LITMIR.BIZ

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don’t really know. I don’t know how sensitive the listening devices on a modern U-boat are. I do know that the sound of a spanner being dropped on a steel deck is easily detectable. No chances.’

      He went into the two wards, checked that everybody had been told of the need for absolute silence, switched on the emergency lamps and went down to the engine-room. Only Jamieson and McCrimmon were there. Jamieson looked at him and switched on an emergency lamp.

      ‘Now, I take it?’

      ‘It’s as dark as it’s going to get, sir.’

      Even by the time McKinnon had reached the mess-decks the engine revolutions had fallen away. He sat down at a mess table next to Patterson and waited in silence until the engines had stopped and the sound of the generator had died away. With the complete silence and only the feeble light from the emergency lamps to illuminate the area, the atmosphere held the elements of both the eerie and the sinister.

      Patterson whispered: ‘No chance that the U-boat will think that their listening apparatus has failed?’

      ‘No, sir. You wouldn’t have to be a very efficient Asdic operator to know when engine revolutions are falling, then dying away.’

      Jamieson and McCrimmon appeared, each carrying an emergency lamp. Jamieson sat beside McKinnon.

      ‘All we need now, Bo’sun, is a ship’s chaplain.’

      ‘A few prayers wouldn’t come amiss, sir. Especially a prayer that Flannelfoot hasn’t got a bug sending out a location signal.’

      ‘Please. Don’t even talk about such things.’ He was silent for some moments, then said: ‘We’re heeling, aren’t we?’

      ‘We are, yes. Naseby is making a 180° turn, heading back the way we came.’

      ‘Ah!’ Jamieson looked thoughtful. ‘So that he will over-shoot us. Turning back on our tracks. But won’t he do the same? I mean, wouldn’t that be the first thing that would occur to him?’

      ‘Quite honestly, I don’t and wouldn’t have the faintest idea as to what his first, second or tenth thoughts are. His first thought might be that our reversing course is so obvious a ploy that he’s not even going to consider it. He might even think that we’re carrying straight on for the Norwegian coast, which is so ludicrous a possibility that he may even be considering it. Or we might be heading back north-east again for the Barents Sea. Only a madman would do that, of course, but he’ll have to consider the fact, whether we think he thinks we’re mad – or not. Alternatively – and there are a lot of alternatives – he may figure that once we figure we’re clear of his Asdic clutches we’ll just continue on our course to Aberdeen. Or some place in north Scotland. Or the Orkneys. Or the Shetlands. There are an awful lot of options open to us and the chances are that he will pick the wrong one.’

      ‘I see,’ Jamieson said. ‘I say this in admiration, Bo’sun, and not in reproof: you have a very devious mind.’

      ‘Let’s just hope the Oberleutnant in charge of that U-boat out there hasn’t an even more devious mind.’ He turned to Patterson. ‘I’m going up top to join Naseby and see if there’s any sign of life around.’

      ‘Sign of life? You mean you think the U-boat may have surfaced and is looking for us.’

      ‘May have done.’

      ‘But it’s dark, you said.’

      ‘He’ll have a searchlight. Two of them, for all I know.’

      Jamieson said: ‘And you think he’ll be using them?’

      ‘It’s a possibility. Not a probability. He’s bound to know by this time what happened to his fellow U-boat this morning.’

      Patterson touched his arm. ‘You wouldn’t – ah – be considering another possibility – another collision?’

      ‘Heavens, no. I don’t really think the San Andreas could survive another bump like that. Not, of course, that the captain of that submarine is to know that. He may well be convinced that we’re desperate enough for anything.’

      ‘And we’re not?’

      ‘It’s a long way down to the bottom of the Norwegian Sea.’ McKinnon paused reflectively. ‘What we really need now is a nice little old blizzard.’

      ‘Still the Condor, still the flares. Is that it, Bo’sun?’

      ‘It’s not a thought that goes away easily.’ He turned to Jamieson. ‘Under way in half an hour, sir?’

      ‘Half an hour it is. But gently, gently?’

      ‘If you would, sir.’

      McKinnon examined the sea from both sides of the upper deck but all was dark and quiet and still. He climbed to the bridge and went out on the wings, but even from this higher perspective there was nothing to be seen, no sweeping finger of a searchlight, nothing.

      ‘Well, George, this makes a change. All is quiet, all is peaceful.’

      ‘Is that a good sign or a bad one?’

      ‘Take your pick. Still quite a bit under way, aren’t we?’

      ‘Yes. I’ve just picked up our wake. And I’ve just located a couple of stars, one off the port bow, the other off the starboard. No idea what they are, of course, but it should keep us heading more or less west until we come to a halt.’

      ‘Which should take quite a while yet.’

      In just under fifteen minutes the San Andreas was dead in the water and fifteen minutes after that she came to life again, albeit very, very slowly. From the bridge any sounds from the engine-room were quite inaudible, the only indication that they were under way came from the very faint vibration of the superstructure. After a few minutes McKinnon said: ‘Any steerage way yet, George?’

      ‘Barely. We’re about ten degrees off course right now. To the south. A couple of minutes and we’ll be heading west again. I wonder, I wonder.’

      ‘You wonder, I wonder, we all wonder – are we alone in the Norwegian Sea or do we have company, company that has no intention of making its presence known? I just guess and hope that we’re alone. Beyond a certain distance a submarine is not very good at picking up a very slow-turning engine and prop. What it can pick up is a generator – which is why there will be no lights down below for another fifteen minutes yet.’

      Just under half an hour after McKinnon had arrived on the bridge the telephone bell shrilled. Naseby answered and handed the phone to the Bo’sun.

      ‘Bo’sun? This is Ward A. Sinclair speaking. I think you had better come down.’ Sinclair sounded weary or dispirited, or both. ‘Flannelfoot has struck again. There’s been an accident. No need to break your neck, though – nobody’s been hurt.’

      ‘We’ve been far too long without an accident.’ The Bo’sun felt as weary as Sinclair. ‘What happened?’

      ‘Transceiver’s wrecked.’

      ‘That’s just splendid. I’m on my way – at a leisurely pace.’ He replaced the phone. ‘Flannelfoot’s at it again, George. It seems that the transceiver in Ward A is not quite what it was.’

      ‘Oh Jesus.’ It wasn’t an exclamation of shock, horror or anger, just a sign of resignation. ‘Why wasn’t the alarm buzzer pressed.’

      ‘I shall no doubt find that out when I get there. I’ll send Trent to relieve you. I suggest you broach Captain Bowen’s supplies. Life aboard the San Andreas, George, is like life everywhere, just one damned thing after another.’

      The first thing that took McKinnon’s eye in Ward A was not the transceiver in the Cardiac Arrest box but the sight of Margaret Morrison, eyes closed, lying on a bed with Janet Magnusson bending over her. The Bo’sun looked at Dr Sinclair, who was sitting disconsolately in the

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