Novel.25.San.Andreas.1984 by Maclean Alistair

Author:Maclean, Alistair [Maclean, Alistair]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0100-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

Three hours later, shortly after five o‘clock in the afternoon and quite some time before McKinnon had expected it, the weather began to moderate, almost imperceptibly at first, then with increasing speed. The wind speed dropped to a relatively benign Force six, the broken and confused seas of the early afternoon resolved themselves, once again, into a recognizable wave pattern, the San Andreas rode on a comparatively even keel, the sheeted ice on the decks no longer offered a threat and the superstructure had quite ceased its creaking and groaning. But best of all, from McKinnon’s point of view, the snow, though driving much less horizontally than it had earlier on, still fell as heavily as ever. He was reasonably certain that when an attack did come it would come during the brief hours of daylight but was well aware that a determined U-boat captain would not hesitate to press home an attack in moonlight. In his experience most U-boat captains were very determined indeed—and there would be a moon later that night. Snow would avail them nothing in daytime but during the hours of darkness it was a virtual guarantee of safety.

He went to the Captain’s cabin where he found Lieutenant Ulbricht smoking an expensive Havana—Captain Bowen, a pipe man, permitted himself one cigar a day—and sipping an equally expensive malt, both of which no doubt helped to contribute to his comparatively relaxed mood.

‘Ah, Mr McKinnon. This is more like it. The weather, I mean. Moderating by the minute. Still snowing?’

‘Heavily. A mixed blessing, I suppose. No chance of starsights but at least it keeps your friends out of our hair.’

‘Friends? Yes. I spend quite some time wondering who my friends are.’ He waved a dismissive hand which was no easy thing to do with a glass of malt in one and a cigar in the other. ‘Is Sister Morrison ill?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘I’m supposed to be her patient. One could almost term this savage neglect. A man could easily bleed to death.’

‘We can’t have that.’ McKinnon smiled. ‘I’ll get her for you.’

He phoned the hospital and, by the time he arrived there, Sister Morrison was ready. She said: ‘Something wrong? Is he unwell?’

‘He feels cruelly neglected and says something about bleeding to death. He is, in fact, in good spirits, smoking a cigar, drinking malt whisky and appears to be in excellent health. He’s just bored or lonely or both and wants to talk to someone.’

‘He can always talk to you.’

‘When I said someone, I didn’t mean anyone. I am not Margaret Morrison. Crafty, those Luftwaffe pilots. He can always have you up for dereliction of duty.’

He took her to the Captain’s cabin, told her to call him at the hospital when she was through, took the crew lists from the Captain’s desk, left and went in search of Jamieson. Together they spent almost half an hour going over the papers of every member of the deck and engine-room crews, trying to recall every detail they knew of their past histories and what other members of the crew had said about any particular individual.

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