San Andreas Read online

McCrimmon left and Jamieson said: ‘A clean job? It’s a lousy job. You always get the dirty end of the stick, McKinnon. I honestly don’t know how you keep on doing it. If there’s anything nasty or unpleasant to be done, you’re number one on everybody’s list.’

  ‘Not this time I’m not. This time, sir, you’re number one on my list. Someone has to tell the Captain. Someone has to tell Mr Patterson. Worst of all—much the worst of all—someone has to tell the nursing staff. That last is not a job I’d care for at all.’

  ‘The girls. God, I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t care for it either. Don’t you think, Bo’sun—seeing you know them so well, I mean—’

  ‘No, I don’t think, sir.’ McKinnon half smiled. ‘Surely as an officer, you wouldn’t think of delegating to an underling something you wouldn’t do yourself?’

  ‘Underling! God, that’s rich. Very well, never let it be said that I shirked my duty but as from now I feel one degree less sorry for you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. One other thing: when this place is clear, would you have a couple of your men weld a patch over this hole in the bulkhead? Heaven knows they’ve had enough practice in welding patches recently.’

  ‘Of course. Just let’s hope it’s the last patch.’

  Jamieson left and McKinnon looked idly around him. His attention was caught by a fairly large wooden box in one corner and that only because its lid had been slightly sprung by the shock of the explosion. McKinnon, not without some effort, lifted the lid and peered for some seconds at the contents. He replaced the lid, retrieved his sledge and tapped the lid securely back into place. Stamped on the lid in big red letters were the words CARDIAC ARREST

  McKinnon, rather wearily, sat down at the table in the dining area. The injured sister and nurse, both looking as if they should have been in bed—they had been relieved by Sister Maria and Nurse Irene—were sitting there, as was, inevitably, Lieutenant Ulbricht, who not only gave the impression of having completely forgotten his narrow brush with death but was sufficiently back on balance to have found himself a seat between the two girls. Sinclair, Patterson and Jamieson were clustered round one end of the table. McKinnon looked consideringly at Ulbricht, then addressed himself to Dr Sinclair.

  ‘Not calling your professional competence into question, sir, but is the Lieutenant fit to be up and around?’

  ‘My professional competence is irrelevant.’ One could see that Dr Sinclair had not yet recovered from the shock of the death of his colleague. ‘The Lieutenant, like Sister Morrison and Nurse Magnusson, is uncooperative, intransigent and downright disobedient. The three of them would probably call it having minds of their own. Lieutenant Ulbricht, as it so happens, is in no danger. The injury to his neck couldn’t even be described as a flesh wound. Torn skin, more like.’

  ‘Then perhaps, Lieutenant, you would be prepared to take another fix? We haven’t had one since last night.’

  ‘At your disposal, Bo’sun.’ If the Lieutenant harboured any ill will towards the Bo’sun for the deaths of his fellow countrymen, he was at pains to conceal it. ‘Any time. I suggest just on noon.’

  Patterson said: ‘You finished through in the recovery room, Bo’sun?’ McKinnon nodded. ‘Well, one gets tired of keeping on saying thank-you so I’ll spare you that. When do we bury them?’

  ‘Your decision, sir.’

  ‘Early afternoon, before it starts to get dark.’ Patterson laughed without humour. ‘My decision. Chief Engineer Patterson is your man when it comes to making decisions on matters that are of no importance. I don’t recall making the decision to attack that submarine.’

  ‘I did consult with Captain Bowen, sir.’

  ‘Ah!’ It was Margaret Morrison. ‘So that was what that two-minute conference was about.’

  ‘Of course. He approved.’

  Janet said: ‘And if he hadn’t? Would you still have rammed that U-boat?’

  McKinnon said patiently: ‘He not only approved, he was enthusiastic. Very enthusiastic. With all respect to Lieutenant Ulbricht here, the Captain wasn’t feeling too kindly disposed towards the Germans. Not at that moment of time, anyway.’

  ‘You’re being evasive, Archie McKinnon. Answer my question. If he had disapproved would you still have attacked?’

  ‘Yes. No need to mention that to the Captain, though.’

