Between The Hunters And The Hunted

by Steven Wilson

  Harland dropped the cigarette on the rough-board floor, ground it out, and reached for the telephone. How he hated Scotland.

  Cole stood uncertainly in the tight confines of N-for-Nancy, trying to force the stiffness out of his legs. The constant vibration of the twin engines and the cramped quarters had combined to numb his legs so that they felt as if they were blocks of wood. When he rose, hunched over because he was too tall to stand upright in the Hudson, he walked on two rubbery limbs with the ponderous weight of the flying suit bearing down on him. The others in the aircraft, Bunny, Peter, Johnny, and Prentice, might have felt as numb as he did but they didn’t show it. He made his way awkwardly to Prentice and held on to the W.T.’s shoulders for support.

  “Where the hell are we?” Cole asked and then realized that the question was as ridiculous as the answer was useless to him. They were in the middle of the ocean and the only location of any importance would be where they found the Germans’ ship. He noticed Prentice glancing at him quizzically. He was holding Cole’s intercom plug.

  Cole nodded his understanding, too tired to curse himself for being stupid, and slipped the plug into the intercom system. “Sorry,” he said, his own voice coming to him with a distant metallic ring. “My butt’s numb and that goes right to my brain. Where are we anyway?”

  Prentice pulled out a small chart. “Just here, sir, about five hundred miles out. Of course Peter is our navigator, so by rights his is the chart we follow. I just keep mine as a bit of a hobby, you understand. If I’m right we fly on for a bit more and then turn south-southwest on a course of two-two-oh. I think I’m close enough to Peter’s reckoning.”

  “Okay,” Cole said, mildly disgusted that he still had no idea where they were. “Let me get back to my window.”

  “Bit of a strain on the eyes, isn’t it, sir?” They had all been staring through the marred Plexiglas windows for any sign of the enemy. The only thing in sight was the unending ocean.

  “A bit.”

  Prentice handed Cole a canteen. “Dash some of this on your face. It’ll bring you around.”

  Cole nodded, unscrewed the lid on the canteen, poured a handful of water into his palm, and rubbed it into his face. It was ice cold and it almost took his breath away. He handed the canteen back to Prentice with a smile and struggled aft to his position. He lowered himself carefully into place, grimacing as the muscles of his thighs and lower legs burned when he tried to fold them into position. He heard the Boulton-Paul dorsal turret swing rhythmically back and forth as Johnny swept the sky, looking for enemy aircraft. There wouldn’t be any German fighters out this far, but there was always the possibility of a graceful German Condor or squat flying boats making an appearance. Either one would be an unwelcome, and most dangerous, intruder.

  Something hit him on the leg; it was a coin. He looked up to see Prentice pointing to his intercom plug.

  “Shit,” Cole said to himself. He slipped it into the receptacle and heard Bunny’s voice crackle in his ears.

  “… just received word that Prince of Wales has released some of her escorts. We’re to be on the lookout for them. We ought to pass close by, although I have no exact location. We’re to turn south in approximately ten minutes. King, old chum. If you don’t remember to keep your intercom plugged in, I shall be forced to shove it up your bum. Now come up here like a good chap so we can talk.”

  Cole rose again, struggled forward, and sat down in the entrance to the tunnel that led to the bomb-aimer/navigator’s compartment in the nose. He showed Bunny the plug-in and slid it into the receptacle.

  “You don’t have to tell me something more than twelve to fifteen times before I get it.”

  “That’s heartening, King,” Bunny said. “I thought you’d like a bit of a break. Constant searching can deaden a man’s eyes and brain.”

  “Thanks. It was hell on my ass as well.”

  “Is your ship as big as all that? Larger than Bismarck?”

  “Yeah. From what we know of her. Big and fast. I’d hate to think what would happen if she ran into a convoy.” He noticed Bunny had lost interest in what he was saying. “What’s the matter?”

  Bunny was tapping one of the dials on the instrument panel. “This bloody thing is dancing up and down. I thought my erks fixed it.”

  “What is it?”

