Balance of Fear

by Geoffrey Osborne

  The Welshman looked at the strong padlock which secured the door to the forepeak.

  “Who keeps the key?” he asked.

  “I have it, Comrade. It is handed over to each guard as he comes on duty.”

  “Let me see it.”

  The Russian fumbled in his clothing under the oilskins, found the key and handed it over to Jones. He received the bottle of vodka in exchange. The Sten-gun created no problem here; it swung in front of the man’s chest from a sling round his neck.

  “Have another drink,” said Jones kindly, as the other made to return the bottle. “You deserve it in this exposed position. It will warm you up.”

  The man took another good pull at the bottle — and almost immediately his body seemed to sag.

  Jones swiftly retrieved the bottle before the man dropped it. Brook shifted so that he screened the guard from the view of those on the bridge, while Jones rearranged the lashings slightly so that the lifeline would hold the unconscious man more or less upright.

  Jones and the pilot were startled by a sudden flash of light on their left.

  “What the hell was that?” asked the Welshman, looking up sharply.

  “It’s that bloody destroyer. Look,” said Brook, pointing.

  The Skori was crashing through the waves, no more than two hundred yards away, signalling to the Vologda. An answering stab of light came from the bridge of the cargo ship.

  “I wonder what she wants?” mused Jones. He shrugged, then turned and rapped his knuckles on the forepeak door.

  “Can you hear me in there?” he called.

  “We hear you.”

  “Good. Then listen carefully. There’s no time for explanations, so just do as I say. We are British agents, and we are retaking this ship from the Russians … ” There was an excited jabber of voices from the far side of the door.

  “Quiet!” snapped Jones in an exasperated tone. “What sort of shape are you in? Are you fit?”

  “Yes.” It was the same voice as before. “Well, most of us, anyway.”

  “Do you have a watch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put it right by mine. It is now … ” Jones paused … “nine-thirteen. Got it?”

  “Nine-thirteen. I’ve got it.”

  “Okay. Now I’m unfastening this padlock and I’ll leave the door secured by only a matchstick. So you’ll only have to give the door a good pull to open it. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “We plan to take control of the ship at nine-twenty. So, at that time, and not before, I want you to open this door. Is that clear?”

  “What about the guard?”

  “We’ve drugged him. He’s still here, propped up by the lifeline, but he won’t come round for at least a couple of hours.”

  “Okay,” the unseen man replied. “What do we do then? Rush the bridge?”

  “No!” Jones’s voice was sharp. “Just open the door. Then one of you — and only one — will come out, get the Sten-gun which is slung round the guard’s neck, and get back inside. Now is that quite clear?”

  “Yes, but … ”

  “No buts. Just do as you’re told. We don’t want you wandering about on the decks. We might mistake you for Russians, and then you’d get hurt. Or you might mistake us for Russians. We can handle the bridge all right, and most of the Russians off-duty should already have been taken care of. Your officers are free now. But if anything does go wrong, and we fail to take the bridge, at least you will be armed and you might be able to do something. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble though; in which case I want you to stay put until one of your own officers comes down to tell you it’s safe to come out. Now, is all that perfectly clear?”

  “Yes. We understand.”

  “Right. I’ve fixed the door,” — Jones had been working on the lock while he was speaking — “and I’m leaving now. It’s nine-fifteen. Don’t forget, don’t open the door until nine-twenty.”

  “We won’t forget. Thanks — and good luck!”

  The excited chatter broke out again as Jones and the pilot moved away.

  “Come on,” said the Welshman: “Let’s find out what that bloody destroyer wanted.”

  The ships had finished signalling to each other, and the Skori was drawing away again, vanishing into the dark and the rain.

  *

  As Jones walked into the wheelhouse, he almost collided with Lubicz, who was on his way out. The second officer seemed to be in a hurry, but now he paused and looked round uncertainly at Gorki.

