‘The Andover’s navigator?’
‘Lieutenant Cunningham?’ Dr Singh shook his head. ‘I’m sorry – in more ways than one, I’m afraid this may be your last hope gone – that the young man won’t be doing any more navigating for some time to come. He’s in a coma. X-ray shows a fracture of the skull and not a hairline fracture either. Pulse, respiration, temperature show no sign of organic damage. He’ll live.’
‘Any idea when he might come to, Doctor?’
Dr Singh sighed. ‘If I were a first-year intern, I’d hazard a fairly confident guess. Alas, it’s twenty-five years since I was a first-year intern. Two days, two weeks, two months – I simply don’t know. As for the others, the Captain and Chief Officer are still under sedation and when they wake up I’m going to put them to sleep again. Hudson, the one with the punctured lung, seems to have stabilized – at least, the internal bleeding has stopped. Rafferty’s fractured tibia is no problem. The two injured crewmen from the Argos, one with a broken pelvis, the other with multiple burns, are still in the recovery room, not because they’re in any danger but because Ward A was full and it was the best place to keep them. And I’ve discharged two young seamen, I don’t know their names.’
‘Jones and McGuigan.’
That’s the two. Shock, nothing more. I understand they’re lucky to be alive.’
‘We’re all lucky to be alive.’ McKinnon nodded his thanks as Mario put coffee and sandwiches before him, then looked at Patterson. ‘Do you think it might help, sir, if we had a word with Lieutenant Ulbricht?’
‘If you’re halfway right on your way of thinking, Bo’sun, it might be of some help. At least, it can be of no harm.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a bit,’ Dr Singh said. ‘The Lieutenant was getting a little bit too active – or beginning to feel too active – for his own good. It’ll be an hour, perhaps two. A matter of urgency, Mr McKinnon?’
‘It could be. Or a matter of some importance, at least. He might be able to tell us why we’re all so lucky as to be still alive. And if we knew, then we might have some idea, or a guess at least, as to what lies in store for us.’
‘You think the enemy is not yet finished with us?’
‘I should be surprised if they are, Doctor.’
McKinnon, alone now in the dining area, had just finished his third cup of coffee when Jamieson and three of his men entered, to the accompaniment of much arm-flapping and teeth-chattering. Jamieson went to the galley, ordered coffee for himself and his men and sat beside McKinnon.
‘Ideal working conditions, you said, Bo’sun. Snug as a bug in a rug, one might say. Temperature’s soaring – it’s almost ten degrees up there. Minus.’
‘Sorry about that, sir. How’s the steering?’
‘Fixed. For the moment, at least. Not too big a job. Quite a bit of play on the wheel, but Trent says its manageable.’
‘Fine. Thank you. We have bridge control?’
‘Yes. I told the engine-room to cease and desist. Chief Patterson seemed quite disappointed – seems to think that he can do a better job than the bridge. What’s next on the agenda?’
‘Nothing. Not for me, that is.’
‘Ah! I take your point. Our idle hands, is that it? We’ll have a look at the chances of bracing the superstructure in a moment – a moment depending on how long it takes us to get defrosted.’
‘Of course, sir.’ The Bo’sun looked over his shoulder. ‘I have noticed that Dr Singh doesn’t bother to keep the hospital’s private liquor cabinet locked.’
‘Well, now. A little something in our coffee, perhaps?’
‘I would recommend it, sir. Might help to speed up the defrosting process.’
Jamieson gave him an old-fashioned look, rose and crossed towards the cabinet.
Jamieson drained his second cup of reinforced coffee and looked at McKinnon. ‘Something bothering you, Bo’sun?’
‘Yes.’ McKinnon had both hands on the table, as if preparing to rise. ‘Motion’s changed. A few minutes back the ship started quartering a little, not too much, as if Trent was making a slight course adjustment, but now she’s quartering too damn much. It could be that the steering has failed again.’
McKinnon left at speed, Jamieson close behind him. Reaching the now smoothly ice-coated deck, McKinnon grabbed a lifeline and stopped.
‘Corkscrewing,’ he shouted. He had to shout to make himself heard above the near gale-force wind. ‘Twenty degrees off course, maybe thirty. Something far wrong up there.’
