The Titanic Secret (24 page)

All in all, it was simply impossible for him to predict exactly where the submarine would be when the
Titanic
reached the rendezvous position that he had calculated earlier. But it was increasingly clear that, short of a miracle, the one place the boat wouldn’t be was where he wanted it.

There was only one viable option available to him: he had to move the rendezvous, in terms of both place and time.

He scanned the chart again, the tip of his pencil tracing the predicted route of the ocean liner. Then he drew a circle around one particular point on the ship’s course and turned his attention to the submarine’s track. He decided to be generous, and allowed a five-hour delay for the refuelling operation to take place. Then he recalculated yet again, and checked his figures twice. He nodded slowly. If he moved the rendezvous to the new position, and as long as the
D4
managed to achieve a minimum speed of ten knots, even if the
Titanic
didn’t slow down or alter course, the submarine should still reach the rendezvous about two hours before the liner. And that would be ample time for all the preparations to take place.

Cumming nodded again, double-checked what he had done, and confirmed the new rendezvous position’s latitude and longitude, and the new time. Then he walked back to his desk to prepare two new messages: one for the captain of the submarine which would be sent via the Admiralty’s communication system, and the other for Alex Tremayne, which he would encode personally.

This change was, Mansfield Cumming realized, almost certainly the last alteration he would be able to make. In order to comply with his new instructions, as soon as the submarine had completed its second scheduled refuelling at sea, it would have to immediately alter course in order to reach the position he had specified by the revised time. Trying to get the boat anywhere else in the diminishing time period which now remained would probably not be possible, so this really was the only chance he had to successfully complete the operation.

Once he’d sent signals, all he would be able to do was wait. And hope.

13 April 1912
RMS
Titanic

As soon as Tremayne stepped inside the smoking room, he saw Voss, Bauer and Kortig sitting in their usual seats on the opposite side of the room.

He chose a table close to the door, and well away from the three Prussians, all of whom had ceased talking the moment he had entered the room, and were now staring at him in a hostile fashion across the room.

Tremayne simply ignored the three men, and apparently turned his attention to the book he was carrying. After a few minutes, Voss began talking in a quiet voice to his associates, his eyes still fixed on Tremayne.

Then he stood up and began walking across the smoking room, directly towards him.

Tremayne leant back in his chair as Voss approached, his right hand drifting down to his trouser pocket, where he’d hidden his pistol.

Voss stopped a couple of feet in front of the table and looked down at Tremayne, his features contorting themselves into a forced smile.

‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ he said, and waited expectantly.

‘My name’s Alex Maitland,’ Tremayne supplied automatically. He didn’t know what Voss was going to say or do to him, but he would observe the rules of politeness. At least at first.

‘May I sit down?’

‘Of course. I assume you’re a first-class passenger, so you can sit anywhere you like.’

Voss drew out a chair and then sat down facing Tremayne.

‘I wonder if you can help me?’ Voss said. ‘I can’t seem to find two of my associates. I was supposed to meet them last night, outside the smoking room, but they never appeared. You were here last night, but you left in what looked like a hurry, and you might possibly have seen them somewhere outside, on the Promenade Deck.’

He paused and looked across the table expectantly.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ Tremayne replied smoothly. ‘I was feeling a bit off colour last evening – I think it was something I ate – and I went outside to get a breath of fresh air. I did see a couple, a middle-aged man and a woman, walking around the Promenade Deck. In fact, I nearly bumped into them when I stepped outside. Could they have been your associates?’

Voss shook his head. ‘Of course not. I think you know exactly who I’m talking about, Mr Maitland, if that really is your name.’ He glanced around the smoking room, checking that nobody else was in earshot. ‘Let me put my cards on the table.’

‘Be my guest,’ Tremayne replied.

‘I know you broke into my stateroom a couple of days ago.’

Tremayne held up his hand. ‘That’s a very serious accusation to make, Mr – I don’t believe you told me your name.’