  ‘Nurse Magnusson.’ Patterson smiled at Janet to rob his words of any offence. ‘I hardly think Mr McKinnon deserves either interrogation or disapproval. I think he deserves congratulations for a magnificent job well done.’ He rose, went to the cupboard where Dr Singh had kept his private supplies and returned with a bottle of Scotch and some glasses, poured a measure for McKinnon and set it before him. ‘I think Dr Singh would have approved of this.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ McKinnon looked down at the glass on the table. ‘He won’t be needing this any more.’

  There was silence round the table. Predictably, it was broken by Janet.

  ‘I think, Archie, that that was less than a gracious remark.’

  ‘You think so now. Maybe. Maybe not.’ There was no hint of apology in his voice. He raised his glass and sipped from it. ‘Knew his Scotch, did Dr Singh.’

  The silence was longer this time, longer and strained. It was Sinclair, embarrassed by the silence, who broke it.

  ‘I’m sure we all echo Mr Patterson’s sentiments, Mr McKinnon. A splendid job. But—to quote yourself, I’m not questioning your professional competence—you did take a bit of a chance, didn’t you?’

  ‘You mean I endangered the lives of all aboard?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ His look of discomfiture made it evident that he had thought it, if not said it.

  ‘It was a calculated risk,’ McKinnon said, ‘but not all that calculated. The odds were on my side, quite heavily, I believe. I am quite certain that the U-boat was under orders that we were to be seized, not sunk, which is why I am equally certain that the gun crew fired into the San Andreas without orders.

  ‘The U-boat captain, Oberleutnant Klaussen, was the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was tired or immature or inexperienced or incompetent or over-confident—he may have been all those things at the same time. What is certain is that an experienced U-boat commander would never have put himself in a position where he was running parallel to us and less than a half a mile away. He should have stayed at a couple of miles’ distance—which in an emergency would have given him plenty of time to crash dive—ordered us to send across a boat, loaded it up with a half-dozen men with machine pistols and sent them back to take over the San Andreas. We could have done nothing to stop them. Even better, he should have closed up from astern, a position that would have made ramming impossible, then eased up alongside the gangway.

  ‘And of course, he was too confident, too sure of himself, too relaxed by half. When he saw us lowering the gangway, he was convinced the game was over. It never even occurred to him that a hospital ship could be used as a man-o‘-war. And he was either so blind or so stupid that he never even noticed that we were steadily closing in on him all the time we were in contact. In short, he made every mistake in the book. It would have been difficult to pick a worse man for the job.’

  There was a long and rather uncomfortable silence. Mario, unobtrusive and efficient as ever, had filled all the glasses on the table but no one, with the exception of the Bo’sun, had as yet touched theirs.

  Sinclair said: ‘On the basis of what you say, the U-boat captain was indeed the wrong man for the job. And, of course, you wholly out-manoeuvered him. But surely the danger still existed. In the actual collision, I mean. The U-boat could have sunk us and not vice versa. We are only made of thin sheet plating: the hull of the submarine is immensely strong.’

  ‘I would not presume to lecture you on medical matters, Dr Sinclair.’

  Sinclair smiled. ‘Meaning I should not presume to advise you on matters maritime. But, Mr McKinnon, you’re a bo’sun on a merchant vessel.’

  ‘Today,
yes. Before that I spent twelve years in the submarine service.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Sinclair shook his head. ‘Too much, just too much. This is definitely not Dr Sinclair’s day.’

  ‘I’ve known a good number of cases of collisions between merchant vessels and submarines. In nearly all cases those collisions were between friend and friend or, in peacetime, between a submarine and a harmless foreign vessel. The results were always the same. The surface vessel came off best.

  ‘It doesn’t seem logical but it does make sense. Take a hollow glass sphere with walls, say, of a third of an inch in diameter, submerge it to a very considerable depth—I’m talking of hundreds of feet—and it still won’t implode. Bring it to the surface, give it a light tap with a hammer and it will shatter into a hundred pieces. Same with the pressure hull of a submarine. It can resist pressure at great depths but on the surface a short sharp blow, as from the bows of a merchant ship, will cause it to rupture. Admittedly, the chances of the submarine are not improved by the fact that the merchant ship may displace many thousands of tons and be travelling at a fair speed. On the other hand, even a vessel as small as a trawler can sink a submarine. Point is, Dr Sinclair, it wasn’t all that dangerous: I hadn’t much doubt as to what the outcome would be.’

