On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1) (32 page)

Grey was asleep,
he tried to nudge him awake with the toe of one boot. He sighed and sucked at his teeth. “Bunty! Make to ‘Nishga’, ‘Water level rising in hold and engine room, despite pumping, please advise’.”

*     *     *

The ‘Nishga’ was slowing, dropping back, yard by yard, easing herself closer and closer to the fishing boat. Stone could see Barr poised on the starboard wing of the bridge, cap pulled hard down over his eyes, loudhailer ready in his hand. He looked around for his own, the signalman read his thoughts and handed it across.

Barr
’s voice drifted in and out buffeted by the freakish wind, “Has she sufficient steerage way for you to bring her alongside me.”

Stone nearly blind from th
e spray, raised his megaphone. “I think so, sir, but she’s very sluggish, handles like a pissed whale.”

“
Is that you Petty Officer Stone. Where’s Lieutenant Grey?”

Stone
momentary hesitation did not go unnoticed by Barr,

“
He’s indisposed…ill, sir.” He saw Barr lower his hailer, a second later he raised it back up to his lips.

“
Can you manage on your own, Petty Officer?”

“
Yes, sir, I’ve Petty Officer Sterling to help. We’ll be right as rain”

“
Very well, I’ll rig fenders and we’ll bouse you in close alongside, Secure to two sets of bollards, if you can, just in case one lot are carried away. I’m rigging hurricane hawsers fore and aft to take the weight and absorb the shock. We should be able to keep her afloat that way, but I want as many of the men off as possible, keep Petty Officer Sterling, a couple of A.B.s, a stoker and the wireman with you. We’ll need a half hour or so to lay out our gear.”

Stone waved in acknowledgement
and the destroyer began to claw its way ahead once again.

*     *     *

Barr turned back into the bridge proper and handed his megaphone to the bridge messenger.

“
Guns! I know this isn’t your part of ship, as it were, but the Bosun will know what’s what, and what’s where. Get him and Chippy to rig up two long baulks of timber as fenders; a couple of boat’s booms should serve. They’ll need to span at least three frames of the ship’s side to spread the load. I want hammocks, complete with their mattresses lashed to them. I want two hurricane hawsers rigged in addition to bow and stern lines. Get the Chief Engineer ready with extra pumps and tell Chippy he will need his ‘fishing boat repair kit’, he’s going aboard.”

*     *     *

Barr studied the M.F.V. through his binoculars; her rolling had eased again, now that the destroyer had resumed her old position to windward of her.

Directly below the bridge wing he could hear two seamen in
a shouted conversation

“
‘Ere that’s my bloody hammock, that is, look there’s me name!”

Barr peered over the wing. It was one of the Pom
Poem’s gunners he couldn’t recall the man’s name. The two men were rigging the long boom fenders.

The captain of the Pom Pom
had also overheard. “All right! All right! That’s enough of the dripping. Pipe down and get on with your work.”

“
But that’s me ‘ammock, ‘ooky, wrapped around that fender. What am I supposed to kip in tonight?”

“
You’ve got two, ain’t yer?”

“
Yeah, but I scrubbed it this morning, it’s still wet.”

“
Well, now… you got two wet ones, ain’t yer!”

The seaman fell silent until the
Leading Hand had moved on.

“
It’s all right for him, I bet his bloody ‘ammock ain’t down there getting soaked…”

*     *     *

When all the preparations had been made, the M.F.V. started her approach, wallowing along like a fat, drunken duck. Stone eased her slowly forward overhauling the barely moving ‘Nishga’. Soon the two were rolling together, yards apart, making just enough headway for steerage purposes. Stone matched the destroyer’s speed, revolution for revolution, easing her in yard by yard, till the heaving lines snaked across between them. Larger ropes followed and were quickly brought to the destroyer’s capstans. The fishing boat was hauled in close, snug into the destroyer’s side until only the breadth of the makeshift fenders divided them.

*     *     *

Stone, busy below, could feel the sea worsening. The two vessels, held together in their tight watery embrace, had altered course through ninety degrees. The huge seas were now strutting in from astern. The pumps were holding their own, but below all was chaos. The decks were awash, in every compartment rafts of debris were sucked from for’ard to aft by the pitching. He could hear the waves crashing and booming against her wooden sides. The noise was terrifying, diabolical. It was if battering rams, wielded by the devil himself, were intent on breaking through and dragging them all to a watery grave.

