Balance of Fear

by Geoffrey Osborne

  The two men turned to face the door as Jones limped in, followed by the two scientists.

  “The stairs on this ship are killing me,” grumbled the Welshman.

  “If the stairs don’t kill you, the Skori’s guns probably will,” said Rossi.

  “They’d better not, boyo. I’m relying on you to sink the Skori.”

  “We shan’t sink her … ”

  Dingle interrupted. “But you’ll hit her, I hope?”

  “Yes,” answered Green. “We’ll hit her if our mathematics are correct. We’ve made it as accurate as we can under the circumstances.”

  “What was the count-down in aid of just now?”

  “We were lining up the launch rail and the telescope so that they met the horizon at exactly the same time. Then we depressed the telescope half a degree before fixing it finally. That will have the effect of raising the launch angle of the missile sufficiently to allow for the drop as it travels towards the target.”

  “You’re all ready then? It’s ten to eight.”

  “Yes. The circuits are rigged up and the firing buttons are installed in the mast houses. All we’ve got to do now is press the buttons,” said Green.

  “Let’s hope that when we press ’em we won’t be starting the third world war,” said Rossi.

  “You won’t be pressing anything, and you won’t be starting anything,” came an angry, snarling voice from the doorway. “Now put your hands up! All of you! And stand very still.”

  It was Gorki.

  *

  Dingle stared at the Russian. Gorki was carrying an automatic. Two men with him had Sten-guns.

  The Englishman cursed himself. He had intended to make frequent trips below, to ensure that the prisoners weren’t causing any trouble. The men left to guard them were not used to this type of work. But there hadn’t been time to visit them. Every available man aboard had been fully occupied for hours; they were tired, security had been lax, and weapons had been left lying around. Now Gorki had broken out — and he had found some of those weapons.

  But why were there only two men with Gorki? Where were the others?

  “Quite a neat scheme, Mr. Dingle,” said Gorki. “You’ve been a worthy opponent. It seems I’m only just in time to save the Skori.”

  “You’ll have to shoot us first,” said Dingle easily. “So why don’t you get on with it?”

  The Russian smiled. “You are indeed a worthy opponent, and brave, too. I like that. But you are underestimating me again, Mr. Dingle, and that’s why you have failed against me. Oh, I’m going to shoot you all right; don’t have any doubts about that. But not yet. The noise would bring all your men up on deck to see what had gone wrong. And that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “So it’s stalemate.”

  “Not at all. First, we must turn this ship to port, so that the Skori will come to investigate — and your missiles, of course, will be pointing away from her. Then we shall kill you, and we shall be able to hold the bridge quite comfortably until we receive help from the destroyer … ”

  “You!” Gorki’s voice changed as he addressed the quartermaster sharply. “Turn to port. But very gently, so that your friends below don’t notice that we … ”

  He broke off as one of the men with a Sten-gun nudged him. Gorki turned and stepped outside with the man. They were looking across at the upper deck, the other Russian moved farther into the wheelhouse, covering Dingle and his companions.

  “Stop! You there! What are you doing?” shouted Gorki.

  Power was moving across the upper deck, pulling the business end of a hose pipe. He planned to direct the hose down on to the main deck, behind the missile which had been fixed aft. The big black man stopped and turned to stare in astonishment at the bridge.

  “Don’t shoot me, boss!” he called. “Ah ain’t doin’ nothin’. Ah’m jest goin’ to swill the deck, boss. Ah’m jest a deckhand, boss … ”

  “Stay where you are! Don’t move. Understand?”

  “Yeah, boss. Ah’ll do anythin’ you say.” Power rolled his eyes, showing the whites, to give a popular impression of a frightened black man. “Ah’m jest waitin’ for the water to come on … ”

  As Gorki swung round to move back into the wheel-house, his companion shouted a warning. But it was too late.

  The man fired one short, sharp burst with the Sten-gun; but his aim was wild, hurried. The shots went wide.

