Final impact

The commander of the Trident continued her tour of the decks, stopping in at the air division, the sick bay, and the ops room one after the other. In the latter she found herself among more ’temps than she’d be likely to find anywhere outside the Combat Information Center, where they tended to be observers anyway. In operations, the ’temps ran the show.

An ensign called the room to attention as she entered. The men-again, they were all men-snapped to with commendable promptness, and she bade them to carry on with their work. It was a different matter on shore, but after two years she’d at least established her right to command on this vessel, if no other.

“How goes it, Mr. McTeale?” she asked. Halabi made sure at least one of her senior officers was always on hand in ops, and today she found her XO, the dour Scot, in attendance.

“She goes well, Cap’n,” he answered. “Or as well as could be expected.”

The others seemed grateful that she’d released them back to their screens and printouts. They were never going to be very comfortable in her presence. She had been to high tea at both Downing Street and the palace, but she’d never once been invited to anything other than briefings and conferences at the Admiralty or any of the clubs favored by the contemporary Royal Navy’s ruling elite.

Strangely enough, she frequently got on best with the army’s old India hands, especially those who’d had anything to do with the subcontinent’s innumerable “princely states,” where local potentates ruled on behalf of the British Crown. The Raj veterans seemed to regard her as something akin to a minor warrior princess of some tiny Muslim principality on the Northwest Frontier. At least this meant that they treated her with some civility.

“What do we have on the Soviet advance?” she asked McTeale. He threw the question to Colonel Charles Hart, one of her favorite Indiamen.

“It’s looking rather grim for Jerry, I’d say,” Hart explained. “Ivan’s got the better part of a Wehrmacht army group trapped in a pocket outside Lodz. The Bolsheviks have detailed off a corps to maintain a siege there, and pressed on through Poland. They’re finally hitting stiffer resistance now that they’re at the borderlands, but there’s just so many of the buggers that the weight of numbers and firepower must tell in the end.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” she said, her use of the informal noted by a couple of the less approachable ’temps. “How’s it affecting German dispositions on the Western Front?”

Before he could answer, her intelligence chief-Lieutenant Commander Howard-appeared at the hatch. “Excuse me, skipper, but best you come see this.”

Halabi excused herself with some relief. Visits to the ops room were always a trial.

“What’s up?”

“It’s one of the HVAs we’ve been tracking for Baker Street, ma’am. Due for extraction today, but he’s got a problem. He’s hit the panic button, sent a message saying he’s going to get grabbed up by the villains if we don’t hurry. I think we might need to reassign some additional drone cover to his sector.”

Halabi picked up her pace as they marched down the main passage of the trimaran’s portside hull, heading for the Intel Division.

“Is he a skinjob?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. His skin was killed a short while ago. It seems to have ruptured his cover. No, this is an indigenous asset. His jacket says he was supposed to remain in place, but he’s been tumbled. We have independent verification of that by sigint. There are eight SS and Gestapo teams that we can confirm looking for him right now. One of them is closing in.”

“Eight?” she said. “My word, they do want him back. Do we know who he is?”

“Not yet, ma’am. You’ll have to authorize opening the jacket and reassigning the drone cover. There’s a lot of demand for Big Eye time in France right now.”

“Very well, let’s have at it, then. Who’s our liaison with the ’temps?”

“Nobody on board, ma’am. We’re laser-linked back to Baker Street. Ms. Atkins is waiting for you.”

“Very good then.”

And it was. She got on well with Atkins, another child of two cultures and a woman working at the heart of what was often considered to be a man’s world. The intelligence officer for the French section of the Special Operations Executive, she was also assistant to the SOE’s chief, Maurice Buckmaster. Halabi swung into the cramped office that served as Lieutenant Commander Howard’s domain. Three monitors were live, but two had dimmed their screens, leaving the one on the far left-a video feed-as the primary display.

Halabi smiled when she saw Atkins in the window. “Hello, Vera. A spot of bother, I understand?”