  ‘Point taken, Mr McKinnon. You see before you a rueful cobbler who will stick to his last from now on.’

  Patterson said: ‘This ever happen to you?’

  ‘No. If it had, the chances are very high that I wouldn’t be here now. I know plenty of instances. When I was in the service, the trade as we called it, we had a maxim which said, in effect, never mind the enemy, just watch out for your friends. Back in the Twenties, a British submarine—the MI it was—was accidentally struck by a merchant ship off the Devon coast. All died. Not long afterwards the American SI was overrun by the Italian passenger liner City of Rome. All died. Some time later, another American submarine was overrun by a coastguard destroyer off Cape Cod. All died. The Poseidon, British, was sent to the bottom by a Japanese ship. Accident. It was off the north China coast. A good number of survivors, but some died from the diver’s bends. In the early years of the war, the Surcouf, crewed by the Free French and the biggest submarine in the world—so big that it was called a submarine cruiser—was sunk in the Caribbean by a ship in a convoy she was escorting. The Surcouf had a crew of a hundred and fifty: all died.’ McKinnon passed a hand across his eyes. ‘There were others. I forgot most of them. Ah, yes, there was the Umpire. Forty-one, I think. It took only a trawler, and not a very big one, to destroy her.’

  Patterson said: ‘You’ve made your point, as Dr Sinclair says, you’ve more than made your point. I accept that the element of risk was not high. You’ll just have to bear with us, Mr McKinnon. Amateurs all. We didn’t know. You did. The fact that the U-boat is at the bottom of the sea is testimony enough to that.’ He paused. ‘I have to say, Bo’sun, that your achievement doesn’t appear to have given you any great satisfaction.’

  ‘It hasn’t.’

  Patterson nodded. ‘I understand. To have been responsible for the deaths of so many men—well, it’s hardly a cheerful thought.’

  McKinnon looked at him in mild surprise. ‘What’s done is done. So the U-boat’s gone and its crew with it. It’s no matter for celebration but it’s no matter for recrimination either. The next Allied merchant ship to have appeared on the cross hairs of Klaussen’s periscope sight would surely have gone to where Klaussen’s U-boat is now. The only good U-boat is a U-boat with a ruptured pressure hull at the bottom of the ocean.’

  ‘Then why—‘ Patterson broke off, plainly at a loss for both thought and words, then said: ‘The hell with the pros and cons, it was still a splendid job. I didn’t fancy a prison camp any more than you. Well, I don’t feel as modest about your accomplishments as you do.’ He looked around the table. ‘A toast to our Bo’sun here—and to the memory of Dr Singh.’

  ‘I’m not nearly as modest as you think I am. I haven’t the slightest objection to drinking a toast to myself.’ McKinnon looked slowly around the other six. ‘But I draw the line at drinking a toast to the memory of Flannelfoot.’

  McKinnon was becoming very expert at causing silences. This, the fourth such silence, was much longer and much more uncomfortable than the ones that had preceded it. The other six stared at him, looked at each other with questioning, frowning glances, then returned their exclusive attention to McKinnon. Again, it was Janet who broke the silence.

  ‘You do know what you’re saying, Archie? At least I hope you do.’

  ‘I’m afraid I do. Dr Sinclair, you had a cardiac arrest unit in the recovery room. Did you have another similar unit elsewhere?’

  ‘Yes. In the dispensary.’

  ‘And you were under strict instructions that, in an emergency, the dispensary unit was the one that was to be used first.’

  ‘That is so.’ Sinclair looked at him without understanding. ‘How on earth do you know that?’

  ‘Because I’m clever.’ The normally calm and unemotional Bo’sun made no attempt to conceal his bitterness. ‘After the event, I’m very clever.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s no point in you listening to me telling you how clever I haven’t been. I suggest you go—I suggest you all go—and have a look at the recovery room cardiac unit. The unit’s not there any more—it’s in Ward A, by the Sister’s desk. The lid is closed but the lock has been damaged as has the seal. You can wrench the lid open easily enough.’

  All six looked at each other, then rose, left and were back within a minute. They sat in silence and remained in silence: they were either stunned by what they had seen or could not find the words to express their emotions.