  Then the solid jet of water from the nozzle of the hose pipe hit him squarely in the chest, knocking him off balance. He dropped the Sten-gun as he fell.

  Power changed the direction of the nozzle slightly — and the water smacked into Gorki’s face. The Russian staggered, half-blind and gasping for air, raising his hands in a vain attempt to ward off that liquid pile-driver. The black man was grinning hugely as he again shifted his aim to catch his victim solidly on the body. Gorki reeled against the side of the wheelhouse and seemed to be pinned there for a few moments by the force of the jet, before he finally slid down to the deck.

  Inside the wheelhouse, the attention of the man with the Sten-gun wavered for a split second when his comrade’s gun fired, and he glanced quickly through the doorway.

  But that split second was enough for Dingle and Jones. They moved together, diving for the man’s legs.

  The staccato rattle of the Sten-gun filled the wheel-house; but the Russian was already falling backwards when his finger squeezed the trigger. The shots punched holes in the roof — while Brook, Miller, the two scientists and the quartermaster dropped flat on the deck.

  The Russian’s head cracked against the bulkhead and his eyes began to glaze. Dingle wrenched the gun away, jumped to his feet and ran to the door, leaving Jones to finish off the fight.

  When Power saw Dingle, he swung the hose round and directed the stream of water away, over the side of the ship. The British agent pulled Gorki and the other man to their feet, pushed them roughly into the wheelhouse and tossed the Sten-gun through the doorway to Jones. But there was no fight left in the two men. Gorki was still spluttering and coughing.

  Dingle leaned on the rail.

  “Nice work, Will!” he called.

  “My pleasure, sir,” the big black man called back. Then he turned and shouted, more loudly: “Okay, okay! Turn the goddamn thing off.”

  There was a distant, answering shout, then the water pressure lessened. The jet grew shorter and shorter until only a dribble came from the nozzle to drip on to the deck at Power’s feet.

  Grant’s grinning face appeared below, peering round the corner of the bridge superstructure. He had been out of sight, on the starboard side, connecting up Power’s hose to one of the water main points on deck. He had heard the shouted conversation between Gorki and Power, and guessed what was in his friend’s mind when he heard him say he was waiting for the water to be turned on. Grant had obliged; he had turned the valve on fully, for maximum pressure.

  “Is it safe for me to come up there now?”

  “Trust you to be under cover when there’s trouble,” Power called.

  “Cut the cackle and get up here quickly, both of you,” Dingle shouted.

  The two men hurried up to the wheelhouse, and were just in time to see Gorki and his companions locked in the chart room.

  Dingle’s orders were clear and concise. “There are only three minutes to go before we start the action, so off you go Rossi … Green.”

  The two scientists hurried out of the wheelhouse. Green’s post was the for’ard mast house, Rossi’s the after mast house.

  “Grant, Power. Carry on with the hosing operation. But as soon as you’ve soaked the deck after the missiles have gone, get below as fast as you can and find what the situation is. There may be some more prisoners loose.”

  “Shouldn’t we check on that first, sir?” asked Grant.

  “No. I want the big problem, the Skori, out of the way first, before anyone else gets a chance of putting a spanner in
the works. Now move! There are only two minutes to go.”

  Grant and Power moved.

  *

  Brook’s stomach muscles were tensed into a tight knot as he stood watching Dingle. The British agent was watching the clock. The minute hand reached its zenith, and Dingle switched his gaze to the pilot.

  “All right, Brook,” he said quietly. “It’s all yours.”

  Brook licked his dry lips.

  “Hard a’starb’d!”

  The quartermaster spun the wheel quickly to the right. The ten thousand seven hundred tons deadweight ship heeled over sharply. The four hundred and forty-foot length of living, throbbing metal swung round.

  “Midships!”

  The Vologda straightened up, and then began to roll heavily after that violent turn.

  Brook and Miller were staring through their glasses at the Skori.

  “She hasn’t noticed. She’s still going on,” Miller’s voice was a croak.