In the midst of the storm and with so many things on his mind, he had completely forgotten about the Norwegians. He must get word to Barr. He would know what to do about the
‘Networks’ plight. He finished the extra lashing he was rigging and climbed the ladder to the upper deck. He hadn’t been up on deck for a half hour or so. Even in that short time the fearsome primordial power of the sea had been hard at work. Now, as he clawed his way out onto the heaving deck, the wind-whipped spray cut at his face like sand, while the howling wind wrapped his foul weather gear around his shivering body like a second skin.

Huge seas were lifting the two vessels as one, like two dancers cavorting together in perf
ect step, wrapped in each other’s arms in some nightmarish tango, they surged their way seaward.

On the destroyer
, the helmsman was fighting hard to kept the two vessels within twenty-degrees of the course. Sometimes he failed, caught out by a freak wave or a heavier gust of wind. Then the bigger vessel’s stern would submerge, dragged down by the sheer weight of water. When she rose again she became a great scoop, sending a green curl of sea plunging over the bridge to land with awesome force on her dancing partner.

Through all this Stone climbed steadily
, clinging to the wooden dowels of the Jacob ‘s ladder slung over the destroyer’s side. He held on tight when the ladder stayed plumb and the ‘Nishga’s’ side fell away leaving him hanging precariously out over the fishing boat’s bridge. On the opposite roll the destroyer’s side rushed in towards him like an express train, and he’d smack into the metal with sickening force, driving the breath from his body.

*     *     *

The light had gone long before night fell. All day they had sailed through perpetual twilight, the sea white with spray the sky black with foreboding. The two vessels, locked together in each other’s clasp, were also in the terrible embrace of the storm; a wild, mad embrace, that swept them relentless on to an unknown fate.

With the coming of evening, the darkness was total, there
were no stars, no moon. For those Norwegians not use to the ways of the sea, the night was far worse than the day. In the twilight they had been able to see the power of the storm. In the dark, they had only their imaginations some possessed by them, lived a nightmare, spent the long night in fear, all hope gone, they sank into a seasick stupor. They didn’t expect to see another day and cared less whether they did or not.

The
destroyer’s crew waited for the dawn to see what would be left of the two vessels. It was a long night for them too, sleepless, fearful, but above all exhausting. There were milestones to mark its slow passage. The time the life rafts were swept away, the time the thrashing anchor cables disintegrated into scrap metal, the time the Norwegian seaman was lost, swept away to windward wrapped in the awesome wave that was his only shroud.

A monstrous dawn finally appeared. Its first feeble light revealed the terrible seas marching in. Irresistible high, their roaring tops whipped off to leeward like long strands of
ghostly white hair. The wind screamed its anger above the waves, lifting them over the two boats in great green and white sheets. Black clouds, piled high, moved across the sky like the smoke from hell’s fire.

Somehow they had survived the night
, whether it was God’s will or man’s tenacity none knew.

*     *     *

Only a few hundred miles to the east, it was a different story, almost a different world. When the ‘Eddy’s’ crew fell out from their dawn action stations it was to a crisp cold morning, to such a day as never should have existed in war, one of light, of freshness and of colour, Turner-like in its luminosity. Men, at their stations stood in awe of its transient beauty, of its magnitude. The crimson glow of a still invisible sun flooded into distant clouds. On the horizon, the wispy remnants of ‘Nishga’s’ storm captured and held the colour as the sun’s light flowed across the sky, a crimson glaze, fresh from the divine artist’s palette. It touched the ship with pink, men glowed in its rosy overlay, its tint gently brushed the wave tops. All fear shrank from its cleansing light.

*     *     *

‘Eddy’

The mess deck’s hatch was open, letting the dry clean air into the freshly scrubbed compartment.

Ordinary Seaman Goddard, feet up on a bunk, stretched luxuriously and put down
the American magazine he’d been reading while the deck dried. “Do you think the Yanks’ll come in on our side, Tug?”

Wilson straightened up from washing the last of the b
reakfast plates. “I bloody hope not, the war’s dangerous enough as it is.”

