Alan Furst: Dark Voyage

“What’s that?”

“Smoke.”

Of course. “You mean, close the air flaps on the furnaces.”

“They’ll smoke like hell-a lot of it, thick and black.”

Smoke had been an effective sea tactic all through the 1914 war-a destroyer with a smoke generator could lay down miles of it, then use it the way infantry used a wall; steam out to fire, then back in to hide.

Kovacz took a rag from his pocket and began to clean his hands. “So now we look at charts,” he said.

2235 hours. At sea.

They moved the three German sailors to the wardroom, with Poulsen on guard, while the signalman remained in the radio office with Mr. Ali. DeHaan returned to the bridge, stopping at the chartroom on his way, with Kees, Ratter, and Kovacz. Scheldt stayed at the helm, holding steady on the one nine zero course.

DeHaan propped the Baltic charts on the binnacle, and used the end of a pencil as a pointer. “We’re maybe here,” he said. “Southwest of Bornholm.” The Danish island held by Germany. “Johannes?”

“Close. The sea log says so, and we’re about five hours from our last position.”

“No stars to shoot.”

“No moon either, Eric. It’s black as a miner’s ass, out there.”

“They’ll expect us to run north,” DeHaan said. “To Sweden. We can’t go west to Denmark or south to Germany. So then, it has to be east. To Lithuania.” DeHaan spread his thumb and forefinger, marching east to the coast. “Oh, let’s say, about two hundred and forty nautical miles.”

“Seventeen hours, with safety valve down,” Kovacz said.

“We’ll blow the boilers,” Kees said.

“Maybe not,” Kovacz said. “But we can’t go to Lithuania. See here? That’s the German naval base, with minefields, at Klaipeda, or Memel, or whatever the hell they call it now. We’ll have to head north of that.”

“Liepaja.”

“Yes. First port in Latvia.”

“Soviet territory,” Ratter said. “Won’t they give us up to the Germans?”

“Not soon,” Kovacz said. “They will lock us up, ask questions, call Moscow-you know, Russian time.”

Ratter looked up from the chart and caught DeHaan’s eye. “What about, the passengers?”

“They’ll be all right,” DeHaan said. “And we don’t have a choice.”

“Patrol planes at dawn, DeHaan,” Kees said. “We’ll be about here, by then.” Not quite halfway.

“If they find us, we’ll fly a white flag.”

They waited, maybe somebody had a better idea, but nobody spoke. Finally, Ratter said, “What about the crew?”

“When the minesweeper fires at us, and they will, we’ll signal abandon ship, bells and siren. That’ll get the guards out of the crew quarters. So, you two”-he looked at Ratter and Kees-“with two men from Stas’s crew, will wait in the passageway, then take them as they come out. And, on your way down there, stop and tell Poulsen and Ali what’s going on.”

“When do we start?” Kees said.

“Now.”

He gave Kovacz time to get down to the engine room and close the furnace flaps, then went out on the bridge wing and looked up at the smokestack, where the smoke was its usual dirty white color against the night sky. There was a slight wind, blowing from the southwest, but that wouldn’t matter once they turned east. As he watched, the smoke grew a shadow, cleared, then turned gray. He walked to the end of the bridge house and looked aft at M 56, holding position, her running lights sharp yellow beams in the rain.

Back on the bridge, when he pushed the engine telegraph to Full — Ahead, Kovacz called from the engine room. “Safety valve off,” he said. “We’re trying for fourteen knots.” DeHaan waited, watching the M 56, and checking the time. 10:48. Beneath his feet, the vibration increased in the deck plate and he could feel the engine working, straining, as the pressure rose in the boilers and the pistons were driven harder, and harder. 11:15. Was M 56 farther away? Lights dimmer? Maybe. No, they were.

From the radio room, Mr. Ali came on the speaker tube. “A W/T message from the minesweeper, Captain. They wish to know if everything is all right.”

“Have the signalman send ‘Yes.’”

A minute later, Ali was back. “Now they ask, ‘Have you added speed?’”

“Tell them ‘No.’ Wait, cancel that, tell them ‘I will find out.’”

11:35. “They are asking, ‘Where are you?’”

“No answer, Mr. Ali. The signalman’s gone up to the bridge.”

11:45. DeHaan peered back at M 56-lights dim now, pinpoints. She was well behind them and the smoke was obscuring her view. Ali returned. “They want to talk to Leutnant Schumpel. On the radio, immediately.”

“Tell them Schumpel went down to the engine room. There’s some sort of problem.”

On the M 56, a searchlight went on and probed the smoky darkness, finally pinning Noordendam on her stern quarter. The powerful beam lit the smoke-a sluggish cloud, heavy, black and oily, drifting east in the wind, as the smell, burned oil, grew strong in the bridge house. Kovacz called from the engine room. “That’s all she’s got, Eric.”

“They’re falling behind,” DeHaan said.

Well aft of them, DeHaan could hear the loud-hailer. “Leutnant Schumpel, Leutnant Schumpel. Come to the stern. Immediately. This is Kapitn Horst.”

DeHaan thought about taking the role of Leutnant Schumpel, then called down to the radio room. “Tell them there’s a fire, Mr. Ali.”

“Is there, sir?”

“No, we’re making smoke.”

“Very well, sending your message.”

A minute later, he was back. “They’re sending ‘Stand to.’ Again and again, they’re sending it.”

“Acknowledge. Say you have to go up to the bridge to instruct the captain.”

After thirty seconds, Mr. Ali said, “They’re sending ‘go immediately.’”

DeHaan looked back. The Noordendam was really pounding now, and the lights of the minesweeper winked out for a moment, then reappeared. DeHaan glanced at his watch-almost midnight. When he looked up, the lights were gone. Only the searchlight beam remained, faded and gray as it lit up the smoke. DeHaan called down to the radio room. “Send, ‘Leutnant Schumpel acknowledges, ship standing to, he will call on the radio in ten minutes.’ You have that?”

“I got it!” Ali’s voice squeaked with excitement.

It took fifteen minutes. Which ended with a red flash from M 56, and a shell that whined over the ship and blew a spout of white water in the sea beyond their bow.

“Scheldt,” DeHaan said. “Come sharp to north-northeast, bearing zero five zero.”

DeHaan walked to the back wall of the bridge house and threw the switch that turned off the Noordendam ’s running lights, then, as Scheldt swung the wheel over and the bow began to move, he heard a low drone in the sky. It grew louder and louder, passing far above them and headed northeast. These were heavy engines, bombers, dozens of them, no, more, many more, wave following wave. What the hell is this? It made no sense. Flying northeast, to Russia? Why?

DeHaan went back to the speaker tube. “Mr. Ali, tell them we’re on fire, going to abandon ship.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Send it a second time. Have the signalman stop in the middle.”

“Sending, Captain. They’re calling on the radio now, in clear. Shouting, sir, and rude.”

“Send this, Ali: ‘Sinking fast. Farewell to my family. Heil Hitler.’”

DeHaan looked at his watch, time had slowed to a crawl. Another flash from astern, the shell ripping the air and landing off their starboard beam. “Scheldt. Signal abandon ship, use the bells and the siren. I’ll take the helm.” They were at zero six eight now, almost on the new course. When DeHaan grasped the wooden spokes of the wheel, he could feel the driving pistons in his hands.