“Fifteen seconds,” Clarence gasped. “I’ll get Helen.”
Jonathan tried to get up, discovered his seat belt was still fastened. His fingers slipped on the harness and he figured he’d wasted two seconds. The Beechcraft heaved and seemed to slide, and a gigantic wave flung itself on the roof, but the air in the cabin kept them buoyant. He didn’t dare to think what would happen when he opened the door.
Clarence stumbled aft, Helen wrapped in his arms like a large baby. “Whenever you’re ready!”
Jonathan nodded, tied the painter from the inflatable dinghy round the girl’s waist. “Now!” He threw open the door. Water rushed at him, checked as the air rushed at it. The raft went outside, and Helen woke up to scream. Jonathan and Clarence went out with her, fumbling at the red knob to inflate her jacket before jerking on their own. Then she slipped away from them, dragged by the painter.
Ice water clouded Jonathan’s system, and something, the door of the Beechcraft, he thought, struck him on the shoulder. His good shoulder. He swirled about, and then suddenly found himself floating. He tried to draw breath, was struck across the face by a burst of spray which hurt him even as it sought to drown him. He coughed and vomited and started to swim and touched the rope. The life raft was unfolded and looked immensely comforting. He went along the rope hand over hand, tumbled across the rubber gunwale. He rose to his knees and pulled on the rope. Helen bobbed on the waves, with Clarence at her side, keeping her head clear. They came alongside, and Jonathan got his hands on to her shoulders, slid them down to her thighs, dragged her upward. She tumbled into the dinghy beside him, opened her eyes to smile at him, closed them again.
The pent-up exhaustion of the past two days seemed to descend on him like a blanket. Desperately he grappled at Clarence’s shoulders, sank back with a gasp as they both fell into the bottom of the boat. “That was fun,” Clarence panted. “The plane’s gone.”
Jonathan sat up. The rubber dinghy tossed and was already half full of water; the entire world seemed to be going round and round. “Where do you think that ship is?”
“Coming up astern,” Clarence said happily. “She must have watched us ditch.”
Jonathan turned, gazed at the ocean-going trawler. There was a hammer and sickle on the funnel.
Chapter Eleven
“Hey,” Clarence said. “Hey.”
Jonathan opened his eyes. The cabin was small. It contained two bunks and a washbasin. The bulkheads were painted white, and the sheets were white, and the washbasin was very white. It made him think of a hospital, except that it rose and fell and moved to and fro.
“Boy, there’s a relief.” Clarence sat beside him on the lower bunk; he wore a borrowed sweater and pants, some sizes too small for him. “I thought you were down for the year.”
“What happened?” Every bone, every muscle in his body seemed to have an ache of its own, and he shivered incessantly.
“You fainted, I imagine. Took one look at the ship and passed clean out. You’ve been lying there for pretty near four hours.”
“Four hours?!” With an effort Jonathan lifted his left wrist; his watch showed eleven minutes past three.
“Like a babe. Hey, this is some ship. You know, I always put the Russkies down as a dour lot. But these chaps seem happy enough. And the food! I lunched with the skipper. He was pretty curious about what we were doing out in that storm. And even more curious about that cannon of yours. But I straightened him out. Told him we were on our way to a marksmanship contest.”
Jonathan gazed at him. Think! They must have flown over Tiree before starting their descent. He had miscalculated their speed over the ground. They! “Where’s Helen?”
“She’s out too. They put her in the captain’s cabin. But they say she’ll be all right. Just a cut on the head. Hey!”
Jonathan scrambled from the berth, was thrown halfway across the cabin as the trawler slid sideways down a trough. He fell across the bunk, gasped for breath, waited for his head to clear.
“You want to take it easy,” Clarence suggested. “You’re pretty exhausted.”
Think! What had happened was irrelevant. His problem was what was going to happen next. The trawler was barely making sufficient way to keep her bows pushed into the seas, rolling and corkscrewing. Were Anna Cantelna on board surely they would be hightailing it out of these confined waters for the open Atlantic. Therefore she was as late as he had been early. “Where are we?” he asked. “I mean on the ship.”
