San Andreas (18 page)

McKinnon hauled himself to his feet and took the wheel. ‘If I'd been standing there I'd have been very much the late Archie McKinnon. I'll thank you tomorrow.' He looked at the central window before him. It was holed, cracked, starred, abraded and completely opaque. ‘George?'

But Naseby needed no telling. Fire-extinguisher in hand, he smashed away the entire window in just two blows. He hitched a cautious eye over the bottom of where the window had been, saw that the
San Andreas
was arrowing in on the bows of the U-boat, then abruptly straightened in the instinctive reaction of a man who realizes that all danger is past.

‘Conning-tower's empty, Archie. They've all gone. Bloody funny, isn't it?'

‘Nothing funny about it.' The Bo'sun's tone was dry; if he was in any way moved or shaken by the narrowness of his recent escape he showed no signs of it. ‘It's customary, George, to go below and pull down the hatch after you when you're going to dive. In this case, crash dive.'

‘Crash dive?'

‘Captain has no option. He knows he hasn't the firepower to stop us and he can't possibly bring his torpedoes to bear. Right now he's blowing all main ballast. See those bubbles? That's water being blown from the ballast tanks by high pressure air—something like three thousand pounds per square inch.'

‘But—but he's left his gun crew on deck.'

‘Indeed he has. Again, no option. A U-boat is much more valuable than the lives of three men. See those valves they're twisting on the right-hand side of their suits? Oxygen valves. They're turning their Dräger lungs into life jackets. Much good it will do them if they run into a propeller. Will you go out on the wings, George, and see if there's any flame or smoke aft.'

‘You could phone.'

McKinnon pointed to the phone in front of the wheel, a phone that had been shattered by a machine gun bullet. Naseby nodded and went out on both wings in turn.

‘Nothing. Nothing you can see from the outside.' He looked ahead towards the U-boat, not much more than a hundred yards distant. ‘She's
going down, Archie. Fore and aft decks are awash.'

‘I can see that.'

‘And she's turning away to her starboard.'

‘I can see that, too. Counsel of desperation. He's hoping that if he can turn his sub at an acute enough angle to us he'll be struck only a glancing blow. A glancing blow he could survive. I think.'

‘Hull's submerged now. Is he going to make it?'

‘He's left it too late.' McKinnon rang down for full astern and eased the wheel slightly to port. Five seconds later, with the top of the conning tower barely awash, the forefoot of the
San Andreas
tore into the hull of the U-boat some thirty feet for'ard of the conning tower. The
San Andreas
juddered throughout its length but the overall effect of the impact was curiously small. For a period of not more than three seconds they felt rather than heard the sensation of steel grinding over steel, then all contact was abruptly lost.

‘Well,' Naseby said, 'so that's how it's done, is it?' He paused. ‘There's going to be a lot of jagged metal on that U-boat. If a prop hits that—'

‘No chance. The U-boat's been driven down, deep down—and they'll still be blowing main ballast. Let's just hope we haven't damaged ourselves too badly.'

‘You said the U-boat captain had no option. We didn't either. You think there'll be any survivors?'

‘I don't know. If there are any, we'll find out soon enough. I question very much whether they
would even have had time to close watertight doors. If they didn't, then that U-boat is on its way to the bottom. If anyone is going to escape, they're going to have to do it before it reaches the two-hundred-and-fifty-foot mark—I've never heard of anyone escaping from a submarine at a depth greater than that.'

‘They'd have to use the conning-tower?'

‘I suppose. There is a for'ard escape hatch—it's really an access hatch to the deck gun. But the chances are high that the fore part of the U-boat is completely flooded, so that's useless. There may be an after escape hatch, I don't know. The conning-tower is probably their best bet, or would have been if we hadn't rammed their vessel.'

‘We didn't hit anywhere near the conning-tower.'

‘We didn't have to. The compressive power of something like ten thousand tons dead weight has to be pretty fierce. The conning-tower hatch may have been jammed solid. Whether it would be possible to ease it or not I wouldn't know. Worse still, it may have sprung open and with a hundred gallons of water a second pouring down into the control room there is no way anyone is going to get out, they'd probably be battered unconscious in the first few seconds. I'm going down on deck now. Keep going round to starboard and keep her astern till you stop, then heave to. I'll take the motorboat out as soon as you've lost enough way.'