“
Don’t yer think they be any use then, Tug?”

Wilson pulled a face and shrugged a shoulder.
“About as much use as a spare arse in a dysentery ward.”

Wyatt, drying the last plate said,
“They’ll wait until they’ve made enough money from it, like in the last do, then they’ll come in. You mark my words.”

“
Better off without ‘em.” said Wilson, “I remember one time, on the ‘Nelson’, when we were in the Med. joint exercises they called ‘em…the cock ups they made! No idea, bloody dangerous to work with they were. We should try and persuade them to join the other side.”

“
Too much bloody chat,” said Wyatt, “That’s their problem. Too busy giving it all that,” he added, opening and closing one hand in front of his generous mouth. “ ‘Alf the time they’re not concentrating on what they’re supposed to be doing. Bunch of posers, walking the walk, talking the talk should try doing the bleeding job. They’ll never make good seamen as long as their arses look downwards.”

Wilson smiled in agreement,
“They’ve got more badges than a cow got udder. Badges and medals for everything, Medals for getting shot, medals for not getting shot, badges for coffee making, badges for making one of them there highball things. You name it, they got a medal for it. Give ‘em away like fag cards they do.”

“
Goddard looked at his one badge, “They look good though, all them badges I mean, don’t they.”

“
You oughta join ‘em if you like badges, Blur,” said Wilson, “you’d probably have a couple of Long Service stripes by now.”

“
You’re taking the Mick, ain’t yer,” said Goddard, unsure whether his mentor was joking or not. “I ain’t been in a Dog’s Watch yet.”

“
I ain’t joking. Right how long you been in?”

“
Nearly a year, now.”

“
There you go then, let me see,” Wilson raised his eyes to the deck head in contemplation, they get ‘em every three months, or so…so you’d be a three stripper, coming up for yer fourth.”

“
Where do they have ‘em, on the same arm as your one?” asked Goddard pointing to Wilson’s four year’s good conduct stripe.”

Wilson though for a minute
, “Nar, They have ‘em on the bottom of the sleeve, here, upside down.”

“
Would I have any others do yer think,” asked Goddard with enthusiasm, “ If I was in the Yank Navy, I mean.”

“
‘Course,” said Wilson, looking the youngster straight in the eye, “On the other arm you’d have one to show when yer had yer nappy changed last.”

Chapter 17

Doing the best they can

The icy wind snatched angrily at Corporal Bushel’s clothing, snow had built up around the top of the sleeping bag. With the flotilla gone they were guarding an empty Inlet. Sometimes it seemed a waste of time, but deep down he knew Barr was right. It wouldn’t do for the ‘Nishga’ or her consorts to arrive back to a German welcoming committee.

He carefully cleared snow away from the firing slot in the pine trunks.

So much for the ‘Met’ Boy’s long range weather forecast, no snow they’d been that certain. A knock on the tunnel hatch made him start, must be four at last, the watch change.

Stilson reached out
to his side and opened the hatch, Blake emerged. Stilson slipped back down the tunnel without a word, no by you leave, no wave, nothing. Blake scrambled into the still warm sleeping bag and wiggled closer moving with the grace of a fat white grub.

It was bloody cold
lying here, but things had improved; at least the mess deck in the gallery was warm now. He wished he were down there, instead of up here, eight hours to go, eight on, four off.

He pulled his hood farther over his head. Tactically things were much be
tter since they had completed the latest addition to the defences. Now the position was as good as the three men could make it.

The planning had kept his mind occupied during the long hours on watch. Working through an attack as though he was leading it
in and then doing what he could to counter it. It was a bit like playing chess on your own. There were even the set moves, the text book stuff and then there were the unexpected moves. He hoped he’d covered the both, but you could never be sure. Well, you could, if Jerry found them then he’d know. Suddenly a dry twig cracked. He hadn’t meant right now! He eased the safety forward on the Bren and nodded to Blake.

*     *     *

In single file, Olaf Kristiansand, his wife and two teenage sons moved swiftly down the path, their skis gliding smoothly over the compacted snow.

Sud
denly, a few metres ahead, a hooded white figure rose out of the snow. The man held a machine gun; the barrel was pointed straight at Kristiansand’s stomach. The Norwegian stopped in a flurry of snow. He was unsure who the figure was, but he was sure he had no choice in the matter.

