San Andreas Part 6

Ferguson put away the last of the tools and coughed. 'There was some mention of a couple of tots of Captain Bowen's special malt.'

McKinnon looked at him and at Curran. Their faces were mottled blue and white with cold and both men were shivering violently: chronic complainers, neither had complained once.

'You've earned it.' He turned to Naseby. 'How's she bearing?'

Naseby looked at his hand-held compa.s.s in distaste. 'If you can trust this thing, two-twenty. Give or take. So the wind's backed five degrees in the past couple of hours. We don't bother the engine-room for five degrees?'

George Naseby, a solid, taciturn, dark-haired and swarthy Yorkshireman - he hailed from Whitby, Captain Cook's home town - was McKinnon's alter ego and closest friend. A bo'sun himself on his two previous ships, he had elected to sail on the San Andreas simply because of the mutual regard that he and McKinnon shared. Although he held no official ranking, he was regarded by everyone, from the Captain down, as the number two on the deckside.

'We don't bother them. Another five, perhaps, ten degrees off, then we bother them. Let's go below - ship can look after itself for a few minutes Then I'll have Trent relieve you.'

The level of Scotch in the Captain's bottle of malt had fallen quite rapidly - Ferguson and Curran had their own ideas as to what const.i.tuted a reasonably sized tot. McKinnon, in between rather more frugal sips, examined the Captain's s.e.xtant, thermometer and barometer. The s.e.xtant, as far as the Bo'sun could tell, was undamaged - the felt lining of its wooden box would have cushioned it from the effects of the blast. The thermometer, too, appeared to be working: the mercury registered 17F., which was about what McKinnon reckoned the cabin temperature to be. The Captain's cabin was one of the few with its door still intact and Jamieson had already had a black heater installed.

He gave the thermometer to Naseby, asking that it be placed on one of the bridge wings, then turned his attention to the barometer. This was functioning normally, for when he tapped the gla.s.s the black needle fell sharply to the left.

'Twenty-nine point five,' the Bo'sun said. 'Nine nine nine millibars - and falling.' V 'Not good, eh?' Ferguson said.

'No. Not that we need a barometer to tell us that.'

McKinnon left and went down from deck to the officers' quarters. He found Jamieson at the end of the pa.s.sageway.

'How's it coming, sir?'

'We're about through. Should be five cabins fit for human habitation - depending, of course, upon what your definition of human is.'

The Bo'sun tapped the bulkhead beside him. 'How stable do you reckon this structure is, sir?'

'Highly unstable. Safe enough in those conditions, but I gather you think those conditions are about to change.'

'If the wind keeps backing and we keep holding to this course then we're going to have the seas on the starboard, quarter and a lot of nasty corks.c.r.e.w.i.n.g. I was thinking perhaps - '

'I know what you were thinking. I'm a ship's engineer. Bo'sun, not a constructive engineer. I'll have a look. Maybe we can bolt or weld a few strengthening steel plates at the weakest points. I don't know. There's no guarantee. First of ail, we'll go have a look at the steering on the bridge. How are things up top?'

'Draught-free. Four heaters. Ideal working conditions.'

'Temperature?'

'Fifteen.' I 'Above freezing, or below?'

'Below.'

'Ideal. Thank you very much.'

McKinnon found four people in the staff dining area - Chief Engineer Patterson, Dr Singh, and Nurses Janet Magnusson and Irene. The nurses were off-duty - the San Andreas, as did all hospital ships, carried an alternate nursing staff. The Bo'sun went to the galley, asked for coffee and sandwiches, sat at the table and made his report to the Chief Engineer. When he was finished he said: 'And how did you get on, sir? Finding a translator, I mean?'

Patterson scowled. 'With our luck?'

'Well, I didn't really have any hope, sir. Not, as you say, 'with our luck.' He looked at Janet Magnusson. 'Where s Sister Morrison?'

'In the lounge. Neither her voice nor her eyes held much in the way of warmth. 'She's upset. You upset her.'

'She upset me.' He made an impatient, dismissive gesture with his hand. 'Tantrums. This is neither the time nor the place. If ever there is a time and a place.'

'Oh, come now.' Dr Singh was smiling. 'I don't think either of you is being quite fair. Sister Morrison is not, as you suggest, Mr McKinnon, sulking in her tent and, Nurse, if she's feeling rather unhappy, it's not primarily the Bo'sun's fault. She and Mr Ulbricht are not quite seeing eye to eye.'

