Storm Warning - Jack Higgins 3 стр.


Everything under control, Mr Sturm? Berger enquired in a low voice.

I think so, Captain. Sturms voice was surprisingly calm. Ive stowed the wireless transmitter Herr Prager brought with him from Rio in my cabin, as you ordered. Its not much, Im afraid, sir. A limited range at the best.

Better than nothing, Berger told him. And the passengers? Are they safely stowed away also?

Oh yes, sir. There was a hint of laughter in the boys voice. I think you could say that.

A white figure appeared out of the darkness and materialized as Sister Angela. Berger swallowed hard and said in a low, dangerous voice, Could you now, Mr Sturm?

Sister Angela said brightly, Are we leaving, Captain? Is it all right if I watch?

Berger glared at her helplessly, rain dripping from the peak of his cap, then turned to Sturm and said, Haul up the spanker and outer jib only, Mr Sturm, and let the anchor chain go.

Sturm repeated the order and there was a sudden flurry of activity. One seaman dropped down the forepeak hatch. Four others hauled briskly on the halliard and the spanker rose slowly. A moment later there was a rattle as the anchor chain slithered across the deck, then a heavy splash.

Richter was at the wheel but, for the moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then Sister Angela, glancing up, saw through a gap in the curtain of rain, stars pass across the jib.

Were moving, Captain! Were moving! she cried, as excitedly as any child.

So Ive observed, Berger told her. Now will you kindly oblige me by going below.

She went reluctantly and he sighed and turned to the bosun. Steady as she goes, Richter. Shes all yours.

And Richter took her out through the harbour entrance, drifting along like some pale ghost, barely moving, leaving a slight swirl of phosphorescence in her wake.

Fifteen minutes later, as Captain Mendoza sat playing whist in his booth at the Lights of Lisbon with a young lady from the establishment next door, the man he had assigned to keep watch on the fish pier burst in on him.

What is it? Mendoza demanded mildly.

The Deutschland, Senhor Capitan, the watchman whispered. She is gone.

Indeed. Mendoza laid his cards face down on the table and stood up. Watch her, José, he called to the barman. He picked up his cap and oilskin coat and went out.

When he reached the end of the fish pier, the rain was falling harder than ever in a dark impenetrable curtain. He lit a cigar in cupped hands and stared into the night.

Will you notify the authorities, senhor? the watchman enquired.

Mendoza shrugged. What is there to notify? Undoubtedly Captain Berger wished an early start for the return trip to Rio, where he is due in eight days from now, although it would not be uncommon for him to be perhaps one week overdue, the weather at this time of the year being so unpredictable. Time enough for any official enquiry needed to be made then.

The watchman glanced at him uncertainly, then bobbed his head. As you say, Senhor Capitan.

He moved away and Mendoza looked out over the river towards the mouth of the Amazon and the sea. How far to Germany? Nearly five thousand miles, across an ocean that was now hopelessly in the grip of the American and British navies. And in what? A three-masted barquentine long past her prime.

Fools, he said softly. Poor, stupid, magnificent fools. And he turned and went back along the fish pier through the rain.

2

Barquentine Deutschland. 9 September 1944.Lat. 25°.01N., long. 30°.46W. Fourteen daysout of Belém. Wind NW 68. Hove the logand found we were going twelve knots. In thepast twenty-four hours we have run twohundred and twenty-eight miles. Frau Pragerstill confined to her bunk with the sea-sicknesswhich has plagued her since leavingBelém. Her increasing weakness gives usall cause for concern. Heavy rain towardsevening.

The morning weather forecast for sea area Hebrides had been far from promising: winds 5 to 6 with rain squalls. Off the north-west coast of Skye, things were about as dirty as they could be heavy, dark clouds swollen with rain, merging with the horizon.

Except for the occasional seabird, the only living thing in that desolation was the motor gunboat making south-west for Barra, her Stars and Stripes ensign the one splash of colour in the grey morning.

Dawn was at six-fifteen, but at nine-thirty visibility was still bad enough to keep the RAF grounded. No one on board the gunboat could have been blamed for failing to spot the lone Junkers 88S coming in low off the sea astern. The first burst of cannon shell kicked fountains of water high into the air ten or fifteen yards to port. As the plane banked for a second run, the 13mm machine-gun firing from the rear of the cockpit canopy loosed off a long burst that ripped into the deck aft of the wheelhouse.

