San Andreas (28 page)

A third shell struck and exploded in the bows in almost the same position as the previous one—the already uplifted section of the fo‘c's'le had heaved up almost another foot.

‘That's where the paint and carpenter's shops are,' Naseby said absently.

‘That's what I've been thinking.'

‘Were Ferguson and Curran in the mess-deck when you left?'

‘That's why I've been thinking. Can't remember seeing them, although that's not to say they weren't there. They're such an idle couple they might well have passed up lunch for an hour's kip. I should have warned them.'

‘There wasn't time for you to warn anyone.'

‘I could have sent someone. I did think they'd concentrate their fire on the bridge but I should still have sent someone. My fault. Slipping, as I told Jamieson.' He paused, narrowed his eyes in concentration and said: ‘I think they're turning away, George.'

Naseby had the glasses to his eyes. ‘They are. And there's someone on the bridge, captain or whoever, using a loud-hailer. Ah! The gun crew
are working on their gun and—yes—they're aligning it fore-and-aft. This mean what I think it means, Archie?'

‘Well, the conning-tower's empty and the gun crew are going down the hatch so it must mean what you think. See any bubbles coming up?'

‘No. Wait a minute. Yes. Yes, lots.'

‘Blowing main ballast.'

‘But we're still a mile away from them.'

‘Captain's taking no chances and I don't blame him. He's not a clown like Klaussen.'

They watched for some moments in silence. The U-boat was now at a 45° angle, the decks barely awash and vanishing quickly.

‘Take the wheel, George. Give the Chief Engineer a ring, will you, tell him what's happened and ask him to drop down to normal speed. Then back on the course we were on. I'm going to check on any flooding for'ard.'

Naseby watched him go and knew that flooding was secondary in the Bo'sun's mind. He was going to find out whether, indeed, Curran and Ferguson had elected to miss lunch.

McKinnon was back in about ten minutes. He had a bottle of Scotch in his hand and two glasses and no smile on his face.

Naseby said: ‘Their luck run out?'

‘Abandoned by fortune, George. Abandoned by McKinnon.'

‘Archie, you must stop it. Please stop blaming yourself. What's done is done.' Janet had intercepted him as he had entered the mess-deck—he had come down with Naseby and left Trent on the wheel with Jones and McGuigan as look-outs—and pulled him into a corner. ‘Oh, I know that's trite, meaningless, if you want. And if you want another trite and meaningless remark, you can't bring back the dead.'

‘True, true.' The Bo'sun smiled without humour. ‘And speaking of the dead—and one should speak no ill of the dead—they were a couple of moderately useless characters. But both were married, both had two daughters. What would
they
think if they knew that the gallant bo'sun, in his anxiety to get at a U-boat, completely forgot them?'

‘The best thing would be if
you
forgot them. Sounds cruel, I know, but let the dead bury their dead.
We
are alive: when I say “we” I'm not talking about you, I'm talking about every other person aboard, including myself. Your duty is to the living. Don't you know that every single person on this ship, from the Captain and Mr Patterson down, depends on you? We're depending on you to take us home.'

‘Do be quiet, woman.'

‘You'll take
me
home, Archie?'

‘Scalloway? Hop, skip and jump. Of course I will.'

She stood back at arm's length, hands on his shoulders, searched his eyes, then smiled.

‘You know, Archie, I really believe you will.'

He smiled in return. ‘I'm glad of that.' He didn't for a moment believe it himself but there was no point in spreading undue gloom and despondency.

They joined Patterson, Jamieson and Ulbricht at the table. Patterson pushed a glass in front of him. ‘I would say that you have earned that, Bo'sun. A splendid job.'

‘Not so splendid, sir. I had no option but to do what I did. Can't say I feel sorry for a U-boat captain but he's really up against a nearly impossible problem, faced with a hiding to nothing. He's under orders not to sink us so the best he can do is to try to incapacitate us as much as possible. We run at him and he hides. Simple as that.'

‘The way you put it, yes. I hear you had a very narrow escape on the bridge.'

‘If the shell had passed through metal and exploded in the bridge, that would have been it. But it passed through the glass instead. Luck.'

‘And up front?'

‘Three holes. All above the waterline. What with those and the damage that the U-boat did to us—rather, the damage we inflicted on ourselves—there's going to be a fair old job for the ship repairers when we get into dry dock. The watertight bulkheads seem sound enough. That's the good part. The bad part—and I'm afraid this is all my fault—is that—'

‘Archie!' Janet's voice was sharp.

‘Oh, all right. You'll have heard—Ferguson and Curran are dead.'

‘I know and I'm sorry. Damnable. That makes twenty now.' Patterson thought for a few moments. ‘You reckon this situation will continue for some time?'

‘What situation, sir?'

‘That they keep on trying to stop us instead of sinking us.'