'Ulbricht?' the Bo'sun said.

'Flight-Lieutenant Karl Ulbricht, I understand. The captain of the Condor.'

'He's conscious?'

'Very much so. Not only conscious but wanting out of bed. Quite remarkable powers of recuperation. Three bullet wounds, all flesh, all superficial. Bled a great deal, mind you, but he's had a transfusion: one hopes that the best British blood goes well with his own native Aryan stock. Anyway, Sister Morrison was with me when he came to. She called him a filthy n.a.z.i murderer. Hardly makes for the ideal nurse-patient relationship.'

'Not very tactful, I agree,' Patterson said. 'A wounded man recovering consciousness might expect to be ent.i.tled to a little more sympathy. How did he react?'

'Very calmly. Mild, you might say. Said he wasn't a n.a.z.i and had never murdered anyone in his life. She just stood and glared at him - if you can imagine Sister Morrison glaring at anybody - and - '

'I can imagine it very easily,' the Bo'sun said with some feeling. 'She glares at me. Frequently.'

'Perhaps,' Nurse Magnusson said, 'you and Lieutenant Ulbricht have a lot in common.'

'Please.' Dr Singh held up a hand. 'Lieutenant Ulbricht expressed deep regrets, said something about the fortunes of war, but didn't exactly call for sackcloth and ashes. I stopped it there - it didn't look like being a very profitable discussion. Don't be too hard on the Sister, Bo'sun. She's no battleaxe, far less a termagant. She feels deeply and has her own way of expressing her feelings.'

McKinnon made to reply, caught Janet's still far from friendly eye and changed his mind. 'How are your other patients, Doctor?'

'The other aircrew member - a gunner, it seems, by the name of Helmut Winterman - is okay, just a scared kid who expects to be shot at dawn. Commander Warrington, as you guessed, Mr McKinnon, is badly hurt. How badly, I don't: know. His occiput is fractured but only surgery can tell us how serious it is. I'm a surgeon but not a brain surgeon. We'll have to wait until we get to a mainland hospital to ease the pressure on the sight centre and find out when, if ever, he'll see again.'

'The Andover's navigator?'

'Lieutenant Cunningham?' Dr Singh shook his head. 'I'm sorry - in more ways than one, I'm afraid this may be your last hope gone - that the young man won't be doing any more navigating for some time to come. He's in a coma. X-ray shows a fracture of the skull and not a hairline fracture either. Pulse, respiration, temperature show no sign of organic damage. He'll live.'

'Any idea when he might come to, Doctor?'

Dr Singh sighed. 'If I were a first-year intern, I'd hazard a fairly confident guess. Alas, it's twenty-five years since I was a first-year intern. Two days, two weeks, two months - I simply don't know. As for the others, the Captain and Chief Officer are still under sedation and when they wake up I'm going to put them to sleep again. Hudson, the one with the punctured lung, seems to have stabilized - at least, the internal bleeding has stopped. Rafferty's fractured tibia is no problem. The two injured crewmen from the Argos, one with a broken pelvis, the other with multiple burns, are still in the recovery room, not because they're in any danger but because Ward A was full and it was the best place to keep them. And I've discharged two young seamen, I don't know their names.'

'Jones and McGuigan.'

That's the two. Shock, nothing more. I understand they're lucky to be alive.'

'We're all lucky to be alive.' McKinnon nodded his thanks as Mario put coffee and sandwiches before him, then looked at Patterson. 'Do you think it might help, sir, if we had a word with Lieutenant Ulbricht?'

'If you're halfway right on your way of thinking, Bo'sun, it might be of some help. At least, it can be of no harm.'

'I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit,' Dr Singh said. 'The Lieutenant was getting a little bit too active - or beginning to feel too active - for his own good. It'll be an hour, perhaps two. A matter of urgency, Mr McKinnon?'

'It could be. Or a matter of some importance, at least. He might be able to tell us why we're all so lucky as to be still alive. And if we knew, then we might have some idea, or a guess at least, as to what lies in store for us.'

'You think the enemy is not yet finished with us?'

'I should be surprised if they are, Doctor.'

McKinnon, alone now in the dining area, had just finished his third cup of coffee when Jamieson and three of his men entered, to the accompaniment of much arm-flapping and teeth-chattering. Jamieson went to the galley, ordered coffee for himself and his men and sat beside McKinnon.

