Ice Brothers

by Sloan Wilson

  The moonlight was so bright that they could see the glittering humps of the mountains around Supportup Fjord while they were still twenty miles away. The ice pack had pressed closer to the coast there, the radar showed, and there were several large icebergs in the two-mile strip of relatively open sea between the mouth of the fjord and the main floe.

  “We’re going to have to go in close,” Paul said to Nathan. “If we don’t stay right on top of the mouth of that fjord, he could get away.”

  “If he’s loaded deep, he couldn’t have too much speed.”

  “But we don’t know how much and we don’t know if he’ll try to run north, south or east when he gets out.”

  “There’s a good-size berg about fifteen-hundred yards just off the mouth of the fjord,” Nathan said, studying the radar. “If we hid behind that we might have some surprise going for us.”

  “If they have lookouts on the shore they’d spot us before we got in that close.”

  “Do you suppose their field guns could get us out there?” Nathan said.

  “If that damn Eskimo was right, they’re further in the fjord. Hell, we got to go in close. Any other way, he could duck us.”

  As they neared the mouth of the fjord, the bleak white mountains and the rocky coast looked so barren that it was difficult to imagine that a base of any kind could be nearby. No light, no wisp of smoke, no mark in the snow showed anywhere. Paul brought the ship slowly toward the iceberg which was less than a mile off the entrance to the fjord. It was about three times the size of the Arluk with a slanting flat top like the roof of a big shed. The sea had eaten away its waterline, producing a ledge about ten feet wide which ran around the edge of it like a skirt. Keeping the iceberg between the ship and the shore, Paul stopped and drifted with his bow only about fifty feet away from it.

  “Can you see over it from the flying bridge?” he shouted through the voice tube.

  “No,” Krater answered.

  Paul went to the flying bridge and jockeyed the ship until he could see over the slanting top of the iceberg. All but a few feet of the bow of the Arluk and the mast were hidden from the shore. When he stopped the engine, the men could hear a gentle groundswell sloshing under the snowy skirt of the iceberg and the strange catlike mewing of gulls with black-tipped wings that swooped around them. Paul glanced at his wristwatch. Twenty minutes after ten, about an hour and a half before dawn.

  “Here we wait,” he called to his men. “The planes should hit soon after the first streak of dawn, and if our little friend is in there he should come out and play. You guys better get warmed up while you have a chance.”

  Standing in the pilothouse to get the ache out of his own feet and hands, Paul tried to imagine what was going on now aboard the German ship and at their base. Since the Germans had no way of knowing that Peomeenie had visited them, they would have no reason to suspect that an attack was this imminent. Probably all but a few men on watch were asleep in underground bunkers or in houses buried in the snow. If their ship had already loaded a deck cargo of oil drums, she was probably ready for sea and waiting for a good weather report for the run across the Atlantic. If she planned to carry a lot of passengers, including most of the German brass whom she had saved from the supply ship, she would probably have to wait for them to come aboard when she got the first warning of enemy planes approaching. Big brass wouldn’t be apt to sleep aboard a crowded little ship until the last moment. But sure as hell she’d try to get out at the first sound of planes.

  Then which way would she go? Paul went to his cabin to study the chart. To the south the land fell away in a long shallow bay full of small islands and rocks. To the north the mountains plunged almost vertically into the sea. The German would probably head right for the ice pack at first, but when he saw the Arluk blocking his way, he could run either way, or choose to fight it out on the spot.

  “Nathan, does the radar show any leads into the ice pack near here?”

  Nathan turned a knob and studied the screen closely before answering. “The stuff is pretty closely packed out there. About ten miles to the south there’s something that might be a good lead.”

  “But he doesn’t seem to have radar, so he couldn’t know that.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Funny that they don’t have radar, isn’t it? I always just sort of assumed that they did.”

  “That’s what they get for kicking all the brains out of Germany before they even started their war.”

  “What do you think he’ll do when he comes out?”

  “I think he’ll try to get close enough to us to use his torpedoes.”

  “If I keep my bow to him, he won’t have a ten-percent chance.”

  “But it will be just about his only chance to sink us.”

