Operation Manhunt

by Christopher Nicole

  Jonathan ran down the steps and along the corridor, reeling from side to side with every roll of the schooner. His brain felt equally unbalanced. Clearly the fire could not be an accident, in view of the tampered pumps. Just as clearly Benny was responsible, but as Benny the steward, or General Pobrenski? And what had happened to him since the alarm?

  He opened the door of the master stateroom. Aristotle snarled, and Mrs. Malthus sighed. She lay on her back, her pillow over her face, and waved her hand at him. “Oh, Aristotle, do be quiet. Is the fire out, Jonathan?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not going out, Mrs. Malthus. It’s everybody on deck, with their life jackets. Hurry now.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m going to be sick. I just know I’m going to be sick. Aristotle? Where are you, pet? Aristotle?”

  Jonathan opened the next door. Brian O’Connor knelt on his berth, staring through the porthole at the night, at the seas which were starting to lose their crests in the rising wind.

  “The fire’s out of control, Doctor. We’re abandoning ship.”

  “Into these seas? But Mr. Malthus has sent for help, of course?”

  “No, he hasn’t, Dr. O’Connor. He’s wrecked the radio rather than allow anyone to send a message.”

  “Good heavens.” The psychiatrist frowned. “Do you really work for the British Government, Mr. Anders?”

  “I do, Doctor. But we really haven’t the time to discuss that now. Would you take your life belt and go on deck? I’ll fetch Geraldine.”

  She had prudently changed into slacks and a shirt, sat on her bunk, elbows on knees, chin on hands, swaying in time to the ship. “What do you want?”

  “You. This ship is sinking.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Listen, sweetheart, the time for games is over. We are going to be very lucky to get out of this alive. Do you have a life belt?”

  “Over there.”

  Jonathan dropped it over her head, tied the cords front and back. “It suits you.”

  She made a face. “What about you?”

  “I didn’t know I mattered.”

  “Oh, you! There’s a spare in the wardrobe.” She ran out of the door. Jonathan put on the other life belt, closed the door behind him. By now the cabins were filling with smoke that billowed along the corridor, and the steps up to the wheelhouse were hot; no one else was going to get out from down here. He stumbled up, helped Geraldine get her father on deck. Now the true extent of their danger became apparent. The night was utterly dark, except for the whitecaps which raced past the rolling schooner, every so often breaking on the bows to cascade as spray over the foredeck. Right forward the crew, directed by Strohm and Byrne, were unshipping the motor launch. He could hear Aristotle barking, and discovered Phyllis Malthus, the dog locked in her arms, huddled behind the shelter of the forward deckhouse.

  “Where’s your husband?” The wind muffled his words.

  “I don’t know,” she cried. “He went down the forehatch. Said something about looking for that dreadful man Benny.”

  Jonathan staggered across the deck, ducked into the hatchway. The generator had failed, and he groped down the ladder into the Stygian darkness of the storeroom. “Malthus!” he shouted. “Don’t be a fool, Malthus. She’s not going to float much longer.”

  “He’s not in the engine room.” Malthus spoke from the foot of the second ladder. “I must try the bilges.”

  Jonathan climbed downward, buffeted from side to side as the dying schooner plunged and rolled. “If he’s still alive he has to be on deck. He must know what’s going to happen. If he’s dead, well, we’re both out of luck.”

  Malthus swung at him, out of the darkness, as he reached the foot of the ladder. The belaying pin struck Jonathan on the shoulder, spinning him round and sending him crashing against the fuel tank. The rolling of the schooner completed the job, and he went tumbling across the deck.

  Malthus stepped over him and grasped the ladder. Jonathan seized his ankle, received a kick in the face which sent stars racing across his eyes, and he lost his grip. He heard the scurrying of Malthus’ feet, and then the sound was swallowed in the creakings and groanings of the ship, and the tremendous slaps of the waves against the hull. The heat seeped forward, even through the closed bulkhead door; the fire had burst downward from the lazaretto, over the flooded fuel compartment and into the engine room itself.

  Jonathan made himself sit up, slapped his face to restore his senses. A hand gripped his arm and helped him to his feet, uncanny in the darkness and the noise. “Is that you, Benny?”

  “That’s me,” the steward said. “Oh, he’s a villain, that Malthus.”

  “Did you set the ship on fire, Benny?”

