Target 5 (41 page)

'OK, so play it close to the chest.' DaSilva paused, look
ing back at the bridge. 'Maybe it's better that way - con
sidering Schmidt doesn't know a thing about it yet. I could
end up as a clerk in a shipping office for this.'

'Better that than a skeleton floating at the bottom of
Iceberg Alley,' Beaumont replied brutally.

'She's coming out,' Papanin said. 'That other berg we saw in the aerial shot must have broken away.'

On the bridge of the
Revolution
the Siberian bent over the
radarscope hood, his head almost inside it, and the greenish glow from the scope bathed his smooth-skinned face,- his
close-shaven head and his hands, making him a green man.

'How long ?' Kramer asked nervously.

Papanin looked up briefly from the hood, glanced across the bridge to where Tuchevsky was standing with his back to him, his hands clasped tightly behind him. 'You can start
your engines
now,' he called out. 'From now on we can
track her by radar.' He put his eyes close to the hood again
as he replied to Kramer's questions. 'By midnight I would guess - by midnight it will all be over.'

The
Elroy
was steaming due south down Iceberg Alley, her engines ticking over at half power, the bows sliding through
water like milk, her lights blazing. But now there was an added factor to pinpoint her position: her powerful foghorn was booming non-stop, a deep-throated, mournful sound
which echoed back to them across the ocean - and the
echoing was significant. Somewhere inside the mist there
had to be walls off which the echoes were rebounding, walls
of ice.

Four men stood at the bows, chilled and numbed with the
bitter cold, moving about frequently with the lookout
Schmidt had posted. Beaumont moved about less than any
of them, was constantly staring through his night-glasses as
he swept the sea ahead. Feet crunched behind them.

'Coffee for you guys ...'

DaSilva and Borzoli poured them mugs of steaming coffee

from an insulated jug, but the coffee was still half-cold
before they could swallow it. The acting mate sent Borzoli
back to his post near the Carley float, sent the lookout away
to check something imaginary on the port quarter before he
spoke. 'Schmidt is feeling he took the right decision.'

'I'm glad somebody's happy,' Beaumont commented.

'It's looking good so far.'

Beaumont said nothing as he finished his coffee and raised
his glasses again. His arms were weary with holding them,
his eyes were sore with the cold, with the strain of staring
into the lenses. There was a narrow channel of calm, moon
lit sea ahead for almost a mile and then it was lost behind
more mist. On the port side a huge berg was coming up, an
ugly monster with a table-top summit. To starboard lay a
great bank of mist, a dense pall rising at least two hundred
feet above the ocean, and it stretched the full length of the
channel they could see.

'Nothing over there,' DaSilva remarked as Beaumont swivelled his glasses on the bank. 'Just a load of mist.'

'Is the radio-jamming as strong as ever?' Beaumont in
quired.

'Stronger. The worst yet.'

'Which means we're getting very close to the jamming
source.'

The
Elroy
moved closer to the bottleneck formed by the
monster berg to port and the mist bank to starboard, alter
ing course a few degrees to pass down the middle. Ice
crunched underfoot as Grayson moved his numbed feet.
Langer banged his arms round his body to try and get some
circulation back into his system. Behind them a door
slammed high up as DaSilva returned to the bridge, and
they were alone with the seaman on watch.

Langer watched Beaumont as the Englishman perched
his elbows on the rail and stared through his glasses, sweep
ing them slowly to starboard. It was the huge bank of im
penetrable mist which seemed to intrigue Beaumont, the
bank which drifted less than a quarter of a mile away, the
bank which would hem them in between itself and the ice
berg once they entered the bottleneck.

'What's that? That thing in the mist well south to starboard?' Grayson called out.

Beaumont was already looking at the huge mass which
had come out of the mist like a moving cliff. It was the ghost
berg presenting its false face of rock-like stability. They were
inside the bottleneck now with the table-topped monster coming up on the port bow. Beaumont glanced at the
mist
bank and stiffened. The bows of the
Revolution
broke the mist,
bore down on them like a battleship.

'The American ship is heading due south - on a course at
right-angles to us . . .'

'You'd better get ready,' Papanin ordered Tuchevsky.

The mist was smothering the
Revolution,
drifting just be
yond the bridge window as Tuchevsky bent lower over the
radarscope, watching the echoes which registered the
Elroy's
approach. It was going to need very careful timing - he had
to bring his huge ship out of the mist at exactly the right
moment, otherwise he would fail. 'Maintain present course,'
he ordered the helmsman.