  “If he has any speed left I bet he’ll run. Would you want a fire fight if your decks were loaded with oil drums?”

  “No, but I’m not suicidal. The Krauts are. That’s the only explanation of everything they’ve done.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do … it’s only a question of how many poor bastards they’ll kill before they get what they really want—a fiery death, the last act of a bad opera. They love it.”

  “Well, we’ll soon see.”

  Restlessly Paul climbed to the flying bridge. The catlike calls of the seagulls with black-tipped wings which were wheeling all around suddenly infuriated him. The seagulls, after all, were in no danger—they were just interested spectators, and after the battle was over they would feast on the eyes of Germans and Americans with equal relish. He had an impulse to take out his pistol and shoot at the gulls, probably would have except that they were close enough to shore for even a .45 to be heard. The moon was only a little above a low ridge of clouds on the western horizon, clouds that seemed to be growing, and Paul suddenly was afraid that they would spill over the whole sky and ground the planes before any action began. That was ridiculous. Even in Greenland in December bad weather didn’t build up that fast. He went to the pilothouse and tapped the barometer. It was still falling, but dawn should break in about forty minutes. At Narsarssuak Fjord on the other side of the ice cap the big bombers would be already warming up. Their pilots were probably having a last sip of coffee. To them the prospect of bombing a German weather base in Greenland which now had been pinpointed for them would appear to be just a milk run.

  As the moon set behind the clouds there were a few minutes of utter darkness during which the whole coast of Greenland disappeared. The stars on the eastern horizon glowed brightly, much larger than they appeared at home. Invisible now, the gulls continued to mew like hungry cats.

  The first sign of dawn was the gradual disappearance of the faintest stars. Then there was a murky gray line on the eastern horizon, made jagged by the intervening icebergs. Without orders the men trooped to their guns. They checked the breeches and trained them restlessly around the horizon.

  Paul went to the voice tube to the engineroom. “It’s starting to get light,” he said. “We could have action anytime.”

  “Standing by,” Chief Banes said.

  Paul went to the flying bridge. The snowy coast of Greenland was beginning to emerge from the gloom, pristine white slopes which looked as though they had never been touched by man. Veils of gray cloud now obscured the highest peaks. Through his binoculars Paul studied the entrance to the fjord. The sea was black where the current and tides had prevented it from freezing. The German’s white camouflage wouldn’t help him when he came out.

  By now the planes should have taken off, Paul thought. Jesus, I hope they don’t find some way to screw up … “Nathan, is Flags on the radio?” Paul called through a voice tube to the bridge,

  “Yes, they’ll tell us if there’s a change of plan.”

  At first the sound of the approaching bombers was so faint that Paul was not sure that he heard it. He turned the collar of his parka away from his ears. The men at the guns started to cheer as the distant drone grew to
a roar. Suddenly, like plump geese, three fat-bellied bombers appeared in a V-formation above the ice cap. They circled high above the fjord, trying to make sure of their position.

  Now the bastards in there know what’s coming, Paul thought. That hunter-killer is trying to get under way. I bet everybody is running, trying to jump aboard … if the son of a bitch didn’t sail three days ago …

  This suspicion that the German had already escaped was the worst of it. Paul gripped his binoculars so hard his hands ached as he studied the mouth of the fjord. Overhead the bombers continued to circle lazily. Suddenly the lead plane sloped toward the fjord. It dipped down, leveled off just above the sides of the icy canyon, crossed it and circled away. Paul had seen no bomb drop and had heard nothing, but a plume of heavy black smoke suddenly climbed from the edge of the fjord.

  So now the target is marked, Paul thought, and almost immediately heard gunfire as antiaircraft batteries along the ridges of the fjord opened fire at the planes. The bombers circled far above the puffs of smoke. Paul had to force himself to keep a watch on the entrance of the fjord instead of the planes.

  He’s pretty damn slow getting under way, Paul thought, and now a conviction that the German ship had already escaped began to grow. Damn, he thought, and at just that moment he saw a tiny white object move just inside the rocky entrance. It was much smaller than he had thought the hunter-killer would be, even at that distance.