‘My name is Voss, Gunther Voss, as I’m sure you know perfectly well. And there’s no point in denying your action, because I have a witness who saw you unlocking the door and then step inside. Normally, I would simply report the actions of a thief to one of the ship’s officers and allow him to take whatever action he felt appropriate. But you, Mr Maitland, are not a thief, are you? You are a different kind of irritation. I suppose you’ve been sent here to follow me by your government, by that confused group of old, disillusioned, and incompetent men who are trying to run Britain – I refuse to call it “Great Britain” – in these twilight days of your once impressive Empire.’

Tremayne stared at him. ‘I’m not sure that I see what you’re driving at, Mr Voss, unless your purpose in sitting down at this table is to insult the country of my birth. And if it is, I would thank you to stand up and leave right now.’

Voss shook his head. ‘Let’s not play games, Maitland. Your nation has had its time. The Empire that you acquired by force, deception and duplicity will soon be fragmented and lost for ever. A new world order is coming, a shift in alliances that will see the final end of the decadent British Empire and the emergence of a new and vibrant nation that will dominate the world for decades to come. One of the oldest and most noble countries in Europe will finally realize its true destiny, aided by the newest nation of them all. And there’s nothing you, or anyone else, can do about it. So why don’t you just walk away from this? Go back to your masters and tell them that your pathetic attempt to stop this happening has failed dismally. I’ll even forget that you killed two of my men.’

Tremayne smiled. ‘First you accuse me of being a thief, then some kind of government spy and now, finally, a murderer. I presume you have some kind of proof of all these wild accusations, Voss? Or do you just enjoy ranting and raving at people? Is that your hobby, perhaps?’

Voss’s cold eyes bored into him. ‘Just keep out of my way, Maitland, or you’ll regret it. We’re all armed now, in case you were thinking of trying anything physical against us. You were lucky last night. Next time, luck will not be a factor, and that’s a promise.’

‘That sounded more like a threat to me.’

‘Promise, threat, it’s all the same,’ Voss replied, standing up. ‘Just remember what I’ve said, and if you want to get off this ship alive, make sure you keep out of my way.’

13 April 1912
HMS
D4

When the lookout, jammed into the tiny space at the top of the conning tower along with the submarine’s First Lieutenant, reported smoke on the horizon, Hutchinson was already wearing his foul-weather gear and was standing in the control room, ready to go topside. He called the two men down, then clattered up the steel ladder himself, binoculars slung around his neck.

The lookout had reported the smoke on the starboard bow and, almost as soon as Hutchinson raised the binoculars to his eyes, he saw it as well. A distant smudge, slightly darker than the surrounding clouds. The ship which had produced the plume was still invisible below the horizon, but Hutchinson had spent the previous ten minutes studying the navigation chart on which the rendezvous position with the second oiler had been marked, and he knew his boat was within thirty miles of that location. So, assuming that the navigation officer on the oiler knew what he was doing, he’d been expecting the ship to be sighted some time that morning, and he had little doubt of the identity of the approaching vessel, simply because of where it was. They’d only seen two other ships since they’d detached from the previous oiler two days earlier, partly because Hutchinson had been instructed to keep clear of all the main transatlantic shipping routes, but mainly because the Atlantic Ocean was an extraordinarily large body of water, and ships, all ships, were comparatively small.

As the two vessels closed with each other, Hutchinson followed the same routine as he had done on a previous occasion: as soon as he could clearly see that the approaching vessel was, in fact, an oiler, he used the signal lamp to send the predetermined challenge to it, and then waited for the appropriate response. Once he’d received it, and then the instructions from the oiler as to the sequence of events which would take place, he called down the voice pipe to the control room.

‘Do you hear there. All hands, prepare for refuelling. Pre-planned routine. The oiler will turn south-west to minimize ship movement and slow down to maintain steerage way. We will then manoeuvre and take up position on her starboard side. Once the mooring lines are secure, refuelling will commence. All hands, I say again, all hands, involved in this evolution are to wear life jackets and take extreme care while moving around on the decks. Manoeuvring will commence in approximately one-five minutes. All hands, standby.’

