Balance of Fear

by Geoffrey Osborne

Swiftly, ammunition boxes were pushed in after him; the man began to pile them on top of each other at the back, to support the far corner. The final six inches, between the lid of the top ammunition box and the bottom of the missile case in the second layer, was taken up by a wooden wedge, which the A.B. hammered into position. Then he repeated the process in the other far corner.

  “Okay,” called Power.

  The man came out quickly, sweating with fear. He was glad to get out of there.

  A prop was brought up and wedged at the front of the gap to help hold up the outside edge; then another was held ready by two men. Their job was to get it into position quickly to replace the support provided by the corner of the missile crate when it was dragged completely clear.

  “Now!” called Power urgently, as he and four others gave the huge container a final heave. The crate came free, and the two men rushed forward with the prop.

  They had just started to hammer it in place when disaster struck.

  “Look out!”

  The two men looked up as the other seamen began to scatter. One of the ammunition boxes at the top of the pile of cargo had worked loose and was teetering on the edge. Even as they watched, the ship completed its roll and the heavy box lurched free.

  Eyes glazed with terror, the two men dropped the prop and turned to run. But it was too late.

  The box struck the first man on the head, killing him instantly, and cannoned on to the second man, who collapsed, screaming in agony. His left shoulder was dislocated and badly bruised; several ribs were fractured, and his left leg was broken in two places.

  Men gazed in horror as the first prop began to buckle and split under its enormous load. The crate it was supporting began to sag.

  Power did not hesitate. He moved quickly, bending over and backing into the space to bring his massive shoulders under the bottom of the case. Sweat dripped from his brow; muscles stood out in knots on his huge, glistening body. His eyes rolled up until only the whites were showing in a face that was a tortured, grimacing mask. And then Dingle and the big Texan, Grant, were there, one on each side of Power, helping to take the strain.

  Jones limped forward, calling others to help him, picked up the prop that had been dropped, and held it in position. Men immediately moved in with more props and began desperately to hammer them firmly into place.

  All the time the injured man was writhing on the floor, screaming. But his cries were ignored. If that cargo collapsed, they would all be killed.

  Three strong props were sufficient to take the weight off the human pillars and allow them to come out. Power, Dingle and Grant collapsed, exhausted, to the deck, while more men hurried forward with ammunition boxes to pile up in the spaces they had vacated.

  Only when the danger had been averted was the injured man attended to. By then, his screams had subsided, and he lay still, moaning quietly.

  A stretcher was brought down and the A.B. was strapped to it before being hoisted up to the deck by a derrick and taken to the sick berth. Then the body of the dead man was taken up.

  When this had been done, the tricky task of lifting the missile to the deck began. Long trailing ropes were fastened to the bottom of the crate. As the derricks raised the heavy load, the men in the hold heaved on the ropes, first one way and then the other, to Miller’s shouted commands. They had to prevent the crate crashing into the rest of the cargo as it swung to the roll of the ship.

  It was two-thirty before the missile was landed safely on the deck and the job of un-crating it was started. The whole operation had taken more than two hours of precious time; and the whole operation had still to be repeated in the after hold.

  *

  Tired, dirty and hungry, Dingle climbed out of the hold to be met by Green. The British agent had almost forgotten about the two scientists and their problems. He smiled wearily.

  “Hullo, I hope you’ve ironed out all your snags, after the trouble we’ve had down there.”

  Green looked worried. “Mr. Dingle, will you come into the cabin, please. There’s something you should know.”

  “Now?”

  “It’s important.”

  “All right; hang on a second.” Dingle turned to Jones, who had followed him from the hold. “Glyn, get them organized straight away on unloading the second missile, aft. And get the engineers to bolt this one to the deck before the bloody thing slides overboard.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said the Welshman, giving his colleague a mock salute. He leaned forward, so that only Dingle could hear, and added: “I’ll bet you’re going down big with these Yankees, boyo. A real hustler, you are; a man who gets things done.”

  Dingle grinned. “Any more cheek from you, and I’ll strap you to that rocket before we fire it,” he said as he followed Green to the captain’s cabin.

  Rossi looked up from some calculations he had been working on when Green and Dingle entered.

  “Well?” asked Dingle, “what’s bothering you? Have you found out how to fix the telescope?”

  “Yes. We’ve come up with a simple solution to that one,” said Rossi. “But there’s something we’ve all forgotten.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Those missiles; they’ve got nuclear warheads.”

  The Englishman stared. “Nuclear warheads! And you, of all people, forgot!”

  The scientists looked uncomfortable.

  “I guess we’ve been through too much in the past week,” said Green. “And then you gave us a king-sized headache sorting out all the other difficulties. We just didn’t think about the warhead.”

  “All right,” said Dingle. “So where does that leave us?”

  “I don’t see how we can fire a nuclear missile at the Skori,” said Rossi. “It would certainly put paid to the destroyer — but at such short range, our own position would be pretty dicey; and that’s putting it mildly.”

  “And any other ships within a certain radius would be hazarded?”

  The scientists nodded. “They sure would,” said Rossi.

  Dingle thought for a moment.

