Balance of Fear

by Geoffrey Osborne

  The Director was silent for a few seconds. Then he said: “I’ve been getting reports from our agents in Washington, Russia and Germany. They were rather vague at first, but they’ve been hardening rapidly recently. Putting them all together, there seems to be little doubt that America has come up with a modified, fast-acting ABM system. The idea is to install it in West Germany and possibly, later, in Britain and other NATO countries. In this way, any Russian-launched nuclear-attack missiles could be destroyed before they were really on their way. More ABMs could be deployed in Alaska to guard America’s back door.”

  “Neat,” said Dingle. “Very comforting for the Americans, but not so good for us. With all those nuclear explosions going on above us, Britain would be in for a hell of a lot of fall-out — apart from any missiles aimed at us that will surely get through.”

  “Exactly,” said the Director. “That’s one of the points that’s worrying us. The other is that Russia seems to be on to the whole thing. The most alarming report I’ve had was filed by our man in Leningrad. It was garbled and incomplete, as though he was working under pressure and didn’t have time to finish it. But his message specifically mentioned the American ABM system — and it spoke of a Soviet scheme to hijack the ship carrying the first part of the installation to Germany. The message didn’t name the ship; nor did it say when, where or how the hijacking was going to be engineered.”

  “You’ve heard nothing more from our agent?” asked Dingle.

  “Nothing.”

  “Aren’t you going to try to get him out?”

  “I’ve closed the file on him,” replied the Director heavily.

  Dingle went cold. “You mean you’ve abandoned him?”

  “No. I mean he’s dead.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Wild Rose plunged on into the night, rolling gently to the easy swell. She had left the Goodwins far behind now.

  The pilot, Brook, had been kept busy with the navigation, but now the ship was on a straight course for the Elbe 1 Light Vessel. He reported the fact to Gorki.

  “Good,” the Russian captain acknowledged. He studied the chart. “We’ll maintain this course for an hour or so, then we’ll head north.”

  “North?”

  “Yes, my dear Captain Brook. For the Skager Rak. You don’t imagine I’m delivering this ship to Hamburg for the Americans, do you? We’re going round into the Baltic and then on to Leningrad.”

  “You’ll never make it.”

  “Why shouldn’t a Russian ship make it to Leningrad?” He chuckled and pointed through the rear windows.

  The grey funnel had been painted black and the men were busily adding a red band at the top. Soon a hammer and sickle would be superimposed on the red band. The name Wild Rose no longer appeared on the bows and stern of the vessel. She was now Vologda; port of origin — Leningrad.

  Brook said: “But when the Wild Rose becomes overdue at … ”

  Gorki interrupted, enjoying the Englishman’s discomfiture. “When a ship has sunk, it is not expected to arrive anywhere.”

  “What’s to become of Captain Winter and his crew … and me?” asked the pilot.

  The Russian flashed his bleak smile. “That remains to be seen,” he said. “But for the present, I think I can dispense with your services. You can join Captain Winter in the chart room.”

  The American had been locked in the chart room soon after the ship had left Dover. Only one guard with a Sten-gun had been left on the bridge to keep an eye on Brook.

  Gorki barked an order in Russian; the guard moved forward and jabbed the gun barrel hard into the pilot’s back, forcing him towards the chart-room door. The key was in the lock and the guard indicated that Brook should turn it and open the door. Then, brutally, he swung the stock of the gun up on to the side of the Englishman’s head, sending him spinning into the arms of Winter. The door was slammed shut and the lock clicked over.

  “Are you all right, Bob?” Winter asked anxiously.

  “I think so.” The pilot ran his fingers tenderly over the spot where the gun stock had struck him, wincing as he did so. “I’ll have a sore head later, but I don’t think there’s any real damage done. Let’s sit down.”

  There were no chairs in the tiny, windowless chart room, and the two men sat on the floor with their backs against one wall. When they were settled, Brook spoke again.

  “How the hell did you land yourself in a mess like this, Will?”