Hutchinson secured the voice pipe and looked ahead again. The oiler was now clearly visible without the binoculars, inside ten miles away, and had already altered course very slightly, in preparation for the long turn the vessel would make from its present easterly heading onto south-west.

Then he raised his binoculars again and scanned the entire horizon, searching for any other ships in the area, but saw nothing. The biggest problem they were going to have, he realized, was the sea itself, because the weather today was very different to the previous occasion. It had been raining for most of the morning, but had stopped about twenty minutes earlier, which was the only piece of good news. The swell was running at probably six to eight feet, which had necessitated frequent alterations of course, and had imparted the familiar and uncomfortable corkscrewing motion to the submarine. The wind had risen significantly over the previous twenty-four hours, and was now blowing at, Hutchinson estimated, at least fifteen knots from the south, a stiff breeze which was driving white foam off the tops of the waves. It was a cold, grey and unpleasant day, typical of winter in the North Atlantic.

This refuelling session, he was quite certain, was going to be more difficult, and take a lot longer, than the first one.

Hutchinson looked again at the oiler, which was now some distance off the submarine’s starboard bow, and was just commencing its right turn. The plan, conveyed in terse sentences by the signal lamp, was for the oiler to turn in front of the submarine and then reduce speed once it had steadied on its new heading. The boat would then also turn onto south-west, crossing the oiler’s wake, and come alongside the larger vessel, matching speed with it as quickly as possible.

Hutchinson watched as the ship turned ahead of him, then issued the appropriate orders.

‘Ten degrees left rudder. Steer course two-three-five magnetic. Set engine revolutions for five knots.’

He listened to the responses from the control room, ensuring that his orders were being followed accurately, then looked ahead again. The oiler had slowed and was steady on the heading chosen for refuelling, but was pitching up and down in the swell. As he watched, members of the ship’s company began lowering fenders of various shapes and sizes over the starboard side, to act as buffers between the two vessels.

‘Engine revolutions for three knots,’ Hutchinson ordered, as the submarine began to close on the oiler.

The motion of the submarine was much worse, the pitching noticeably more pronounced, at this slower speed, but there was nothing they could do about that.

When the boat was within about 200 yards of the ship, he ordered the refuelling team out on deck.

‘Keep hold of the safety lines,’ he shouted as the half a dozen men climbed out of the after hatch, ‘and watch your footing down there.’

He watched critically as the submarine nosed closer to the oiler, and ordered slight changes to the engine revolutions to match its speed. When the boat was precisely abeam the midships section of the oiler, orders were shouted on board the ship, and two heaving lines flew out, landing across the boat’s fore and after decks, where they were quickly grabbed by the waiting crewmen. Immediately, they began hauling on them, pulling the heavy mooring ropes across the gap between the two vessels, and then securing them to the deck bollards.

To Hutchinson’s palpable relief, both mooring lines were attached quickly, his men working smoothly and efficiently, despite the waves that were breaking over the low decks of the submarine, and the boat’s pitching. Another line followed, and that was attached to a thick black hose, which his men quickly secured to the refuelling point, and minutes later the tanks were being replenished with diesel.

They had just started pumping the fuel when a signalman appeared in the conning tower holding an envelope.

‘Sir. A signal for you, classified secret and marked “most urgent”,’ he said.

Hutchinson barely even glanced at him, concentrating totally on the refuelling, watching the actions of his men and alert for any mistakes that could injure one of them or disrupt the operation.

‘I don’t care who it’s from or how urgent it is,’ he said. ‘It can wait. Take it away. I’ll be down to look at it when this is finished.’

13 April 1912
RMS
Titanic

In the first-class smoking room, Gunther Voss watched with satisfaction as the British agent – because he had no doubt in his own mind that that was what the man calling himself ‘Maitland’ actually was – stood up and left the room.