San Andreas Part 12

'I trust you. We're being hunted. Somebody aboard the San Andreas has a transmitter radio that is sending out a continuous location signal. The Luftwaffe, the U-boats know exactly where we are. Somebody wants us. Somebody wants to take over the San Andreas.'

For long moments she looked at his eyes as if searching for an answer to a question she couldn't formulate. McKinnon shook his head and said: 'I'm sorry. That's all I know. You must believe me.'

'I do believe you. Who could be sending out this signal?'

'Anybody. My guess is that it is a member of our own crew. Could be a survivor from the Argos. Could be any of the sick men we picked up in Murmansk. Each idea is quite ridiculous but one has to be less ridiculous than the others. Which, I have no idea.'

'Why would anyone want us?'

'If I knew that, I'd know the answer to a lot of things. Once again, I have no idea.'

'How would they take us over?'

'Submarine. U-boat. No other way. They have no surface ships and an aircraft is out of the question. Praying, that's what your whispers are probably at-praying. Praying that the snow will never end. Our only hope lies in concealment. Praying, as the old divines used to say, that we will not be abandoned by fortune.'

'And if we are?'

'Then that's it.'

'You're not going to do anything?' She seemed more than faintly incredulous. 'You're not even going to try to do anything?'

It was quite some hours since McKinnon had made up his mind where his course of action would lie but it seemed hardly the time or the place to elaborate on his decision. 'What on earth do you expect me to do? Send them to the bottom with a salvo of stale bread and old potatoes? You forget this is a hospital ship. Sick, wounded and all civilians.'

'Surely there's something you can do.' There was a strange note in her voice, one almost of desperation. She went on bitterly: The much-bemedalled Petty Officer McKinnon.'

'The much-bemedalled Petty Officer McKinnon,' he said mildly, 'would live to fight another day.'

'Fight them now!' Her voice had a break in it. 'Fight them! Fight them! Fight them!' She buried her face in her hands.

McKinnon put his arm round her shaking shoulders and regarded her with total astonishment. A man of almost infinite resource and more than capable of dealing with anything that came his way, he was at an utter loss to account for her weird conduct. He sought for words of comfort and consolation but as he didn't know what he was supposed to be comforting or consoling about he found none. Nor did repeating phrases like 'Now, now, then' seem to meet the case either, so he finally contented himself with saying: 'I'll get Trent up and take you below.'

When they had arrived below, after a particularly harrowing trip across the upper deck between superstructure and hospital - they had to battle their way against the great wind and the driving blizzard - he led her to the little lounge and went in search of Janet Magnusson. When he found her he said: 'I think you'd better go and see your pal, Maggie. She's very upset.' He raised a hand. 'No, Janet, not guilty. I did not upset her.' She's very upset.' He raised a hand. 'No, Janet, not guilty. I did not upset her.'

She said accusingly: 'But you were with her when she became upset.'

'She's disappointed with me, that's all.'

'Disappointed?'

'She wants me to commit suicide. I don't see it her way.'

She tapped her head. 'One of you is touched. I don't much doubt who it is.' McKinnon sat down on a stool by a mess table while she went into the lounge. She emerged some five minutes later and sat down opposite him. Her face was troubled.

'Sorry, Archie. Not guilty. And neither of you is touched. She's got this ambivalent feeling towards the Germans.' Not guilty. And neither of you is touched. She's got this ambivalent feeling towards the Germans.'

'Ambi what?'

'Mixed up. It doesn't help that her mother is German. She's had rather a bad time. A very rough time. Oh, I know you have, too, but you're different.'

'Of course I'm different. I have no finer feelings.'

'Oh, do be quiet. You weren't to know - in fact, I think I'm the only person who does know. About five months ago she lost both her only brother and her fiance. Both died over Hamburg. Not in the same plane, not even in the same raid. But within weeks of each other.'

'Oh Jesus.' McKinnon shook his head slowly and was silent for some moments. Poor b.l.o.o.d.y kid. Explains a lot.' He rose, crossed to Dr Singh's private source of supplies and returned with a gla.s.s. 'The legendary McKinnon willpower. You were with Maggie when this happened, Janet?'

'Yes.'

'You knew her before then?'

'Of course. We've been friends for years.'

'So you must have known those two boys?' She said nothing. 'Known them well, I mean?' Still she said nothing,. just sat there with her flaxen head bowed, apparently gazing down at her clasped hands on the table. As much in exasperation as anything McKinnon reached out, took one of her wrists and shook it gently. 'Janet.'