McKinnon shrugged. ‘It is much more important to the Germans that they discredit the Russians with our Government than that they get the gold. As things stand at the moment they want both to have their cake and eat it. Factor of greed, really.'

‘So as long as they remain greedy we're relatively safe?'

‘Safe from sinking, yes. But not safe from being taken over.'

‘But you just said—'

‘All they have to do is to bring up another U-boat and they'll have us cold. With two U-boats we have no chance. If we go after one the other will parallel our course and pump shells into us at their leisure. Not the engine-room, of course, they want to take us under our own steam to Norway. The hospital area. First shell in there and the white flag flies—if we've any sense we'd fly it before the first shot. Next time I go up to the bridge I'll take a nice big bedsheet with me.'

‘There are times, Bo'sun,' Jamieson said, ‘when I wish you'd keep your thoughts to yourself.'

‘Merely answering a question, sir. And I have another thought, another question, if you like. Only a tiny handful of people would have known of this operation, the plan to use the
San Andreas
as a bullion carrier. A cabinet minister or two, an admiral or two. No more. I wonder who the traitor is who sold us down the river.
If
we get back and
if
some famous and prominent person unaccountably commits suicide, then we'll know.' He rose. ‘If you'll excuse me, I have some work to do.'

‘What work, Archie?' It was Janet. ‘Haven't you done enough for one day?'

‘A bo'sun's work is never done. Routine, Janet, just routine.' He left the mess-deck.

‘Routine,' Janet said. ‘What routine?'

‘Curran's dead.'

She looked puzzled. ‘I know that.'

‘Curran was the sailmaker. It's the sailmaker's job to sew up the dead.'

Janet rose hastily and left the table. Patterson gave Jamieson a sour look.

‘There are times, Second, when I wish
you
would keep your thoughts to yourself. You do have half an eye, I take it.'

‘True, true. Delicacy? A water buffalo could have done it better.'

Patterson finished speaking—by this time he was getting quite professional at reading burial services—planks tilted and the shrouded forms of Curran and Ferguson slid down into the icy wastes of the Norwegian Sea. It was then that the engine-room noise faded away and the
San Andreas
began to slow.

Nearly all the crew were on deck—the dead men had been an amiable enough couple and well liked. The cooks and stewards were below, as were the nursing staff and three stokers. Trent and Jones were on the bridge.

Jamieson was the first to move. ‘It looks,' he said, ‘as if we have made a mistake.' He walked away, not quickly, with the air of a man who knew that this was not a moment that called for any particular urgency.

Patterson and McKinnon followed more slowly. Patterson said: ‘What did he mean by that? That we've made a mistake, I mean?'

‘He was being kind, sir. What he meant was that the all-wise bo'sun has made another blunder. Who was on watch down below?'

‘Just young Stephen. You know, the Polish boy.'

‘Let's hope he's not the next to go over the side.'

Patterson stopped and caught McKinnon by the arm. ‘What do you mean by that? And what do you mean—“blunder”?'

‘The one thing ties up with the other.' McKinnon's voice sounded dull. ‘Maybe I'm tired. Maybe I'm not thinking too well. Did you notice who
wasn't
at the funeral, sir?'

Patterson looked at him for a few silent moments, then said: ‘The nursing staff. Kitchen staff. Stewards. Men on the bridge.' His grip tightened on the Bo'sun's arm. ‘And McCrimmon.'

‘Indeed. And whose brilliant idea was it to let McCrimmon roam around on the loose?'

‘It just worked out the wrong way. You can't think of everything. No man can. He's a slippery customer, this McCrimmon. Do you think we'll be able to pin anything on him?'

‘I'm certain we won't. Nevertheless, sir, I'd like your permission to lock him up.' McKinnon shook his head, his face bitter. ‘There's nothing like locking the door when the horse has bolted.'

Stephen was lying on the steel plates, covered with oil still gushing from a severed fuel line. There was a rapidly forming bruise, bleeding
slightly, behind his right ear. Sinclair finished examining his head and straightened.

‘I'll have him taken to hospital. X-ray, but I don't think it necessary. I should think he'll waken up with nothing more than a sore head.' He looked at the two steel objects lying on the deck-plates beside Stephen. ‘You know who did this, Bo'sun?'

‘Yes.'

‘The Stilson wrench that laid him out and the fire-axe that slashed the fuel line. There could be fingerprints.'

‘No.' With his toe McKinnon touched a clump of engine-room waste. ‘He used that and there'll be no prints on that. He looked at Patterson. ‘This line can be replaced, sir?'

‘It can. How long, Second?'

‘Couple of hours,' Jamieson said. ‘Give or take.'

McKinnon said: ‘Would you come along with me, Mr Patterson?'

‘It will be a pleasure, Bo'sun.'

