‘You were right, George.’ The Bo’sun sounded resigned. ‘He’s out there, searching for us. I can hear the Condor’s engines quite clearly but he hasn’t seen us yet. But he will, though, he will. He’s only got to quarter the area long enough—and that won’t be long—and he’ll nail us. Then a signal to the U-boat, a cluster of bombs for us and the U-boat comes to finish us off.’
‘That’s a very depressing thought,’ Naseby said.
Ulbricht went out on to the port wing and returned almost immediately. He said nothing, just nodded his head.
McKinnon picked up the engine-room phone. ‘Mr Patterson? Would you start up, please? And please don’t bother working her up slowly. Quickly, if you would, and to maximum power. The Condor is down searching for us and it can only be a matter of minutes before he finds us. I’d like to make tracks out of here with all speed.’
‘You’re not as fast as a Condor,’ Naseby said.
‘I’m sadly aware of that, George. But I don’t intend to remain here like a sitting duck while he comes and clobbers us. We can always try a little evasive action.’
‘He can also turn and twist a damn sight faster than we can. You’d be better off trying a few prayers.’
The Condor took another twenty minutes to find them but find them he did and wasted no time in making his presence felt as well as heard. In the classic fashion he approached from astern, flying low as Naseby had predicted he would, certainly at not more than three hundred feet. Naseby gave the rudder maximum helm to port but it was a wasted effort: as Naseby had also said, the Condor could turn and twist much faster than they could.
The bomb, certainly not the size of a 500-pounder, struck the deck some sixty feet for’ard of the superstructure, penetrated and exploded in a flash of flame and a large jet of oily black water.
‘That was odd,’ Naseby said.
The Bo’sun shook his head. ‘Not odd. Greed.’
‘Greed?’ Ulbricht looked at him, then nodded. ‘Gold.’
‘They haven’t given up hope yet. How far would you say it was to Bard Head?’
‘Four miles?’
‘About that. If they don’t get us—stop us, I mean—by that point, then they’re going to sink us.’
‘And if they stop us?’
‘They wait till the U-boat comes up and takes us over.’
‘It’s a sad thing,’ Naseby said. ‘Very sad. This love of money, I mean.’
‘I think,’ McKinnon said, ’that they’ll be back in a minute or so to show us some more love.’
And, indeed, the Condor was executing a very tight turn and heading back to pass the San Andreas on the port side.
‘Some of you Condor pilots,’ McKinnon said to Ulbricht, ‘have very determined and one-track minds.’
‘There are times when one wishes they hadn’t.’
The second attack was an exact replica of the first. The pilot—or his navigator—was evidently a precision bombardier of some note for the second bomb landed in exactly the same place with precisely the same results.
‘These are not very big bombs,’ McKinnon said, ‘but it’s for sure we can’t take much more of this. Another one like that and I think we’ll call it a day.’
‘The white bedsheet, is that it?’
‘That’s it. I have it up here. I wasn’t kidding. Listen! I hear an aero engine!’
‘So did I,’ Ulbricht said. ‘All made in Germany.’
‘Not this one, it’s not. Different note altogether. It’s a fighter plane. My God, how stupid can I be! Come to that, how stupid can you be? Or the pilot of that Condor? Of course they’ve got radar on the island. Place is probably hotching with the stuff. Of course they’ve picked us up, of course they’ve picked the Condor up. So they’ve sent out someone to investigate. No. Not someone. I hear two.’ McKinnon reached out and flooded the decks and side of the San Andreas with its Red Cross lights. ‘We had better not be mistaken for the Tirpitz.’
‘I can see them now,’ Ulbricht said. His voice was without expression.
‘Me, too.’ McKinnon looked at Ulbricht and managed to keep the elation out of his voice. ‘Do you recognize them?’
‘Yes. Hurricanes.’
‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant.’ The regret in the Bo’sun’s voice was genuine. ‘But you know what this means?’
‘I’m afraid I do.’
