San Andreas

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 ringers, 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. Ton 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 lowlying 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 night 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.'