McKinnon was deeply worried by the accumulation of ice on the decks of the San Andreas. Compacted snow from the blizzard had formed a certain thickness of ice but not much, for apart from the area abaft of the superstructure, most of the snow had simply been blown away by the powerful wind: but for hours now, according to the ever-changing direction of the constantly shifting masses of water, the San Andreas had been shipping copious amounts of water and spray, water and spray that turned to ice even, before it hit the decks. The vessel occasionally rode on an even keel but more and more frequently it lurched into a sudden roll and each time recovered from it more and more slowly. The critical limit, he was well aware, was still some time away: but without some amelioration in the conditions, it would inevitably be reached. There was nothing that could be done: sledgehammers and crowbars would have had but a minimal effect and the chances were high that people wielding those would have ended up, in very short order, over the side: on those lurching ice-rink decks footing would have been impossible to maintain. For once, McKinnon regretted that he was aboard an American-built oil-burning ship instead of a British-built coal-burning one: boiler ashes spread on the deck would have given a reasonably secure footing and helped considerably towards melting the ice. There was nothing that one could do with diesel oil.
Of even more immediate worry was the superstructure. Except when on even keel the over-stressed metal, shaking and shuddering, creaked and groaned its protesting torture and, when it fell into the depths of a trough, the entire structure shifted quite perceptibly. At the highest point, the bridge on which he was standing, McKinnon estimated the lateral movement to be between four and six inches at a time. It was an acutely uncomfortable sensation and a thought-provoking one: how much of a drop and how acute an angle would be required before the shear factor came into operation and the superstructure parted company with the San Andreas’? With this in mind McKinnon went below to see Lieutenant Ulbricht.
Ulbricht, who had lunched on sandwiches and Scotch and slept a couple of hours thereafter, was propped up in the Captain’s bunk and was in a reasonably philosophical mood.
‘Whoever named this ship the San Andreas,’ he said, ‘named it well. You know, of course, that the San Andreas is a famous – or notorious – earthquake – fault.’ He grabbed the side of his bunk as the ship fell into a trough and juddered in a most alarming fashion. ‘At the present moment I feel I’m living through an earthquake.’
‘It was Mr Rennet’s idea. Mr Kennet has, at times, a rather peculiar sense of humour. A week ago this was still the Ocean Belle. When we changed our paint from grey to the Red Cross colours of white, green and red, Mr Kennet thought we should change the name too. This ship was built in Richmond, California. Richmond is on the Hayward’s Fault which is a branch of the San Andreas. He was of the opinion that San Andreas was much more of a romantic name than Hayward’s Fault. He also thought it was an amusing idea to name it after a potential disaster area.’ McKinnon smiled. ‘I wonder if he still thinks it was an amusing idea.’
‘Well, he’s had plenty of time for reflection since I dropped those bombs on him yesterday morning. I should rather think he’s had second thoughts on the matter.’ Ulbricht tightened his grip on the side of his bunk as the San Andreas fell heavily into another trough. ‘The weather does not improve, Mr McKinnon?’
‘The weather does not improve. That’s what I came to talk about, Lieutenant. Force twelve wind. With the darkness and the blizzard – it’s as strong as ever – visibility is absolutely zero. Not a chance of a starsight for hours. I think you’d be far better off in the hospital.’
‘Certainly not. I’d have to fight my way against a hurricane, not to say a blizzard, to reach the hospital. A man in my weakened condition? Not to be thought of.’
‘It’s warmer down there, Lieutenant. More comfortable. And the motion, naturally, is much less.’
‘Dear me, Mr McKinnon, how could you overlook the most important inducement – all those pretty nurses. No, thank you. I prefer the Captain’s cabin, not to mention the Captain’s Scotch. The truth of the matter is, of course, that you suspect that the superstructure may go over the side at any moment and that you want me out of here before that happens. Isn’t that so?’
‘Well.’ McKinnon touched the outer bulkhead. ‘It is a bit unstable.’
‘While you remain, of course.’