Harry Jago, in his bunk below trying to snatch an hours sleep, was awake in an instant, and making for the companionway. As he reached the deck, the gun crew were already running for the twin 20mm anti-aircraft cannon. Jago beat them into the bucket seat, hands clamping around the trigger handles.

Suddenly, as the Junkers came in off the water for the second time, heavy, black smoke swirled across the deck. Jago started to fire as its cannon punched holes in the deck beside him.

The Junkers was making its pass at close to four hundred miles an hour. He swung to follow it, aware of Jansen on the bridge above him working the Browning. But it was all to no purpose, and the Junkers curved away to port through puff-balls of black smoke and fled into the morning.

Jago stayed where he was for a moment, hands still gripping the handles. Then he got out of the seat and turned to Leading Seaman Harvey Gould, who was in charge of the antiaircraft cannon.

You were five seconds too late, you and your boys.

The men of the gun crew shuffled uneasily. It wont happen again, Lieutenant, Gould said.

See that it doesnt. Jago produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and stuck one in his mouth. Having survived the Solomons, D-Day and the worst those E-boat flotillas in the English Channel could offer, it would look kind of silly to die in the Hebrides.

The pilot of the Junkers, Captain Horst Necker, logged his attack as having taken place at 09.35 hours precisely. A hit-and-run affair of no particular importance which had served to enliven an otherwise boring routine patrol, especially for a pilot who in the spring of that year, during the renewed night attacks on London, had been employed by the elite pathfinder Gruppe 1/KG 66 with the kind of success that had earned him the Knights Cross only two months previously.

It had been something of a come-down to be transferred to KG 40 based at Trondheim, a unit specializing in shipping and weather reconnaissance, although the JU 88S they had given him to fly was certainly a superb plane an all-weather machine capable of a top speed of around four hundred miles per hour.

His mission that morning had one purpose. To look for signs of a convoy expected to leave Liverpool for Russia that week, although the exact day of departure was unknown. He had crossed Scotland at thirty thousand feet to spend a totally abortive couple of hours west of the Outer Hebrides.

His mission that morning had one purpose. To look for signs of a convoy expected to leave Liverpool for Russia that week, although the exact day of departure was unknown. He had crossed Scotland at thirty thousand feet to spend a totally abortive couple of hours west of the Outer Hebrides.

The sighting of the gunboat had been purest chance, following an impulse to go down to see just how low the cloud base was. The target, once seen, was too tempting to pass up.

As he climbed steeply after the second attack, Rudi Hubner, the navigator, laughed excitedly. I think we got her, Herr Hauptmann. Lots of smoke back there.

What do you think, Kranz? Necker called to the rear gunner.

Looks like they made it themselves to me, Herr Hauptmann, Kranz replied. Somebody down there knows his business and they werent Tommis either. I saw the Stars and Stripes as we crossed over the second time. Probably my brother Ernst, he added gloomily. Hes in the American navy. Did I ever tell you that?

Schmidt, the wireless operator, laughed. The first time over London with the port engines on fire, and youve mentioned it on at least fifty-seven different occasions since. I suppose it shows that at least one person in your family has brains.

Hubner ignored him. A probable then, Herr Hauptmann? he suggested.

Necker was going to say no, then saw the hope in the boys eyes and changed his mind. I dont see why not. Now lets get out of here.

When Jago went up to the bridge there was no sign of Jansen. He leaned against the Browning and looked down. The smoke had almost cleared and Gould was kicking the burned-out flare under the rail into the sea. The deck was a mess by the port rail beside the anti-aircraft gun, but otherwise things didnt look too bad.

Jansen came up the ladder behind him. He was a tall, heavily-built man and in spite of the tangled black beard, the knitted cap and faded reefer coat with no rank badges, was a chief petty officer. A lecturer in Moral Philosophy at Harvard before the war and a fanatical weekend yachtsman, he had resolutely defeated every attempt to elevate him to commissioned rank.

A lone wolf, Lieutenant.

You can say that again, Jago told him. A JU 88 in the Hebrides.

And one of the Reichsmarschalls later models, to judge by his turn of speed.

But what in the hell was he doing here?

