Balance of Fear

by Geoffrey Osborne

  Again Jones broke in, but this time he addressed the mate, Kubychev, who appeared to be agitated about something and was trying to attract Gorki’s attention.

  “What is it, man? Can’t you stop fidgeting?” said the Welshman.

  Kubychev’s reply was directed at Gorki.

  “That ship, sir; it’s closing rapidly now on our port beam … ” he glanced at the radar screen near which he was standing … “range two point seven five miles.”

  Before Gorki could reply, Jones said: “That’s one of our destroyers. It will be light soon, and she’ll be coming in to identify the Vologda visually. Then she will escort us home.”

  Jones hoped that his guess was accurate.

  “I am fully aware that the destroyer Skori is due to rendezvous with us here,” said Gorki angrily. “We have been in radar contact with her for more than an hour. When she started to close in on us I guessed it was the Skori, and I was just about to send a radio message to her when your submarine popped up to confuse the issue.”

  This news worried Jones.

  “There must be absolute radio silence,” he thundered. “Do you understand? Absolute radio silence.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Is there somewhere we can speak more privately? It’s time you and I had a quiet talk. There have been developments of which, obviously, you can know nothing.”

  Gorki hesitated. He looked less sure of himself now.

  “There is the captain’s cabin,” he said. “My cabin.” Jones noticed that he emphasized the word “my”.

  “Good.” Jones swung round and clumped towards the door. Then he stopped and signalled Gorki to precede him. “You go first; you know the way.” He turned to face Kubychev. “What is the range of the Skori now?”

  The mate studied the radar screen. “One and a half miles, now proceeding on a parallel course and matching our speed.”

  The lookout stationed on the port wing of the bridge shouted: “I can see her clearly now, sir, through the night glasses. It’s a destroyer all right.”

  “You have a signalling lamp?” asked Jones.

  “Yes,” replied Kubychev.

  “Then make a signal to Skori. Inform her that strict radio silence is to be maintained between the two ships. If she is due to report progress to base, tell her to say, briefly, that everything is going according to plan.

  But she must not mention the Vologda by name. Don’t make any reference to the fact that I am aboard this ship. And make it clear to the Skori’s captain that this is a K.G.B. order. Is all that clearly understood?”

  The mate looked uncertainly at Gorki, who nodded assent.

  “Yes, sir,” said Kubychev.

  Jones and Gorki did not speak again until they were alone in the captain’s cabin, with the light on and the door closed behind them.

  The Welshman stared frostily at Gorki for a few moments, then said: “What happened to the captain of this ship?”

  The Russian was startled by the question. “The captain? Winter? We had to kill him. He tried to trick us and … ”

  “And you threw him overboard?”

  “No, Comrade, no. He fell over. He was trying to get over the side. But we killed him … ”

  “You stupid fool,” hissed Jones. “Do you realize what you have done? Winter was picked up by a British ship.”

  Gorki paled.

  “Fortunately he was dead,” Jones continued. “But the point is that he was found full of bullets; and after the time he was found, messages which were supposed to have originated from him were still being received from the Wild Rose. And then came the final call, saying the ship was sinking.” The Welshman’s tone was sarcastic: “Can you wonder that the English and American authorities are a trifle suspicious? They are now carrying out a widespread search, since they found nothing in the area where the Wild Rose reported she was going down.”

  “I only did what I had to … ”

  Jones waved a hand for silence, then stroked his chin reflectively, as he looked at Gorki. He allowed some of the frost to melt from his eyes.

  “We were very pleased with the way you had carried out this most difficult assignment, Comrade Gorki … until you made this elementary blunder. However, it is vital that the task should still be completed successfully. And we shall do it. But from now on you will consider yourself under my command. We may have to amend the plan slightly and run for Kaliningrad. The quicker we reach a friendly port the better. There are American warships on manoeuvres in the Baltic.”