  “Could you disarm the warhead, or take it out altogether?”

  “We could,” answered Green. “But I hardly think an unarmed missile would stop a destroyer. It would make a hell of a mess, of course, if it hit the bridge superstructure at six thousand miles an hour. But it wouldn’t be enough.”

  “Wouldn’t the rocket itself explode and start a fire?” asked Dingle hopefully.

  “Doubtful,” replied Rossi tersely. “Solid fuel; it wouldn’t burn. Just fizzle a bit on the deck like a damp squib. Be different if it was liquid fuel.”

  “Another thing,” Green interrupted. “If we take out the nuclear warhead, we’ll have to replace it with something else of exactly the same weight; otherwise the C.G. will be altered and the missile will go unstable.”

  “C.G.?”

  “Centre of gravity.”

  “Oh I see,” said Dingle. “You mean the bloody thing would go arse over tip.”

  “That’s right.”

  Dingle snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! Take out the warhead and replace it with an H.E. shell. There are plenty of them in the hold.”

  The gloom lifted from Rossi’s face. He grinned.

  “You have indeed got it!” he exclaimed. “We can probably pack three shells in — and we can use any bits and pieces of metal from the workshop to make up any extra weight that’s needed.”

  “Come on then,” said Dingle. “Let’s get cracking. You can start stripping the first warhead while I arrange for some H.E. shells to be brought up. The first missile should be fixed to the deck by now. But hurry; we’re running short of time.”

  It was almost three o’clock.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  By five o’clock the second missile was set up on the after deck. It had been brought up from the hold without incident — and much more speedily than the first one. But Dingle decided that time was running t
oo short to attempt to rig up a third missile on the poop deck.

  Green and Rossi had taken the nuclear warhead out of the first missile and successfully replaced it with three high-explosive shells, adjusting the fuses to ensure that they would explode on impact. Now the scientists were working on the other missile.

  Dingle was on the bridge, drinking a mug of coffee and talking to Brook.

  “Have you thought about what will happen when we loose these rockets at the Skori?”

  “I’ve thought about little else all night,” replied the pilot. “If we miss her we’re going to find ourselves in real trouble. Even if we hit her, it could still be damned uncomfortable. Destroyers are not very easy to sink; and with only two shots, I’d say the chances of sinking her are pretty slim. So when we fire those missiles, I reckon we’re going to collect a few shells from the Skori … with interest.”

  “That’s how I see it too,” said the British agent. “Can you take evading action?”

  Brook laughed shortly. “We’ll have to. If we don’t, we’re dead ducks; and even if we do … ” he shrugged expressively.

  “Well we don’t want to leave anything to chance. It will be better if we work to a set plan. Come down to the captain’s cabin at six. We’ll work out our battle tactics. I’ll warn the chief engineer and the two scientists to be there. Ah, here is the chief now,” Dingle added as Grubeck walked into the wheelhouse. “We were just saying, Chief, that when we fire those missiles, we’re going to have to take evading action.”

  The American smiled sourly.

  “You ain’t kidding.”

  “What speed can you get out of this ship in an emergency, Mr. Grubeck?” asked Brook.

  “We might get seventeen knots for a little while.”

  “We’ll need it,” said the pilot.

  “We can discuss all that at the conference,” said Dingle. “Will you come to the cabin at six, Chief? We’re going to hold a council of war.” He turned to the second officer. “You’d better be there, too, Miller.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll tell … ” Dingle broke off as Rossi came through the doorway. The scientist looked harassed.

  “Things aren’t going so smoothly with this missile,” he said. “It will be seven o’clock before we’re finished — and we haven’t got the bloody telescopes fixed yet.”

  “Well try to hurry things up a bit,” said Dingle. “We’re holding a meeting at six. I want you both to be there.”

  “How long will this meeting take?”

  “About half an hour perhaps.”

  “Goddamit man!” Rossi shouted. “We can’t spare the time.”

  “We must all know exactly what we’re doing,” said the Englishman quietly. “You’ll have to spare the time.”

  The scientist shrugged.

  “Okay then — but the missile won’t be ready until seven-thirty. Then we’ve got to set up the telescopes.”

  “Can’t someone help you with that?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to see you about. We’re not sure where we should put them. You see, we want them as close to the missiles as we can get them, and at the same height as the launch rail if possible. But we also need some sort of protection; when those birds take off they’re liable to shower us with … ”

  Brook interrupted: “What about the mast houses? There’s one fore and aft, they’re both close to the missiles, and they’re made of steel. They would give you excellent cover.”

  “Yes,” replied Rossi. “They’d be ideal. The trouble is they haven’t any portholes — and we need a hole to poke the telescope through.” He addressed Grubeck. “Have you got any welding equipment aboard, Chief? Or any sort of burner to make holes in the sides of the mast houses?”

  “Sure. You let me know exactly where you want the holes, and I’ll see you get them.”

  “That’s fine. And can you fix us up with some clamps to hold the telescopes?”

  “I think so. What sort do you want?”

  “Adjustable clamps. Something that would allow us to swivel a telescope from side to side or up and down before we finally set it in a fixed position.”