She looked up. 'Yes, Archie?' Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

'Oh dear, oh dear.' McKinnon sighed. 'You, too.' Again he shook his head, again he remained silent for some time. 'Look, Janet, those boys knew what they were doing. They knew the risks. They knew that, if they could at all, the German anti-aircraft batteries and night-fighter pilots would shoot them down. And so they did and so they had every right to do. And I would remind you that those were no mere pinpoint raids - it was saturation bombing and you know what that means. So while you and Maggie are crying for yourselves, you might as well cry for the relatives of all the thousands of innocent dead that the RAF left behind in Hamburg. You might as well cry for all mankind.'

Two tears trickled down her cheeks. 'You, McKinnon, are a heartless fiend.'

'I'm all that.' He rose. 'If anyone wants me I'll be on the bridge.'

Noon came and went and as the day lengthened the wind strengthened until it reached the screaming intensity commonly found in the hurricanes and typhoons of the more tropical parts of the world. By two o'clock in the afternoon when the light, which at best had never been more than a grey half-light, was beginning to fade, what little could be seen of the mountainous seas abeam and ahead of the San Andreas - the blizzard made it quite impossible to see anything abaft of the bridge - were as white as the driving snow itself, the shapeless troughs between the towering walls of water big enough to drown a suburban house or, to the more apprehensive eye, big enough to drown a suburban church including a fair part of its steeple. The San Andreas was in trouble. At 9,300 tons it was not a small vessel and the Bo'sun had had engine revolutions reduced until the ship had barely steerage way on, but still she was in trouble and the causes for this lay neither in the size of the ship, nor the size of the seas, for normally the San Andreas could have ridden out the storm without much difficulty. The two main reasons for concern lay elsewhere.

The first of these was ice. A ship in a seaway can be said to be either stiff or tender. If it is stiff, it is resistant to roll, and, when it does roll, recovers sharply: when it is tender it rolls easily and recovers slowly and reluctantly. Tenderness arises when a vessel becomes top-heavy, raising the centre of gravity. The prime cause of this is ice. As the thickness of ice on the upper decks increases, so does the degree of tenderness: when the ice becomes sufficiently thick the vessel will fail to recover from its roll, turn turtle and founder. Even splendidly seaworthy ocean-going trawlers, specially built for Arctic operations, have succ.u.mbed to the stealthily insidious and deadly onslaught of ice: and for aircraft carriers operating in the far north, ice on their vast areas of open upper decks provided a constant threat to stability.

McKinnon was deeply worried by the acc.u.mulation of ice on the decks of the San Andreas. Compacted snow from the blizzard had formed a certain thickness of ice but not much, for apart from the area abaft of the superstructure, most of the snow had simply been blown away by the powerful wind: but for hours now, according to the ever-changing direction of the constantly shifting ma.s.ses of water, the San Andreas had been shipping copious amounts of water and spray, water and spray that turned to ice even, before it hit the decks. The vessel occasionally rode on an even keel but more and more frequently it lurched into a sudden roll and each time recovered from it more and more slowly. The critical limit, he was well aware, was still some time away: but without some amelioration in the conditions, it would inevitably be reached. There was nothing that could be done: sledgehammers and crowbars would have had but a minimal effect and the chances were high that people wielding those would have ended up, in very short order, over the side: on those lurching ice-rink decks footing would have been impossible to maintain. For once, McKinnon regretted that he was aboard an American-built oil-burning ship instead of a British-built coal-burning one: boiler ashes spread on the deck would have given a reasonably secure footing and helped considerably towards melting the ice. There was nothing that one could do with diesel oil.

Of even more immediate worry was the superstructure. Except when on even keel the over-stressed metal, shaking and shuddering, creaked and groaned its protesting torture and, when it fell into the depths of a trough, the entire structure shifted quite perceptibly. At the highest point, the bridge on which he was standing, McKinnon estimated the lateral movement to be between four and six inches at a time. It was an acutely uncomfortable sensation and a thought-provoking one: how much of a drop and how acute an angle would be required before the shear factor came into operation and the superstructure parted company with the San Andreas'? With this in mind McKinnon went below to see Lieutenant Ulbricht.

Ulbricht, who had lunched on sandwiches and Scotch and slept a couple of hours thereafter, was propped up in the Captain's bunk and was in a reasonably philosophical mood.

'Whoever named this ship the San Andreas,' he said, 'named it well. You know, of course, that the San Andreas is a famous - or notorious - earthquake - fault.' He grabbed the side of his bunk as the ship fell into a trough and juddered in a most alarming fashion. 'At the present moment I feel I'm living through an earthquake.'