  Gorki hesitated, then abruptly jerked his head in the direction of the bridge’s starboard wing. Lubicz nodded, edged past Jones and Brook and walked out. The Welshman could sense the tension in the air, but the Russian’s smile was pleasant enough.

  “Ah! So you are back,” he said. “Was everything satisfactory?”

  “Yes,” replied Jones. “What did the Skori want?”

  Gorki was standing, feet wide apart to counter the motion of the ship, his right hand in his jacket pocket. And he was still smiling. But Jones didn’t like that smile. He didn’t know why, but he was feeling increasingly uneasy.

  “The Skori? Oh, she was just giving me the answer to a query.”

  “Query? What query?” snapped the Welshman.

  The Russian’s smile turned bleak. He withdrew his hand from his pocket and levelled a revolver at Jones.

  “About you, of course.”

  Jones’s stomach did a somersault. He was dimly aware that Lubicz and the starboard lookout had entered the wheelhouse. They were standing behind him — and their guns were trained on him and the pilot.

  “About me?” The Welshman’s voice was even, controlled.

  Gorki exploded into anger.

  “Do you take me for a fool? While you were sleeping this afternoon I signalled to the Skori. I asked them to let K.G.B. headquarters know that I was holding the famous — or infamous — James Dingle prisoner. I also asked for an identity check on a man named Kirenski. And, just to make sure, I sent your description.”

  “You have been busy,” murmured the SS(O)S agent.

  Gorki’s anger was subsiding. He was beginning to enjoy his moment of triumph.

  “You see,” he explained, “when we caught Dingle, it started me thinking. I was positive that nobody had slipped through the net when we took this ship. So he must have boarded afterwards. And the only opportunity anyone could have had to slip aboard unnoticed was when you joined us. However, I couldn’t be sure about you. You could have been genuine — and I must congratulate you on your performance Mr. — Jones.”

  The Welshman looked surprised.

  “Oh, yes,” continued Gorki. “You will be flattered to know that your name was recently added to the K.G.B. files — but they have never heard of anyone called Kirenski.”

  Jones bowed elaborately.

  “Stand still,” snarled Gorki. Then he backed over to the far door and called in the lookout from the port wing to strengthen the guard on Jones and the pilot.

  There were now four guns trained on the two men. Only the quartermaster was unarmed; he was staring straight ahead, seemingly unconcerned with the drama going on behind him. He was completely absorbed in his task, keeping the ship on course in the heaving sea.

  “And now,” said Gorki, “you will slowly — very slowly — take your guns out of your pockets, using only your thumbs and forefingers, and drop them on the deck.”

  Jones and Brook did as they were told.

  “Good,” said the Russian. “We’ll lock you in the chart room for the time being. Lubicz was on his way to call Comrade Kubychev and some more guards — but you returned to the bridge too soon, so we had to make do with the aid of the lookouts. However, it all turned out satisfactorily.”

  He turned to Lubicz and added: “You can go and tell Comrade Kubychev to take some guards and fetch Dingle up here. There are some questions we want to beat out of him — and his par
tner.”

  Jones tensed. He was watching the quartermaster.

  The man was leaning forward slightly, peering through the glass at the front of the bridge, a puzzled frown on his face.

  The Welshman guessed what it was. The man thought he had seen a movement near the forepeak. Jones shot a glance at the bridge clock. It was nine-twenty.

  Gorki said: “Obviously, since you are here, the British know about this operation — so three more destroyers are leaving Leningrad now to meet us and escort us in. You will tell us how your people intend to try to stop us … ”

  Jones wasn’t listening. He was still watching the man at the wheel. He saw the look of surprise on his face. He was about to speak …

  “ … You will tell us rather than watch what we plan to do with Dingle … ” Gorki’s voice was still droning on.

  “Did someone call me?” asked Dingle.

  Gorki’s head jerked round as though on a string. The Englishman was standing in the doorway leading on to the port wing of the bridge. His .38 automatic was levelled at the Russian; it was fitted with a silencer that Dingle had found while searching one of the cabins for weapons.

