Balance of Fear Page 13

  The five men in the wheelhouse winced and hastily replaced their fingers in their ears as that dreadful, yet longed for, noise started again.

  Green had fired his missile.

  “All right!” yelled Dingle.

  Brook sprang to the telegraph to signal full ahead, shouting to the quartermaster at the same time.

  “Hard a’starb’d!”

  The man spun the wheel, and new vigour began to pulse through the ship from below as the turbines drove the single shaft faster, faster.

  “He’s hit her, boyo!” shouted Jones. “Smack on the bridge. What about that? Two direct bloody hits!”

  The wheelhouse was a jumbled confusion of excited, shouting men.

  “The deck! Look at the deck!” cried Miller.

  The planking behind the forward launcher was smouldering. Wood which seconds earlier was soaking wet had been dried out and then set alight by the giant blow lamp that had provided the missile’s thrust. But Grant and Power were already there, dousing the outbreak. The deck behind the after launcher did not seem to be affected.

  Brook was shouting into the telephone to the engine-room.

  “Now, Chief! And give us all the speed you’ve got!”

  He slammed the receiver down and called to the man at the wheel:

  “Midships!”

  Down below, Grubeck adjusted the air mixture — and thick black smoke spewed from the Vologda's single funnel. The wind caught it and spread it over the surface of the sea, hiding the ship from the Russian destroyer.

  The pilot crossed over to the board in front of the quartermaster and chalked up a new set of figures.

  “There’s your course; but keep zig-zagging. The Skori can still see us on radar.”

  Shells continued to crash into the sea, dangerously close. But the Vologda, stern down and screened by the smoke, was presenting a more difficult target now.

  Dingle turned to Miller: “Go to the radio cabin and tell Sparks to send the message I left with him earlier. Tell him to add our present position and our course. Mr. Brook will tell you what they are, if you don’t know yourself.”

  “I know what they are. Shall I give our speed as well?”

  The Englishman smiled. “Good idea.”

  Miller left the wheelhouse, and Dingle glanced at the clock.

  He was surprised to see that it was only five minutes past eight.

  *

  Grant climbed up to the bridge.

  “There’s a hell of a mess down below,” he said. “That Gorki guy, or one of the men with him, must have had a gun tucked away somewhere when they were locked up.”

  “How the heck did they get out?” asked Dingle.

  “Apparently Gorki kept banging on the store room door until one of our guards went over and shouted to him to shut up. The bastard fired through the door and hit the guard; then he shot the lock off and broke out.”

  “Was the guard badly hurt?”

  “He was killed instantly, but the second guard had his Sten ready and he tried to get the Ruskies as they came through the doorway. He got two of them — and then he collected a bullet in the knee from Gorki. He fell to the deck, but kept firing short bursts.

  “There were eight Russians in that store room, and they aimed to release their pals next door. But the guard with the Sten kept them pinned down. In the end they decided to make a dash for the companionway. Three of them made it — Gorki and the other two in there.” Grant jerked his thumb towards the chart room. “The other five are all dead; there are bodies all over the place down there.”

  “The chap with the Sten did a good job,” said Dingle.

  “Yeah. He’d have been in for a medal if this had been wartime.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’ll be okay, I think. But he’s lost a lot of blood. Power’s arranging to have him brought up to the sick bay. We’ll be needing a full-scale hospital at this rate. It’s getting crowded in there.”

  Grant ducked as two more shells whined overhead.

  “Hell,” he said, shamefaced, “I don’t know why I do that. I guess ducking ain’t much use against them goddam things.”

  “It’s just a reflex action,” said Dingle mildly. “We all do it. Are the other prisoners still secure?”

  “Yes. Power’s fixing up a fresh guard.”

  Wilberforce Power entered the wheelhouse in time to hear the last question and answer.

  “That’s right,” he said. “They’re already on duty. And I’ve got some more men working, clearing away all those bodies. Man, it’s like a battlefield! I’ve checked the after accommodation, too; the fire’s out now.”

  Three more shells splashed down, close enough to spray the ship.

  “They’re keeping this bombardment going a long time, aren’t they?” Dingle said sharply. “I thought that, with the for’ard turret out of action, they wouldn’t be able to fire while they were chasing us.” Brook was studying the radar screen.

  “They’re hardly moving. I think the Skori has been turned round so they can use the aft guns.”

  “Hell, I never thought of that. So they aren’t coming after us?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  More shells hit the water near the Vologda.

  “Keep zig-zagging,” Brook reminded the quartermaster. “They’re getting uncomfortably close.”

  He turned to Dingle. “There’s some other shipping showing on the screen. Two groups; one about ten miles beyond the Skori, the other about the same distance ahead of us — coming straight for us. Both groups are moving fast, so I don’t think they’ll turn out to be fishing fleets.”

