Мариус Габриэль - The Ocean Liner

‘Calculating.’

All eyes flicked to the calculator’s lights, which had turned white.

‘Calculations complete. Ready to fire.

Rudi Hufnagel came clattering down from the bridge. ‘I see the American flag painted on the side,’ he said tautly. ‘And the name of the ship. The captain was not lying. She’s the SS Manhattan . Do you hear me, Captain? She’s the Manhattan .’ He offered Todt the glasses. ‘Go up and take a look.’

‘It makes no difference,’ Todt replied, ignoring the proffered binoculars.

‘No difference? Are you mad? She is a neutral ship!’

‘She is filled with enemies of the Reich. That makes her a legitimate target.’

‘We know nothing about her passengers. And if we sink her, it will bring America into the war!’

‘That is inevitable, in any case. Hitler has spoken many times of Roosevelt’s weakness. America is a mongrel nation, weakened by the blood of the Jews and the Negroes. They will never have the fighting capacity of an Aryan race. They are not even armed, Hufnagel. It will take them years to rearm. We have nothing to fear from them.’

‘Are we really discussing these ridiculous issues here and now?’ Hufnagel asked incredulously.

‘You are right.’ Todt swung back to the aiming column. He put his eyes to the viewfinder and grasped the launch lever. ‘Prepare to launch torpedo one.’ On the panel before him, the red lights went out obediently and the white ‘ready’ light came on.

‘No.’ Hufnagel grasped the shoulder of Todt’s jacket and pulled the commander away from the column. ‘You can’t do this, Todt.’

Todt’s pale grey eyes were alight. ‘I expected this, Hufnagel. You are not going to cheat me of this prize.’ He pulled the Luger from his holster and cocked it. He pointed the pistol at Hufnagel’s face. ‘Stand back or I will shoot you in the head.’

‘You had better shoot, then,’ Hufnagel muttered, moving forward to grapple with his captain.

‘I knew that you would fail in the moment of crisis. Jew-lover.’ Todt pulled the trigger.

Stravinsky had found himself, whether through coincidence or plan, seated beside Arturo Toscanini, who had been helped aboard the lifeboat in a state of shattered nerves by his plump little wife. The two men said nothing to each other. There seemed to be nothing to say. But as they stared at each other, each man recognised in the other’s face the same state of exhaustion and despair, the same bitterness. Beside them sat Carla Toscanini and Katharine Wolff.

‘Getting there is half the fun!’ Mr Nightingale said gaily. He pulled the lever, and the lifeboat swung out over the sea. Jolted and finding themselves swaying seventy feet in the air, with nothing but a sheer drop between them and the icy water below, the passengers screamed and grabbed on to each other or the gunwales. The boats were now so full that almost half the passengers in each were having to stand.

Stravinsky and Toscanini both turned to look over the side of their lifeboat. Far below them, the sea was black, laced with chains of foam. Their boat dangled unsteadily, lurching as the Manhattan rolled in the swell. They stared into the abyss, each one recognising it for what it was, death staring back at them.

It came to each man quite suddenly that, for all the disillusionment of life that had passed, there was still life to be lived. Still music to be played, women to be loved. Still a little sunlight left on the mountainside.

They turned away, shuddering, from the darkness that yawned beneath them.

Naughty Nightie, who had behaved with exemplary calm and good humour from the start of the crisis, moved down the line, dispensing jokes to each group of passengers and yanking the release levers like a cheerful hangman. One by one, the lifeboats swung out on their davits, ready to be lowered on the Commodore’s command. Shrieking adults and wailing children clutched at each other.

The Commodore himself was showing little emotion as he stood at the window of his bridge, staring into the darkness. ‘Why don’t they say anything?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘They must see our funnels by now. They must see the Stars and Stripes.’

‘The ten minutes were up a long time ago,’ Symonds said, looking at his chronometer. He was very tense. ‘The lifeboats have all been swung out. Shall I give the order to lower them?’

‘No.’

‘But, Commodore—’

‘If we lower the lifeboats, he’ll torpedo us right away. It’s like admitting we’re a legitimate target.’

Randall saw the officers on the bridge glance at one another. Stress was written clear on every face. ‘So what do we do?’ Symonds demanded.

‘We keep signalling who we are, and wait for them to understand,’ Rescue Randall replied calmly. It was essential for him to maintain imperturbable control and not be swayed by his officers’ panic. ‘Is there any fresh coffee, gentlemen?’

The pistol fired in his face had half-blinded and deafened Hufnagel, but he was surprised to find himself alive. The bullet had struck him in the left shoulder. He did not know how badly he had been injured, only that he could no longer use that arm. He didn’t flinch, however, as he grasped Todt’s pistol and wrenched it aside. For a moment the two men wrestled, their faces an inch apart. There was another shot. Hufnagel felt something sear his arm.

Then new hands were intervening, dragging them apart. Dimly, he saw the faces of the crewmen, among them Krupp, the medical officer.

‘You’ve been shot,’ Krupp said urgently. ‘Let me examine the wound.’

‘The captain is in an unfit mental state,’ Hufnagel gasped. He saw Krupp flinch and back away from him, and realised that he had somehow got possession of Todt’s Luger, and was waving it dangerously. Hufnagel lowered his arm. Blood immediately streamed down his hand and spattered on the floor plates. He had been shot a second time, the bullet tearing the flesh of his right forearm open. He could feel no pain. ‘That is an American liner,’ he said urgently. ‘The Manhattan . Attacking her would be a serious breach of our orders. I am relieving the captain of his command.’

‘Do you know what you’re doing, Rudi?’ Krupp asked quietly.

‘Come and see.’ Hufnagel dragged himself up to the conning tower again, followed by the others.

The sun was about to rise, and the sky was flushed with the first reddish light of dawn. Looking across the two miles that separated them from the other vessel, those with good eyesight could now see, even without the aid of binoculars, the huge American flag that was painted on her side. A man uttered a curse of dismay or surprise. Otherwise they were all silent. Todt seemed to be dazed by what he had done. He put his head in his hands and crouched down, making no attempt to resume his command.

Hufnagel noticed that the signalman was huddled in the corner of the conning tower next to his overturned lamp, terrified at the sight of the bloodstained second officer brandishing a Luger.

‘Get up,’ he commanded. ‘Prepare to send.’ The man scrambled to his feet, pulling on his cap, which had come off, and pushing the lamp back into place.

‘They’re signalling again,’ George Symonds said urgently.

They all watched the flickering light, brilliant against the glowing dawn sky, and read out the letters as they were transmitted, slower than before: ‘A-P-O-L-O-G-Y. M-I-S-T-A-K-E. P-L-E-A-S-E C-O-N-T-I-N-U-E.’

Randall showed little emotion. ‘Ask him to confirm his message.’

The cadet relayed the query. A few moments later, the reply came: ‘M-I-S-T-A-K-E. G-O A-H-E-A-D P-L-E-A-S-E. G-O-O-D-B-Y-E.’