  ‘Nice, is it not?’ McKinnon said. ‘A high-powered radio transceiver. Tell me, Dr Sinclair, did Dr Singh ever lock himself up in the recovery room?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’ Sinclair shook his head quite violently, as if to clear it of disbelief. ‘May well have done for all anyone would know.’

  ‘But he did frequently go into that room alone?’

  ‘Yes. Alone. Quite often. He insisted on looking after the two injured men personally. Perfectly within his rights, of course—he was the man who had operated on them.’

  ‘Of course. After I’d found the radio—I still don’t know what made me open up that damned cardiac unit—I examined the lock, the keyhole part that Mr Jamieson had burnt away with his torch, and the latch. Both were heavily oiled. When Dr Singh turned that key you would have heard no sound of metal against metal or even the faintest click, not even if you were listening outside a couple of feet away—not that anyone could have had any conceivable reason for lurking outside a couple of feet away. After locking the door and checking that his two patients were under sedation—and if they weren’t he would make sure they very quickly were—he could use his radio to his heart’s content. Not, I should imagine, that he used it very often: the primary purpose, the essential purpose, of the radio was that it kept on sending out a continual homing location signal.’

  ‘I still can’t understand it or bring myself to believe it.’ Patterson spoke slowly, a man still trying to struggle free of a trance. ‘Of course it’s true, it has to be true, but that doesn’t make it any more credible. He was such a good man, such a kind man—and a fine doctor, was he not, Dr Sinclair?’

  ‘He was an excellent doctor. No question. And a brilliant surgeon.’

  ‘So was Dr Crippen for all I know,’ McKinnon said. ‘I find it as baffling as you do, Mr Patterson. I have no idea what his motives could have been and I should imagine that we’ll never find out. He was a very clever man, a very careful man who never took a chance, a man who totally covered his tracks—if it weren’t for a trigger-happy U-boat gun crew we’d never have found out who Flannelfoot was. His treachery may have had something to do with his background—although he spoke of Pakistani descent he was, of course, an Indian, and I believe that educated Indians have little reason to love the British Raj. May have had s
omething to do with religion, if he had Pakistani roots he was probably a Muslim. The connection—I have no idea. There are a dozen other reasons apart from nationality and politics and religion that make a man a traitor. Where did those cardiac arrest units come from, Dr Sinclair?’

  ‘They were loaded aboard at Halifax, Nova Scotia.’

  ‘I know that. But do you know where they came from?’

  ‘I have no idea. Does it matter?’

  ‘It could. Point is, we don’t know whether Dr Singh installed the radio transceiver after the unit came aboard or whether the unit was supplied with the transceiver already installed. I would take long odds that the transceiver had already been installed. Very tricky thing to do aboard a boat. Difficult to smuggle the transceiver aboard, equally difficult to get rid of the cardiac unit that was inside the box.’

  Sinclair said: ‘When I said I didn’t know where that unit came from, that’s quite true. But I know the country of origin. Britain.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Stencil marks.’

  ‘Would there be many firms in Britain that make those things?’

  ‘Again, no idea. Not a question that comes up. A cardiac unit is a cardiac unit. Very few, I should imagine.’

  ‘Should be easy enough to trace the source—and I don’t for a moment imagine that the unit left the factory already equipped with the transceiver.’ He looked at Patterson. ‘Naval Intelligence should be very interested in finding out what route that cardiac unit took between the factory and the San Andreas and what stopovers it made en route.’

  ‘They should indeed. And it should take them no time at all to find out where it changed hands and who made the switch. Seems damned careless of our saboteur friends to have left themselves so wide open.’

  ‘Not really, sir. They simply never expected to be found out.’

  ‘I suppose. Tell me, Bo’sun, why did you take so long in getting around to telling us about Dr Singh?’

  ‘Because I had the same reaction as you—I had to work damned hard to convince myself of the evidence of my own eyes. Besides, you all held Dr Singh in very high regard—no one likes to be the bearer of bad news.’ He looked at Jamieson. ‘How long would it take, sir, to fix up a push button on Sister’s desk in Ward A so that it would ring a buzzer in, say, here, the bridge and the engine-room?’