And indeed, when they arrived on the bridge, there was something far wrong. Both men paused momentarily, and McKinnon said: ‘My apologies, Mr Jamieson. It wasn’t the steering after all.’
Trent was lying, face up, just behind the wheel, which was mindlessly jerking from side to side in response to the erratic seas striking against the rudder. Trent was breathing, no doubt about that, his chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic fashion. McKinnon bent over to examine his face, looked more closely, sniffed, wrinkled his nose in distaste and straightened.
‘Chloroform.’ He reached out for the wheel and began to bring the San Andreas back on course again.
‘And this.’ Jamieson stooped, picked up the fallen compass and showed it to McKinnon. The glass was smashed, the needle irremediably twisted out of position. ‘Flanneifoot strikes again.’
‘So it would appear, sir.’
‘Ah. You don’t seem particularly surprised, Bo’sun?’
‘I saw it lying there. I didn’t have to look. There are quite a few other helmsmen aboard. That was our only compass.’
FOUR
‘Whoever was responsible for this must have had access to the dispensary,’ Patterson said. He was with Jamieson and McKinnon in the hospital’s small lounge.
‘That won’t help, sir,’ McKinnon said. ‘Since ten o’clock this morning everybody aboard this ship – except, of course, the wounded, the unconscious and those under sedation -have had access to the dispensary. There’s not a single person who hasn’t been in the hospital area, either to eat, sleep or just rest.’
‘Maybe we’re not looking at it in the right way,’ Jamieson said.’ Why should anyone want to smash the compass? It can’t just be to stop us from following whatever course we were following or that we might outrun someone. The chances are high that Flannelfoot is still transmitting his homing signal and that the Germans know exactly where we are.’
‘Maybe he’s hoping to panic us,’ McKinnon said. ‘Maybe he’s hoping we’ll slow down, rather than travel around in circles, which could easily happen if the weather deteriorates, the sea becomes confused, and if we have no compass. Perhaps there’s a German submarine in the vicinity and he doesn’t want us to get too far away. There’s an even worse possibility. We’ve been assuming that Flannelfoot has only a transmitter: maybe he has a transceiver, what if he’s in radio contact with Alta Fjord or a U-boat or even a reconnaissance Condor? There could be a British warship in the vicinity and the last thing they would want is that we make contact with it. Well, we couldn’t contact it: but its radar could pick us up ten, fifteen miles away.’
Too many “ifs”, “maybes” and “perhaps this” and “perhaps that”.’ Patterson’s voice was decisive, that of a man who has made up his mind. ‘How many men do you trust aboard this ship, Bo’sun?’
‘How many – ‘ McKinnon broke off in speculation. ‘The three of us here and Naseby. And the medical staff. Not that I have any particular reason to trust them – nor do I have any particular reason to distrust them – but we know that they were here, all present and accounted for, when Trent was attacked, so that rules them out.’
‘Two doctors, six nursing staff, three orderlies and the four of us. That makes fifteen,’ Jamieson said. He smiled. ‘ ‘Apart from that, everyone is a suspect?’
The Bo’sun permitted himself a slight smile in return. ‘It’s difficult to see kids like Jones, McGuigan and Wayland Day as master spies. Those apart, I wouldn’t put my hand in the fire for any of them, that’s to say I’ve no reason to trust them in a matter of life and death.’
Patterson said: ‘The crew of the Argos? Survivors? Guests by happenstance?”
‘Ridiculous, I know, sir. But who’s to say the nigger is not in the most unlikely woodpile? I just don’t trust anyone.’ The Bo’sun paused. ‘Am I wrong in thinking that it is your intention to search through the quarters and possessions of everyone aboard?’
‘You are not wrong, Bo’sun.’
‘With respect sir, we’ll be wasting our time. Anyone as smart as Flannelfoot is too smart to leave anything lying around, or at least to leave it in any place where it might be remotely associated with him. There are hundreds of places aboard where you can hide things and we are not trained rummagers. On the other hand, it’s better than doing nothing. But I’m afraid that’s what we’ll find, Mr Patterson. Nothing.’