  Gorki was not giving in without a fight. “I have no authority to hand over my command,” he said truculently. “At my briefing with Colonel Balachov … ”

  “I know all about your briefing,” snapped Jones. “Because it was I who briefed Colonel Balachov. The colonel is one of my men. And so are you, although you have never been aware of the fact. I know all about you, Gorki. A commander in the Red Navy, you were recruited into the K.G.B. at your own request. Since your training in the Foreign Relations Institute and the Soviet Institute of Foreign Languages you have done very well. Your naval career was not without distinction either.”

  Jones paused: “That destroyer out there. You will be familiar with her type?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “The Skori class of destroyer is over 2,600 tons, carries four 5.1-inch guns, 10 tubes and also antiaircraft guns. It can also carry 80 mines.”

  Jones nodded. “Good. If you displease me further, or fail to co-operate with me, I shall see to it that you are found a berth in the Skori … as a junior officer.”

  The Welshman could see, then, that he had won. Defeat was plain in Gorki’s eyes. “I am at your service, Comrade.”

  Jones smiled. “That’s better. I am sure we shall work well together. You will continue in control of the running of the ship; I shall be in tactical command. Now we shall return to the bridge, and you will tell your men that they will obey any order from me without question.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The mate said: “When the men went to fetch your dinghy aboard it had gone, Comrade. You mustn’t have tied it … ”

  “It’s of no importance,” Jones cut in impatiently. “Did you send the signal to the Skori?”

  Kubychev nodded. “They said they had already sent a message to base, reporting that all was well. They pointed out that they already have orders not to break radio silence, except in case of emergency.”

  “Quite so, quite so,” said Jones smoothly. “I just wanted to impress the point on them.” He shifted from dangerous ground. “What is through that door?”

  “That’s the chart room. The English pilot is locked in there at the moment,” answered Gorki. “We have all the charts we need out here.” He gestured towards the chart table.

  “Ah,” said Jones. “The English pilot. What is his name?”

  “Brook.”

  “And why is he locked in there? Why isn’t he with the American officers?”

  “I think he may prove useful to us later,” said Gorki. “He holds a Baltic licence.” His lip curled contemptuously. “I think he will co-operate. He seems to be mainly concerned with saving his own skin.”

  “Ah,” said Jones, hiding his disappointment. “Get him out and let me have a look at him. Does he speak Russian?”

  “No.” Gorki smirked: “But I can translate for you.”

  Jones looked coldly at the Russian. “I doubt very much whether your English is any better than mine.”

  Hastily, Gorki ordered the guard to unlock the door and fetch Brook.

  “Good morning, Mr. Brook. My name is Kirenski.” Jones smiled. “I understand you might be willing to help us with the navigation?”

  “Yes,” said Brook. “But I want a guarantee that … ”

  “Good,” Jones broke in. “Have my colleagues been treating you well so far?”

  “Yes. But I’d like to stretch my legs and get some fresh air. And I’m hun
gry.”

  Jones laughed shortly. “You and I are, to use a stupid English expression, in the same boat. In more ways than one, eh?” He laughed again, but without humour. “You see, Mr. Brook, I, too, am hungry; and I, too, would like to stretch my legs, as you say, in the fresh air. For the last few days I have been cooped up in a submarine.”

  When Brook made no reply, the Welshman continued: “Do you know the lay-out of this ship?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then I suggest that you make your way to the galley and order breakfast for us both. Afterwards we might stretch our legs together while we discuss your future, eh?”

  Brook’s spirits rose. At last he might, if he played his cards right, get a chance to do something. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  “Is that wise?” asked Gorki. “To let him wander about alone … ”

  “Are you frightened of one old man?” snapped Jones, reverting to the Russian language. “Let’s keep him happy. As you say, he may be useful.” He waved a hand to dismiss the pilot. “Off you go, Mr. Brook. I shall join you shortly in the officers’ dining saloon.”

  Jones walked across to the chart table and beckoned Gorki. “When I’ve had something to eat we’ll discuss the course and our tactics. And I shall want to be shown all over the ship; I want to see where the American crew are locked away. There is no chance of them breaking out?”

