Jack Higgins - Storm Warning

‘We had a bad night of it, Sister – a hell of a night. You understand me?’

‘Perfectly, Captain.’ Her face was pale, but the eyes sparkled. ‘We won’t let you down.’

Berger picked up a broom that leaned against the bulkhead, reached up and jabbed at the skylight again and again, glass showering across the table so that the nuns scattered with cries of alarm.

He tossed the broom into a corner. ‘See that you don’t,’ he said and went back up the companionway.

There was total silence, the nuns staring at Sister Angela expectantly. With a violent gesture she raised the bucket in her hands and emptied the contents across the floor. There was the immediate all-pervading stench of vomit and Sister Brigitte turned away, stomach heaving.

‘Excellent,’ Sister Angela said. ‘Now you, Lotte, go to the lavatory and fetch a bucket of slops. I want conditions down here to be so revolting those Tommis will be back up that companionway in two minutes flat.’

She had changed completely, the voice clipped, incisive, totally in command. ‘As for the rest of you, complete disorder in the cabins. Soak your bedding in seawater.’

Prager tugged at her sleeve. ‘What about me, Sister? What shall I do?’

‘Kneel, Herr Prager,’ she said. ‘At your wife’s bedside – and pray.’

As the Guardian moved in, Harvey observed the activity on the deck of the Deutschland closely through his glasses.

Edge came up the ladder behind him. ‘I’ve checked Lloyd’s Register, sir. It seems to be her all right. Gudrid Andersen , three-masted barquentine, registered Gothenburg.’

‘But what in the hell is she doing here?’

Harvey frowned, trying to work out the best way of handling the situation. His first officer, Gregson, lay in his bunk with a fractured left ankle. In such circumstances to leave the Guardian himself, however temporarily, was unthinkable. Which left Edge, a nineteen-year-old boy on his first operational patrol – hardly an ideal choice.

On the other hand, there was Swallow. His eyes met the chief petty officer’s briefly. Not a word spoken and yet he knew that the coxswain read his thoughts perfectly.

‘Tell me, Coxswain, does anyone on board speak Swedish?’

‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’

‘We must hope they run to enough English over there to get us by, then. Lieutenant Edge will lead the boarding party. Pick him two good men – side arms only. And I think you might as well go along for the ride.’

‘Sir.’

Swallow turned and at his shouted command, the forward hatch was opened and a rubber dinghy broken out. Edge went below and reappeared a few moments later buckling a webbing belt around his waist from which hung a holstered Webley revolver. He was excited and showed it.

‘Think you can handle it?’ Harvey asked.

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘Good. A thorough inspection of ship’s papers and identity documents of everyone on board.’

‘Am I looking for anything special sir?’

‘Hardly,’ Harvey said drily. ‘The Germans last used a sailing ship as a surface raider in nineteen-seventeen, if I remember my naval history correctly, and times have changed. No, we’re entitled to check her credentials and I’m consumed with curiosity as to the nature of her business, so off you go.’

Sturm waited at the rail as the dinghy coasted in. Edge went up the Jacob’s ladder first, followed by one of the ratings and Swallow, who carried a Thompson gun. The other rating stayed with the dinghy. Of Berger, there was no sign.

Sturm, who spoke excellent English, pointed to the ensign which fluttered at the masthead. ‘I must protest, sir. As you can see, this is a Swedish vessel.’

‘Ah, good, you speak English,’ Edge said with a certain relief. ‘Lieutenant Philip Edge of His Britannic Majesty’s submarine Guardian . Are you the master of this vessel?’

‘No, my name is Larsen. First mate. Captain Nielsen is in his cabin getting out the ship’s papers for you. I’m afraid things are in a bit of a mess. We had a bad night of it. Almost turned turtle when a squall hit us during the middle watch. It caused considerable damage.’

Edge said to Swallow, ‘You handle things here, Coxswain, while I have a word with the captain.’

‘Shall we take a look below, sir?’ Swallow suggested.

Edge turned, taking in the watchful gun crew on the Guardian , the Browning machine-gun which had been mounted on the rail beside Harvey.

‘Yes, why not? he said and followed Sturm towards the quarterdeck.

The young German opened the door to the captain’s cabin and stood politely to one side. Edge paused on the threshold, taking in the shambles before him. A porthole was smashed, the carpet soaked, the whole place littered with books and personal belongings.

Berger stood behind the desk, face stern, the ship’s log and other papers ready on the desk before him.

‘I’m afraid Captain Nielsen doesn’t speak English so I’ll have to interpret for you.’ Which was far from the truth for Berger’s English, though modest, was adequate. ‘The captain,’ Sturm added, ‘is not pleased at this forcible boarding of a neutral vessel about her lawful business.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Edge said, considerably intimidated by the stern expression on Berger’s face, ‘but I’m afraid I must insist on seeing your ship’s papers and log, also your cargo manifest.’

Berger turned away as if angry. Sturm said, ‘But we carry no cargo, Lieutenant, only passengers.’ He picked up the ship’s log, soaked in sea water, its pages sticking together. ‘Perhaps you would care to examine the log? You will find all other relevant papers here also.’

Edge took it from him, sat down in Berger’s chair and tried to separate the first two water-soaked pages which promptly tore away in his hand. And at that precise moment, Richter and the eleven other members of the crew secreted in the bilges with him, were lying in several inches of stinking water, aware of Swallow’s heavy footsteps in the hold above their heads.

Edge left the cabin fifteen minutes later, having examined as thoroughly as he could an assortment of papers and clutching the Swedish passports offered for his inspection.

Swallow emerged from the companionway, looking ill. Edge said, ‘Are the passengers down there, Coxswain?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Swallow was taking in deep breaths of salt air rapidly. ‘Five nuns, sir, and an old gentleman and his wife – and she doesn’t look too healthy.’

Edge advanced to the top of the companionway and Swallow said hastily, ‘I wouldn’t bother, sir. Not unless you feel you have to. They’ve obviously had a rotten time of it in last night’s storm. Still cleaning up.’

Edge hesitated, turned to glance at Sturm, Berger glowering behind, then started down.

The stink was appalling, the stench of human excrement and vomit turning his stomach. The first thing he saw in the shambles of the saloon below were four nuns on their knees amongst the filth with buckets and brushes, scrubbing the floor. Edge got a handkerchief to his mouth as Sister Angela appeared in the doorway of the Pragers’ cabin.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked in good English.

‘Sorry to trouble you, ma’am. My duty – you understand?’ He held out the passports. ‘International law in time of war. I’m entitled to inspect the passenger list.’

He glanced past her at Prager who knelt beside his wife. Her face was deathly pale, shining with sweat, and she was breathing incredibly slowly.

‘And this lady and gentleman?’ He started to sort through the passports.

‘Mr Ternström and his wife. As you can see, she is very ill.’