'Ideal working conditions, you said, Bo'sun. Snug as a bug in a rug, one might say. Temperature's soaring - it's almost ten degrees up there. Minus.'

'Sorry about that, sir. How's the steering?'

'Fixed. For the moment, at least. Not too big a job. Quite a bit of play on the wheel, but Trent says its manageable.'

'Fine. Thank you. We have bridge control?'

'Yes. I told the engine-room to cease and desist. Chief Patterson seemed quite disappointed - seems to think that he can do a better job than the bridge. What's next on the agenda?'

'Nothing. Not for me, that is.'

'Ah! I take your point. Our idle hands, is that it? We'll have a look at the chances of bracing the superstructure in a moment - a moment depending on how long it takes us to get defrosted.'

'Of course, sir.' The Bo'sun looked over his shoulder. 'I have noticed that Dr Singh doesn't bother to keep the hospital's private liquor cabinet locked.'

'Well, now. A little something in our coffee, perhaps?'

'I would recommend it, sir. Might help to speed up the defrosting process.'

Jamieson gave him an old-fashioned look, rose and crossed towards the cabinet.

Jamieson drained his second cup of reinforced coffee and looked at McKinnon. 'Something bothering you, Bo'sun?'

'Yes.' McKinnon had both hands on the table, as if preparing to rise. 'Motion's changed. A few minutes back the ship started quartering a little, not too much, as if Trent was making a slight course adjustment, but now she's quartering too d.a.m.n much. It could be that the steering has failed again.'

McKinnon left at speed, Jamieson close behind him. Reaching the now smoothly ice-coated deck, McKinnon grabbed a lifeline and stopped.

'Corks.c.r.e.w.i.n.g,' he shouted. He had to shout to make himself heard above the near gale-force wind. 'Twenty degrees off course, maybe thirty. Something far wrong up there.'

And indeed, when they arrived on the bridge, there was something far wrong. Both men paused momentarily, and McKinnon said: 'My apologies, Mr Jamieson. It wasn't the steering after all.'

Trent was lying, face up, just behind the wheel, which was mindlessly jerking from side to side in response to the erratic seas striking against the rudder. Trent was breathing, no doubt about that, his chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic fashion. McKinnon bent over to examine his face, looked more closely, sniffed, wrinkled his nose in distaste and straightened.

'Chloroform.' He reached out for the wheel and began to bring the San Andreas back on course again.

'And this.' Jamieson stooped, picked up the fallen compa.s.s and showed it to McKinnon. The gla.s.s was smashed, the needle irremediably twisted out of position. 'Flanneifoot strikes again.'

'So it would appear, sir.'

'Ah. You don't seem particularly surprised, Bo'sun?'

'I saw it lying there. I didn't have to look. There are quite a few other helmsmen aboard. That was our only compa.s.s.'

FOUR.

'Whoever was responsible for this must have had access to the dispensary,' Patterson said. He was with Jamieson and McKinnon in the hospital's small lounge.

'That won't help, sir,' McKinnon said. 'Since ten o'clock this morning everybody aboard this ship - except, of course, the wounded, the unconscious and those under sedation -have had access to the dispensary. There's not a single person who hasn't been in the hospital area, either to eat, sleep or just rest.'

'Maybe we're not looking at it in the right way,' Jamieson said.' Why should anyone want to smash the compa.s.s? It can't just be to stop us from following whatever course we were following or that we might outrun someone. The chances are high that Flannelfoot is still transmitting his homing signal and that the Germans know exactly where we are.'

'Maybe he's hoping to panic us,' McKinnon said. 'Maybe he's hoping we'll slow down, rather than travel around in circles, which could easily happen if the weather deteriorates, the sea becomes confused, and if we have no compa.s.s. Perhaps there's a German submarine in the vicinity and he doesn't want us to get too far away. There's an even worse possibility. We've been a.s.suming that Flannelfoot has only a transmitter: maybe he has a transceiver, what if he's in radio contact with Alta Fjord or a U-boat or even a reconnaissance Condor? There could be a British warship in the vicinity and the last thing they would want is that we make contact with it. Well, we couldn't contact it: but its radar could pick us up ten, fifteen miles away.'

Too many "ifs", "maybes" and "perhaps this" and "perhaps that".' Patterson's voice was decisive, that of a man who has made up his mind. 'How many men do you trust aboard this ship, Bo'sun?'