  “Give them time,” muttered the pilot.

  The tension mounted as the two seamen continued to stare through their binoculars.

  “Wait … yes … she’s turning!” shouted Miller excitedly. “I thought she was never going to turn.”

  “Seventeen seconds exactly, from the time we started our turn,” said Dingle. “Green and Rossi weren’t far out in their estimate — so they should be all right for range.”

  “Only seventeen seconds? It seemed like a bloody lifetime,” said Miller.

  “She’s almost on a parallel course,” said Brook.

  “Tell Grant and Power. Quickly!” snapped Dingle.

  Miller ran out on to the bridge and called to them. Grant was sluicing the deck behind the for’ard missile; Power was spraying the after deck. When they heard the second officer’s shout, they dropped the hoses and ran for cover.

  “Stand by,” said Dingle. “Those things will blast off any time now. Remember, don’t look at the missiles.”

  Dingle, Jones, Brook and Miller stood waiting, watching the Russian destroyer. They looked faintly ridiculous, standing there, with their fingers in their ears; but they saw no humour in the situation.

  The fifth man in the wheelhouse, the quartermaster, had to keep his hands on the wheel. His ears were stuffed with cotton wool.

  *

  Rossi, in the aft mast house was staring at the sky. Then, as the port side of the ship began to drop, he saw the horizon. After that he saw the sea; nothing but the sea.

  Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He began to talk to himself.

  “Where’s that bloody destroyer? Come on. Come on! Ah!”

  The tip of the Skori’s bow swam briefly into view on his left. Then it was gone and he was looking at the sky once more. He waited in a fever of impatience for the Vologda to complete her roll. He licked his dry lips; but there was no moisture on his tongue. Yet his palms were soaking. He wiped them on his trouser legs, shot a quick, nervous glance at the firing button, and then pressed his eye to the telescope again.

  There was the horizon, the sea — and the grey bow of the Skori, pushing great white sheets of water aside contemptuously.

  The black crosswires, which had been fixed to meet in the centre of the telescope’s field of vision to form a crude gunsight, showed up clearly against the target. The centre of that cross was travelling down the side of the speeding warship; it reached the water-line, paused, and began to climb back up as the Vologda started her roll to starboard. Rossi knew that, in seconds, the centre of that cross would linger briefly on the destroyer’s forward turret; on the 5.1-inch guns that it was vital to knock out.

  He tried to swallow, but couldn’t. His throat was parched and there was no saliva in his mouth.

  “What in the name of dear God am I to do?” he cried to himself. “What the bloody hell do I do now?”

  That for’ard turret was Green’s target. Rossi was supposed to aim for the bridge. But would Green be lined up on the turret so perfectly as this? Would Rossi himself have an equally good chance of hitting his own target?

  The black cross climbed up until it had almost reached the ugly grey blob that spoilt the long, graceful sweep of the warship’s bow; the blob that housed those two deadly 5.1-inch guns.

  “Oh, hell!”

  Rossi pressed the button.

  *

  The din, on the bridge, was terrifying. An immense volume of sound that Dingle and the others could feel as well as hear; a noise that seemed to travel up through the stomach.

  The solid wheelhouse trembled; chunks of metal thudded on to the roof and on to the deck as the thick white smoke trail belched out by the missile blotted out their view of the Skori. Then a distant explosion superimposed itself on that awful roar.

  “I think we must have hit her!” yelled Brook, taking his fingers out of his ears and snatching up the glasses that hung from his neck. “We’ve got her! Look! The for’ard turret!”

  The other men were gazing in wonder at the Russian warship as she came back into sight. They didn’t need binoculars to see that orange glow and the black plume of smoke rising up from the gun turret.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Miller.

  “We’ve got another missile to go yet,” answered Dingle.

  “What? I thought the other one had missed,” said the quartermaster. “Do you mean to say that only one rocket made all that row?”

  “Watch your helm, man!” snapped Brook, who was still studying the destroyer through his binocular. “Ease her three points starb’d.”