  Dingle nodded. “The ones to the east are probably the Skori’s reinforcements. I hope … ”

  He was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone from the engine-room. The pilot picked up the receiver.

  “I can’t keep this speed up much longer,” Grubeck grumbled. “Can I ease up a bit?”

  “Not yet. Keep it going like this for just a little while, Chief. You’re doing a grand job.”

  “I know I am — but flattery won’t cool these bearings. What’s going on up there, anyway? Nobody ever tells us anything.”

  While Brook was telling the chief engineer what had been happening, Power said to Dingle: “Would you like me to take Gorki and his two men below? I’ll lock them with the others; I’ve brought some rope.”

  “Go ahead,” said Dingle. “But search them thoroughly first. We don’t want them smuggling any more weapons into the store room.”

  *

  Gorki and his two comrades shuffled across the deck in single file, their left legs linked by a length of rope. Power, armed with a revolver brought up the rear.

  A violent explosion, accompanied by a blinding flash, hurled the four men into the air. The shell from the Skori had hit the after mast house. A second shell demolished the radio cabin; a third punched holes fore and aft of the funnel.

  The men in the wheelhouse threw themselves flat on the deck as the blast shattered the windows, showering them with glass. Everyone except the quartermaster, who still stood there, hands glued to the wheel, his eyes staring horribly, sightlessly, from the bloody mask that had been his face. Then, as the ship rolled to starboard, the man slipped sideways, turning the wheel as he went.

  Miller, his face a sickly green, got shakily to his feet and moved over to take the helm.

  The other men stood up, shaking the glass from their clothing and crunching it under foot as they moved.

  “I’ll take the helm,” snapped Brook. “Get another quartermaster up here and check the damage. Find out if we’ve been holed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Miller ran from the wheelhouse.

  “Grant! Get down on deck and see if you can do anything for those fellows.”

  The Texan looked through the shattered windows and saw four bodies lying in grotesquely twisted heaps.

  “My God!” he groaned. “
Will!”

  “Mr. Jones, perhaps you’d ring the engine-room and ask the Chief if everything is all right there?”

  “Yes, of course,” replied Jones, grinding broken glass into powder as he walked across to the telephone.

  “I’ll go and help Grant,” said Dingle.

  He found Grant kneeling beside Power’s body. The bosun had been killed instantly; so had Gorki and the two other Russians.

  “We’ve known each other since we were kids,” said the engineer. “And we’ve been together ever since. He saved my life in Korea, you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dingle quietly. “I liked him, too.”

  “Liked him! Everybody liked him!”

  Grant stood up. “I’ll go and get some more help,” he said abruptly. “We’ll be needing some stretchers.”

  He walked away quickly. Dingle knew that the big Texan had gone to be alone for a few moments with his grief. To cry.

  *

  Dingle and Jones had been working on deck for some time with members of the crew, clearing away the debris of tangled metal and smashed life-boats, when the Englishman became vaguely aware that something was different. But his senses were so dulled by fatigue that he couldn’t tell exactly what had changed.

  “Mr. Dingle! Will you come up to the bridge, please?”

  Brook’s shout was loud and clear — and suddenly the change registered in Dingle’s mind.

  It was the quietness. The ship’s engines were no longer shaking the deck in their noisy, desperate attempt to drive the ship away from the destroyer. Evidently Grubeck had been allowed to slow down to normal cruising speed. And the sound of gunfire had ceased.

  The British agent moved to the companion ladder and climbed to the bridge.

  “The Skori has turned to chase us,” said Brook.

  “Where are her reinforcements?”

  “About five miles behind us now, and catching up rapidly. But I don’t think we need worry about them. Look!” The pilot pointed ahead.

  Dingle turned. Three destroyers and a frigate were no more than a mile away.

  “Americans?”

  Brook nodded. “And just in time, I’d say.”

  Miller called from the wheelhouse.

  “The Skori seems to be slowing down, sir! I think she may be stopping.”

  “All right Mr. Miller. You can tell the Chief to stop making smoke now.”

  “We’ve made it then, boyo,” said Jones, who had followed the Englishman on to the bridge.

  Dingle sighed. “Yes, we’ve made it.” He looked at his watch. “But I reckon the last half-hour has been the longest I’ve ever known.”

  “I’ll second that,” said the Welshman.

  *

  The Skori, with three other Russian destroyers, shadowed the Vologda and her American escort from a safe distance until nine o’clock. Then they wheeled round and disappeared over the horizon to the east.

  At nine-thirty a helicopter took off from the American frigate, and hovered over the Vologda before settling on the steel hatch cover of one of the for’ard holds.

