Jenkyn said, ‘It all sounds quiet enough.’
There was no point in prolonging it. He said, ‘Come over here, Richard.’ It was strange, but Niven was not the sort you could call Dick. Seaton could not explain that either.
He felt Niven beside him, his breathing heavy in the bad air.
‘If visibility’s good up top, I’ll get a fix for you.’ He tapped the chart with his dividers. ‘There’s a stone tower to the north end of the port. Should be easy to see.’
He glanced at his watch again. It was a worry. The dusk could close down on the Norwegian coast like a blanket. Equally, it might stay bright for an extra hour if there was a clear sky and plenty of snow on the hills.
Niven said, ‘There’s the beacon, too.’ He leaned over the chart. ‘So long as we don’t get the islands mixed up.’
Seaton looked at him briefly. So even and calm. It was unnerving.
‘Right. Here we go.’ He turned and moved to the periscope. The conductor arriving on his rostrum. The idea made him smile.
Drake saw his mouth lift and shook his head. How could he do it?
He forgot the smile and said, ‘Trimmed for diving.’
‘Very good. Periscope depth. Two-five-oh revolutions.’
The sharp thrust of compressed air, and Drake’s deft response to control the boat’s eagerness to break higher than intended showed he was on his metal.
‘Nine feet, Skipper.’
Around the greasy periscope their eyes met. One more time.
Seaton bent himself to his knees, every muscle protesting with cramp and because of the thick layers of clothing. He held his breath and pressed the button, just in time to see the darkness changing to turbulent patterns of grey and silver.
He flinched as the eye of the lens broke surface, as if expecting to feel the spray hitting his face. It was always like that.
He moved slowly in a circle, his mind excluding the control room and the three silent figures around him. His body was here, but his vision and his brain appeared to be floating on the water. The sea was a dull shark-blue, undulating towards him like a moving glass desert.
Seaton raised the periscope further and said quietly, ‘The stick keeps getting smothered.’
Nobody answered. Each man knew Seaton was speaking to himself. To the boat.
Seaton examined the sky with the same care. In this silent world you got no warning at all. A carefree gull could change in a flash to a diving fighter-bomber. A cloud might conceal a whole squadron of patrolling aircraft.
Seaton blinked his eyes again. He was straining too hard. He waited for the hull to lift slightly and saw the coast sprawled across the edge of the sea. Topped in a layer of snow and blue ice, it looked dead. Menacing.
He moved the periscope to starboard. It was almost perfect. There was the nearest island, etched against the mainland beyond, round-shouldered, like a giant, half-submerged mushroom.
He said sharply, ‘I can see the tower.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I think.’
More precious seconds lost while he swung the periscope again before training it back towards the pale shape of the old tower. It had been a lighthouse in the old days. Now it was said to be derelict. But it made a good aiming mark. Behind the island was the rest of the port, the entrance and whatever local defences the Germans had installed.
He gripped the handles and moved the little periscope further still. He said, ‘I’ve got the beacon.’ His mind was very clear, empty of everything but those two flaws set against the forbidding landfall.
‘Take down the fix.’ The periscope vibrated in his hands even though the boat was moving through the great swell at little more than a knot. ‘Now! Stone tower bears green two-five.’ Round again. ‘Beacon bears green eight-zero.’
Jenkyn called hoarsely. ‘Ship’s head zero-nine-two, sir.’
The periscope hissed down swiftly, as if grateful to be safe.
Seaton was on his knees, steadying himself against the porpoise-like motion. He felt out of breath. As if he had just run a race.
Niven was working at the chart. Then he said, ‘It’s fine, sir. But we should alter course in fifteen minutes. Bring her round to one-four-zero.’
Seaton nodded. ‘Yes. It will take us in and will also give us sea-room if the natives get bloody-minded.’
He pictured the fragile, vertical pillar of the beacon. Perched on the seaward end of a line of rocks. Marking the safe channel. Revealing the lurking danger to anyone who was trained to recognise it.
