did the same for the slice of lemon that the steward had placed in his glass. He gurgled like an air-locked geyser, his face changed swiftly to a deeper shade of red, then he expelled the lemon and with it a fine spray of gin and Indian tonic in a burst of explosive coughing.
"Are you all right?" Anxiously Captain Joyce leapt across the cabin and began pounding Flynn between the shoulderblades. He had visions of his key tool in the coming operation being asphyxiated before they had started.
"Pips!" gasped Flynn. "Goddamned lemon pips."
"Steward!" Captain Joyce called over his shoulder without interrupting the tattoo he was playing on Flynn's back.
Bring the major a glass of water. Hurry!"
"Water?" wheezed -Flynn in horror and the shock was sufficient to diminish the strength of his paroxysm.
The steward, who from experience could recognize a drinking man when he saw one, rose nobly to the occasion.
He hurried across the cabin with a glass in his hand. A mouthful of the raw spirit effected a near miraculous cure, Flynn lay back in his chair, his face still bright purple but his breathing easing, and Joyce withdrew to the far side of the cabin to inhale with relief the moist warm tropical air that oozed sluggishly through the open porthole. After a close range whiff of Flynn's body smell, it was as sweet as a bunch of tulips.
Flynn had been in the field for six weeks, and during that time it had not occurred to him to -change his clothing. He smelled like a Roquefort cheese.
There was a pause while everybody recovered their breath, then Joyce picked up where he had left off.
"I -was saying, Major, how good it was of you to return so promptly to meet me here."
"I came the moment I received your message. The runner was waiting for us in Wtopo's village. I left my command camped south of the Rovuma, and Pushed through in forced marches. A hundred and fifty miles in three days! Not bad going, hey?"
"Damn good show!" agreed Joyce, and looked across at the other two men in the cabin for confirmation. With the Portuguese Governor's aide-de-camp was a young army lieutenant. Neither of them could understand a word of English. The aide-de-camp was wearing a politely noncommittal expression, and the lieutenant had loosened the top button of his tunic and was lolling on the cabin's day couch with a little black cigarette drooping from his lips. Yet he contrived to look as gracefully insolent as a matador.