The
Revolution
was creeping forward at her lowest speed,
her engine beats muffled by the mist, moving forward on
interception course. Tuchevsky stared at the echoes, his
face gleaming with sweat, his beard moist. His calculations had to allow for the speed of the
Elroy
,
his own speed, the
distance which would separate them when they first saw
each other. He sensed the presence of the Siberian behind
him.

'I want you to hit her amidships . . .'

The sweep inside the hood was pinging non-stop, tracking
each fresh position of the
Elroy
as she approached the bottle
neck between mist bank and iceberg. Tuchevsky heard
Papanin's boots stirring restlessly. 'Aren't we moving too
slowly?'

'You want us to come out too soon ?'

There were no lights showing aboard the
Revolution,
the
ship was in complete darkness, but Papanin's eyes were accustomed to the gloom as the ship crept forward. He could just make out the bridge window frames and the faint blur
beyond them, otherwise they might have been in a fog
bound port, so smooth was the sea, so quiet the hum of the
vessel's slow-beating engines.

'Maintain your present speed,' Tuchevsky droned.

'For how long?' the Siberian demanded.

'For as long as is necessary.'

Papanin fumed, remained silent, his nerves screaming
with the tension. They had to destroy the American vessel
first time. One annihilating blow out of the mist, steel
smashing into steel, the bows of the
Revolution
grinding into
the
Elroy's
starboard side, cutting clean through her. He
imagined what it would be like - the Russian ship astride
the American, driving her under, the broken stern to his
left, the wrecked bows to his right. Which section, he won
dered, would go down first?

'Papanin! Get to the back of the bridge! Hold on to the
rail!'

The Siberian did as he was told, went back and held on to
the rail with both hands as the helmsman, one of his own men, took a tighter grip on the wheel. Papanin was watch
ing the mist beyond the bridge. When it lightened they
would be coming out, they would see the
Elroy
under their
bows. Why wasn't Tuchevsky increasing speed? The captain
left the radarscope, took a firm grip of the telegraph handle,
pressed it down to 'Half Speed', then ran back to the scope.

'Maintain present course!'

A flicker of pale light passed beyond the bridge window. The mist wavered as the engine beat increased enormously. It was very warm inside the bridge and Papanin wiped a hand quickly over his forehead to stop sweat dripping into his eyes. The mournful booming note of the
Elroy's
foghorn they had heard before became very loud, dead ahead.

Tuchevsky was staring into the radarscope, praying, then they were through.

Moonlight flooded the bridge. The lights of the
Elroy
were
a glare. Dead ahead. The
Revolution's
bow wave spread out
to port and starboard with the increased speed. The hull of
the icebreaker rushed towards them. Tuchevsky gripped
both sides of the radarscope as he stared through the
window. Never before had he concentrated On a scope with
such intensity - and he had calculated exactly. Or had he?
.Increase speed! He prayed for the
Elroy's
captain to react in
time, tried to will the order into the American's brain. In
crease speed! Get out of the way! I gave you one chance,
one warning - please, please, please!

The
Elroy
was moving faster already. The order had been
given the instant the
Revolution
appeared out of the mist. Ex
hausted as he was, Schmidt had reacted with all the decision
Tuchevsky had prayed for. The Russian continued on
course, heading point-blank for its target, so it seemed to Papanin from the back of the bridge where he couldn't see
clearly. The
Revolution
swept forward, the American ship's
hull slid across at right-angles to the sweep, its mast tower
ing above the Russian ship's bridge. Tuchevsky ran to the
starboard side, looked down beyond his own ship's rail. He
saw the
Elroy's
screw churning the water and his own bows
cut through the turbulence.

'You missed her!' Papanin's control went. 'Next time I will take command!'

In his blind fury he strode across the bridge and began
swearing at Tuchevsky, standing over him. The little captain pushed him out of the way, caught him off balance and pushed him across the bridge. 'You stupid animal - we're going to hit the berg!' Papanin stared in horror as he looked
to the front. The monster berg with the table-top summit
had filled the window.

Beaumont was close to the stern of the
Elroy
when the
bows of the
Revolution
plunged towards them. Collision
seemed inevitable, the
Elroy
was presenting her midships to
the 16,000-ton Russian ship as the bow wave came forward,
as the huge bows reared above the ship's rail. At the last
moment Beaumont was certain the bows would smash the
Elroy's
screw, destroying her motive power. Then the
Russian ship was sweeping past beyond their stern, missing
its target by yards as it sped on towards the monster berg.

'She's going to hit the berg,' Grayson said.

'I hope to God she does . . .'