Jack Higgins - Storm Warning

It was perhaps the most incredible thing she had ever seen in her life and she was seized by a tremendous feeling of exhilaration. A sea slopped in over the rail in a green curtain that bowled her over, sending her skidding across the deck on her hands and knees.

She crouched against the bulwark and, as she tried to get up, Berger dropped out of the shrouds beside her and got a hand under her arm.

‘Bloody fool!’ he shouted. ‘Why can’t you stay below?’

He ran her across the deck and into his cabin before she had a chance to reply. Sister Angela collapsed into the chair behind the desk and Berger got the door shut and leaned against it. ‘What in the hell am I going to do with you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There was panic down below. I simply wanted to know what had happened.’

He picked up a towel from his bunk and tossed it across to her. ‘A line parted, a sail broke free. It could have snapped the topmast like a matchstick, only Richter was too quick for it.’ He opened a cupboard and reached for the bottle. ‘A drink, Sister? Purely medicinal, of course. Rum is all I can offer, I’m afraid.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Berger poured himself a large one and she wiped her face and regarded him curiously. ‘It was incredible what you were doing out there. You and Herr Richter, so high up and in such weather.’

‘Not really,’ he said indifferently. ‘Not to anyone who’s reefed main t’gallants on a fully-rigged clipper in a Cape Horn storm.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Tell me, do you still think we’re bad luck? A positive guarantee of contrary winds, wasn’t that what you said at our first meeting? And yet we’ve made good progress, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Oh, we’re making time all right,’ Berger admitted. ‘Although she shakes herself to pieces around us just a little bit more each day.’

‘You speak of her, the Deutschland , as if she is a living thing. As if she has an existence of her own.’

‘I wouldn’t quarrel with that. Although I suppose your Church would. A ship doesn’t have one voice, she has many. You can hear them calling to each other out there, especially at night.’

‘The wind in the rigging?’ There was something close to mockery in her voice.

‘There are other possibilities. Old timers will tell you that the ghost of anyone killed falling from the rigging remains with the ship.’

‘And you believe that?’

‘Obligatory in the Kriegsmarine.’ There was an ironic smile on his face now. ‘Imagine the shades who infest this old girl. Next time something brushes past you in the dark on the companionway, you’ll know what it is. One Our Father and two Hail Marys should keep you safe.’

Her cheeks flushed but before she could reply, the door was flung open and Sister Else appeared, ‘Please, Sister, come quickly. Frau Prager seems to be worse.’

Sister Angela jumped to her feet and moved out. Berger closed the door behind her, then picked up the towel she dropped and wiped his face. Strange how she seemed to bring out the worst in him. A constant source of irritation, but then perhaps it was simply that they’d all been together for too long in such a confined space. And yet …

For most of the afternoon, HMS Guardian , a T-class submarine of the British Home Fleet, en route to Trinidad for special orders, had proceeded submerged, but at 1600 hours she surfaced.

It was the throb of the diesels that brought her captain, Lieutenant-Commander George Harvey, awake. He lay there for a moment on the bunk, staring up at the steel bulkhead, aware of the taste in his mouth, the smell of submarine, and then the green curtain was pulled aside and Petty Officer Swallow came in with tea in a chipped enamel mug.

‘Just surfaced, sir.’

The tea was foul, but at least there was real sugar in it, which was something.

‘What’s it like up there?’

‘Overcast. Wind north-west. Two to three. Visibility poor, sir. Slight sea mist and drizzling.’

‘Succinct as always, Coxswain,’ Harvey told him.

‘Beg pardon, sir?’

‘Never mind. Just tell Mr Edge I’ll join him on the bridge in five minutes.’

‘Sir.’

Swallow withdrew and Harvey swung his legs to the floor and sat there, yawning. Then he moved to the small desk bolted to the bulkhead, opened the Guardian ’s war diary and in cold, precise naval language, started to insert the daily entry.

There were three men on the bridge. Sub-Lieutenant Edge, officer of the watch, a signalman and an able seaman for lookout. The sea was surprisingly calm and there was none of the usual corkscrewing or pitching that a submarine frequently experiences when travelling on the surface in any kind of rough weather.

Edge was thoroughly enjoying himself. The rain in his face was quite refreshing and the salt air felt sweet and clean in his lungs after the hours spent below.

Swallow came up the ladder, a mug of tea in one hand. ‘Thought you might like a wet, sir. Captain’s compliments and he’ll join you on the bridge in five minutes.’

‘Good show,’ Edge said cheerfully. ‘Not that there’s anything to report.’

Swallow started to reply and then his eyes widened and an expression of incredulity appeared on his face. ‘Good God Almighty!’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it.’

In the same instant, the lookout cried out, pointing, and Edge turned to see a three-masted barquentine, all sails set, emerge from a fog bank a quarter of a mile to port.

On board the Deutschland there was no panic, for the plan to be followed in such an eventuality had been gone over so many times that everyone knew exactly what to do.

Berger was on the quarterdeck, Sturm and Richter beside him at the rail. The bosun was holding a signalling lamp. The captain spoke without lowering his glasses. ‘A British submarine. T-class.’

‘Is this it, sir?’ Sturm asked. ‘Are we finished?’

‘Perhaps.’

The Guardian ’s gun crew poured out of her conning-tower and manned their positions. For a moment there was considerable activity, then a signal lamp flashed.

‘Heave to or I fire,’ Richter said.

‘Plain enough. Reply: As a neutral ship I comply under protest.’

The shutter on the signal lamp in the bosun’s hands clattered. A moment later, the reply came. ‘I intend to board you. Stand by.’

Berger lowered his glasses. ‘Very well, gentlemen. Action stations, if you please. Take in all sail, Mr Sturm. You, Richter, will see the rest of the crew into the bilges and I will attend to the passengers.’

There was a flurry of activity as Sturm turned to bark orders to the watch on deck. Richter went down the quarterdeck ladder quickly. Berger followed him, descending the companionway.

When he entered the saloon, four of the nuns were seated round the table listening to a bible-reading from Sister Lotte.

‘Where is Sister Angela?’ Berger demanded.

Sister Lotte paused. ‘With Frau Prager.’

The door of the consul’s cabin opened and Prager emerged. He seemed haggard and drawn and had lost weight since that first night in Belém so that his tropical linen suit seemed a size too large.

‘How are things?’ Berger asked.

‘Bad,’ Prager said. ‘She gets weaker by the hour.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Berger addressed his next remark to all of them. ‘There’s a British submarine on the surface about a quarter of a mile off our port beam and moving in. They intend to board.’

Sister Käthe crossed herself quickly and Sister Angela came out of the Pragers’ cabin clutching an enamel bucket, her white apron soiled.

When Berger next spoke, it was to no one but her. ‘You heard?’

‘Yes.’