  “Just drop your gun, Gorki,” snapped Dingle. “And tell your thugs to do the same; they are covered, too.”

  Slowly, as though in a dream, Gorki’s head swung back to face the starboard entrance to the wheelhouse.

  Two American officers stood just inside. They carried Sten-guns.

  “It’s no good,” the British agent continued. “We are in control of the ship. All the Americans have been freed — and your own men are under lock and key.”

  The quartermaster found his voice at last.

  “It’s true, Captain; the forepeak door is open, and the Americans are waiting there. They have the guard’s gun.”

  Again Gorki’s head swung round, this time to look for’ard through the bridge windows. The man was living a nightmare of disbelief.

  And then the quartermaster did a silly thing. He let go of the wheel and reached for his gun — but he died before he even got it clear of his pocket. Dingle’s .38 made a sound like a pop-gun as he shot the man between the eyes.

  “That’ll show you I’m not joking,” the British agent said harshly. “Now drop your gun.”

  Gorki was no fool. He dropped his gun.

  “Tell the others to do the same.”

  Gorki told them, and three more guns clattered to the deck. The place seemed to be littered with them.

  “Brook!” Dingle snapped. “Take over the helm before this bloody ship starts looping the loop.”

  He turned to Jones.

  “Where can we put these characters for the time being?”

  “In the chart room,” replied the Welshman. “That’s where they were going to put us.” He bent down to pick up his own automatic.

  Gorki, Lubicz and the two lookouts offered no resistance as they were pushed roughly into their temporary prison.

  “You took your time, boyo,” said Jones. “I thought you were never coming.”

  “Yes. It took longer than I thought,” replied Dingle. “We still haven’t quite finished clearing the officers’ quarters. But I thought I’d better check up here when it got to nine-twenty … ”

  He broke off abruptly as a burst of Sten-gun fire sounded from below; then he rushed from the wheel-house, followed by Jones.

  As Dingle reached the head of the steep ladder leading to the main deck, two men — one carrying a revolver and the other a Sten-gun — were just starting to climb up.

  The revolver cracked sharply and the Englishman ducked back; then he was racing down the ladder as the two men turned to run for cover.

  Half-way down the ladder, Dingle launched himself out in a dive, and landed on the back of the nearer man. The Russian crashed on to the deck, dropping his revolver which slid across the smooth planking and vanished over the side.

  But this man was big — and he seemed to be made of india-rubber. He rolled, and Dingle, already winded by the fall, found himself flat on his back, pinned by the crushing weight of the man, who was struggling to take possession of his automatic.

  There was a shout, and Dingle saw that the man with the Sten-gun had returned. It was Kubychev.

  “Get out of the way,” Kubychev snarled. “I’ll finish him.”

  The big Russian grunted and pushed himself clear. The British agent stared up, helplessly, into the barrel of the Sten-gun and, for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Dingle knew he must die.

  Suddenly, Kubychev’s head snapped back, his body twitched, and the gun fell to the deck as he raised his hands to his throat; panic blazed from his eyes.

  Dingle could only watch in amazed wonder. The Russian was actually rising up into the air; his feet no longer touched the deck.

  The Englishman’s brain began to function again. He raised himself on one elbow and covered the big man with his .38. But he needn’t have bothered; there was no fight left in the fellow. He was staring in sick horror at Kubychev.

  And Kubychev was very dead, swinging gently with the motion of the ship.

  Dingle looked up. Grant was standing at the rail of the upper deck.

  “Hi, bud!” called the big Texan cheerily. “I guess I’m more accurate with a rope than with the hardware. I forgot to get me a gun anyway. Are you okay? I thought you were a goner there.”

  “Thanks,” said Dingle weakly.

  Grant had lassoed Kubychev, pulled the noose tight round his neck, hauled him up and hitched the rope to the upper rail.