‘I have a job to do.’
‘Unthinkable. The honour of the Luftwaffe is at stake. •You stay, I stay.’
McKinnon didn’t argue. If anything, he felt obscurely pleased by Ulbricht’s decision. He tapped the barometer and lifted an eyebrow. ‘Three millibars?’
‘Up?’
‘Up.’
‘Help is at hand. There’s hope yet.’
‘Take hours for the weather to moderate — if it does. Superstructure could still go at any time. Even if it doesn’t, our only real hope lies with the snow.’
‘And when the snow goes?’
‘Then your U-boats come.’
‘You’re convinced of that?’
‘Yes. Aren’t you?’
‘I’m afraid I am, rather.’
Three hours later, shortly after five o’clock in the afternoon and quite some time before McKinnon had expected it, the weather began to moderate, almost imperceptibly at first, then with increasing speed. The wind speed dropped to a relatively benign Force six, the broken and confused seas of the early afternoon resolved themselves, once again, into a recognizable wave pattern, the San Andreas rode on a comparatively even keel, the sheeted ice on the decks no longer offered a threat and the superstructure had quite ceased its creaking and groaning. But best of all, from McKinnon’s point of view, the snow, though driving much less horizontally than it had earlier on, still fell as heavily as ever. He was reasonably certain that when an attack did •come it would come during” the brief hours of daylight but was well aware that a determined U-boat captain would not hesitate to press home an attack in moonlight. In his experience most U-boat captains were very determined indeed – and there would be a moon later that night. Snow would avail them nothing in daytime but during the hours of darkness it was a virtual guarantee of safety.
He went to the Captain’s cabin where he found Lieutenant Ulbricht smoking an expensive Havana – Captain Bowen, a pipe man, permitted himself one cigar a day – and sipping an equally expensive malt, both of which no doubt helped to contribute to his comparatively relaxed mood.
‘Ah, Mr McKinnon. This is more like it. The weather, I mean. Moderating by the minute. Still snowing?’
‘Heavily. A mixed blessing, I suppose. No chance of starsights but at least it keeps your friends out of our hair.’
‘Friends? Yes. I spend quite some time wondering who my friends are.’ He waved a dismissive hand which was no easy thing to do with a glass of malt in one and a cigar in the other. ‘Is Sister Morrison ill?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘I’m supposed to be her patient. One could almost term this savage neglect. A man could easily bleed to death.’
‘We can’t have that.’ McKinnon smiled. ‘I’ll get her for you.’
He phoned the hospital and, by the time he arrived there, Sister Morrison was ready. She said: ‘Something wrong? Is he unwell?’
‘He feels cruelly neglected and says something about bleeding to death. He is, in fact, in good spirits, smoking a cigar, drinking malt whisky and appears to be in excellent health. He’s just bored or lonely or both and wants to talk to someone.’
‘He can always talk to you.’
‘When I said someone, I didn’t mean anyone. I am not Margaret Morrison. Crafty, those Luftwaffe pilots. He can always have you up for dereliction of duty.’
He took her to the Captain’s cabin, told her to call him at the hospital when she was through, took the crew lists from the Captain’s desk, left and went in search of Jamieson. Together they spent almost half an hour going over the papers of every member of the deck and engine-room crews, trying to recall every detail they knew of their past histories and what other members of the crew had said about any particular individual. When they had finished consulting both the lists and their memories, Jamieson pushed away the lists, leaned back in his chair and sighed.
‘What do you make of it, Bo’sun?’
‘Same as you do, sir. Nothing. I wouldn’t even begin to know where to point the finger of suspicion. Not only are there no suitable candidates for the role of saboteur, there’s nobody who’s even remotely likely. I think we’d both go into court and testify as character witnesses for the lot of them. But if we accept Lieutenant Ulbricht’s theory – and you, Mr Patterson, Naseby and I do accept it – that it must have been- one of the original crew that set off that charge in the ballast room when we were alongside that corvette, then it must have been one of them. Or, failing them, one of the hospital staff.’