‘What's the point in taking the boat out if there are going to be no survivors?'

McKinnon led him out on to the port wing and astern to where three men were floundering about in the water. ‘Those three characters. The gun crew. As far as I could tell they were only wearing overalls and oilskins. Maybe the odd jersey or two, but that would make no difference. Leave them out there another ten, fifteen minutes and they'll just freeze to death.'

‘Let them. Those three bastards hit us aft three times. For all we can tell, some of those shells may have exploded inside the hospital.'

‘I know, George, I know. But I dare say there's something in the Geneva Convention about it.' McKinnon clapped him lightly on the shoulder and went below.

Just outside the deck entrance to the hospital McKinnon found half a dozen people waiting for him—Patterson, Jamieson, Curran, Trent, McCrimmon and Stephen. Patterson said: ‘I believe we've been in some sort of collision, Bo'sun.'

‘Yes, sir. U-boat.'

‘And?'

McKinnon pointed downwards. ‘I just hope we don't go the same way. For'ard watertight bulkheads, sir?'

‘Of course. At once.' He looked at McCrimmon and Stephen, who left without a word. ‘And next, Bo'sun?'

‘We were hit three times aft, sir. Any damage in the hospital?'

‘Some. All three hit the hospital area. One appears to have exploded when it passed through the bulkhead between A and B wards. Some injuries, no fatalities. Dr Sinclair is attending to them.'

‘Not Dr Singh?'

‘He was in the recovery room with the two injured seamen from the
Argos
. Door's jammed and we can't get inside.'

‘Shell explode in there?'

‘Nobody seems to know.'

‘Nobody seems—but that's the next compartment to A ward. Are they all deaf in there?'

‘They were. It was the first shell that exploded between the two wards. That deafened them all right.'

‘Ah. Well, the recovery room will just have to wait. What happened to the third shell?'

‘Didn't explode.'

‘Where is it?'

‘In the dining area. Rolling about quite a bit.'

‘Rolling about quite a bit,' McKinnon repeated slowly. ‘That's handy. Just because it didn't go off on impact—' He broke off and said to Curran: ‘A couple of heaving lines in the motorboat. Don't forget your knives.' He went inside and reappeared within twenty seconds, carrying a very small, very innocuous-looking shell, threw it over the side and said to Jamieson: ‘You have your gun, sir?'

‘I have my gun. What do you want the heaving lines for, Bo'sun?'

‘Same reason as your gun, sir. To discourage people. Tie them up if we have to. If there are any survivors, they're not going to feel very kindly disposed because of what we've done to their boat and their shipmates.'

‘But those people aren't armed. They're submariners.'

‘Don't you believe it, sir. Many officers carry hand guns. Petty officers, too, for all I know.'

‘Even if they had guns, what could they do?'

‘Take us hostage, that's what they could do. And if they could take us hostage they could still take over the ship.'

Jamieson said, almost admiringly: ‘You don't trust many people, do you?'

‘Some. I just don't believe in taking chances.'

The motorboat was less than fifty yards away from the spot where the U-boat's gun crew were still floundering about in the water when Jamieson touched McKinnon on the arm and pointed out over the starboard side.

‘Bubbles. Lots of little bubbles.'

‘I see them. Could be there's someone coming up.'

‘I thought they always came up in a great big air bubble.'

‘Never. Big air bubble when they leave the submarine, perhaps. But that collapses at once.'
McKinnon eased back on the throttle as he approached the group in the water.

‘Someone's just broken the surface,' Jamieson said. ‘No, by God, two of them.'

‘Yes. They've got inflatable life jackets on. They'll keep.' McKinnon stopped the engines and waited while Curran, Trent and Jamieson literally hauled the gun crew aboard—they seemed incapable of helping themselves. The trio were young, hardly more than boys, teeth chattering, shivering violently and trying hard not to look terrified.

‘We search this lot?' Jamieson said. ‘Tie them up?'

‘Good lord, no. Look at their hands—they're blue and frozen stiff. If they couldn't even hang on to the gunwale, and they couldn't, how could they press the trigger of a gun even if they could unbutton their oilskins, which they can't?'