  “It’s very simple really. These people are damn clever — and you’ve got to admit, they’ve got a heck of a nerve,” the American captain replied bitterly.

  He explained that, while in mid-Atlantic, he sighted the Russian ship Vologda. Almost immediately the Russians had begun to fire distress rockets. Captain Winter had ordered his wireless operator to send a call reporting the facts and calling for help from any other vessels in the vicinity — only to find that the radio was out of action. Later he learned that one of his crew was a Soviet agent who had sabotaged the radio at the vital time.

  As Wild Rose had drawn closer to the Vologda, Winter had seen that she was low in the water and most of her crew had already taken to the boats. The Russian captain, using a loud-hailer, told him that there had been an explosion, his radio had been damaged and the ship was sinking rapidly. He had already given the order to abandon ship. Even as he spoke, the first waves were washing over the deck, and Gorki had wasted no more time in leaving the stricken vessel with the remainder of his crew. Later Gorki had informed him that he had simply scuttled the Vologda as soon as Wild Rose had been sighted.

  The Russians had been taken aboard the American ship, together with their suitcases and kit-bags which, presumably, they had packed hastily when the Vologda started to go down. But those cases and bags had contained not cherished personal possessions, but weapons.

  Practically the entire crew of Wild Rose had been lining the rails of their ship to watch the last minutes of the Soviet vessel; many of them were taking photographs. When the Vologda finally slid beneath the surface, and the men turned away, they found themselves faced by a battery of Sten-guns, automatic pistols and revolvers.

  Winter, with the officer of the watch and the helmsman, were already being held at gunpoint on the bridge by Gorki, the man who had called himself Chester, and two others. The Americans didn’t have a chance. The mate and two seamen, who tried to resist, were shot dead. Nobody else had tried.

  The Wild Rose had then proceeded, as though nothing had happened, with her new crew. The radio had been repaired, and all messages were answered normally. Later the three dead men had been buried at sea, without ceremony.

  “You know the rest,” Winter concluded. “I have been kept locked in this room ever since. I was just brought on to the bridge to show my face when you were taken aboard at Dover to allay any suspicion.”

  “And the rest of your crew?” queried Brook.

  “The men are locked in the forepeak, the officers and passengers are locked in a store room aft, below the water line. They were warned that if they banged on the sides of the ship, or tried to attract attention in any other way, the door would be opened and they would be shot indiscriminately.”

  Brook nodded sympathetically. “I see. Pretty hopeless, isn’t it? But you mentioned passengers; you don’t usually carry any, do you?”

  “We’ve got two scientists aboard. Something to do with the cargo.”

  “Oh. And what exactly is the cargo?”

  The American laughed bitterly. “I didn’t know myself until Gorki told me. We’re carrying an ABM system which these boffins are supposed to install in Germany.”

  “ABM? What’s that?”

  “Anti-ballistic missile.”

  “So that’s what this business is all about.”

  “Yeah. You can imagine how useful this ship will be to Russia if they get it to Leningrad. They’ll have the latest American ABM set-up to study at their leisure so they can devise a way to co
unter it. And if there’s anything they’re not sure about, well, they’ve got a couple of U.S. scientists to supply the answers.”

  “But surely Gorki will never get away with it?” said the Englishman.

  “He hasn’t done so badly so far.”

  “But when Wild Rose is overdue in Hamburg … ”

  “What will they find?” broke in Winter. “Nothing. If anyone does think to extend the search a few hundred miles north of where Wild Rose should be, what will they see? The Russian ship Vologda, peacefully en route from Cuba to Leningrad, having gone north-about Britain, with a cargo of sugar. Sure, she looks like Wild Rose; but if they check the Shipping Register they’ll see that the Vologda is a Victory ship — the same class as Wild Rose. They’ll have no reason to stop her.”

  Brook was silent for a few moments. Then he said: “Put like that, they do seem to have it all buttoned up. But it’s fantastic. How could they have known what you were carrying?”