Seaton pressed the button again and waited for the lens to clear. It had not been imagination, or a case of seeing what he had wanted to see. The scene was as before. There was massing cloud further inland, so that the paler sky between it and the snow looked like part of a crazily made layer-cake.
Nothing moved, but he thought he saw a haze of smoke by the stone tower. He lowered the periscope again. No sense in inviting danger. XE16 was invisible to interested eyes ashore or aboard a distant patrol vessel. But small and slow though she was, she would still be a ready prey to a low-flying aircraft.
When he had been serving in a conventional submarine Seaton had once been given a flight by a friend in the R.A.F.’s Coastal Command. They had flown over an incoming submarine to give her protection. The submarine, although moving at periscope depth of thirty feet, had stood out as plainly as a basking whale. It had been a very worthwhile reminder of vulnerability.
‘Dive, dive, dive. Ninety feet. Eight-five-oh revs.’ He glanced at Drake. ‘Be on the safe side.’
‘Suits me.’
Drake grinned and took charge of his pump and hydroplane wheel, while Jenkyn opened the vent valves.
Seaton stood up, rubbing the ache in his knees, before joining Niven by the table.
‘Once we’ve altered course, Richard, you can change into your diving suit.’ He glanced at him curiously. ‘Feel all right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Fine.’
He looked at the chart. When they raised the stick for the next look round it would be pitch dark. But they had got through the mines, and the weather was better than expected for the time of year. One step at a time. Like getting Niven into his suit, for instance. There was no need for it. On paper. But wars were fought with cruder weapons than paper.
He turned slightly as Drake reported, ‘Steady at ninety feet. Eight-five-oh revolutions.’
Seaton crossed the control room in two strides, ‘I’ll take over, Geoff. You make something hot for us, eh?’
Jenkyn said, ‘A nice woman’d do me.’
Drake staggered past him to the watertight door. ‘She would, too!’
Seaton watched Niven struggling out of his woollen clothing and into his tight-fitting diving suit. A rotten job, he thought. Outside their protective shell. Entirely alone if things went wrong. It had happened to others often enough.
A hot drink would help, provided it didn’t make him sleepy. This was the most testing part. Making the proper rendezvous at the right time. He reminded himself of the recognition signal, Zebra Able. Even that would seem too long for the poor devil who had to send it.
He thought suddenly of his father. Probably sitting in his office in the City of London, still getting over his lunchtime drinks. If his favourite pub was still standing. He was an architect with a highly reputable firm. There was not a lot for them to do with all the bombing going on. After the war there would be more than enough work for everyone who could draw a plan and estimate the cost, street by street.
He sighed. His father must have been a first-class architect once. Otherwise his partners would have got rid of him long ago.
In just over an hour the pubs would be opening their doors, offering snug little havens behind their blackout shutters and sandbags. For lonely servicemen and women, and for men like his father.
Jenkyn said brightly, ‘Char up!’
Here, a few miles off the coast of enemy-occupied Norway, at a depth of ninety feet, they were performing a routin
e as regular as his father’s.
He slipped out of the seat and changed places with Drake.
The latter said thoughtfully, ‘Pity we’ve not been able to go in at full bat on the surface.’
‘Yes. That would have to have been during the night, which is no good for the agent, and useless for the tides.’ He smiled gravely. ‘There’s always something.’
He ducked his head and walked to one of the steel lockers. It had been at the back of his mind.
He said, ‘I’ll hand out the pistols. We’ll do this one by the book.’ He hesitated, the blue-barrelled revolver glittering in his hand. As Lees had said. The war would become closer. Within reach.
Drake began to whistle very softly.
‘This is it then.’
Seaton sank on to his knees and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. No matter what lay in store on the surface, it would be heaven to get a lung-full of salt air. In the boat it was thick and foul enough to touch.
During their two-day passage they had been able to ascend to periscope depth at the prescribed times, to start their diesel engine and suck fresh, clean air down the induction trunk, the ‘snort’. But in such a tiny hull it did not last for long, and he was surprised how they had managed to endure it without complaint. And, as far as he knew, none of them had taken any benzedrine. Later maybe, but right now was no time for the false energy to fade and the taker to go spark-out.
