San Andreas

  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 nig
ht 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.’

  ‘Variation in wind force or direction. Something like that. I heard it all right. Up in a north-easterly direction. I’m quite sure that the pilot didn’t intend that we should hear him. Some passing freak of wind. They’re being either very careful or very suspicious or maybe both. They have to consider the possibility that we might make a break for some port in the Shetlands. So the U-boat surfaces before dawn and calls up the Focke-Wulf. Pilot’s doubtless been told to stay out of sight and hearing. He’ll do that until he hears from the U-boat that we’ve suddenly changed direction. Then he’ll come calling.’

  ‘To finish us off,’ Naseby said.

  ‘They won’t be dropping any rose petals, that’s for sure.’

  Ulbricht said: ‘You no longer think that it will be torpedo-bombers or glider-bombers or Stukas that will come and do the job?’

  ‘No. They wouldn’t get here in time and they can’t come earlier and hang around waiting. They haven’t the range. But that big lad out there can hang around all day if need be. Of course, I’m only assuming there’s only one Condor out there. Could be two or three of them. Don’t forget we’re a very, very important target.’

  ‘It’s a gift not given to many.’ Ulbricht was gloomy. ‘This ability to cheer up people and lighten their hearts.’

  ‘I second that.’ Naseby didn’t sound any happier than Ulbricht. ‘I wish to hell you hadn’t gone out on that wing.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like me to keep the burden of my secrets alone, would you? No need to tell anyone else. Why spread gloom and despondency unnecessarily, especially when there’s damn-all we can do about it.’

  ‘Blissful ignorance, is that it?’ Naseby said. McKinnon nodded. ‘I could do with some of that.’

  Shortly after noon, when they were off a small and dimly seen group of islands which McKinnon called the Skerries, he and Ulbricht went below, leaving Naseby and McGuigan on the bridge. The snow, which was now really more sleet than snow, had eased but not stopped. The wind, too, had eased. The visibility, if that was the word for it, varied intermittently between two and four miles. Cloud cover was about two thousand feet and somewhere above that the unseen Condor lurked. McKinnon had not heard it again but he didn’t for a moment doubt that it was still there.

  The Captain and Rennet were sitting up in bed and the Bo’sun passed the time of day with them and Margaret Morrison. Everybody was being elaborately calm but the tension and expectancy in the air were unmistakable and considerable. It would have been even more considerable, McKinnon reflected, if they had known of the Condor patrolling above the clouds.

  He found Patterson and Sinclair in the mess-deck. Sinclair said: ‘Singularly free from alarms and excursions this morning, aren’t we, Bo’sun?’

  ‘Long may it continue that way.’ He wondered if Sinclair would consider the accompanying Condor an alarm or an excursion. ‘The weather is rather on our side. Snowing, poor visibility—not fog but not good—and low cloud cover.’

  ‘Sounds promising. May yet be that we shall touch the Happy Isles.’

  ‘We hope. Speaking of the Happy Isles, have you made preparations for off-loading our wounded cripples when we reach the Isles?’

  ‘Yes. No problem. Rafferty is a stretcher case. So are four of the men we picked up in Murmansk—two with leg wounds, two frostbite cases. Five in all. Easy.’

  ‘Sounds good. Mr Patterson, those two rogues, McCrimmon and Simons or whatever his name is. We’ll have to tie them up—at least tie their hands behind their backs—before we take them ashore.’

  ‘If we get the chance to take them ashore. Have to leave it to the last minute—double-dyed criminals they may be but we can’t have a couple of men go down in a sinking ship.’

  ‘Please don’t talk about such things,’ Sinclair said.

  ‘Of course, sir. Have they been fed? Not that I really care.’

  ‘No.’ It was Sinclair. ‘I saw them. Simons says he’s lost his appetite and McCrimmon’s face is too painful to let him eat. I believe him, he can hardly move his lips to speak. It looks, Bo’sun, as if you hit him with a sledgehammer.’

  ‘No tears for either.’

  McKinnon had a quick lunch and rose to go. ‘Have to go to relieve Naseby.’

  McKinnon said: ‘Two hours or so. Perhaps earlier if I can see a convenient bank of low cloud or snow or even fog—anything we can disappear into. You or Mr Jamieson will be in the engine-room about then?’

  ‘Both, probably.’ Patterson sighed. ‘We can only hope it works, Bo’sun.’

  ‘That’s all we can do, sir.’

  Shortly after three o‘clock in the afternoon, on the bridge with Naseby and Ulbricht, McKinnon made his decision to go. He said to Ulbricht: ‘We can’t see it but we’re near enough opposite the south tip of Bressay?’

  ‘I would say so. Due west of us.’

  ‘Well, no point in putting off the inevitable.’ He lifted the phone and called the engine-room. ‘Mr Patterson? Now, if you please.
George, hard a-starboard. Due west.’

  ‘And how am I to know where west is?’

  McKinnon went to the starboard wing door and latched it open. ‘Going to be a bit chilly—and damp—but if you keep the wind fair and square on your right cheek that should be it, near enough.’ He went into the wrecked radio room, disconnected the transmitting bug, returned to the bridge and went out on the port wing.

  The weather had changed very little. Grey skies, grey seas, moderate sleet and a patchy visibility extending to not more than two miles. He returned to the bridge again, leaving the door open so that the north wind had a clear passage through the bridge.

  ‘One wonders,’ Ulbricht said, ‘what thoughts are passing through the mind of the U-boat captain at this moment.’

  ‘Probably not very pleasant ones. All depends whether he was depending on the transmitting bug or the Asdic or both to keep tabs on us. If it was the bug, then he might trail us at a prudent distance so that he could have his aerial raised to pick up the transmitting signal without being seen. In that case he might have been out of Asdic listening range. And if that is the case he might well believe that the transmitter has failed. He has, after all, no reason to believe that we might have stumbled on the bug and that we know of McCrimmon’s shenanigans.’

  The San Andreas, silent now, was heading approximately west, still with a good turn of speed on.

  ‘So he’s in a quandary,’ McKinnon said. ‘Not a position I would like to be in. So what decision does he make? Does he increase speed on the same course we’ve been following in the hope of catching us up or does he think we might be running for shelter and go off on an interception course for Bard Head in the hope of locating us? All depends how crafty he is.’

  ‘I just don’t know,’ Ulbricht said.

  ‘I know,’ Naseby said. ‘We’re just assuming that he hasn’t been tracking us on Asdic. If he’s as crafty as you are, Archie, he’ll set off on an interception course—and he’ll ask the Condor to come down and look for us.’

  ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’

  Fifteen minutes passed in an increasingly eerie silence, then McKinnon went out on the port wing. He didn’t remain there long.