  “I can only assume,” Winter answered heavily, “that their Intelligence service has been running rings around our own security organization. They must have known well in advance the date that Wild Rose was due to ship this consignment from Houston, Texas. Far enough in advance to get the Vologda, which they knew was a dead ringer for Wild Rose, out to Cuba. They sailed a bit ahead of us and waited for us in the Atlantic.”

  “But why did they come on to Dover to pick me up? Why didn’t they disguise the ship straight away and carry right on, north-about Britain, for Leningrad?”

  “Because that way there would have been a widespread Atlantic search for Wild Rose. The ship, disguised as the Vologda, would have been spotted and Gorki would have been asked if he had seen or heard anything of Wild Rose. He would say he hadn’t, of course, but then people would want to know why he hadn’t joined in the search when he was in the area. And someone might have put two and two together. Don’t forget he would still have nearly two thousand miles to go to the Baltic. This way the danger area is cut down to a few hundred.”

  Again there was a brief silence, before Brook asked: “Is there anything we can do to stop them? The radio?”

  “We’d never get near it,” said Winter. “Gorki warned me not to get ideas about that. There are two armed guards outside the radio shack, and another one inside. But,” the American hesitated, “I feel it’s my duty to try something, Bob, and I do have an idea. But I’d need your help.”

  Brook glanced up sharply. “You know I’ll do anything I can, Will. What’s your idea?”

  “Remember when you visited my home in Norfolk, Virginia, when you were Stateside some years back, and you admired all those trophies of mine?”

  “Your swimming cups? Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, I’m still a strong swimmer. So somehow I’ve got to get over the side of this ship; soon, while it’s still dark, so they can’t see me to pick me off.”

  “Don’t be a fool. We’re in the middle of the North Sea. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “A much better chance than you think,” Winter answered, standing up and unfastening his jacket. “Take a look at this.”

  Under the jacket, Winter was wearing a lifebelt of a type that Brook had never seen before. It was deflated, but a small bottle was attached to the valve. One twist would release the air to inflate the belt. There were also two flap pockets in the belt. Winter opened them to reveal a torch — and a tiny, battery-operated radio transmitter. When switched on, it automatically sent out a distress signal capable of being picked up over a radius of at least twenty-five miles, which would enable any search craft to “home” on it.

  “It’s an experimental lifebelt,” Winter explained. “I keep it here, in the chart room, so that if anyone on the bridge needed one in a hurry they could get it.” He grinned. “I figure I need it.”

  Brook was excited. “That’s fine — and it’s given me an idea. Look … ”

  He stopped speaking and the two master mariners stared at each other. They had both detected a slight change in the motion of the ship.

  “They’ve altered course,” said the American.

  The pilot looked at his watch. “Yes, I was expecting it. They’ll be heading north now, for the Skager Rak. Do you have any spare North Sea charts in here?”

  “Sure. In the cupboard.”

  “Get them.” Brook again glanced at his watch. “I can work out our position at the time we changed course.”

  He took the chart from Winter, smoothed it out on the small table and began to work rapidly with a protractor, ruler and pencil which he found in the table drawer. When he finished, there was a satisfied smile on his face. He stabbed his forefinger at the chart.

  “I reckon we’re about here,” he announced, as the American bent over to get a closer look. “So our most probable course for the Skager Rak,” his finger traced a line on the chart, “is this one. And here,” his finger stabbed at another dot on the chart, “our course bisects that of the route from Harwich to the Hook of Holland. The time is now fifteen minutes after midnight. We should reach that point in about fifty minutes from now.” He looked up triumphantly. “At about 0330 hours the regular B.A.O.R. leave ship from the Hook should be passing that point.”

  Winter was excited now. “So all I’ve got to do is hit the water fifty minutes from now?”

  Brook was studying his own pilot’s manual. “In about forty minutes, I’d say,” he amended. “That will allow for the tide. With any luck you shouldn’t be any more than two or three miles from the leave ship when she passes, and they should pick up your signal. You may not be in the water much more than two-and-a-half or three hours.”