‘Trimmed for diving.’ Drake was watching his inclinometer like a hawk.
‘Ship’s head one-four-zero.’ Jenkyn sounded dry and strained.
Seaton tried to make his own breathing regular again. Nerves before the job. Afterwards you tried to make a joke of it. But now … he glanced at the bulkhead clock.
Suppose, in spite of all Venables’ care and security, somebody had let the cat out of the bag? He thought of the posters he had seen in shops and railway stations, the cartoon characters gossiping about a supposedly secret convoy. And Field Marshal Goering under the table, grinning his head off. Careless talk costs lives. Or, Be like Dad … keep Mum!
He rubbed his eyes once more. Must be going round the twist. Or the air was so bad it was destroying his mind.
He said, ‘Eight minutes exactly.’
The thought returned like a barb. There were always more people involved than they said. Those you actually met at the hush-hush briefings, the ones like Venables. But what about the others, those who duplicated the triplicate orders and left them lying about while they drank their tea?
His father had always said much the same about the yearly Budget. It was supposed to be secret, but it all had to be typed and printed, handled by dozens of people before the Chancellor gave his dreary predictions in the Commons.
Jenkyn said, ‘Six minutes.’
Seaton looked at his hands. Steady.
The pub door would be opening about now. ‘Good evening, Mr Seaton. Any news from that son of yours?’ Christ.
He reached for the button. ‘Two-five-oh revs. Periscope depth.’
Very slowly this time, as if Drake was holding the boat in both hands.
When he spoke even his voice was hushed. ‘Nine feet.’
Seaton crouched down and then raised his eyes level with the periscope as he lifted it so gently towards the surface.
God, it was dark. He moved the periscope carefully in a full circle. The cloud had arrived, but it was broken here and there to allow a few pale patches to show themselves. He saw a few small whitecaps, but not enough to break the line between sea and land, land and sky. Not any fishing boats about. That was good. No sense in adding to the confusion.
The motion was still fairly regular and steep, but slightly better than before, he decided. They were much nearer to the land, although for all that he could see they could have been in mid-Atlantic.
He lowered the periscope and glanced at the others. The main lights had been switched off an hour ago to allow their eyes to get accustomed to it. The little control room was lit by a gentle red glow, so that the dials and gauges shone from either side like additional power units.
He nodded. ‘Surface.’
After that he seemed to move like a machine. One moment he was crouching in the centre of their dripping, dimly-lit hull, and the next he was fighting his way through the hatch, the breath smashed from his body by the bitterly cold air.
Groping for hand and footholds he seized the periscope guard and felt for the intercom handset. An improvement on the first ones with their terrible voicepipes, but still something extra to go wrong when you least expected it.
‘Time?’
He heard Drake’s voice, tinny and far-away. ‘One minute.’
Seaton felt the need to keep whispering into the ice-cold metal. To hold the link open.
‘Black as hell, Geoff. I can just make out the island on the port bow. No craft about.’ He clamped his jaws together to stop himself from gasping aloud. ‘Any second now.’
‘Take care, Dave!’
The deck was visible at last, a narrow, dark wedge surrounded by swirling spray and foam. It always seemed as if even a blind man would see them, although he knew XE 16 was virtually invisible.
Seaton realised he had not connected his safety harness and clipped it in place, imagining himself falling overboard and freezing to death far astern while his three companions remained in their hull, unsuspecting, steering to oblivion.
He turned his head, his eyes streaming, as a beam flashed out of the darkness. Very low down, but dangerously bright. He moved his lips in time with the stabbing light. Dash-dash-dot-dot. A brief pause. Dot-dash. Zebra Able.
He switched on the handset. ‘Recognition signal. Alter course two points to port.’ He did not wait for an acknowledgement but felt the deck tilt sluggishly as Jenkyn followed his order.
Seaton moved his head carefully and ignored the crust of salt and frost on his lips and around his eyes. Now he heard the steady thump of an engine, and sensed something like panic.