McKinnon opened the throttle and headed for the two men who had surfaced from the submarine. As he did, a third figure bobbed to the surface some two hundred yards beyond.

The two men they hauled aboard seemed well enough. One of them was a dark-haired, dark-eyed man in his late twenties: his face was lean, intelligent and watchful. The other was very young, very blond and very apprehensive. McKinnon addressed the older man in German.

‘What is your name and rank?'

‘Obersteuermann Doenitz.'

‘Doenitz? Very appropriate.' Admiral Doenitz was the brilliant C-in-C of the German submarine fleet. ‘Do you have a gun, Doenitz? If you say you haven't and I find one I shall have to shoot you because you are not to be trusted. Do you have a gun?'

Doenitz shrugged, reached under his blouse and produced a rubber-wrapped pistol.

‘Your friend here?'

‘Young Hans is an assistant cook.' Doenitz spoke in fluent English. He sighed. ‘Hans is not to be trusted with a frying-pan, far less a gun.'

McKinnon believed him and headed for the third survivor. As they approached McKinnon could see that the man was at least unconscious for his neck was bent forward and he was face down in the water. The reason for this was not far to seek. His Dräger apparatus was only partially inflated and the excess oxygen had gone to the highest point of the bag at the back of the neck, forcing his head down. McKinnon drew alongside, caught the man by his life jacket, put his hand under his chin and lifted the head from the water.

He studied the face for only a second or two, then said to Doenitz: ‘You know him, of course.'

‘Heissmann, our First Lieutenant.'

McKinnon let the face fall back into the water. Doenitz looked at him with a mixture of astonishment and anger.

‘Aren't you going to bring him aboard? He may just be unconscious, just half-drowned perhaps.'

‘Your First Lieutenant is dead.' McKinnon's voice carried total conviction. ‘His mouth is full of blood. Ruptured lungs. He forgot to breathe out oxygen on the way up.'

Doenitz nodded. ‘Perhaps he didn't know that he had to do that. I didn't know. I'm afraid we don't have much time for escape training these days.' He looked curiously at McKinnon. ‘How did you know? You're not a submariner.'

‘I was. Twelve years.'

Curran called from the bows: ‘There's one more, Bo'sun. Just surfaced. Dead ahead.'

McKinnon had the motorboat alongside the struggling man in less than a minute and had him brought aboard and laid on the thwarts. He lay there in a peculiar position, knees against his chest, his hands hugging both knees and trying to roll from side to side. He was obviously in considerable pain. McKinnon forced open the mouth, glanced briefly inside, then gently closed it again.

‘Well, this man knew enough to exhale oxygen on the way up.' He looked at Doenitz. ‘You know this man, of course.'

‘Of course. Oberleutnant Klaussen.'

‘Your captain?' Doenitz nodded. ‘Well, he's obviously in considerable pain but I wouldn't think he's in any danger. You can see he's been cut on the forehead—possibly banged his head on the escape hatch on the way out. But that's not enough to account for his condition, for he must
have been conscious all the way up or he wouldn't have got rid of the oxygen in his lungs. Were you travelling underwater or on the surface during the night?'

‘On the surface. All the time.'

‘That rules out carbon dioxide, which can be poisonous; but you can't build up carbon dioxide when the conning-tower is open. From the way he's holding his chest and legs it would seem to be caisson disease; for that's where the effects hurt most, but it can't be that either.'

‘Caisson disease?'

‘Diver's bends. When there's too rapid a buildup of nitrogen bubbles in the blood when you're making a very fast ascent.' McKinnon, with the motor boat under full throttle, was heading directly for the
San Andreas
, which was stopped in the water at not much more than half a mile's distance. ‘But for that you have to be breathing in a high pressure atmosphere for quite some time and your captain certainly wasn't below long enough for that. Perhaps he escaped from a very great depth, perhaps a greater depth than anyone has ever escaped from a submarine and then I wouldn't know what the effects might be. We have a doctor aboard. I don't suppose he'll know either—the average doctor can spend a lifetime and not come across a case like this. But at least he can stop the pain.'