  “And with any more luck,” the American captain said, “this ship will have gone out of range of my signal, so they won’t hear it and get suspicious.”

  “That’s right,” said the pilot. “But remember, you will be low in the water so you may not sight the leave boat. You’d better switch on your transmitter at about 0315 hours, whether you can see the ship or not. Is your watch waterproof?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. So that leaves only one problem. How are we going to get you into the water?”

  “Ah! I can answer that one,” said Winter.

  He explained his plan to Brook.

  *

  It was quiet on the bridge, apart from the rhythmic throb of the engines and the occasional click-click of the steering mechanism from the wheel. Gorki and the mate, Chester, who had spent seven years in America as an agent for Russia, and whose real name was Kubychev, stood silently side by side. Occasionally, Gorki glanced at the compass, but he never found any need to rebuke the helmsman. The ship was on course. Gorki was satisfied.

  The clock on the bulkhead wall showed 0055 hours. Beneath the clock, the guard leaned against the wall. He was watching the chart-room door, ready to swing his Sten-gun into instant action. He stiffened and shifted away from the wall as the peace was shattered by a series of shouts and bumps from the chart room. Once the chart-room door quivered as though something heavy had hit it; and still the shouting and bumping went on.

  Gorki was angry; his face paled and little red blotches appeared on his skin. “Get them out of there,” he snapped at Chester.

  The mate almost jumped across the bridge to the guard, took the Sten-gun from him, and covered the chart-room door. “Open that door,” he snarled.

  The guard turned the key, kicked the door open and leaped back, ready for any attack that might come from the two prisoners.

  But no attack came. The open door revealed Winter kneeling on the prostrate form of the pilot. He had his hands round Brook’s throat, and already the Englishman’s face was beginning to turn purple.

  “Stop that!” shouted Gorki.

  Winter seemed to become aware that the door was open. He gazed at it stupidly for a few moments before looking up at Gorki and Chester. Then he released the pilot’s throat. “I’ll kill the Limey bastard,” he said hoar
sely.

  “Get up and come out here,” Gorki ordered. “And you,” he added to Brook.

  Painfully gasping in lungsful of air, the pilot dragged himself up on to his knees and, shakily, followed the American on to the bridge.

  “Now, what’s all this about?” rasped Gorki.

  “He … he was going to kill me,” whispered Brook, whose throat was still painful. “He nearly did, too,” he added, looking reproachfully at Winter. He thought the American had almost overdone it; another few seconds and …

  “I will kill him, too,” Winter said.

  Gorki was relaxing now; his anger was subsiding. The incident was not as serious as it had seemed; it didn’t pose any threat to his mission.

  “And why do you want to kill him?” he asked. “I thought you were friends.”

  “Don’t call that swine a friend of mine,” grated the American. “He said he was going to throw in his lot with you. He doesn’t care what happens to my ship or my crew. He’s on your side.”

  As he said the last four words, Winter’s voice rose to a shout and he lunged at Brook. The guard grabbed Winter to restrain him; but the American continued to struggle and the guard landed a vicious uppercut on his jaw.

  Winter staggered a few paces towards the door. And this was the opportunity Brook had been waiting for.

  “Let me get at him,” he called, running forward and placing himself directly between the American and Chester.

  Winter heard the shouted cue and immediately sprinted through the door leading out on to the wing of the bridge. Gorki and Chester reacted quickly. The Russian captain hurled himself sideways at Brook, so that the pair of them fetched up violently against the rear wall. “Get him!” he screamed.

  But Chester was already firing the Sten-gun through the open door. Brook could only watch, horror-stricken. Captain Winter had almost reached the bridge rail when the bullets ripped into him. The pilot saw the American shudder convulsively, stagger on to the rail and collapse against it, with his head, chest and arms hanging over the side. Then his legs described a lazy semi-circle in the air as he toppled over into the water.