I know, Lieutenant, Jansen said soothingly. Its getting so you cant depend on anyone these days. Ive already checked below, by the way. Superficial damage. No casualties.

Thanks, Jago said. And that smoke flare was quick thinking.

He found that his right hand was trembling slightly and held it out. Would you look at that. Wasnt it yesterday I was complaining that the only thing we got to fight up here was the weather?

Well, you know what Heidegger had to say on that subject, Lieutenant.

No, I dont Jansen, but Im sure youre going to tell me.

He argued that for authentic living what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death.

Jago said patiently, Which is exactly what Ive been doing for two years now and youve usually been about a yard behind me. Under the circumstances, Ill tell you what you can do with Heidegger, Jansen. You can put him where grandma had the pain. And try to rustle up some coffee while I check over the course again.

As the Lieutenant pleases.

Jago went into the wheelhouse and slumped into the chart-table chair. Petersen had the wheel a seaman with ten years in the merchant service before the war, including two voyages to Antarctica in whalers.

You okay? Jago demanded.

Fine, Lieutenant.

Jago pulled out British Admiralty chart 1796. Barra Head to Skye. South Uist, Barra and a scattering of islands below it, with Fhada, their destination, at the southern end of the chain. The door was kicked open and Jansen came in with a mug of coffee which he put on the table.

What a bloody place, Jago said, tapping the chart. Magnetic anomalies reported throughout the entire area.

Well, thats helpful, Jansen said. Just the thing when youre working out a course in dirty weather.

Those islands south of Uist are a graveyard, Jago went on. Everywhere you look on the damned chart it says Heavy Breakersor Dangerous Seas. One hazard after another.

Jansen unfolded a yellow oilskin tobacco pouch, produced a pipe and started to fill it, leaning against the door. I was talking to some fishermen in Mallaig before we left. They were telling me that sometimes the weather out there is so bad, Fhadas cut off for weeks at a time.

The worst weather in the world when those Atlantic storms start moving in, Jago said. God knows what it must be like in winter.

Then what in the hell is Admiral Reeve doing in a place like that?

Search me. I didnt even know he was up here till I was told to pick up that dispatch for him in Mallaig and deliver it. Last I heard of him was D-day. He was deputy director of operations for Naval Intelligence and got himself a free trip on the Norwegian destroyer Svenner that was sunk by three Möwe-class torpedo boats. He lost his right eye and they tell me his left arms only good for show.

A hell of a man, Jansen said. He got out of Corregidor after MacArthur left. Sailed a lugger nearly six hundred miles to Cagayan and came out on one of the last planes. As I remember, he went down in a destroyer at Midway, was taken aboard the Yorktown and ended up in the water again.

Careful, Jansen. Your enthusiasm is showing and I didnt think that was possible where top brass was concerned.

But this isnt just another admiral were talking about, Lieutenant. Hes responsible for an excellent history of naval warfare and probably the best biography of John Paul Jones in print. Good God, sir, the man can actually read and write. Jansen put a match to the bowl of his pipe and added out of the side of his mouth, Quite an accomplishment for any naval officer, as the Lieutenant will be the first to agree?

Jansen, Jago said. Get the hell out of here.

Jansen withdrew and Jago swung round to find Petersen grinning hugely. Go on, you too! Ill take over.

Sure thing, Lieutenant.

Petersen went out and Jago reached for another cigarette. His fingers had stopped trembling. Rain spattered against the window as the MGB lifted over another wave and it came to him, with a kind of wonder, that he was actually enjoying himself, in spite of the aching back, the constant fatigue that must be taking years off his life.

Harry Jago was twenty-five and looked ten years older, even on a good day, which was hardly surprising when one considered his war record.

Hed dropped out of Yale in March 1941 to join the navy and was assigned to PT boats, joining Squadron Two in time for the Solomons campaign. The battle for Guadalcanal lasted six months. Jago went in at one end a crisp, clean nineteen-year-old ensign and emerged a lieutenant, junior grade, with a Navy Cross and two boats shot from under him.

Afterwards Squadron Two was recommissioned and sent to England at the urgent request of the Office of Strategic Services to land and pick up American agents on the French coast. Again Jago survived, this time the Channel, the constant head-on clashes with German E-boats out of Cherbourg. He even survived the hell of Omaha beach on D-day.

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