It was no contest. The Hurricanes rapidly overhauled the Condor from the rear and fired simultaneously, one from above, the other from below. The Focke-Wulf didn’t blow up or disintegrate or burst into flames or anything dramatic of that nature. Trailing clouds of smoke, it crashed steeply into the sea and vanished at once below the waves. Lieutenant Ulbricht’s face still remained empty of all expression.
The two fighter planes returned to the San Andreas and began to circle it, one close in, the other at the distance of about a mile. Although it was difficult to see what they could do against a submarine about to launch a torpedo except blow its periscope off, their presence was immensely comforting and reassuring.
McKinnon stepped out on the port wing and waved at one of the planes, the one making a close circuit of the ship. The Hurricane waggled its wings.
Jamieson answered the telephone when McKinnon called. ‘I think you can reduce to normal speed now, sir. The Condor’s gone.’
‘Gone where?’ There was, as there might well have been, bafflement in Jamieson’s voice.
‘Under the sea. A couple of Hurricanes shot him down.’
The Hurricanes remained with them until they were within a mile of Bard Head when a lean, purposeful frigate approached out of the gathering dusk and slid effortlessly alongside. The Bo’sun was on the deck.
A man aboard the frigate—presumably the captain—used a loud-hailer.
‘Are you in need of care and protection, friend?’
‘Not now we’re not.’
‘Are you badly damaged?’
‘Some. A few shells and bombs. But we’re a going concern. There’s a nasty old U-boat hanging around.’
‘Not now he won’t be. He’ll be all to hell and gone. What’s that you see on my poop?’
‘Ah! Depth charges.’
‘Well, well.’ The bearded naval Commodore shook his head in wonderment and looked at the others gathered in the small lounge of the hotel. ‘The story is impossible, of course, but on the evidence of my eyes—well, I’ve just got to believe you. Your crew and passengers all taken care of, Mr Patterson?’
‘Yes, sir. Here and in nearby houses. We have everything we want.’
‘And there’s somebody very high up in either the Cabinet or Admiralty who’s been telling tales. Shouldn’t take too long to root him out. Bo’sun, you’re quite, quite sure about this gold?’
‘Your pension against mine, sir. I should imagine there’s a considerable difference.’ He rose, took Janet Magnusson’s arm and helped her to her feet. ‘If you will excuse me, everybody. I promised to take this lady back home.’
About the Publisher
Alistair MacLean, the son of a Scots minister, was born in 1922 and brought up in the Scottish Highlands. In 1941 at the age of eighteen he joined the Royal Navy; two-and-a-half years spent aboard a cruiser was later to give him the background for HMS Ulysses, his first novel, the outstanding documentary novel on the war at sea. After the war, he gained an English Honours degree at Glasgow University, and became a school master. In 1983 he was awarded a D.Litt from the same university.
He is now recognized as one of the outstanding popular writers of the 20th century. By the early 1970s he was one of the top 10 bestselling authors in the world, and the biggest-selling Briton. He wrote twenty-nine worldwide bestsellers that have sold more than 30 million copies, and many of which have been filmed, including The Guns of Navarone, Where Eagles Dare, Fear is the Key and Ice Station Zebra. Alistair MacLean died in 1987 at his home in Switzerland.
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By Alistair MacLean
HMS Ulysses
The Guns of Navarone
South by Java Head
The Last Frontier
Night Without End
Fear is the Key
The Dark Crusader
The Satan Bug
The Golden Rendezvous
Ice Station Zebra
When Eight Bells Toll
Where Eagles Dare
Force 10 from Navarone
Puppet on a Chain
Caravan to Vaccarès
Bear Island
The Way to Dusty Death
Breakheart Pass
Circus
The Golden Gate
Seawitch
Goodbye California
Athabasca
River of Death
Partisans
Floodgate
San Andreas
The Lonely Sea (stories)
Santorini
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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FIRST EDITION
First published in Great Britain by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1984 then in paperback by Fontana 1985
Copyright © Alistair MacLean 1984
Alistair MacLean asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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EPub Edition © AUGUST 2009 ISBN: 978-0-007-28939-4
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