  “No chance, Comrade. You will see.”

  “Good. And now, as I said, I could do with some air. I shall stroll round the deck before I have some breakfast. You may carry on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jones limped off the bridge and down the ladder; he began to walk slowly round the deck, tapping each lifeboat as he passed.

  Dingle jerked awake as he heard the Welshman’s whispered, “Are you there, boyo?”

  “I’m here.”

  Jones stopped and fumbled for cigarettes and matches. He appeared to be having trouble lighting up in the wind.

  “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “I’ve got Gorki eating out of my hand.”

  “Well done.”

  “I’m going to have a meal now.”

  “Lucky bastard. What about me?”

  Jones grinned in the half-dark. “Don’t worry, you’ll get something later. It will soon be light and I’ll have you out of there. Are you all set?”

  “Yes, I’ve thrown the frogman’s suit overboard, and … ” Dingle paused. Danger, to Dingle, was like the smell of gas. He couldn’t see it, yet he knew it was there. He lifted the canvas cover of the lifeboat. “Look out!” he whispered hoarsely.

  Jones half turned, saw the dim shape behind him, but was too late to do more than deflect the blow slightly. The iron bar smashed against the side of his head, and he crashed to the deck, fighting to retain consciousness.

  Dingle launched himself from the lifeboat and knocked Jones’s attacker off balance before he could deliver the final, fatal blow. The man collapsed under Dingle’s weight and was soon kicking and struggling, fighting for breath as the Englishman’s thumbs dug deeper and deeper into his windpipe.

  Jones was on his hands and knees now, shaking his head to clear it. He peered at the face of the man whose life was being crushed by Dingle’s relentless hands.

  “Stop! Stop!” said Jones. “It’s Brook, the English pilot.”

  Dingle released the man’s neck.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Jones asked, as the pilot, for the second time on this voyage sucked in lungsful of air.

  Brook groaned: “Winter was my friend. I was going to kill you to avenge his murder, and then try to wreck the ship’s steering gear … ”

  There were shouts from the bridge and the sound of running footsteps.

  “You blithering idiot,” rasped Jones. “We’re British agents put aboard to retake the ship — and now look what you’ve done.”

  “Just keep quiet when the Russians get here, and leave the talking to us,” said Dingle urgently.

  Brook was confused. “British? You mean … ”

  “Shut up!”

  Kubychev was the first to arrive, closely followed by the armed guard and then the not-so-fit Gorki.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Jones was on his feet now, still slightly groggy, but thinking rapidly.

  “I was attacked by this man,” Jones pointed at Dingle. “If it hadn’t been for the intervention of our friend Mr. Brook he would have killed me.”

  Gorki stared at Dingle. “And who the hell are you?” he asked softly.

  “I’m the third engineer of the Wild Rose” replied Dingle. “I’m an American citizen and I demand to see the United States consul at the first port you put into … ”

  Gorki’s hand smashed into Dingle’s face. Blood spurted from the Englishman’s nose.

  “You demand? You demand!” Gorki was beside himself with fury. He raised his fist again.

  “Stop that!” Jones, recovering quickly now, stepped in front of Gorki. There was cold, controlled anger in his voice. “I thought you said that the American crew couldn’t escape.” He turned to Dingle. “How did you get out?”

  Dingle spat blood out of his mouth. “I was never in,” he replied sullenly. “I hid when the rest were being rounded up.”

  “I want this ship searched from stem to stern,” Jones told Gorki. “Your net seems to have had some very large holes in it. There may be some more Americans who escaped it.”

  He turned to address Kubychev and the guard. “You two, escort the prisoner to the bridge and lock him in the chart room. I’ll deal with him later. Now Mr. Brook and I will go and recover from this assault while we eat our breakfasts.” He paused then asked sharply: “Where are the rest of your men? Is this a ghost ship or something?”

  Gorki replied: “Apart from those on watch on the bridge or in the engine-room, and those on guard duty, they are all in their bunks, Comrade.”