  “He’s coming,” Paul yelled, and slid down the ladder to the wing of the bridge.

  “I’ve got him on the radar,” Nathan said, his deep voice sounding almost matter-of-fact. “Range, sixteen-hundred yards, bearing two six three.”

  “Guns, open fire with the three-inch at will,” Paul called, and repeated the bearing and range. The crack of the small cannon answered almost immediately. Paul rang for flank speed. As soon as he was clear of the iceberg he said, “Come right slowly and steady on the mouth of the fjord. Can you see the ship coming out?”

  “Aye,” the helmsman said.

  The three-inch gun kept firing at about five-second intervals.

  “Can you see if he’s hitting anything?” Paul asked Nathan, who was studying the oncoming ship through his binoculars.

  “I can’t even see where the shells are landing.”

  There was another report. “That one’s way short,” Nathan said.

  Paul did not need his binoculars now to see that the hunter-killer was still heading straight toward him. No guns were flickering from her bow. Smoke was pouring from her high stack. Gray drums of fuel oil were lashed all over her deck. The Arluk’s three-inch gun continued to fire and one shell burst just off the target’s left bow.

  “How much more do you want to close, skipper?” Nathan said.

  “Till we hit him.”

  “We’re getting into his range.”

  “He’s not shooting yet.”

  Paul had hardly spoken when he saw a flicker of fire on the bow of the hunter-killer, and tracers arched toward the Arluk. They fell about a hundred yards ahead, looking like rain on the water.

  “Left full rudder,” Paul said, wondering whether he was a coward, fighting with the impulse to keep barreling closer.

  “He’s turning too, skipper,” Nathan said.

  Paul saw that the target was indeed making a sharp turn to the right and was starting to run parallel to the shore only a few hundred yards off the coast. The little ship was very deep in the water and was throwing a huge stern wake. Paul maneuvered the Arluk to parallel her course.

  “Nathan, take bearings on her. Is she outrunning us?”

  There was a pause while Nathan peered into the radar. The three-inch gun continued to fire and a shell burst just ahead of the hunter-killer.

  “Not by much, skipper,” Nathan said. “Maybe a little.”

  “If we don’t hit her pretty soon—”

  The next shell from the three-inch gun narrowly missed the stern of the hunter-killer. To Paul’s astonishment she turned abruptly and headed for the center of the shallow cove.

  “She’ll run aground in there,” Paul said.

  “Maybe he’s got his own charts.”

  “Anyway, we’ve got him. He can’t run from us in there.”

  The three-inch gun continued to fire, but the stern presented a narrow target. Shells exploded on both sides of it.

  “I think he’s trying to beach her,” Nathan said. “That way most of them might get off …”

  Close against the icy shore, the white ship was difficult to see. She zig-zagged through some low-lying small islands of rock. Slowing to make a sharp turn to the south, she suddenly stopped.

  “She’s aground,” Paul said. “She’s only about two hundred yards from shore.”

  He headed the Arluk toward the stationary vessel while he studied her through the binoculars. The Arluk’s three-inch gun continued to crack. Paul was astonished when flames suddenly blossomed on the bow of the hunter-killer.

  “Jesus, we’ve got him,” Paul said. “Cease fire.”

  “I just got the range!” Guns said.

  “He’s aground and afire. Let’s see what happens.”

  Nathan and Paul studied the German ship through the binoculars as the Arluk sped closer. The hunter-killer’s bow was tilted up on rocks and she was listed about twenty degrees to port. Smoke and fire climbed from the bow. Her stern was alive with men.

  “They’re launching rubber rafts,” Nathan said. “If they get ashore they may be able to make it to one of their weather stations.”

  “Like hell,” Paul said. “Guns, open fire.”

  The next shot toppled the smokestack. Paul was about to order another ceasefire when a machine gun on the stern of the German opened up. The Arluk was barely within range, but Paul heard bullets falling on the flying bridge and the splintering of wood.

  “Give them everything we’ve got!” Paul yelled. “Ahead full. Let’s finish this.”