“
Bushel?” he asked tentatively. Blake shook his head and pointed over his shoulder.

Just then
Bushel emerged from behind cover carrying the Bren. He pointed up the path the Norwegians had used. “Blakey, check, see if they were followed.” He beckoned to the Norwegians to follow him.

When Blake returned Kristiansand was still talking,
“…choice, I had to bring my family, I have them all, except for my father. He was not at home. I must return for him, now the rest of my family are safe.”

Bushel turned his head from the lookout slit.
“No chance! That’s impossible. You’re going nowhere. We can’t risk you being taken. You’re too valuable; you know too much…We’ll be taking you away as soon as the flotilla returns…”

“
I will not leave without my father.”

“
Alright, I'll just hold you here by force until the flotilla returns, it’s no skin off my nose.”

“
You don’t understand. If they take my father he will talk, he is old…”

“
He can name names?”

“
He knows the people I know; of course… they have been to my house many times… I cannot be sure what he knows. We have not talked of it…only he knows what he knows.”

“
Open the hatch, Blakey, take them below.” He stepped close and added in a whisper, “And keep a close eye on the lot of them.”

*     *     *

Left alone, Bushel considered his options: they were few. Kristiansand and his network had become more vital to ‘Orca’s’ success with each passing day. They were more important than either him or his men, probably more important than the whole of ‘Orca’ for that matter. It they waited for the flotilla to come it could be too late. If Kristiansand’s’ father knew about this place and the Germans took him…

H
e shook his head resignedly. They would have to try; not for the Kristiansand’s, the younger or the bloody elder, but for themselves. There was only the three of them; nowhere near enough and if they all went it would mean leaving the Inlet unguarded, if the Germans were one step ahead of them and had the old man already, they could return to a hornet’s nest. There would be problems with checkpoints, patrols. If they were challenged none of them spoke German, or Norwegian for that matter.

One part of him rebelled.
Get on the radio. Let the bloody officers sort it out, they should be here, making the decisions that was what they were bloody well paid for! Officers! Never there when you wanted them, always there when you didn’t.

Bushel dismissed the
inner mutinous voice. The nearest British Officer was probably hundreds of miles away. He hadn’t tried, but he doubted he would be able to reach anyone through these mountains. It was down to him, there was only him, his was the choice to go or not to go. Even now they could be too late.

He scratched at his head. Right! On the plus side
we’ve, he thought for a moment, then exhaled air in a long sigh. There wasn’t much. There was the Norwegian. He’d know the place like the back of his hand. There wouldn’t be many Jerries who could speak the local lingo. Stick to Norwegian, with Olaf’s help they had a slim chance of passing as locals.

An embryo plan began to form in his mind. It would mean
relying on Stilson more than he liked. He was sure he was capable enough; problem was he was sure the bloke was cracking up. He’d seen it before, something in their eyes. The strange thing was it didn’t seem to be effecting ‘Snake’s’ legendary efficiency. If anything he seemed to be getting better. Cracking up or not ‘Snake’ was still the best there was. That was it then…but first things first, he must try and get a message to Barr. If they got the old man out then with him, a woman and her kids escape by sea was the only option.

*     *     *

Trondheim, 2300 hours May 27
th
1940

Bushel held his camouflaged Lanchester to one side and crouched at the street corner. Something or someone had most certainly put the cat in amongst the pigeons. The darkened streets were alive with patrols. It would be a bloody miracle if they managed to avoid them all. Stilson had done well, travelling ahead of them, sticking mostly to the rooftops, he had warned them of two patrols with just seconds to spare. ‘Snake’ and a strictly enforced blackout had got them through three-quarters of the town undetected.

He stood up, suddenly a
two-man German foot patrol rounded the corner. They were as surprised as Bushel and friends, but, none the less, their machine pistols came off their shoulders in a blink of an eye.