  “Then get them all up.” Jones glanced at the sky. “It’s almost daylight now. Set them all to work, searching this ship. As soon as the search is completed, report to me in the saloon.” He gestured to the pilot: “Come, Mr. Brook.”

  Jones limped off towards the companionway which led to the saloon. He turned in the entrance and shouted after Kubychev and the guard. “Treat that prisoner gently. I shall want to interrogate him myself.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The sky to the east paled; hanging low over the horizon, the streaky clouds, which moments before had been invisible, were suddenly thrown into stark relief against an angry red background — like petrified smoke in front of an open blast furnace. Slowly, the sun hauled itself out of the restless sea to melt away the remainder of the night.

  Simultaneously with the sunrise, a wind sprang up from the north. On the bridge, Jones was standing splay-footed to counter the increasing roll of the ship. He glanced at his watch.

  “Six-thirty,” he announced. Even as he spoke, five bells were struck.

  Gorki nodded: “It looks as if we might be in for some heavy weather.” He glanced over the Welshman’s left shoulder. “She looks a pretty sight.”

  Jones frowned. The Skori was thrusting her way gracefully through the grey, white-topped waves no more than a mile away.

  “Yes, she does,” he replied. “But I hope she’s not going to stay as close as this, or she’ll draw attention to us. I’d prefer her to shadow us from a distance.”

  “I expect she will, later … ” Gorki stopped speaking and turned as Kubychev returned to the bridge.

  “The ship has been searched thoroughly. There are no other American crew members free,” the mate reported.

  “You are sure?” asked Jones.

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then if any more are found, I shall hold you fully responsible.”

  “Yes, Comrade.”

  Jones addressed Gorki: “I shall want a cabin.”

  “I had thought
of that,” replied the Russian. “The chief engineer’s cabin is vacant.”

  “Good,” said Jones coldly. “I suggest you have your things moved in there immediately. I shall be using the captain’s cabin.”

  The familiar angry blotches reappeared on Gorki’s face, but he succeeded in keeping his voice under control. “Of course, sir. I’ll have it done now. I shall be going for a couple of hours’ rest. I’ve been on my feet practically since we left Dover.”

  Gorki did indeed look tired, with red-rimmed eyes. His voice sounded gravelly and occasionally he swayed in a manner that had nothing to do with the motion of the ship.

  Jones’s attitude softened slightly. “Yes; you get some sleep. What sort of watches are you keeping?”

  “I’m not keeping watches. I stay on the bridge whenever we are in a dangerous spot … but the danger is over now, so I can afford to relax a little … ”

  “You must allow me to be the judge of the degree of danger. I think you will find you are mistaken.” The softness had gone from the Welshman’s voice. “But I wasn’t referring to your own hours of duty.”

  “Oh, the crew, you mean? They are working the usual watches.”

  “Explain them, I’m not a sailor, remember.”

  “The first watch is eight till midnight; the middle watch is midnight to four; morning watch, four to eight — which is the one we are doing now. Kubychev is working both the middle and morning watches because we are short of watch-keeping officers.

  “Then we have the forenoon watch, eight till midday — due to come on in just over an hour’s time — followed by the afternoon watch, midday till four. The two dog watches come next, from four to six and from six till eight. And that brings us back to the first watch — eight to midnight.”

  “Thank you,” said Jones. “Now you’d better go and get your rest. But don’t forget to clear the captain’s cabin for me; and you’d better arrange some accommodation for Mr. Brook.”

  When Gorki had gone, Jones limped around the bridge, restlessly, first peering over the helmsman’s shoulder at the compass, then going on to each wing of the bridge to stare at the men stationed there before moving back to the wheelhouse. He crossed over to Kubychev, half losing his balance on the way and staggering into the guard with the Sten-gun. The man put out a hand to steady the Welshman, who brushed it aside rudely with no word of thanks. Jones knew he was getting on everybody’s nerves.