  Bunny twisted to look out the window. “My oil pressure. Left engine. She’s not leaking oil unless it’s coming out underneath.” He turned back to the instrument panel. “Now the bastard’s running just fine.” He tapped the dial again. “Prentice? Radio back to base, will you? Tell them that we’re having a spot of trouble out here and we’re turning around. Give them our location. King? You’d better go back to your station.”

  As he started to rise, Cole heard a bang. Not loud enough to create concerns; more like the sound someone makes when they slam their fist on a desk. It was the explosion that followed that was loud.

  The blast threw him back against the wireless operator’s table. Cole felt bits of aluminum, rubber, plastic, and flaming debris, all wrapped in an intense smoke, engulf him. He heard shouting and saw Bunny clawing at the yoke. But there was something wrong—it was like the pilot couldn’t see.

  Cole pulled himself forward until he was even with Bunny.

  The pilot had no face. It was nothing more than a mass of bloody meat.

  “Get out of the way, you fool!”

  It was Peter, covered with blood, pushing his way through the bomb-aimer/navigator’s tunnel.

  Cole moved back as Peter saw Bunny.

  “Jesus wept!” he said. “What happened?”

  “The left engine exploded,” Cole said.

  The plane started to descend and twist to the right.

  “Get him out of there,” Peter ordered Cole. “I’ll try to fly her from the second pilot’s station.”

  Cole nodded. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Prentice. His mask was gone and blood streamed from his nose.

  “I’ll help,” he shouted. “Let me get the quick release.” Prentice moved between Cole and Peter and reaching under Bunny’s waving arms punched the quick-release switch for the pilot’s harness.

  “Will you two hurry, please!” Peter said. “I can’t keep this rock in the air much longer.”

  Prentice glanced at Cole in alarm. “His legs have gone all stiff. They’re wrapped up in the rudder assembly.”

  “Get him out!” Peter screamed. “He’s going to kill us all.”

  Cole looked around. “Give me that map case.”

  Prentice handed it to him and Cole ripped off Bunny’s flight cap.

  The wireless operator grabbed his arm. “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “You’ll kill him!”

  “For bloody sake, Prentice,” Peter said. “He’s dead already. Do you want him to kill the rest of us?”

  Prentice, tears rolling down his cheeks, released Cole’s arm.

  Cole brought the metal case down hard on Bunny’s head and the pilot went limp. He tossed the map case to one side.

  “All right,” he said to the stunned Prentice. “We pull him out on three. One, two, three.” They lifted the unconscious pilot over the back of the seat and let him drop on the floor next to the transmitter.

  “Get Johnny,” Cole said to Prentice. The boy’s haunted eyes were locked on the faceless form on the deck. “Prentice? Get Johnny out of the turret. Now.”

  “King!” Peter shouted over his shoulder. “Under the pilot’s seat are smoke floats. We’ll need them when we go down. I think we’re losing hydraulic fluid as well. She’s becoming difficult to handle. Did Prentice send out a distress signal?”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “Do it bloody quickly, Yank. We won’t survive long in that water.”

  “Right,” he said, reaching under the seat. He felt two canisters and their release mechanisms. He also felt hunks of flesh and warm sticky liquid. He focused on the mechanisms,
found the latch, pictured its operation in his mind, and flipped it open.

  Cole staggered back to the bulkhead just forward of the Boulton-Paul turret, carrying the canisters. It was becoming almost impossible to move in the gyrating aircraft and he was thrown from side to side. Prentice was helping Johnny slide out from under the dorsal cutout former and onto the step by the entry door.

  Johnny was shaken but not hurt. “Bastard jammed on me. Thought I was going to have to squeeze out the aft flare tube.”

  “Prentice told you?”

  The gunner nodded.

  “Did you get out an SOS?” Cole asked Prentice.

  “Yes, sir. But no one answered, or if they did, it won’t help. Wireless is out, sir.”

  “See if you can get it going again,” Cole said. “You take these.” He handed the canisters to Johnny. “Where’s the life raft?”