  “I’ve got the idea,” said Grubeck. “Leave it to me. If we haven’t got suitable clamps, we’ll make them. I’ll have them welded on to the inside walls of the mast houses, near the holes. Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll get the boys working on it now. Would you like to come and show me exactly where you want those holes?”

  “Right. I must measure the height of the launch rail from the deck first.”

  As the two men turned to leave the wheelhouse, Dingle said: “Don’t forget; six o’clock in the captain’s cabin.”

  *

  Tension ran between the men on the bridge like an electric charge. Dingle glanced at his wrist-watch and then looked up at the clock on the bulkhead, as though he hoped his own watch lied. It didn’t.

  “Forty-five minutes to go,” he said.

  Nobody answered, but several pairs of eyes shifted involuntarily to focus, briefly, on the clock.

  It was seven-fifteen. The morning was bright and sunny; all traces of the previous night’s storm had vanished. But there was still a stiffish breeze. Brook noted with satisfaction that it was still blowing from west to east.

  Earlier, when dawn had broken, the island of Bornholm had been visible off the port bow. Now the island had disappeared behind them. In another three hours the ship would be due off the southern tip of Gottland — and it would be time to alter course northeast for the Gulf of Finland.

  But the Vologda couldn’t afford to wait that long. Already Leningrad couldn’t be much more than five hundred miles away — and Brook shivered suddenly when he remembered that more destroyers were on their way from the Russian port. They would be getting close now.

  So the Vologda couldn’t afford to wait. And Dingle had set eight o’clock as zero hour.

  The pilot’s thoughts were interrupted by Miller’s voice.

  “Geez! Are those scientific guys ever going to finish down there?”

  “They’ll be ready,” answered Dingle. “They finished that warhead by seven. They’ve only got to fix the telescopes now.”

  “I think they’ve done the one aft,” said Grant.

  Dingle moved beside the third engineer to watch Rossi and Green as they moved forward to the other missile. Green glanced up and gave the men on the bridge a thumbs-up sign.

  The Englishman sighed with relief.

  “That’s it. Just one more to fix, and we’re ready for action.”

  “I’ll get below and make sure everything’s ready in my department,” said Grubeck. He held out his hand to Dingle. “Good luck.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me down there to help, Chief?” asked Grant.

  “No. We don’t need many in the engine-room. You’ll be of more use up here.”

  The chief engineer walked out of the wheelhouse, leaving Grant to stare after him with a pained expression. The big Texan was out of his element on the bridge. He was at home in a world of oil-fired steam turbines and clattering machinery.

  “That’s right. You stay topsides and join the deck staff. This is where the real work’s done,” said Wilberforce Power.

  “Don’t you bug me, you big black ape,” growled Grant, “or I’ll fix you good.”

  “No white trash ain’t gonna call me a big black ape and get away with it,” said Power.

  Dingle looked alarmed.

  “Don’t take any notice of them, sir,” said Miller.

  “They’re always at it. They’ve been together a long time now. Knew each other as kids, and they served together in Korea.”

  Power and Grant grinned at each other.

  “Come on,” said Dingle. “There’s no time for fun and games. Power. I want you to go round all the crew and tell them to make sure they are all under cover before eight o’clock. Warn them that the
noise is going to be terrific when the missiles blast off, so they’d better stick their fingers in their ears. Then you can help Grant with the hose pipes. Make sure the decks have a real soaking in the vicinity of the rockets — but dive for cover as soon as you get the signal from the bridge.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Power. He left the wheelhouse.

  “I’ll go and get the hoses ready,” said Grant, following the bosun.

  Dingle turned to Brook.

  “Won’t be long now,” he said.

  “I won’t be sorry when it’s eight o’clock,” replied the pilot. “This waiting is playing havoc with my nerves.”

  The British agent grinned cheerfully.

  “Never mind. Worry will help to keep you slim,” he said as he walked outside to lean against the rail. He stood looking down at the activity on deck.

  Green and Rossi had almost finished setting up the second telescope. Green was crouching, with one arm raised, as he looked along the missile’s launch rail.

  “Five … four … three … two … one … zero,” he shouted, whipping his arm down sharply on the word “zero”.

  There was a pause as the ship completed its roll to starboard. Then he repeated the count as the Vologda's port side began to dip again.

  “Five … four … three … two … one … zero.”

  Another pause, until the roll to port was finished and the ship’s rail began to rise once more; and again the sound of Green’s voice floated up:

  “Five … four … three … two … one … zero.”

  Rossi stepped out of the mast house.

  “Okay. I think that’s it. Want to check?”

  Green nodded, and Rossi disappeared into the mast house again. Dingle could just hear Rossi’s muffled tones as the scientist began counting. Green was staring up the line of the launch rail again, and he slapped his left hand against his thigh when Rossi said “zero”.

  Green stood up.

  “Spot on,” he called, as he ran across to the mast house.

  Dingle turned away from the rail and went back into the wheelhouse.

  “I think they’re just about ready,” he said to Brook.

  The pilot nodded. “I’ve just been on the blower to the engine-room. The chief says that they are all set down there.”