  As all her machine guns opened up, the whole hull of the Arluk shook. And almost immediately the hunter-killer burst into flames.

  “Cease fire,” Paul yelled, but he had to repeat the order twice more at the top of his lungs before the guns were silent. The oil drums on the whole length of the hunter-killer’s deck were blossoming into flame. From her stern men were crowding into two large rubber boats. A few had paddles, and they frantically moved away from the burning ship while men were still trying to jump into them. About a dozen men were splashing in the water between the stern of the ship and the rubber boats.

  Suddenly the machine gun on the stern of the burning ship again started to fire. Without being told the men on the Arluk opened up with their machine guns. The stern of the hunter-killer exploded. In the instant of silence which followed, a white-clad figure gave one piercing shriek, stumbled and fell on the well deck of the Arluk. Boats and two seamen ran toward it. Boats kneeled by the head.

  “It’s Cookie,” he yelled. “He’s hit bad.”

  Paul started to run to the well deck, but Nathan said, “Skipper, hold it. Those bastards are going to make it ashore if we don’t act quick.”

  Paul stared toward the burning wreck. The two crowded rubber boats had made it halfway to shore. At least a half dozen men were paddling in each.

  “Guns,” he said, “take out those boats. The twenties ought to be able to do it.”

  The two 20-millimeter guns began their staccato stutter. Tracers arched toward the rubber boats. A few men dropped their paddles and tried to stand before they were hit. The guns kept on firing until there was nothing but smoke on the water …

  “Cease fire,” Paul said. He was aware only of the fact that he felt absolutely nothing. Not the exaltation of victory, not pity, not horror. Nathan was studying the bow of the hunter-killer, which was sending up a tower of flame.

  “Burn, damn you,” he said softly.

  An explosion that made all the others seeem like nothing suddenly made the men on the Arluk look toward Supportup Fjord. The bombers h
ad turned the middle of the rock canyon into an inferno. Great oily funnels of smoke full of angry red flames were boiling from it.

  “God, I can’t see how any of them could live through that,” Nathan said.

  “Well, we’ll soon see,” Paul said. “Our real job is just beginning. I bet that plenty of them will still be waiting for us in there.”

  While Paul conned the ship toward the entrance of the fjord, which was now almost hidden by smoke, Nathan went below to see if he could help Cookie. He found the chef screaming in his bunk while Seth Farmer, who seemed more shaken than he was, kept offering him a glass of apricot brandy.

  “I don’t know how bad he’s hurt,” Seth said.

  Cookie lay with his knees doubled up and kept alternating shrill screams with fierce curses. Nathan got morphine from the medicine chest and gave him an injection. When his moans became drowsy, he knelt by his bunk and opened his clothes. Cookie had not been hit directly by a bullet. One had hit the oak cap rail of the trawler about six inches from him and had sprayed the whole front of his body with oak splinters, some of them six inches long. As far as Nathan could see, no one of the wounds was necessarily fatal, but there were perhaps a hundred of them. Nathan ran to the bridge.

  “Captain, I got to work on Cookie,” he said. “Can you get along without me for an hour?”

  “I got to wait for some of that smoke to clear before we go into the fjord anyway. Where did Cookie get it?”

  “Wood splinters, all over.”

  As Nathan ran back to the forecastle Paul climbed to the flying bridge and studied the burning fjord through his binoculars. The bombers had disappeared but roiling black smoke full of red flames was still climbing from the center of the fjord. They must have dropped incendiaries, Paul thought, but what did they hit to keep such an enormous blaze growing? Diesel oil—only that could make such dirty smoke, and the smell of it filled the air. But why so much of it? Perhaps the Germans had been prepared to supply their submarines as well as a string of weather stations. Were they trying to fight the fire now or were they digging in for a last-ditch stand when a ship or ground troops appeared? It was hard to imagine how anyone could have survived such a conflagration but he was sure some had, and even a half dozen men with machine guns could take a helluva toll. Well, I can call in more planes or go back and bring in some armed Eskies, Paul thought—I’m not going to let them hit any more of us. But first he would have to investigate the place. There wasn’t any way around that, and he found he was looking forward to the job …