‘You could have killed him, you know,' McKinnon said conversationally.

From his bench seat in the mess-deck McCrimmon looked up with an insolent stare.

‘What the bloody hell are you talking about?'

‘Stephen.'

‘Stephen? What about Stephen?'

‘His broken head.'

‘I still don't know what you're talking about. Broken head? How did he get a broken head?'

‘Because you went down to the engine-room and did it. And cut open a fuel line.'

‘You're crazy. I haven't left this seat in the past quarter of an hour.'

‘Then you must have seen whoever went down to the engine-room. You're a stoker, McCrimmon. An engine stops and you don't go down to investigate?'

McCrimmon chewed some gum. ‘This is a frame-up. What proof do you have?'

‘Enough,' Patterson said. ‘I am putting you under arrest, McCrimmon, and in close confinement. When we get back to Britain, you'll be tried for murder, high treason, convicted and certainly shot.'

‘This is absolute rubbish.' He prefaced the word ‘rubbish' with a few choice but unprintable adjectives. ‘I've done nothing and you can't prove a thing.' But his normally pasty face had gone even pastier.

‘We don't have to,' McKinnon said. ‘Your friend Simons or Braun or whatever his name is—has been, well, as the Americans say, been singing like a canary. He's willing to turn King's evidence on you in the hope of getting less than life.'

‘The bastard!' McCrimmon was on his feet, lips drawn back over his teeth, his right hand reaching under his overalls.

‘Don't,' Patterson said. ‘Whatever it is, don't touch it. You've got no place to run, McCrimmon—and the Bo'sun could kill you with one hand.'

‘Let me have it,' McKinnon said. He stretched out his hand and McCrimmon, very slowly, very carefully, placed the knife, hilt first, in the Bo'sun's palm.

‘You haven't won.' His face was both scared and vicious at the same time. ‘It's the person who laughs last that wins.'

‘Could be.' McKinnon looked at him consideringly. ‘You know something that we don't?'

‘As you say, could be.'

‘Such as the existence of a transmitting bug concealed in the wireless office?'

McCrimmon leapt forward and screamed, briefly, before collapsing to the deck. His nose had broken against the Bo'sun's fist.

Patterson looked down at the unconscious man and then at McKinnon. ‘That give you a certain kind of satisfaction?'

‘I suppose I shouldn't have done it but—well, yes, it did give a certain kind of satisfaction.'

‘Me, too,' Patterson said.

What seemed, but wasn't, a long day wore on into the evening and then darkness, and still the Germans stayed away. The
San Andreas
, under power again, was still on a direct course to Aberdeen. Stephen had regained consciousness and, as Dr Sinclair had predicted, was suffering from no more than a moderate headache. Sinclair had carried out what were no better than temporary repairs to McCrimmon's broken face but it
was really a job for a plastic surgeon and Sinclair was no plastic surgeon.

Lieutenant Ulbricht, a chart spread out on the table before him, rubbed his chin thoughtfully and looked at McKinnon who was seated opposite him in the Captain's cabin.

‘We've been lucky so far. Lucky? Never thought I'd say that aboard a British ship. Why are we being left alone?'

‘Because we're just that. Lucky. They didn't have a spare U-boat around and our friend who's trailing us wasn't going to try it on his own again. Also, we're still on a direct course to Aberdeen. They know where we are and have no reason to believe that we still aren't going where we're supposed to be going. They have no means of knowing what's happened aboard this ship.'

‘Reasonable, I suppose.' Ulbricht looked at the chart and tapped his teeth. ‘If something doesn't happen to us during the night something is going to happen to us tomorrow. That's what I think. At least, that's what I feel.'

‘I know.'

‘What do you know?'

‘Tomorrow. Your countrymen aren't clowns. We'll be passing very close to the Shetlands tomorrow. They'll suspect that there is a possibility that we might make a break for Lerwick or some such place and will act on that possibility.'

‘Planes? Condors?'

‘It's possible.'

‘Does the RAF have fighters there?'

‘I should imagine so. But I don't know. Haven't been there for years.'

‘The Luftwaffe will know. If there are Hurricanes or Spitfires there, the Luftwaffe would never risk a Condor against them.'

‘They could send some long-range Messerschmitts as escort.'

‘If not, it could be a torpedo?'

‘That's not something I care to think about.'

‘Nor me. There's something very final about a torpedo. You know, it's not necessary to sail south round Bressay and turn round Bard Head. We could use the north channel. Maryfield is the name of the village, isn't it?'

‘I was born there.'

‘That was stupid. Stupid of me, I mean. We make a sharp turn for the north channel and it's a torpedo for sure?'

‘Yes.'

‘And if we steam steadily south past Bressay they may well think that we're keeping on course to Aberdeen?'

‘We can only hope, Lieutenant. A guarantee is out of the question. There's nothing else we can do.'

