The Gatecrashers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 6

by Alexander Fullerton

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  . . .

  “There’s a big oiler in that cove. But Lützow is not, repeat not, in evidence.” He pulled his head back, thumbed the “down” button—for the first time in about an hour. Gimber had glanced round at him sharply, so had Lanchberry; there was a scowl of anxiety on Brazier’s wide, stubbled face. As a highlytrained diver who’d never dived in action yet, he’d been longing for this day, and now like the other two he was shocked by the suggestion that their target might not be here. Paul told them, “Too bright now. And last night’s wind’s gone completely.” Too bright for the periscope to be kept up any longer, he meant; he’d had it up ever since they’d left the Langnesholm hideout in the dark fifty-five minutes ago, and its prisms had so far stayed dry and clear.

  So far, and probably no farther. And he had not made any sighting of his target. At this point he’d have expected to have taken a bearing and gone deep for the approach.

  That cove—checking it on the chart—was called Ytre Koven. Half a mile wide, three-quarters of a mile deep. A mile southwest of it was where Lützow should have been.

  Gimber suggested, without moving his eyes from the depthgauge and bubble, “Could’ve been her we saw off Aaroy in the night?”

  “That was Scharnhorst.”

  “But she could be there too.”

  “It’s possible … Fifty feet.”

  “Fifty.”

  Paul took a log reading and made a note of it. That might even have been Lützow’s searchlight, for all anyone here could know … He decided, “We’ll run one mile in, then take another look. If she’s not there we’ll have to think again.”

  X-12 nosed downward. The list didn’t hamper this kind of depth change, it only made her awkward to handle when as little as a foot or a few inches counted, when she was up close to the surface. One of the satisfactions of completing an attack would be that getting rid of the flooded side-cargo would put things back to normal. She’d be on an even keel, in proper control again, for the withdrawal through Stjernsund. It would indirectly affect one’s state of blindness too: when she was in full control, in certain circumstances one might be able to ease her up to a position where she was just breaking surface, so you could use the bifocal stub periscope. You wouldn’t do it in the open or close to enemies, but in bad light or where there was some sort of surrounding cover it would be something to fall back on. Escaping through the sund, for instance. In fact the stub periscope’s most useful service was in net-cutting operations. You’d have the boat nudged up against the net, keeping slowspeed pressure on it while her diver cut a hole, and through the stub you could watch it happening.

  Gimber reported, “Fifty feet.”

  “Half ahead.”

  From here, even if one could have risked showing enough periscope— and had one that wasn’t flooded—to see across to Aaroy, the western bulge of the island would have hidden the berth in which Scharnhorst had been lying last night. It was conceivable that Lützow could be with her. Leir Botn was a wide, well-sheltered bay, and if the two big ships were on their way to sea and had wanted a quick departure without the delay of netgates having to be towed aside, it would have been a convenient anchorage, during some waiting period.

  He checked the log again. Wondering whether there could be much point in continuing deeper into Langfjord. Lützow was much more likely to have moved to some new berth elsewhere. This could turn out to be a waste of time.

  “Slow ahead. Twenty feet.”

  He hoped to God that Tirpitz was still in her berth in Kafjord. But when one thing changed, you had to be receptive to the possibility of everything else having changed too. All the detailed planning could have been shot to hell.

  If Lützow’s not here, go for the Scharnhorst?

  There was no latitude in the orders for switching targets. On the other hand one wouldn’t be going over to the other side of the fjord to attack Scharnhorst, one would be searching for one’s own target, Lützow. It was a reasonably logical supposition that since Lützow wasn’t in her own berth, and one of the others had moved into Leir Botn, then she might be there too.

  From here to the south coast of Aaroy would be a run of five or six miles. Two and a half or three hours, say. You’d have to get there, make the attack and then get round to the other side of the island—for protection against the blast of the explosions—before eight o’clock, the start of the first firing period.

  It should be easy enough. With no nets to deal with, it would be a quick and uncomplicated attack.

  Touch wood …

  “Depth twenty feet.” Gimber added, “Main motor’s slow ahead.”