  “I did, Mr. Anders. I used a slow fuse, and lit it from underneath, then came forward and hid in the bilges. He’s not handing me over to any Reds.”

  “Did you know there’s a hurricane on its way? And Malthus has refused to send for help?”

  “Then it’s his funeral, Mr. Anders.”

  “And ours, unfortunately.”

  “I’m only sorry about you. And Miss Geraldine, of course, although she started all this with that photograph of hers. What do you reckon we ought to do?”

  “Get up top, for a start.” He went first up the ladder, to crouch in the shelter of the hatchway. The crew had swung out the launch, were now illuminated in a gigantic glow from aft, where sparks were cascading upward from the burning wheelhouse to set the mizzen on fire. The night was bathed in scorching heat. It seemed impossible that they should not be spotted. But half the darkness was caused by low cloud, which would be cutting visibility to a minimum. He thought it might be raining, although he could not tell which was fresh water and which was spray.

  “Come on, Mrs. Malthus, come on, Miss O’Connor,” Strohm shouted. “Please get in, ladies. We’ve no time to lose.”

  “But where’s Mr. Anders?” Geraldine asked.

  “And Benny,” O’Connor said. “We’re not leaving without Benny, Malthus. Otherwise.…”

  “Oh, sure,” Malthus said. “I’m not afraid of you, O’Connor. You can stay on board, too. And your daughter. Put them in the deckhouse, Strohm, and lock the door. Now then, Phyllis, let’s get out of here.”

  “I don’t quite follow you, Mr. Malthus,” Strohm said.

  “Then you’re a fool, Strohm. So the ship’s lost. This is an opportunity to get rid of all our unwanted guests, and no questions asked.”

  “That’d be murder, Mr. Malthus.”

  Malthus braced himself against the rail, thrust one hand under his life belt, produced a heavy-caliber revolver. “Mr. Byrne, are you taking orders from me, or from the captain? Stay where you are, Strohm. Don’t move. These people will have us all in jail, Mr. Byrne, or at the very least will put us out of business. There is no room for a private organization such as ours in this bureaucratic world, and once the authorities start closing in there will be more than just this venture to investigate, as I’m sure you well know. What do you say, Byrne?”

  “I’m with you, Mr. Malthus,” Byrne said.

  “And what about you, Harman?”

  “Count me in, Mr. Malthus.”

  “And what about you fellows? There’ll be a five-hundred-dollar bonus once we get ashore, and another ship. I promise you that.”

  “You can rely on us, Mr. Malthus,” Jonas said.

  “Good man. Now get Mrs. Malthus into the boat. Into the deckhouse, Strohm.”

  The captain hesitated, staring at the gun, then turned and stepped into the mate’s quarters.

  “You too, O’Connor,” Malthus said. “And take your daughter with you. I don’t mind shooting you, you know. Your bodies will never be found.”

  “Oh, the swine,” Benny whispered in Jonathan’s ear. “I’m glad I set fire to his ship, I am. But what are we going to do, Mr. Anders?”

  “I suppose we could try to rush that gun,” Jonathan said.

  “I don’t much care for that idea, Mr. A
nders, He’d drop us for sure. And there’s those big sailormen, too.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Jonathan chewed his lip. He did not doubt that Malthus would shoot him on sight. Whereas so long as the schooner still floated, there was always the raft.

  “For heaven’s sake, come on, Phyllis,” Malthus was shouting. “Get into the boat.”

  “Oh, James, isn’t there any other way? Geraldine is such a nice girl.”

  “Get in,” Malthus snapped, and gave her a push toward the boat.

  “Ooh!” she screamed. “Aristotle! Aristotle, my pet. He got away! Where are you, Aristotle? Byrne! Help me get him back. There he is. He hates small boats. Help me! Aristotle, my sweet.”

  “Leave the beastly dog,” Malthus shouted.

  “There goes the mizzen,” Byrne yelled. “Time’s getting short, Mr. Malthus.”

  The smallest of the three masts resembled a huge red hot poker trailing its flaring sail behind like a beacon as it crashed over the stern. But the mainsail was alight now, too, and from below there came a hissing as sea water seeped into the lazaretto.

  “Abandon ship!” Malthus shouted. “Quickly now, everybody into the launch.”

  “Aristotle!” Phyllis Malthus cried, from the other side of the deck. “Where are you, my pet? Come to Mama!”