'It was Mr Rennet's idea. Mr Kennet has, at times, a rather peculiar sense of humour. A week ago this was still the Ocean Belle. When we changed our paint from grey to the Red Cross colours of white, green and red, Mr Kennet thought we should change the name too. This ship was built in Richmond, California. Richmond is on the Hayward's Fault which is a branch of the San Andreas. He was of the opinion that San Andreas was much more of a romantic name than Hayward's Fault. He also thought it was an amusing idea to name it after a potential disaster area.' McKinnon smiled. 'I wonder if he still thinks it was an amusing idea.'

'Well, he's had plenty of time for reflection since I dropped those bombs on him yesterday morning. I should rather think he's had second thoughts on the matter.' Ulbricht tightened his grip on the side of his bunk as the San Andreas fell heavily into another trough. 'The weather does not improve, Mr McKinnon?'

'The weather does not improve. That's what I came to talk about, Lieutenant. Force twelve wind. With the darkness and the blizzard - it's as strong as ever - visibility is absolutely zero. Not a chance of a starsight for hours. I think you'd be far better off in the hospital.'

'Certainly not. I'd have to fight my way against a hurricane, not to say a blizzard, to reach the hospital. A man in my weakened condition? Not to be thought of.'

'It's warmer down there, Lieutenant. More comfortable. And the motion, naturally, is much less.'

'Dear me, Mr McKinnon, how could you overlook the most important inducement - all those pretty nurses. No, thank you. I prefer the Captain's cabin, not to mention the Captain's Scotch. The truth of the matter is, of course, that you suspect that the superstructure may go over the side at any moment and that you want me out of here before that happens. Isn't that so?'

'Well.' McKinnon touched the outer bulkhead. 'It is a bit unstable.'

'While you remain, of course.'

'I have a job to do.'

'Unthinkable. The honour of the Luftwaffe is at stake. You stay, I stay.'

McKinnon didn't argue. If anything, he felt obscurely pleased by Ulbricht's decision. He tapped the barometer and lifted an eyebrow. 'Three millibars?'

'Up?'

'Up.'

'Help is at hand. There's hope yet.'

'Take hours for the weather to moderate if it does. Superstructure could still go at any time. Even if it doesn't, our only real hope lies with the snow.'

'And when the snow goes?'

'Then your U-boats come.'

'You're convinced of that?'

'Yes. Aren't you?'

'I'm afraid I am, rather.'

Three hours later, shortly after five o'clock in the afternoon and quite some time before McKinnon had expected it, the weather began to moderate, almost imperceptibly at first, then with increasing speed. The wind speed dropped to a relatively benign Force six, the broken and confused seas of the early afternoon resolved themselves, once again, into a recognizable wave pattern, the San Andreas rode on a comparatively even keel, the sheeted ice on the decks no longer offered a threat and the superstructure had quite ceased its creaking and groaning. But best of all, from McKinnon's point of view, the snow, though driving much less horizontally than it had earlier on, still fell as heavily as ever. He was reasonably certain that when an attack did come it would come during" the brief hours of daylight but was well aware that a determined U-boat captain would not hesitate to press home an attack in moonlight. In his experience most U-boat captains were very determined indeed - and there would be a moon later that night. Snow would avail them nothing in daytime but during the hours of darkness it was a virtual guarantee of safety.

He went to the Captain's cabin where he found Lieutenant Ulbricht smoking an expensive Havana - Captain Bowen, a pipe man, permitted himself one cigar a day - and sipping an equally expensive malt, both of which no doubt helped to contribute to his comparatively relaxed mood.

'Ah, Mr McKinnon. This is more like it. The weather, I mean. Moderating by the minute. Still snowing?'

'Heavily. A mixed blessing, I suppose. No chance of starsights but at least it keeps your friends out of our hair.'

'Friends? Yes. I spend quite some time wondering who my friends are.' He waved a dismissive hand which was no easy thing to do with a gla.s.s of malt in one and a cigar in the other. 'Is Sister Morrison ill?'

'I shouldn't think so.'

'I'm supposed to be her patient. One could almost term this savage neglect. A man could easily bleed to death.'

'We can't have that.' McKinnon smiled. 'I'll get her for you.'

He phoned the hospital and, by the time he arrived there, Sister Morrison was ready. She said: 'Something wrong? Is he unwell?'

'He feels cruelly neglected and says something about bleeding to death. He is, in fact, in good spirits, smoking a cigar, drinking malt whisky and appears to be in excellent health. He's just bored or lonely or both and wants to talk to someone.'

'He can always talk to you.'

'When I said someone, I didn't mean anyone. I am not Margaret Morrison. Crafty, those Luftwaffe pilots. He can always have you up for dereliction of duty.'

