Squadron Commander Adrian Viper stood, legs astride, on the starboard bridge wing of HMS Blackbird. At six feet tall, his muscular frame remained rock steady on the moving vessel. Deep blue eyes set in a weathered yet well-tanned face resulting from a lifetime in contact with salt and sun. This made him appear older than his forty-five years. Adrian picked up his binoculars, turned and studied the line of ships astern.

The storm of the last two days was the past, and now the sun shone on a rolling dark-grey sea. At five knots, Her Majesty's Tenth Minesweeping Squadron departed from St Nazaire, ready for the next phase of Exercise Clean Sweep. Command had tasked this minesweeping squadron to clear a marked zone of submerged practice mines.

Once into the exercise area, these little ships manoeuvred to transfer equipment. The crews were rusty, and the evolutions took longer than expected. After a while, they were ready and began the downward leg of the sweep. One ship lagged, its task to destroy any mines that surfaced or collect them for reuse.

Adrian, in command of HMS Blackbird, drew the short straw for this mundane chore.

During daylight hours, he remained on the bridge. To his left, he overheard the port lookout say, "' ere, what do ya make of that?"

"How the fuck would I know. It's too far away. Its bloody rubbish dumped by a wanker."

As he listened to their banter, Adrian peered through his binoculars in the general direction.

Stroking his chin, he turned to the Officer of the Watch, "Peter, alter course and check it out."

"Aye aye, sir. Port twenty."

HMS Blackbird turned and proceeded at ten knots.

Adrian went out to the bridge wing and rested his elbows on the steel superstructure. He spoke with authority to those on the bridge. "A couple of cans of beer for the first man to name whatever."

Men grabbed spare binoculars and focused them on the mass of debris. Whatever it was, Adrian was annoyed that the sea had become the dustbin of the world.

Able Seaman Williams, with his binoculars fixed on the flotsam, broke the silence. "Captain, sir, at red two zero, we have an upside-down boat with two bodies tied to the hull."

Adrian focused his binoculars. But he knew Hawkeye McWilliams was never wrong. "Peter, increase speed; eighteen knots."

Two plumes of exhaust smoke erupted from the funnel as Blackbird ploughed ahead.

Jim Scott, the Executive and Medical Officer, stood behind Adrian, leaned forward and whispered, "Sea-boat swung out and ready, sir."

"Thank you, number one. Do you know anyone with a video camera? I want this rescue filmed for the record. You never know. Some Admiral with nothing better to do might want to ask awkward questions."

Adrian continued examining the wreck as Jim ordered a Snotty to get his camcorder.

On the remains of the yacht, the two people remained motionless.

Adrian returned to the centre of the bridge. "I have the ship. Yeoman, priority signal. Request helicopter transfer of casualties."

Peter stepped back and began plotting on the chart and compiling a summary of events in the ship's log.

Adrian manoeuvred HMS Blackbird until she was fifty yards from the wreck. The ship's boat hit the water with its engine at full throttle. With the skill of an experienced hand, the boat driver came alongside the damaged craft with the gentlest of bumps.

Billy Budd, the coxswain and medic, clambered up the hull. At once, he checked for signs of life. Faint pulses told him they were alive. Buster Brown, a stoker, held the man whilst cutting the ropes that held him.

Buster was fast and agile, while Billy was muscular. He lowered the man with the greatest of care into the base of the rescue craft. The woman came next. With the casualties on board, the craft returned at maximum speed.

Adrian stood on the port bridge wing as the loaded craft swung inboard. He saw the woman's closed eyes, the salt-caked hair and the deathly pale skin.

"Increase speed to full ahead." Hiding any feelings, he shaded his eyes and stared astern as the propellers dug deep.

Willing hands carried the casualties into the wardroom and placed them on the deck.

Jim Scott put on his "doctor's" hat. "Right, everyone apart from the Coxswain, fuck off. Last man out shut the door. They're suffering from hypothermia, and if we can't get them warm, they'll both die. Get blankets and have those hot-water bottles from the medivac store filled." He removed his gaze from the casualties. "Snotty, what part of fuck off don't you understand. Now before my boot finds its way up your arse, and you choke to death, fuck off and take that bloody camera with you."