  Dingle and Jones ran to meet it. They arrived just as a bulky American civilian opened the door and dropped lightly to the deck. It was Banner, a C.I.A. man. Dingle had met him once in America.

  “Hullo Hal. I suppose you’ve arrived to take over now that we’ve done your dirty work.”

  “Dirty work, Jim? What dirty work? I thought you were enjoying a Scandinavian cruise at our expense.”

  Another bulky figure — with the bulk in all the wrong places — emerged from the helicopter and landed, not so lightly, on the deck. Dingle stared in surprise.

  “You took your time, didn’t you?” snapped the Director. “I’ve been stuck on that damned frigate since yesterday afternoon — and I hate sea travel. What the bloody hell are you staring at?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t expect to see you here,” said Dingle.

  “Why shouldn’t I be here? Anyway, I wanted a chat with Banner.”

  The big man gazed around him. “This ship looks as if it’s been to war. You look in a sorry state, too,” he added, looking at Dingle. The agent’s face still bore the marks of Gorki’s handiwork.

  “I’m okay, sir.”

  “You don’t look it; Jones looks all right though.”

  “Oh, I know how to take care of myself,” said the Welshman. “My feet are killing me though.”

  “How can they be? You’ve only got one,” said the Director rudely. “And don’t stand there gossiping. Get in the helicopter. I’m taking you both home. The C.I.A. ought to be able to manage without us now,” he added with a sly look at Banner.

  Dingle and Jones grinned as they climbed into the helicopter. They knew the Director was pleased; that his grouchiness was just an act.

  Two minutes later they were looking down at the battered Vologda. Soon, they guessed, American sailors would be repainting her funnel and changing the name; she would once again be the Wild Rose.

  “We’re flying direct to Bornholm,” the Director said. “The Danish Government have agreed to fly us on to Copenhagen. From there we can catch a plane to London. We’ll be home this afternoon.”

  Jones leaned forward.

  “About my leave, sir … ”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Two days later, Dingle and Jones were sprawled in easy chairs at a small but comfortable hotel in North Wales. They were warm, dry and content, enjoying their drinks. If the misty rain had stopped by tomorrow, they would climb on the Idwal Slabs; if it was still raining, they would savour the luxury of another lazy day.

  Jones was just explaining how, in some ways, he found his false foot an advantage for rock climbing, when Dingle held up his hand for silence and turned up the volume of the radio.

  “ … Deployment of a ‘thin’ anti-missile defence net covering the entire country is expected to be completed by 1972, when China will be capable of attacking the United States with nuclear rockets,” the news reader was saying.

  “Defence Secretary Robert McNamara announced in a speech yesterday in San Francisco that the ABM system would be built to guard against any ‘insane’ attack from China. Mr. McNamara warned that China faced destruction if it launched an attack. He did not think Peking would do this, ‘but one can conceive conditions under which China might miscalculate’.

  “Sources in Washington emphasized that the ABM emplacement would be orientated towards a Chinese, not a Russian threat. The United States still hoped for talks with Russia with a view to at least a standstill in ABM installation on both sides.

  “Nearer home,” the news reader’s voice continued, “gales are still raging round Britain’s coasts. The American cargo vessel Wild Rose, which vanished three days ago in the North Sea after reporting that she was sinking, was found drifting off the south coast of Norway today. She had been seriously damaged in an explosion which killed the captain and several crew members. Her steering gear and radio were put out of action. The Wild Rose — used for transporting U.S. military supplies — is being escorted by American destroyers to a Royal Navy dockyard for repairs.

  “Still at sea, the Russians today admitted that gunfire heard two days ago in the Baltic had come from Soviet warships. The Danish and Norwegian Governments had protested that no warning had been given to shipping. Today’s Russian Note said that Red Navy ships had used blank ammunition during part of an exercise. A careful check had been carried out beforehand to ensure that no other shipping was in the area.”

  The smooth voice paused, a rustle of paper crackled over the air. The news reader cleared his throat, then went on: “It has just been announced from Washington that Russia has developed a system for dropping nuclear warheads on American targets through a low-orbit ‘space bomb’.

  “Informed sources in Washington claim that America is not unduly worried by this development … ”

  “I’ll bet they’re not,” said Jones. “Not mu
ch!”

  “ … and is not interpreting it as hostile to the spirit of the treaty banning orbiting space weapons. The system, styled F.O.B.S. — short for Fractional Orbital Bombardment System … ”

  Dingle leaned over and switched off the radio. “What will they think of next? I suppose the Director will be wanting us to take a trip to Moscow and pinch the space bomb from the Russians.”

  “You’re joking, of course,” said Jones. He looked anxious. “Aren’t you?”

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