He took her to the Captain's cabin, told her to call him at the hospital when she was through, took the crew lists from the Captain's desk, left and went in search of Jamieson. Together they spent almost half an hour going over the papers of every member of the deck and engine-room crews, trying to recall every detail they knew of their past histories and what other members of the crew had said about any particular individual. When they had finished consulting both the lists and their memories, Jamieson pushed away the lists, leaned back in his chair and sighed.

'What do you make of it, Bo'sun?'

'Same as you do, sir. Nothing. I wouldn't even begin to know where to point the finger of suspicion. Not only are there no suitable candidates for the role of saboteur, there's n.o.body who's even remotely likely. I think we'd both go into court and testify as character witnesses for the lot of them. But if we accept Lieutenant Ulbricht's theory - and you, Mr Patterson, Naseby and I do accept it - that it must have been-one of the original crew that set off that charge in the ballast room when we were alongside that corvette, then it must have been one of them. Or, failing them, one of the hospital staff.'

'The hospital staff?' Jamieson shook his head. 'The hospital staff. Sister Morrison as a seagoing Mata Hari? I have as much imagination as the next man, Bo'sun, but not that kind of imagination.'

'Neither have I. We'd both go to court for them, too. But it has to be someone who was aboard this ship when we left Halifax. When we retire, Mr Jamieson, I think we'd better not be applying for a job with Scotland Yard's CID. Then there's the possibility that whoever it is may be in cahoots with someone from the Argos or one of the nine invalids we picked up in Murmansk.'

'About all of whom we know absolutely nothing, which is a great help.'

'As far as the crew of the Argos is concerned, that's true. As for the invalids, we have, of course, their names, ranks and numbers. One of the TB cases, man by the name of Hartley, is an ERA - Engine-Room Artificer. He would know about electrics. Another, Simons, a mental breakdown case, or an alleged mental breakdown case, is an LTO -Leading Torpedo Operator. He would know about explosives.'

Too obvious, Bo'sun.'

'Far too obvious. Maybe we're meant to overlook the far too obvious.'

'Have you seen those two? Spoken to them, I mean?'

'Yes. I should imagine you also have. They're the two with the red hair.'

'Ah. Those two. Bluff, honest sailormen. Don't look like criminal types at all. But then, I suppose, the best criminals never do. Look that way, I mean.' He sighed. 'I agree, with you, Bo'sun. The CID are in no danger from us.'

'No, indeed.' McKinnon rose. 'I think I'll go and rescue Sister Morrison from Lieutenant Ulbricht's clutches.'

Sister Morrison was not in the Lieutenant's clutches nor did she show any signs of wanting to be rescued. 'Time to go?' she said.

'Of course not. Just to let you know I'll be on the bridge when you want me.' He looked at Ulbricht, then at Sister Morrison. 'You managed to save him, then?'

Compared to what it had been only a few hours previously the starboard wing of the bridge was now almost a haven of peace and quiet. The wind had dropped to not more than Force four and the seas, while far from being a millpond, had quietened to the extent that the San Andreas rarely rolled more than a few degrees when it did at all. That was on the credit side. On the debit side was the fact that the; snow had thinned to the extent that McKinnon had no difficulty in making out the arc-lit shape of the red cross on the foredeck reflecting palely under its sheathing of ice. He went back inside the bridge and called up Patterson in the engine-room.

'Bo'sun here, sir. Snow's lightening. Looks as if it's going to stop altogether pretty soon. I'd like permission to switch off all exterior lights. Seas are still too high for any U-boat to see us from periscope depth, but if it's on the surface, if the snow has stopped and we still have the Red Cross lights on, we can be seen miles away from its conning-tower.'

'We wouldn't want that, would we. No lights.'

'One other thing. Could you have some men clear a pathway - sledges, crowbars, whatever - in the ice between the hospital and the superstructure. Two feet should be wide enough.'

'Consider it done.'

Fifteen minutes later, still without any sign of Margaret Morrison, the Bo'sun moved out on the wing again. The,, snow had stopped completely. There were isolated patches of clear sky above and some stars shone, although the Pole Star was hidden. The darkness was still pretty complete, McKinnon couldn't even see as far as the fo'c's'le with the deck lights extinguished. He returned inside and went below to the Captain's cabin.

'The snow's stopped, Lieutenant, and there are a few stars around, not many, and certainly not at the moment the Pole, but a few. I don't know how long those conditions might last so I thought you might like to have a look now. I a.s.sume that Sister Morrison has staunched the flow of blood.'

'There never was any flow of blood,' she said. 'As you know perfectly well, Mr McKinnon.'

'Yes, Sister.'

She winced, then smiled. 'Archie McKinnon.'

'Wind's dropped a lot,' McKinnon said. He helped Ulbricht on with outer clothing. 'But those are just as necessary as they were before. The temperature is still below zero.'