“We’re in the mate’s cabin, right under the bridge deck.”
“And where can I get some clothes?”
“They’re waiting for you.” Clarence took them from the upper berth. “The captain wants to meet you. I promised I’d take you up as soon as you came to. Your lunch is keeping warm, too.”
Jonathan pulled on an enormous sweater. Presumably this ship would be the same size as the Ludmilla. Therefore she would have a crew of eleven men, together with perhaps two scientists. But there were two of them—supposing Clarence could be relied on. He finished dressing. “Let’s go. First stop, Helen.”
“Hey, but wait . . .”
Jonathan opened the door, stepped into the corridor. To his right there was a bulkhead door, leading forward. To his left an inside door led aft, presumably into the saloon. There was a cabin beside him, and two more opposite. There was no one in sight. And still the trawler continued her uneasy motion, rising and falling, rolling from side to side, plunging into the troughs, rattling and groaning, waiting.
“Which is the captain’s cabin?”
“Next door,” Clarence said. “But I don’t think . . .”
The bulkhead door opened and a man stepped in. He was tall, and had a great moon-face and sandy hair. He wore a seaman’s sweater with the word Katrina printed in red across his chest. He grinned when he saw Jonathan. “You are awake,” he said. “That is very good.” He chuckled. “You understand me, yes?”
“I understand you very well,” Jonathan said.
“I speak English very good, eh? I am the steward. I will serve your luncheon.” He stepped past Jonathan, and Jonathan clasped his hands together and brought them down on the thick neck. The steward grunted, and his knees buckled. He was still conscious, but as he tried to turn Jonathan closed his fist and hit him in the stomach, then repeated the neck blow again. The steward struck the deck and lay still.
“You can’t do that!” Clarence exclaimed. “These people saved our lives.”
“Inadvertently. The moment they find out who we are they’ll throw us back. Move.” He seized the steward by the legs, dragged him into the cabin. “You coming, or not?”
“Not until you justify your actions. The chap was going to get your lunch.”
“Then you stay here and explain to him that I’m not hungry.” Jonathan opened the door of the cabin next door. Helen lay on her back in the single berth, covered with a blanket. There was a strip of plaster on her forehead, just beneath the hairline. Her eyes were closed. He knelt beside her, shook her shoulder. She opened one eye, then the other, gazed at him, and sat up. As an afterthought she grabbed the blanket and clutched it against her throat. “Jonny?”
“The same. How do you feel?”
“The cat didn’t even bother to drag me in, this time. Where are we?”
Clarence appeared in the doorway. “We were picked up by a Russian trawler. And your friend Jonny has gone berserk.”
“He’s trying to tell you we landed in the jackpot. Fortunately, they don’t know it yet. So up you get. Our first job is to stow you somewhere nobody will ever think of looking for you. I go for the ship’s larder. I’ll bet you’re starving. And you’ll sit in there and you won’t make a noise or come out until one of us comes back for you or this ship is taken into custody by the British coastguard. Got me?”
Her eyes were wide. “You starting trouble?”
“I’ve a few ideas.”
“Then I’m going to stick around. You can’t take on a whole sh
ip’s crew on your lonesome.”
He kissed her on the cheek. “You’ve more guts than brains. But I have Clarence.”
“Hey, wait a minute . . .” Clarence frowned at Helen. “You mean you’d go along with him?”
“This is what we came for. Remember?”
“But you don’t even have your gun any more,” Clarence protested.
“Two minds with but a single thought.” Jonathan glanced at the desk against the opposite bulkhead, remembered how Alexis had described Katorzin’s attempt to take over the Ludmilla. The drawers were locked. “Bolt the door,” he told Clarence. “And find me some sort of jimmy.”
“Search me.”
“I don’t even have a hairpin,” Helen confessed.
“It wouldn’t do me much good, anyway. I belong to the brute strength and bloody ignorance brigade.”
The chair in front of the desk had metal-shod legs. It was chained to the floor, but it was the work of a second to unscrew it from the bracket.