  “Let’s have her at fifteen.”

  Light from the surface was gleamingly visible through the viewing ports, the thick glass windows at shoulder height on each side. The light was brightening as she rose towards it. He picked up the folded chart again—limp as damp blotting-paper. The gap between Aaroy and the mainland, at the island’s eastern end, was only about a third of a mile wide, but in the middle of it the depth was shown as nine fathoms. It would be possible to carry out an attack and then continue out that way, out northward through the gap.

  If the target wasn’t here in Langfjord.

  “Fifteen feet.”

  “Make it ten, now. Don’t try to rush it, Louis.”

  Gimber grunted acknowledgement, fractionally changing the angle of the hydroplanes. At the same time he pushed the trim-pump lever over to port, to let a few pints in amidships.

  Use the flooded side-cargo on that oiler?

  At first thought of it, he dismissed the notion of what seemed like a waste of two tons of explosive. But there was also an attraction in it. For one thing, while not even the largest oiltanker was a target to compare with a major warship, its destruction would be a lot more useful than simply ditching a defective charge. Which he’d have done earlier if it hadn’t proved impossible. Also, in doing it you’d be ridding yourself of a handicap, returning to full efficiency and still with a lethal punch in reserve for a better target.

  “Ten …”

  Gimber cut the report short, muttered, “Sorry …” She’d risen to eight feet, seven … A few more inches, and the stub periscope standard would have broken surface. In broad daylight and with coastlines less than a mile on each side. Hydroplanes hard a-dive: and he was flooding the midships tank again.

  Seven and a half, eight …

  She’d dip now, before he could get hold of her and bring her back up, in control. Passing twelve now, nose-down: and he’d reversed the action of the pump, sucking out the ballast he’d just put in. Working like a mad organist: muttering, “Bitch …”

  Looking like a mad organist, too. And entitled to. He’d been resident in this tin drum nearly a fortnight.

  “Take your time, Louis. No rush.”

  He had her in hand quickly enough: she was rising towards the ordered depth then, with the fore-and-aft bubble amidships. Paul reached for the rubber bag on its wandering lead, and pressed the button to start the periscope sliding up.

  “Let’s have her at nine and a half, if she’ll wear it.”

  “Oh, she’s learning who’s boss.”

  The organist was in a good mood, this morning. Having got that stuff off his chest last night might have helped. After such a long time cooped up and under stress … Ten and a half feet now, ten … He had his eye at the rubber-rimmed lens, watching the bubbling changing colours as the top glass rose: then the tip broke out, an inch of window above the flat surface, Gimber reporting, “Nine and a half feet.”

  “Brilliant.”

  He could see through it, too. It wasn’t perfect but it hadn’t actually flooded yet. Gentle treatment was what it needed. He made a quick allround check, then began to search carefully over the area where Lützow had been when the Spitfires had last been over taking photographs.

  She wasn’t there now. Right ahead were the buoys supporting her netcage, and there was a launch moored at its insh
ore end. Nets hanging empty like an unmade bed. That launch would be for opening and shutting the net gate, for letting the occupant or attendant craft in and out.

  Nothing else. He dipped the periscope—down a couple of feet, then up again, standard drill that made it less likely to be spotted—then trained left for a look straight up the fjord. He could see about five miles, somewhat hazily, but apart from some fishing boats anchored inside a headland about a mile west of the unoccupied nets, there wasn’t anything afloat or on the move.

  “At least the periscope’s behaving.” As he said it, bubbles frothed up to drown the top glass, cutting off his view just as he’d begun to train right, to find the cove that had the tanker in it.

  “Sorry, coming back up …”

  “All right.” Waiting for it, he told them, “Lützow isn’t here. Her nets are, but she’s gone.” He had a clear view again suddenly. And a need to come to a decision: you couldn’t ruminate for long, you had to make up your mind and act … The bearing of the oiler in Ytre Koven was—318 degrees. It was at anchor, and in quarter-profile: he’d be on her port bow if he steered directly into the cove from here.