  *

  The rest of the action went smoothly. Two Russian engineers and two greasers were on duty below. They were unarmed and they didn’t argue when, backed up by half-a-dozen guns, the American engineers arrived to reclaim their beloved machinery.

  That left only the galley to be checked. The terrified cook was found hiding in the cold meat store.

  When all the Russians had been accounted for the American seamen streamed out of the forepeak, led by a huge black man — the biggest man Dingle had ever seen. He was carrying the Sten-gun that had belonged to the guard.

  The giant, black rock of a man dwarfed even Grant, who rushed forward to greet him, pumping his hand vigorously and slapping him on the back.

  Jones and Dingle were surprised. They didn’t think Texans and black men were particularly fond of each other.

  Grant led the man up to them.

  “You’ve heard of Black Power,” he said. “Well, this is it.”

  The giant grinned and gave the SS(O)S men bone crushing handshakes. He spoke in a deep, slow rumbling voice.

  “My name is Power,” he said. “And there’s no denying that I’m black. But you guys can call me Will; it’s short for Wilberforce.”

  Grant poked him in the ribs.

  “Hey, Will! I guess you’re the bosun now … ”

  Dingle interrupted: “In that case, Will, you can get the men who are fit organized into watches and get the ship properly manned again. We haven’t time to stand around chatting. We’re not out of the wood yet — not by a long chalk.”

  By ten o’clock, the ship was firmly in American — and British — control.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  By eleven o’clock, the Vologda was riding a heavy swell, running easily down the Ore Sound. The wind had dropped to force five; visibility was moderate, and the island of Saltholm was showing off the starboard bow.

  A great deal had been accomplished in the last hour.

  The American radio operator had sent a brief, coded message on a frequency supplied by Dingle. The message had been acknowledged, with equal brevity, and Dingle knew that U.S. warships cruising in Mecklenburg Bay would be alerted to make for the Baltic.

  Gorki and the three other men in the chart room had been transferred below. They joined the rest of the prisoners, who occupied two store rooms. The bodies of the four dead Russians had been weighted and despatched overboa
rd.

  One American, the second engineer, had been killed during the take-over, and his body was placed in his cabin. He had been caught by the burst from Kubychev’s Sten-gun; the sound that had sent Dingle rushing from the bridge.

  Another man, a junior deck officer, had been wounded in the same action. He, and four Americans who had been taken ill during the time they were in captivity, were being cared for by the sick-berth attendant.

  With their captain and mate both dead, the ship’s officers readily agreed to place themselves under the command of Dingle and Jones. They immediately put Brook in charge of the bridge. As the most experienced seaman aboard — a master mariner with expert knowledge of the Baltic — he was the obvious choice.

  And now the British agents had called a conference in the captain’s cabin.

  Brook was there with the second officer, a tall, dark-haired young man called Miller. The chief engineer was there, too, the stocky, grizzle-haired man of about fifty who had told Gorki that Dingle was a supernumerary officer. His name was Grubeck.

  The two other members of the conference were David Green and Alex Rossi. They were the two scientists. Green was of medium build with fair hair, in a crew cut, a pale, freckled face and clear blue eyes. Rossi was short, with black hair and the type of face that seemed to be permanently in need of a shave. Intelligent brown eyes seemed to be enlarged by steel-framed spectacles. He had a habit of rubbing his right hand over his belly — as though he hoped to wear away the paunch that was developing. Both men were in their late thirties.

  Dingle was speaking.

  “So there you have it, gentlemen. Our orders are to get this ship back to your people — without involving any other country. Some U.S. Navy ships will be on their way to meet us. But first, we shall have to get rid of this Russian destroyer.”

  “And how do you hope to do that?” asked Grubeck. “We couldn’t give her the slip, even in the dark or in thick fog. She’d be in radar contact with us, and she’s got probably twice our turn of speed.”

  “Quite,” said the Englishman. “So we’ll have to cripple her or frighten her off.”