Alistair MacLean Sea Thrillers 4-Book Collection: San Andreas, The Golden Rendezvous, Seawitch, Santorini. Alistair MacLean
it was slightly downwards here …’
McKinnon looked at Ulbricht. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Ulbricht had a thick bandage round his neck.
‘I’ll tell you what’s the matter with him,’ Sinclair said. ‘Luck. The devil’s own luck. A piece of shrapnel – it must have been as sharp as a razor – sliced through the side of his neck. Another quarter-inch to the right and it would have sliced through the carotid artery as well and then he’d have been very much the late Lieutenant Ulbricht.’
Ulbricht looked at McKinnon with little in the way of expression on his face. ‘I thought you sent us down here for our own safety.’
‘That’s what I thought, too. I was certain they’d concentrate their fire on the bridge. I’m making no excuses but I don’t think I miscalculated. I think the U-boat’s gun crew panicked. I’m sure that Klaussen gave no instructions to fire into the hull.’
‘Klaussen?’
‘Oberleutnant. The captain. He survived. He seems fairly ill.’
‘How many survivors altogether?’
‘Six.’
‘And the rest you sent to the bottom.’
‘I’m the guilty party, if that’s what you mean. I don’t feel particularly guilty. But I’m responsible, yes.’
‘I suppose that makes two of us. Responsible but not guilty.’ Ulbricht shrugged and seemed disinclined to continue the conversation. McKinnon moved to the Captain’s bed.
‘Sorry to hear you’ve been hurt again, sir.’
‘Me and Kennet. Left thighs. Both of us. Dr Sinclair tells me it’s only a scratch and as I can’t see it I have to take his word for it. Doesn’t feel like a scratch, I can tell you. Well, Archie my boy, you’ve done it. I knew you would. If it weren’t for those damned bandages I’d shake hands with you. Congratulations. You must feel pretty good about this.’
‘I don’t feel good at all, sir. If there were any survivors and if they managed to find a sealed compartment they’ll be gasping out their lives – now – on the floor of the Norwegian Sea.’
‘There’s that, of course, there’s that. But not to reproach yourself, Archie. Them or us. Unpleasant, but still well done.’ Bowen adroitly switched the subject. ‘Building up speed, aren’t we? Limited damage up front, I take it.’
‘Far from limited, sir. We’re badly holed. But there’s a large chunk of the U-boat’s casing embedded in that hole. Let’s just hope it stays there.’
‘We can but pray, Bo’sun, we can but pray. And regardless of how you feel, every person aboard this boat is deeply in your debt.’
‘I’ll see you later, sir.’
He turned away, looked at Margaret Morrison, then at Dr Sinclair. ‘Is she hurt? Badly, I mean.’
‘She’s the worst of the lot but nothing dangerous, you understand. She was sitting by Captain Bowen’s bedside at the time and was hit twice. Nasty gash on the upper right arm and a minor scalp wound – that’s the one Sister Maria has just finished bandaging.’
‘Shouldn’t she be in bed?’
‘Yes. I tried to insist on it but I can tell you I won’t be doing it again. How about you trying?’
‘No, thank you.’ McKinnon approached the girl, who looked at him with reproachful brown eyes that were slightly dulled with pain.
‘This is all your fault, Archie McKinnon.’
McKinnon sighed. ‘Exactly what Janet said to me. It’s difficult to please everybody. I’m very, very sorry.’
‘And so you should be. Not for this, though. The physical pain, I can tell you, is nothing compared to the mental hurt. You deceived me. Our greatly respected Bo’sun is exactly what he accused me of being – a fibber.’
‘Oh dear. Long-suffering Bo’sun back in court again. What am I supposed to have done wrong now?’
‘Not only that but you’ve made me feel very, very foolish.’
‘I have? I would never do that.’
‘You did. Remember on the bridge you suggested – in jest, of course – that you might fight the U-boat with a fusillade of stale bread and old potatoes. Well, something like that.’
‘Ah!’
‘Yes, ah! Remember that emotional scene on the bridge – well, emotional on my part, I cringe when I think about it – when I begged you to fight them and fight them and fight them. You remember, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘He thinks he does! You had already made up your mind to fight them, hadn’t you?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Well, yes,’ she mimicked. ‘You had already made up your mind to ram that U-boat.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Archie?’
‘Because you might have casually mentioned it to somebody who might have casually mentioned it – unknowingly, of course – to Flannelfoot who would far from casually have mentioned it to the U-boat captain who would have made damn certain that he would never put himself in a position where he could be rammed. You might even – again unknowingly – have mentioned it directly to Flannelfoot.’
She made no attempt to conceal the hurt in her eyes. ‘So you don’t trust me. You said you did.’
‘I trust you absolutely. I did say that.’
‘Then why –’
‘It was one of those then-and-now things. Then you were Sister Morrison. I didn’t know there was a Margaret Morrison. I know now.’
‘Ah!’ She pursed her lips, then smiled, clearly mollified. ‘I see.’
McKinnon left her, joined Dr Sinclair and Jamieson, and together they went to the door of the recovery room. Jamieson was carrying with him an electric drill, a hammer and some tapered wooden pegs. Jamieson said: ‘You saw the entry hole made by the shell when you went up to examine the bows?’
‘Yes. Just on – well, an inch or two above – the waterline. Could be water inside. Or not. It’s impossible to say.’
‘How high up?’
‘Eighteen inches, say. Anybody’s guess.’
Jamieson plugged in his drill and pressed the trigger. The tungsten carbide bit sank easily into the heavy steel of the door. Sinclair said: ‘What happens if there’s water behind?’
‘Tap in one of those wooden pegs, then try higher up.’
‘Through,’ Jamieson said. He withdrew the bit. ‘Clear.’
McKinnon struck the steel handle twice with the sledge. The handle did not even budge a fraction of an inch. On the third blow it sheared off and fell to the deck.
‘Pity,’ McKinnon said. ‘But we have to find out.’
Jamieson shrugged. ‘No option. Torch?’
‘Please.’ Jamieson left and was back in two minutes with the torch, followed by McCrimmon carrying the gas cylinder and a lamp on the end of a wandering lead. Jamieson lit the oxy-acetylene flame and began to carve a semi-circle round the space where the handle had been: McCrimmon plugged in the wandering lead and the wire-caged lamp burned brightly.
Jamieson said from behind his plastic face-shield: ‘We’re only assuming that this is where the door is jammed.’
‘If we’re wrong we’ll cut away round the hinges. I don’t think we’ll