  Aristotle yapped.

  “We’re wasting time,” Byrne snapped. “In you get, Mr. Malthus, or you’ll be staying with them others. Take her out, boys.”

  “What’ll we do, Mr. Anders?” Benny whispered.

  “Sit tight,” Jonathan said. “She’ll float for a few minutes yet.”

  “Phyllis!” Malthus bellowed. But he was in the boat now, and the launch was swinging out.

  “Let go!” Byrne shouted.

  “James! James? You come back here this instant, James. Do you hear me?” Phyllis Malthus reappeared at the rail, waving her umbrella. Aristotle yapped in her arms.

  The launch hit the waves.

  Byrne released the falls; Harman had already started the engine. Immediately there was water between the launch and the ship, and now Harman directed her into the waves, keeping the engine slow ahead, gaining way to negotiate the dangerous business of turning broadside to the waves before being swept away from the shelter of the schooner.

  “Jimmieee!” Phyllis Malthus shouted. “Oh, Jimmieee! You can’t leave me here. Jimmieee! What about Aristotle, Jimmy? Ooh! Mr. Anders? You gave me a start.”

  “He’s a bit of a blighter, isn’t he?” Jonathan remarked, joining her at the rail to watch the launch disappear into the darkness. “Not at all my ideal of a loving husband. But I don’t think we have the time to waste swearing at him.” He gazed at the mainmast, burning above the crosstrees, although the flames had not yet spread along the deck from the wheelhouse. But the fire was sweeping through the rigging, reaching in crimson tongues for the flapping sails, and despite the fresh wind blowing over the bows the heat was becoming overpowering.

  “But what are we to do?” Phyllis Malthus cried. “Oh, my poor darling Aristotle. He’s panting. He’s not supposed to become overexcited. He has a heart condition, you know. That’s why he’s on a diet. James has never liked him.”

  Jonathan unlocked the deckhouse door.

  “I guess we owe you a most sincere apology, Mr. Anders,” Brian O’Connor said. “I only hope we can survive this mess to make it up to you.”

  “We will.” Jonathan went forward to assist the captain in unlashing the twelve-foot-square wooden raft.

  Strohm ducked his head to avoid the next volley of flying spray. “However accidentally, Mr. Anders, it seems that you and me’ve arrived on the same side. I hope you’ll remember that, if we get ashore.”

  “I’ll do my best, Captain.”

  Strohm nodded. “That’ll have to do, I guess. She’s free. You make the painter fast.” He put his shoulder to the raft, pushed it against the rail. The Sidewinder dipped her bows, came up again, heeled to starboard, plunged once more, this time heeling to port, and the raft went over the side, carrying a length of rail with it, “Now!” Strohm shouted. “You go first, Mr. Anders. You can show the ladies the way to do it, and give them a hand to get on board, as well.”

  Jonathan gazed over the side. The raft drifted away from the ship, revealing a chasm of black water, then came back again with a dull thud.

  “We don’t want too much of that,” the captain said. “Or we’ll be looking for so much matchwood.”

  The heat seared the back of Jonathan’s neck. He took a grip on the rope, climbed through the rail.

  “Good luck!” Geraldine shouted.

  “You’ll never get me down there,” Phyllis Malthus declared.

  Jonathan thought she might well be right. He hung by his hands, slid away from the ship’s side, the rope burning his palms. The sea leaped at him, whipped his legs, seemed to be grasping his ankles. He struck the edge of the raft with his knees. His legs dragged across the surface, and he released the rope and scrabbled with his fingers, digging them between the wooden slats to hang on. The raft tossed and bumped, and almost every wave broke over it, soaking him to the skin and making the wood increasingly slippery.

  “Look out!” Strohm bellowed from the deck, as Benny started down. Jonathan dared not stand or even sit up, but lay on his stomach, pressing his body against the wood. Benny avoided the sea, landed squarely on the raft, legs waving.

  “Oof!” he gasped as the breath left his body. “We’re to grab the young lady.”

  Geraldine clung to the rail, chewing her lip; the wind whipped her hair.

  “Come on,” Jonathan shouted. “We’ll catch you.”

  She slipped along the rope, legs kicking futilely.