‘Nothing?'

‘Well, there's something. We can go down below and have dinner.'

‘Our last, perhaps?'

McKinnon crossed his fingers, smiled and said nothing.

Dinner, understandably, was a rather solemn affair. Patterson was in a particularly pensive mood.

‘Has it ever occurred to you, Bo'sun, that we might outrun this U-boat? Without bursting a few steam valves, we could get two or three knots more out of this tub.'

‘Yes, sir. I'm sure we could.' The tension in the air was almost palpable. ‘I'm also sure that the U-boat would pick up the increased revolutions immediately. He would know that we were on to him, know that we know that he's following us. He would just surface—that would increase his speed—and finish us off. He's probably carrying a dozen torpedoes. How many do you think would miss us?'

‘The first one would be enough.' Patterson sighed. ‘Rather desperate men make rather desperate suggestions. You could sound more encouraging, Bo'sun.'

‘Rest after toil,' Jamieson said. ‘Port after stormy seas. There's going to be no rest for us, Bo'sun. No safe harbour. Is that it?'

‘Has to be, sir.' He pointed at Janet Magnusson. ‘You heard me promise to take this lady back home.'

Janet smiled at him. ‘You're very kind, Archie McKinnon. Also, you're lying in your teeth.'

McKinnon smiled back at her. ‘Ye of little faith.'

Ulbricht was the first to sense a change in the atmosphere. ‘Something has occurred to you, Mr McKinnon?'

‘Yes. At least, I hope it has.' He looked at Margaret Morrison. ‘I wonder if you would be so kind as to ask Captain Bowen to come to the lounge?'

‘
Another
secret conference? I thought there were no more spies or criminals or traitors left aboard.'

‘I don't think so. But no chances.' He looked around the table. ‘I would like it if you all joined us.'

Just after dawn the next morning—still a very late dawn in those latitudes—Lieutenant Ulbricht gazed out through the starboard wing doorway at low-lying land that could be intermittently seen through squalls of sleety snow.

‘So that's Unst, is it?'

‘That's Unst.' Although McKinnon had been up most of the night he seemed fresh, relaxed and almost cheerful.

‘And that—
that
is what you Shetlanders break your hearts over?'

‘Yes, indeed.'

‘I don't want to give any offence, Mr McKinnon, but that's probably the most bare, bleak, barren and inhospitable island I've ever had the misfortune to clap my eyes on.'

‘Home sweet home,' McKinnon said placidly. ‘Beauty, Lieutenant, is in the eye of the beholder. Besides, no place would look its sparkling best in weather conditions like this.'

‘And that's another thing. Is the Shetland weather always as awful as this?'

McKinnon regarded the slate-grey seas, the heavy cloud and the falling snow with considerable satisfaction. ‘I think the weather is just lovely.'

‘As you say, the eye of the beholder. I doubt whether a Condor pilot would share your point of view.'

‘It's unlikely.' McKinnon pointed ahead. ‘Fine off the starboard now. That's Fetlar.'

‘Ah!' Ulbricht consulted the chart. ‘Within a mile—or two at the most—or where we ought to be. We haven't done too badly, Mr McKinnon.'

‘We? You, you mean. A splendid piece of navigation, Lieutenant. The Admiralty should give you a medal for your services.'

Ulbricht smiled. ‘I doubt whether Admiral Doenitz would quite approve of that. Speaking of services, you will now, I take it, be finished with mine. As a navigator, I mean.'

‘My father was a fisherman, a professional. My first four years at sea I spent with him around those islands. It would be difficult for me to get lost.'

‘I should imagine.' Ulbricht went out on the starboard wing, looked aft for a few seconds, then
hastily returned, shivering and dusting snow off his coat.

‘The sky—or what I can see of the sky—is getting pretty black up north. Wind's freshening a bit. Looks as if this awful weather—or, if you like, wonderful weather—is going to continue for quite some time. This never entered your calculations.'

‘I'm not a magician. Nor am I a fortune-teller. Reading the future is not one of my specialities.'

‘Well, just let's call it a well-timed stroke of luck.'

‘Luck we could use. A little, anyway.'

Fetlar was on the starboard beam when Naseby came up to take over the wheel. McKinnon went out on the starboard wing to assess the weather. As the
San Andreas
was heading just a degree or two west of south and the wind was from the north it was almost directly abaft. The clouds in that direction were dark and ominous but they did not hold his attention for long: he had become aware, very faintly at first but then more positively, of something a great deal more ominous. He went back inside and looked at Ulbricht.

‘Remember we were talking about luck a little while back?' Ulbricht nodded. ‘Well, our little luck has just run out. We have company. There's a Condor out there.'

Ulbricht said nothing, just went outside on the wing and listened. He returned after a few moments.

‘I can hear nothing.'