  “Come round to three-one-eight, Jazz … Forty feet. Half ahead.”

  Studying the chart again. About one mile to go. He took a log reading … Plenty of water all the way in, except only fifteen fathoms off the western point of the entrance. You wouldn’t want to be deep at that point anyway. But mental arithmetic, as one looked further ahead, revealed complications which at first sight looked bad. He put the chart down on the storage locker, and laid a parallel rule across it: he saw at once that the key to his problem was that gap between Aaroy and the mainland.

  “Course three-one-eight, sir.”

  Formality, from old Jazz … Crises affected people in odd ways. He explained to them—after Gimber had reported the depth as forty feet and the motor half ahead group down—“Here’s what we do. Our target having removed herself. She may be south of Aaroy, with Scharnhorst—we’ll see. But meanwhile we have this large oiler in Ytre Koven—here.” He pointed to it on the chart. “We’ll move in there now and drop the flooded side-cargo under her. It won’t be wasted, and our performance will be improved. Then we’ll buzz over and see if our target’s there, otherwise find some other good home for the starboard bomb, off Aaroy … Any better ideas?”

  Gimber asked him, “With a fairly long trip over, what about the firing period? Will we make it?”

  “Should work out.” He explained, “Ten to three now. We’ll be in there and slipping the side-cargo in half an hour. Away again by, say, three-thirty. Five-hour fuse setting, the thing’ll blow at about eight-thirty—right in the middle of the firing period … The run over to Aaroy—six miles, roughly, say three hours if we go easy on the battery, so we’ll get there around sixthirty. There’ll be no nets to hold us up—at least, I wouldn’t expect any. Scharnhorst must be there just temporarily, and so would Lützow be, if she’s there. If she is, we’ll attack her—otherwise Scharnhorst gets lucky. Then we push on through the gap at the eastern end of the island—which’ll give us protection from whatever whumpfs are going off. Also, we’ll be on course for an exit via Stjernsund.”

  He checked the log again. Less than half a mile to go.

  “One last look now. Slow ahead, fifteen feet.”

  Up by stages again, a few feet at a time. A complication was that you had to reduce to slow speed so the periscope wouldn’t make more feather than necessary when it cut through the surface, but slowing made her less responsive to the hydroplanes just when you needed maximum control.

  The gauge showed nine and a half feet when the periscope’s top window broke out. Paul searched all round once, then settled his single eye on the oiler. She was about fifteen thousand tons, deep-laden, and quite modern.

  “Steer one degree to starboard.”

  “Three-one-eight …”

  There was a lighter secured to the oiler’s port side and some boats at a timber jetty on the shore, but nothing else afloat and no sign of watchkeepers. No line of buoys, either, from which an anti-torpedo net might have been slung. He sent the periscope down.

  “Forty feet. Bomber, you’re out of a job again. No nets.” Lanchberry murmured, with a glance at Brazier in his rubber suit and with the weighted boots beside him, “All dressed up and nowhere to go.” Paul saw that she was nosing down past fifteen feet; he told Gimber, “Half ahead.” Because she’d got down far enough for the wash not to show up on the surface, with her stern up-angled. He’d noticed cloud was gathering in the north and northwest, and he guessed the calm weather wasn’t going to last long; it would still be reasonably sheltered inside the fjords, but the passage out to join Setter might be a bumpy one. If one made it that far. But it was pointless to anticipate: you simply had to press on, cope with each problem as it came up. Here and now it was a matter of running in blind, all the way to the target; she was too close in now to risk showing periscope.

  He guessed the oiler would draw about thirty feet, so forty would be a good depth at which to run in under her. He checked the release-gear on the port side-cargo, making sure the wheel was free to turn, and the timeclock of the fuse mechanism. You had only to make the switch, set the clock to a delay of anything from one to six hours, then turn the wheel to release the charge, which would fall away from the side and sink to the bottom. Even if it hadn’t already flooded—which it had—it would sink when it parted company with the boat’s side, as its buoyancy chambers filled and weighted it. On second thoughts, he set the clock now, for a five-hour interval; it was one thing less to be done later when he might be busy, and the fuse wouldn’t start running down until the switch was made.