  He leaped to the engine-room telegraph and yanked the pointer over to read “Dead Slow”. The pilot was trying to keep the two ships broadside on to each other for as long as possible. As the Skori moved round quickly in a wide sweep, so the Vologda slowed down and turned in a tighter arc — like a long rank of soldiers executing a right wheel, where the inside man has practically to mark time to allow the outside man to keep abreast of him.

  Brook looked at Dingle.

  “Do you want to wait a bit, or shall we run for it now?”

  “Wait. Give Green a chance with his missile.”

  “He might already have tried it,” said Jones. “The bloody thing could be hanging fire — or it could be duff.”

  “I know,” replied Dingle. “Damn it! We should have rigged up some kind of communications link with the mast houses.”

  “There wasn’t time,” said Miller. “As it was, we only just … ”

  He stopped talking and the five men in the wheel-house ducked instinctively as they heard the screaming, high-pitched whistle. A column of water shot up two hundred yards off the starboard bow, then another. Two more spouts reared up, nearer the stern this time.

  “That’s torn it!” jerked Brook. “They’re firing at us already. The Vologda will be a sitting duck like this. We’d better move.”

  “We’ll sweat it out for another minute,” said Dingle grimly.

  *

  In the for’ard mast house, Green was sweating it out, too. Literally. His clothes were clinging to his clammy body.

  The scientist was cursing quietly to himself. What the blazes did Rossi think he was playing at? The bloody fool had fired too soon. And now the smoke from Rossi’s missile was screening the target.

  Green waited. The ship completed another roll. The smoke became mist which was suddenly swirled away by the wind. And there was the Skori. Every detail showed up clearly through the powerful telescope. Green could even see sailors reeling out hoses to fight the fire in the turret.

  “That makes the bridge my target,” he muttered.

  He saw two tell-tale puffs from the destroyer’s after deck; then two more. A shock of fear ran through him as he heard the shells whine overhead. He imagined one of those shells crashing into a hold packed with nuclear warheads. His face, already grey and drawn with exhaustion, turned deathly white.

  “For Chrissake!” he yelled. “What the hell are you basta
rds waiting for up there! Let’s get our asses out of here!”

  But there was no one close enough to hear him. And then he realized that they were waiting for him.

  He reached for the firing button; but it was too late. The Vologda was starting her roll to starboard. He could see only the Skori’s masthead; then that, too, was gone, and there was only the sky.

  Green’s finger hovered over the button. What the hell! If he pressed it now, the missile would fly high over the destroyer — but at least that mad Englishman on the bridge would have nothing left to wait for. He’d turn the ship and high-tail it out of here.

  He snatched his hand away, took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. The Vologda began to roll back. He looked again in fascinated horror at the lean lines of the Russian warship; the bridge superstructure well for’ard; the two steeply raked funnels, widely spaced on the long, low after section; the two turrets aft, their guns still firing.

  Green jumped violently. There were two sharp explosions which seemed to come from the aft of the Vologda. The whole ship shuddered.

  “Oh, my God, we’ve been hit,” he gasped.

  And then, suddenly, he was calm. He watched the black cross on his telescope travel slowly down the leading edge of the Skori’s bridge.

  “Hold it, hold it,” he muttered.

  The black cross moved down the side of the destroyer, reached the water-line, paused, and began to climb. It reached the base of the bridge island — right in the centre this time.

  The scientist pressed the button.

  *

  The Vologda had been hit in the after accommodation; but nobody had been hurt. A small fire had been started in an empty cabin, and men were racing to deal with it. Another shell had exploded on the poop deck, causing only superficial damage.

  Brook looked anxiously at Dingle.

  “They’ve got our range now. We must … ”

  “I said we’d wait a minute,” snapped the British agent. “There are still twenty seconds to go. If Green hasn’t fired when we start to roll to starboard, we’ll beat it.”

  A fountain of water rose up over the bow as a shell smacked into the sea and exploded no more than twenty feet away.