  “You hold on to me,” Jonathan told Benny, and rose to his knees. A wave seemed to fly from the waterline of the heaving schooner and came straight at him, punched him on the chest, enveloped his head and shoulders in a wet blanket. He threw both arms around Geraldine’s waist and dragged her down beside him. “Hang on,” he shouted in her ear. “Get your fingers and toes into the slats. Don’t let go, no matter what happens.”

  Brian O’Connor and Strohm forced Mrs. Malthus through the broken rail.

  “Oh!” she screamed. “Oh! I’m going to fall! But what about Aristotle? Oh, dear, my poor pet!”

  “You give him to me,” Brian O’Connor said. “Come on, little fellow. You’re going to be all right.”

  Aristotle yapped.

  “He’ll be down next,” Strohm said. “But you have to go first, Mrs. Malthus. And quickly. Look up there.”

  The glare now lit up a wide area, and the sea itself had turned a vivid crimson as the mainmast blazed from deck to burgee; all the sails were alight, even the jib, and a constant shower of sparks descended on the foredeck and beyond, scattering around the tossing raft like a firework display gone mad. Worse, the collapsing sails no longer held the schooner’s bows to the gale, and she fell away, rolling through a ninety-degree arc. Unrestrained by the wind, the heat was blistering the faces of Jonathan and his two companions. He did not care to think what it must be like on deck.

  “She’s going fast,” O’Connor shouted. “Please let go, Mrs. Malthus.”

  “Oh, I can’t,” she screamed. “Oh, I daren’t. I’ll never be able to hold on.”

  “Jump, Daddy!” Geraldine shouted. “Please jump!”

  From the bowels of the ship there came a dull rumble, and the afterdeck heaved, releasing a flood of red flame which seemed to consume all the air for miles around and made breathing a positive agony; the flooded fuel tanks had exploded.

  Strohm gave Phyllis Malthus a shove. He released the painter, took the dog from Brian O’Connor and pushed the psychiatrist as well. Mrs. Malthus plummeted downward, along the side of the ship, and entered the water with a tremendous splash. Brian O’Connor followed, disappeared from sight, and Geraldine screamed. Jonathan reeled in the rope, whipped the end around his waist and tied a bowline, leaped overboard. He did not
care to think what might be underneath him; there were probably more dangerous fish to the square mile in these waters than anywhere else in the world. But at least the sea was cooler than the air. A little.

  The doomed vessel loomed above him. In the water he was acting both as a sea anchor to prevent the raft from drifting too far away, and as a bridge for the remaining survivors, but a terrible thought crossed his mind that he might be crushed by the heaving hull.

  He raised his head, surged to the top of a wave level with the bowsprit, almost the only part of the schooner not actually burning, saw Strohm leaping from the smoldering foredeck, the dog Aristotle, still barking, in his arms, and in the same instant discovered Phyllis Malthus immediately beneath him. The wave threw him on top of her, and they sank together, escaping yet another shower of burning sparks. Then the buoyancy of their life belts swept them back to the surface.

  “Hold on to me,” he spluttered, and began pulling in the rope. Benny and Geraldine, lying flat on the raft, were assisting Brian O’Connor on board. But Phyllis Malthus was an altogether different proposition. Gasping and grunting, three of them pulling and Jonathan pushing from underneath, they slowly got her out of the water. By this time Strohm, swimming strongly with one hand and holding Aristotle with the other, had come up to them, and the Peke was in turn passed up to the raft, looking like a drowned rat, squirming and kicking and taking a length of skin from Jonathan’s forearm with a hind claw, but mercifully silent. Too exhausted to climb on board, Jonathan and the captain clutched the safety lines hanging from the sides of the raft and looked over their shoulders. They had drifted astern of the blazing hulk, where the heat was at its greatest. Jonathan could feel his hair drying in between each wave which resoaked it. The ship burned from deck to masthead; her stern had been split open by the force of the exploding fuel tanks, and the sea ebbed and flowed, like a tide, in and out of the galley and the cabins beyond.

  “She’s going,” Strohm muttered.

  The Sidewinder’s bows went up, and she hung there, hissing like a gigantic cinder dropped into a basin of water. The sea around her seethed, doing a triumphal dance around its victim, and a hot wave raced aft and enveloped the raft and its occupants and the two men in the water, stinging, blinding, driving the breath from their lungs, and then it was gone, and the raft tossed on the waves, and the wind whined above them. But the night was once again dark. The Sidewinder had disappeared.