'How many - ' McKinnon broke off in speculation. 'The three of us here and Naseby. And the medical staff. Not that I have any particular reason to trust them - nor do I have any particular reason to distrust them - but we know that they were here, all present and accounted for, when Trent was attacked, so that rules them out.'

'Two doctors, six nursing staff, three orderlies and the four of us. That makes fifteen,' Jamieson said. He smiled. ' 'Apart from that, everyone is a suspect?'

The Bo'sun permitted himself a slight smile in return. 'It's difficult to see kids like Jones, McGuigan and Wayland Day as master spies. Those apart, I wouldn't put my hand in the fire for any of them, that's to say I've no reason to trust them in a matter of life and death.'

Patterson said: 'The crew of the Argos? Survivors? Guests by happenstance?"

'Ridiculous, I know, sir. But who's to say the n.i.g.g.e.r is not in the most unlikely woodpile? I just don't trust anyone.' The Bo'sun paused. 'Am I wrong in thinking that it is your intention to search through the quarters and possessions of everyone aboard?'

'You are not wrong, Bo'sun.'

'With respect sir, we'll be wasting our time. Anyone as smart as Flannelfoot is too smart to leave anything lying around, or at least to leave it in any place where it might be remotely a.s.sociated with him. There are hundreds of places aboard where you can hide things and we are not trained rummagers. On the other hand, it's better than doing nothing. But I'm afraid that's what we'll find, Mr Patterson. Nothing.'

They found nothing. They searched every living quarter, every wardrobe and cupboard, every case and duffel bag, every nook and cranny, and they found nothing. A rather awkward moment had arisen when Captain Andropolous, a burly, dark-bearded and seemingly intemperate character who had been given one of the empty cabins normally reserved for recuperating patients, objected violently and physically to having his quarters searched: McKinnon, who had no Greek, resolved this impa.s.se by pointing his Colt at the Captain's temple, after which, probably realizing that McKinnon wasn't acting for his own amus.e.m.e.nt, the Captain had been cooperation itself, even to going to the extent of accompanying the Bo'sun and ordering his crew to open up their possessions for scrutiny.

The two Singhalese cooks in the hospital galleys were more than competent and Dr Singh, who appeared to be something of a connoisseur in such matters, produced some Bordeaux that would not have been found wanting in a Michelin restaurant, but poor justice was done to the food arid, more surprisingly, the wine at dinner that evening. The atmosphere was sombre. There was an uneasiness about, even a faint air of furtiveness. It is one thing to be told that there is a saboteur at large: it is quite another to have your luggage and possessions searched on the basis of the possibility that you might be the saboteur in question. Even, or perhaps especially, the hospital staff seemed unduly uncomfortable: their possessions had not been searched so they were not, officially, in the clear. An irrational reaction it may have been but, in the circ.u.mstances, understandable.

Patterson pushed back his unfinished plate and said to Dr Singh: 'This Lieutenant Ulbricht. Is he awake?'

'He's more than awake.' Dr Singh sounded almost testy. 'Remarkable recuperative powers. Wanted to join us for dinner. Forbade it, of course. Why?' - 'The Bo'sun and I would like to have a word with him.'

'No reason why not.' He pondered briefly. 'Two possible minor complications. Sister Morrison is there - she's just relieved Sister Maria for dinner.' He nodded towards the end of the table where a fair-haired, high-cheekboned girl in a sister's uniform was having dinner. Apart from Stephen Przybyszewski she was the only Polish national aboard and as people found her surname of Szarzynski, like Stephen's, rather difficult, she was invariably and affectionately referred to as Sister Maria.

'We'll survive,' Patterson said. 'The other complication?'

'Captain Bowen. Like Lieutenant Ulbricht, he has a high tolerance to sedatives. Keeps surfacing - longer and longer spells of consciousness and when he is awake he's in a very bad humour. Who has ever seen Captain Bowen in ill humour?'

Patterson rose. 'If I were the Captain I wouldn't be very much in the mood for singing and dancing. Come on, Bo'sun.'

They found the Captain awake, very much so, and, indeed, in a more than irritable frame of mind. Sister Morrison was seated on a stool by his bedside. She made to rise but Patterson waved to her to remain where she was. Lieutenant Ulbricht was half-sitting, half-lying in the next bed, his right hand behind his neck: Lieutenant Ulbricht was very wide awake.

'How do you feel, Captain?"