“Stand clear,” he suggested, and swung the chair, staggering to and fro as the trawler rolled, aiming at the center drawer. The blow missed, struck the top of the desk and crashed into the bulkhead with a sound like a revolver shot. They gazed at each other, waited for the feet in the corridor. Nothing happened.
“They must figure it was something come loose in the rolling,” Helen said. “What now?”
“We try again.” Jonathan regained the chair, spread his legs wide, swung once more. And then again. His third blow smashed the lock, and the center drawer controlled the other. In the left-hand bottom drawer he found his Luger, and also a nine-millimeter Mauser, with two full clips of ammunition. He handed the Luger to Clarence. “Don’t shoot unless I tell you to. There are only five bullets.” He loaded the Mauser, stuck the reserve clip in his pocket.
“You two look ready to fight a war,” Helen suggested.
“We’re hoping it stays very cold. Let’s go.” He struck the pistol in the waistband of his pants, underneath the sweater, and went outside. Helen wrapped herself in the blanket and followed. The saloon and the galley were both empty; it was the middle of the afternoon and a ship this size would carry only one steward. He pushed Helen into the larder, and she turned and clutched his hands.
“Jonny . . .!”
“Easy now.” He kissed her on the nose. “You’ve been just marvelous. Keep your average up.”
“Just what are we aiming to do?” Clarence asked.
“That depends on just what we have to do. I want you supporting my rear at all times. Okay?”
Clarence hesitated, gazed at Helen, grinned. “Okay, if Helen’s involved. But you shut that door, sweet-heart.”
Jonathan climbed the ladder to the bridge deck, emerged outside the door to the chartroom. Behind him was the wireless cabin; the door was closed. Forward was the bridge, where the captain and a bareheaded man swept the sea with binoculars; between them the quartermaster leaned on the wheel.
He glanced down the ladder; Clarence was immediately beneath him, a look of suitable determination on his face. He nodded, opened the door to the wireless cabin. “And the top of the morning to you, old friend,” he said, speaking very quickly.
The operator was reading an English grammar, a faint frown wrinkling his forehead. He lifted his head, his frown deepened, and then he smiled as he realized who Jonathan was. He turned the palms of his hands outward, and raised his shoulders.
“Sign language is far more useful,” Jonathan agreed, took the pistol from his belt, and struck the man across the head. The Russian’s eyes opened very wide, and then closed. He fell backward in his chair, and Jonathan bundled him on to the floor, sat down himself. Clarence gaped.
“Close the door, and get over there by the porthole. We’re looking for another ship.”
Clarence nodded, and obeyed. Jonathan laid the pistol on the desk in front of him, started at the key.
“S—O—S,” he tapped. “S—O—S. Trawler Katrina off Barra Head. Send coast guard with arms. Mutiny. S—O—S. S—O—S. Trawler Katrina off Barra Head. Send armed coast guard. Mutiny.”
“There’s some kind of fishing boat,” Clarence said.
The engine telegraph jangled, and the Katrina vibrated as she gathered way, and heeled as she turned. Jonathan ran to the port, saw the drifter rising and falling in the swell, great puffs of black smoke escaping her exhaust. The engine telegraph jangled once more, and the Katrina lost way once more, immediately starting to roll heavily. There were shouts from forward and the deck below. Jonathan sat down again, resumed tapping. “S—O—S. S—O—S. Trawler Katrina . . .”
The door opened, and the captain stepped inside.
*
Jonathan picked up the pistol. “Close the door.”
The captain hesitated, glanced at Clarence. He was a short man, plump and slow moving. His small eyes were almost hidden by heavy cheeks. He looked fond of good food. Jonathan thought he might be on a lucky streak; this man was no Alexis.
The captain closed the door. “I would like to state that I find this behavior at once irresponsible and incomprehensible. I risked my ship to save you from drowning, and this is how you repay me?” He pronounced each word very carefully.
“I feel a heel,” Jonathan said. “But not everybody would agree that you did the right thing. Now you and I are going to wait for Madam Cantelna to join us.”
“My crew expect me back on the bridge. Someone will come in here any moment.”
“You’d better pray he doesn’t.”