Right on the button. But suppose it was not the craft it should be, but a bloody great patrol boat, her cannon and Spandau machine-guns already trained on him?
There it was again, the carefully flashed signal. The engine sounded much closer, and he felt the tension freezing him in a vice.
He raised his handlamp and pointed it towards the hidden land. Just one letter. R. He triggered it quickly. Dot-dash-dot.
The beat of the other vessel’s engine responded instantly in power and density, and he wanted to drop to the deck, expecting the darkness to be ripped apart by tracer.
Then he saw it, rising above his line of sight like a great, ungainly shoe-box.
Seaton called, ‘Hard aport.’ He could see the small bow wave, apparently swinging in a tight arc as Jenkyn put the wheel over. ‘Midships. Steady as you go.’
Voices merged with the sounds of sea and engine, and Seaton saw pale shapes bouncing down the other craft’s flat side like puppets. They had thought of everything. Rope fenders to avoid damaging the little submarine, or worse, the nearest side-cargo of amatol.
The diesel-powered barge, for Seaton could now see it for what it was, looked about two hundred feet long, with a small, lumpy wheelhouse right aft, like a tank-landing craft. He could smell something other than oil, dank and vaguely familiar. It was strange but true that after being sealed in any kind of submarine you emerged with the keen senses of a fox.
He watched narrowly as the barge continued to pound nearer, to run parallel and stay between XE 16 and the shore.
Seaton said, ‘Port a bit. Enough. Steady.’ He held his breath as one of the massive fenders bumped past him and nudged into the hull.
‘They’ve arrived.’ He kept his tone light, knowing that down below his boots the suspense was much harder to take.
A figure swung above the deck plates, and he heard a voice call out in Norwegian. Then the newcomer skidded on to the midget’s casing, and would have gone all the way across and over the port side if Seaton had not seized
his arm.
The man gasped, ‘Bloody hell!’ Then, gripping Seaton’s belt, he turned to wave up at the barge. But it was already falling away, the engine beat mounting to throw a long roller across the midget’s hull and leave her rocking violently in the wake.
Seaton peered at his visitor. Mis-shapen in rough clothing which stank of fish, he could have been anyone.
He said, ‘Welcome aboard. You run a tight schedule.’ He guided him towards the hatch where Niven’s head was showing to lead the way below.
‘So do you, Captain!’ The man hesitated as Seaton touched his shoulder. ‘What is it?’
Seaton moved his head. ‘Aircraft.’ He waited, swaying. ‘Get below, please, quick as you can manage.’
Then he thudded through the hatch and almost knocked the man headlong.
‘Dive, dive, dive. Eight-five-oh revolutions.’ He loosened his collar. ‘What’s the depth?’
‘Plenty, Skipper. One hundred and eighty fathoms hereabouts.’
Seaton remained by the lowered periscope. ‘Hold her at ninety feet.’ He listened and waited. Nothing.
The deck seemed to lift again, and Drake said, ‘Ninety feet.’
‘Good.’ Seaton turned and looked at the new arrival for the first time. ‘I’m David Seaton.’ He grinned. It sounded so ridiculous he wanted to burst into a fit of laughing.
The other man tugged a woolly hat from his head and replied, ‘Trevor.’
It was the name which had been written in the folio. False, codename or his own, did not seem to matter.
He allowed himself to be led to a kapok cushion on one of the lockers.
‘This is quite a ship!’
He did not look much like a secret agent, Seaton thought. In a word, he was medium. Height, colour, voice, everything. Medium. An ordinary, homely face which you would hardly notice on a train or in a restaurant. Apart from needing a shave, and looking rather tired, he could have dropped in from anywhere.
Trevor said, ‘Sorry about the stink. Got picked up by a fisherman.’ He did not explain further. ‘Is that your chart?’ He got up from his seat and moved to the table. From a pocket of his coarse reefer coat he took a small square of paper. He laid it on the chart and then said, ‘I suggest you make your approach now. The target is supposed to be leaving port sometime tomorrow. If you go around the island you should cut quite a lot off the distance.’
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