*     *     *

The two Germans hesitated, pistols levelled at the three men. They looked at each other and smiled with relief. Not much to worry about then with these three, locals, breaking the curfew true, obviously betruckeenen. The one in the middle was the worst of the three his arms around the shoulders of the other two grinning like a hyena. Now he was shouting, something in his own incomprehensible tongue. He must have wanted to stand up unsupported, he was trying to anyway. Not that it would make any difference; they would still be going straight to the cooler. The two young soldiers lowered their pistols grinning... Now the three drunks were closer… something in their eyes… not the eyes of drunks.

. The
indecision was a mistake, letting them get that close… was
another
… their last. There were two sharp, quick movements, barely seen by the soldiers and destined never to be remembered. The two buckled at the knees and sank to the ground. They were dead and their guns taken from them before they reached it. The two marines dragged the deathly still bodies into the deep shadow of an alleyway and returned silently, watchfully, to the Norwegian’s side.

*     *     *

‘Snake’ had watched the scene unfolding in the alleyway below him, with professional interest. So far, he had only observed and warned, but there was a certain satisfaction in that, he had always taken pleasure in seeing and not being seen. Perhaps, later, there would be a chance to kill. A slow sneer moved through his top lip as he became excited by the thought. In spite of the cold, beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, his breathing became shallow and his long tongue licked at his nicotine-stained teeth.

He had sensed the foot patrol before the parties on the ground had even seen each other. Bushel and Blake were capable of handling that, no need for his help. He had watched the Germans die, a half smile on his lips that found no echo in
the yellow eyes as he moved on.

It was at times like this, that he associated
himself with the snake he loved to imitate. Times like this that he felt a snake’s superiority, its proven power over others, it’s confidence not only in itself, but with its environment, it was as one with the night. The snake and the others, so different. The ‘others’ moved and lived in the light, fearing the dark. Only the snake understood the dark, welcomed it as a friend.

When
the ‘others’ were not there ‘Snake’ moved swiftly along the rooftops, but when they were, he moved slowly, silently. He could sense ‘others’ long before he saw them. There was pleasure in seeing, but not being seen, but not nearly as much pleasure as in the final act itself. They all tasted that pleasure, the hunter, the stalker, the snake. But the snake was the master. He never became a silhouette against light, never became a movement seen. He was a phantom, part of the darkness, part of the shadow, part of the night. If the hunted even suspected the presence, the game was lost, an end of the lethal game he loved, lived to play. It was why he lived, it was what gave him his passion for life; the taking of it that and the fact that there was no second chance; it had to be first time perfect.

*     *     *

There was no way around the crossroads. That’s why the Germans had positioned the checkpoint there. It was well sandbagged, surrounded with barbed wire and floodlit. It looked impenetrable. The snake watched the position from high above. There were two guards, they were stopping and searching everyone, even their own kind. He sensed they were not just checking papers, they were looking for someone, possibly the Norwegian, Kristiansand.

He watched the two sentries, one fat
, one thin, they had grown old in their trade, experienced, probably had seen war before. The snake sensed they knew every trick of their deadly profession for they treated every one as an enemy, treated everyone as if they were about to attack them. Now the two Germans had stopped a group of soldiers, halted them four yards from the post. Keeping their distance, they motioned the men to the wall. The Fat took up a position to one side, giving himself a clear line of fire. Thin walked along the line spreading the men’s feet wide apart and pushing their bodies forward until they were off balance, kept upright only with the support of the wall. Always careful, He never put his body between the man he searched and the covering gun of his fat friend. Fat’s eyes never left the men as the other searched them. Thin knew the game, his foot hooked around the feet of the man he was searching, ready to sweep the legs away. Unlike the foot patrol, these men were going to be a problem. It would be necessary to warn the others, very necessary. The snake sank back into the shadow.

*     *     *

27
th
May, Scapa Flow.

The door opened, a marine sentry entered, holding it back against its stop, Admiral Mackenzie followed like one of his own destroyers, firing broadsides of orders and questions over his ample stern, a thick plume of smoke trailing from his funnel of a pipe. In his wake, he towed a retinue of aides. He shifted his fire to a tall rheumy-eyed man… “Collins get ‘Able Force’ dispatched as soon as possible. Tell them time is of the essence, I won’t stand for any delay.” His head trained round and he opened fire on a new bearing, “Richards, I want ‘Operation Klondike’ underway as of yesterday, am I understood? Well, don’t just stand there man! What are you waiting for… a blasted medal”