  Dark water outside the viewing ports was lighter when you looked upwards. Daylight shimmered there, through forty feet of sea.

  When the log showed a hundred yards to go, he ordered “Slow ahead.” Gimber’s right hand moved to the control wheel, but he didn’t take his eyes off the trim. She was porpoising a little, just a foot or two each side of the ordered depth, and entering the cove he’d be alert for freshwater patches from mountain streams. In the reduced density you could drop like a stone if you weren’t ready for it. The motor’s hum softened as she slowed. Paul was watching through the viewing port on the port side, and his first sight of the target was a dark cloud growing, obscuring surface radiance as the midget crept into its shadow.

  “Target’s right ahead …”

  A clang—from the starboard side, for’ard. She jolted, lurched over …

  “Stop main motor.”

  Rolling back. There was a scraping sound from outside, and vibration—as if her plates were rubbing against rock. But—not rock, it was more metallic. It was moving aft, down the starboard side.

  “Hard a-starboard.”

  Four faces, and no expression at all on any of them … Paul had realised what it was. Lanchberry spinning the wheel. Her bow had begun to rise and Gimber was working to get it down again—which was essential, as the tanker’s keel would be only a few feet above her now. He could see the curve of one bilge through the viewing port. It was the anchor cable they’d hit. He’d thought from the angle at which the ship was lying and the direction of his own approach that she’d pass well clear of it, but he’d miscalculated.

  The scraping ceased. He’d turned her around the cable, swung her afterpart clear of it: which was desirable, since the projecting hydroplanes would have snagged on it. X-12 was sinking, meanwhile, as she’d lost way through the water and the planes no longer gripped.

  “Slow ahead. Midships.”

  The shadow was out to port now, and dimmed by distance. This was the oiler’s port bow they were on, of course; X-12 had slid inside the cable, between its long slant and the target’s forefoot, and the turn to starboard had carried her away from where he had to put her.

  Thirty-five feet on the gauge. Thirty-six.

  “Port fifteen.”

  “Port fifteen.” Lanchberry muttered
, “Cannon off the red.” He added, “Fifteen of port wheel on, sir.”

  “That was her cable we side-swiped. Let’s hope no-one was looking.” Brazier put his hands together as if in prayer, and murmured, “Arf, arf.”

  “Midships.”

  Now she’d turned back towards her target; its shadow extended from right ahead to about thirty on the port bow, filling half the area of the viewing port when he had his face close up to it. He moved to the stub periscope, through which as they closed in he’d have a clearer view.

  “Wheel’s amidships.”

  “Steady as you go.”

  “Steady. Two-four-one.”

  “Steer two-four-oh.”

  The outlines of the cloud hardened, became curved steel encrusted with marine growth. This oiler wasn’t as clean underneath as she was up top, but X-12 was about to save her the trouble of dry-docking. Coming in on the target’s port side and on roughly a forty-degree track. He checked the time—it was 3:19—and glanced from there to the side-cargo’s fuse-clock, ensuring that he had it set right, to explode five hours after he activated it. Six hours being the maximum you could put on it, but five being right for the firing period. In a minute he’d need only to touch the switch, wind the handle of the releasing gear, and—away, the hell out, fast.

  Well, not fast, exactly. This was a tortoise, no hare. And there’d be plenty of time to get over to Aaroy.

  The oiler’s shadow blotted out all the surface light. X-12 was right under her.

  “Starboard twenty.”

  “Starboard twenty, sir.”

  “Depth’s very important now, Louis.”

  Because with that much rudder on her she’d have a tendency to rise, and he didn’t want to bump or scrape her on the target’s bottom. There’d be people in there with ears—and nerves. Nearly all of them sound asleep, but a resounding clang right under them could change all that … Lanchberry reported, “Twenty of starboard on.” She was turning rapidly, as he’d wanted just about under the centreline of the oiler. But he was going to release the side-cargo closer to her stern, where an engine-room might be the focal point for an upward blast into the ship’s guts.