Billy Budd moved to the wardroom door, opened it, and hollered. His deep gruff voice reverberated off bulkheads whilst members of the crew ran to do his bidding.

Jim cut away the wet clothes from the two victims making sure not to jostle them too much. Once out of their wet clothes, he wrapped duvets, taken from ratings' bunks, around them. Inside these, he placed warm-water bottles on the soles of the feet and the hands. Replacements arrived often. This was a race to preserve life. Not being a qualified doctor, he did not appreciate how close to death they might be.

Above the ship, the pulsating beat of a helicopter sounded as it closed the ship for a medical transfer. The wardroom door burst open in less than two minutes, and a man in flying gear entered.

"Doctor Maurice Chervaux from St Nazaire." He nodded his greeting as his eyes took in everything with one meaningful sweep. He closed the door. "Please make room. Let me examine the casualties."

Jim and the Coxswain shifted their positions. The doctor checked the two patients. "It's a matter of time. If we move them, they will die."

"You," he pointed to the Coxswain, "tell my pilot to return to base. I'll wait here until we're alongside. Have you any English tea? Earl Grey perhaps?"

The heat treatment continued. Dr Chervaux checked temperatures, breathing and pulses. After an hour, he sighed. "The woman is no longer with us; the man might make it."

Downcast, Jim asked, "Is there anything more we could have done?"

Dr Chervaux's dark eyes flickered. "No."

At full power for St Nazaire, Adrian stayed on the bridge. He ordered HMS Peacock to recover the hulk. Three hours later, they berthed; an ambulance was waiting. Volunteers carried the man and woman to the waiting vehicle. The doctor and a medic entered the back and closed the doors. With lights flashing and siren screeching, the ambulance roared along the jetty.

***

During the next few hours, Davy hovered between semi-consciousness and a dark void. He dreamt of Tracey. He cried out in fear, "Not again, not again." She appeared, he moved to touch her, and she vanished. He called her name, but she did return.

Far away a voice. A sharp prick followed by oblivion.

***

"Excuse me, sir." Adrian turned to find Midshipman Turner.

"What's the problem, Snotty?"

"No problem, sir. I wondered what you want me to do with this videotape of the rescue."

"Give it to me. Thanks for doing a good job."

Adrian, tape in hand, saw HMS Peacock making her approach to berth astern. On her foc'sle, the damaged hull of an expensive yacht. He watched until she was alongside and secured.

When Adrian placed his foot on HMS Peacock's gangway, Lieutenant Commander Alan Holmes RNR, the Commanding Officer, waited. Adrian waived formalities, and the two men went to inspect the wreck.

"I've two men guarding the wreck. Thought the local police might want to have a look," commented Alan.

Adrian smiled. "It wouldn't hurt if we gave it the once-over."

Together, they walked around the battered wreck.

"Poor sods. Can't understand why they stayed out," muttered Adrian.

"Bloody amateurs, if you ask me," retorted Alan.

Adrian crawled inside the wrecked hull. Alan joined him with two torches. They opened cupboards that dumped sodden clothing over them.

Stuck fast in one locker, Alan found a case and two large leather bags. He dragged one out and opened it.

"Bloody hell, Adrian, this bag is full of fifty and twenty-pound notes."

Adrian removed the case and discovered more notes wrapped in watertight pouches. Alan opened the final bag. In this UK passports, the boat's documentation, bankbooks and a few thousand Euros.

"We'd better remove this to your cabin," said Adrian. "As much as I trust the lads, if they get wind of this, the temptation might be too great."

Together, they transferred the money to Alan's cabin and hid it under his bunk. "I'll get my Coxswain to contact the British Embassy in Paris."

Adrian sat inspecting the documentation. "It's legal as far as the boat's concerned, although I'd have thought a bank transfer might have been safer."

"Dirty money, on its way for laundering through the holiday resorts," remarked Alan.

Adrian shrugged. "Whatever, we must protect the evidence. Have a sentry posted and no one's to enter without your permission."

"No problem. I'll have a guard posted until this wreckage is off my ship."

Adrian studied the two sodden passports. Tracey was an attractive woman, not the drowned rat they recovered. David Jones appeared familiar, and he wondered if they had met. It did not matter. The sooner he was back at sea, the better.