The captain licked his lips. “This is piracy. I know nothing about . . . about any madam. We have stopped to pick up the crew of a fishing boat that is in distress. It is our day for rescuing people, perhaps.”
Feet clattered on the ladder; the captain glanced at the door.
“Whatever you’re brooding on,” Jonathan said. “Forget it.” He kept his knuckles tight on the trigger, got up, moved away from the desk.
Voices spoke Russian in the corridor; one of them belonged to a woman, and was low and husky. His heart pounded, and his hands were suddenly clammy. The door swung inward. Anna Cantelna wore yellow oilskins over red pants tucked into black leather boots; the effect was as if a light had been switched on. She was followed by the bareheaded man who had been on the bridge.
She saw Clarence first, turned to the captain, saying something in Russian, and frowned at the expression on his face. Then she saw Jonathan. Her own expression never altered, but her eyes flickered. Her companion stared at the gun.
“Do not call for help, Anna,” Jonathan said. “And you, close the door.”
The man started, and obeyed. Anna Cantelna glanced at him, then back at Jonathan. She drew a long, slow breath, inflated her small frame. “You must have wings, Mr. Anders,” she said softly.
“I found a pair.”
“And a sixth sense?”
“A long nose, Anna.”
She turned to the captain. “And these are the young men you picked up from the sea? I would say you are several kinds of a fool.”
“But madam, I had no idea they had anything to do with you. They were in considerable danger of drowning.”
“And what did you intend to do with them?”
“I thought they could be put ashore.” He made a futile gesture. “Somewhere safe. The Faroes.”
“You thought,” she said contemptuously. “But you did not think to put him under any restraint. You would like to emulate Tigran Katorzin, eh, Mr. Anders? I would have thought his experiences would have taught you better. You know our order of priorities.”
“I try to keep them in mind. Is that drifter still along-side?”
Clarence glanced through the porthole. “It’s cast off. Give it five and it’ll be out of sight.”
“Captain,” Anna Cantelna said quietly. “These men mean to force you to navigate your ship into a British harbor. You must stop them.”
“But madam . . .” The captain gazed at the gun.
&
nbsp; Anna Cantelna smiled. “Fortunately, I know Mr. Anders better than you. He lacks, what shall I say? The will to kill. Now!”
She threw herself forward, but Jonathan swung his left arm, struck her on the shoulder, and bundled her over the desk and to the floor on the farther side. The bareheaded man was immediately behind her, leaping on to the desk itself. Jonathan looked up at him, squeezed the trigger. The explosion was surprisingly muted, but the man’s sweater exploded into red, and he fell backward, hitting the desk and lying still. He made no sound. The captain started for Clarence, checked, gazed at Jonathan with stark horror in his face, then dived for the door, wrenching at the handle and falling outside, calling for help as he did so.
Anna Cantelna sat up, and hurled a Russian expletive after him, spitting it from her lips as she might a bad olive. She scrambled to her feet, but Jonathan threw his arm round her waist and pulled her against him. She kicked him on the ankle, but he kept her arms pinioned to her sides. Then she saw the dead man lying on the farther side of the desk, and her struggles ceased. “Come on,” he snapped. He forced Anna Cantelna out of the wireless cabin and into the chartroom, Clarence at his shoulder; the captain had opened one of the bridge windows and was shouting orders at the deck, but the quartermaster was facing them, and now he tapped the captain on the shoulder.
Jonathan moved his pistol to and fro. “Out.”
“Stop him,” Anna Cantelna gasped.
The quartermaster gazed at her, then at the gun, then at the blood trickling through the door of the wireless cabin with every roll of the ship. The captain was already sidling toward the ladder.
Anna Cantelna shouted something in Russian, and with a tremendous effort tore herself free. But she lost her balance in doing so and crashed into the wheel, falling to the deck. A head appeared at the top of the companion ladder. Jonathan aimed slightly to the right, squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck the iron bulkhead and ricocheted with a ringing twang; there was a cry of pain and the man on the step disappeared. A moment later the captain and the quartermaster were gone too, scrambling down the companion ladder, hitting the deck with a series of thuds.
Operation Destruct Page 18