  “You’re standing on it, chum,” Johnny said. “The hand lever for the dinghy release cylinder is right behind you. We land, pop the door, and step in. Won’t even get our feet wet.”

  “Yeah,” Cole said, certain it was going to be a lot more difficult than that. “You say.”

  N-for-Nancy seemed to have settled into a more or less level flight when Cole passed Prentice on his way up front. He patted the wireless operator on the shoulder. “How’s it going, Prentice?”

  “Let you know in a bit, sir. I’m afraid everything’s scrambled.”

  “Okay,” Cole said, kneeling on the deck behind Peter.

  “How’s Bunny?” Peter said, his eyes on the glowing dials of the instrument panel.

  Cole glanced back at the pilot. The man was barely breathing.

  “I don’t know. Not well.”

  “King?” Peter said. “Bunny’s got his good luck token in the inside pocket of his flight suit. He may not be able to see the ridiculous thing, but it might help him to feel it.”

  “Sure,” Cole said. “Sure thing.” He turned and, careful not to look at the destroyed face, unzipped the blood-soaked flight suit and felt inside for the stuffed bunny. He found it, covered in blood, pulled it out, and tried to wipe some of the blood on the leg of his flight suit. When he was satisfied that he had done all that he could, he placed it carefully in Bunny’s right hand and closed his fingers around it. “Okay,” he said to Peter.

  N-for-Nancy shuddered violently.

  “I’ve got them!” Prentice shouted. “And they’ve got me, I believe. Some Royal Navy chaps. Everything’s garbled. There’s a lot of static but I think they’ve got me.”

  There was a high-pitched whine from N-for-Nancy’s right engine, as if the aircraft were calling for help. The engine was straining to keep N-for-Nancy aloft.

  “I think this is it, chaps,” Peter shouted over the shrill noise. “She’s behaving badly now. Everyone to the rear and latch on to anything not moving.”

  “What are you going to do?” Cole said.

  “Someone’s got to drive the bus, haven’t they? I’ll be right along when it’s my time. Just get back there and hold on to something. Hold tight, King. When we hit, it’ll be like slamming into a brick wall. Then we’ll skip free and things won’t be bad at all. Then we’ll hit again and that’ll be the worst part.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done this before,” Cole said.

  “Once or twice, King. Bunny was at the controls then. I wish to hell he was now. Get aft and take Prentice with you.”

  “Okay,” Cole said. “Good luck.”

  “Fuck off, Yank.”

  Cole slapped Prentice on the back. “We’re closing up shop. Let’s get aft.”

  “But the wireless—”

  “Forget it.” Cole followed Prentice’s gaze to Bunny. “It’s no good, Prentice,” he said. He didn’t want to abandon the pilot on the floor either, but it was apparent that Bunny wouldn’t last long. “Come on. Let’s get cracking.”

  They found Johnny stuffing parachutes against the bulkhead. He had jettisoned the door and the frigid wind roaring through the opening made it almost impossible to hear. Debris whipped wildly around the interior of the aircraft until it was near enough to the door for the slipstream to suck it out.

  “Stay clear of that bastard,” Johnny shouted, pointing at the turret. “She might come loose when we land and crush you. Get on either side of the fuselage and cushion yourself with these parachutes.” N-for-Nancy gave a lurch. It was a warning, she was dying and she could give her crew no more time. “Where’s Bunny?” Johnny asked Cole. Cole shook his head.

  “Right,” Johnny said sharply. “Right. Get settled in. It won’t be long now. Peter will try to keep her nose up as long as possible. If she hits a wave head-on she’ll explode. If he can drag her tail we’ll have some time to inflate the dinghy and get out.”

  Cole felt his stomach drop. They were going in now. They were going to ditch. He wedged himself against a parachute and pushed his feet against the step that led up to the turret. Johnny and Prentice were on the other side of the cabin, each waiting for the impact.

  Cole wondered what would happen and for the first time in his life he was frightened, really frightened. He had no control over what was going to happen or if he would survive it. He felt his heart pumping wildly and he thought he could feel every movement of every rivet in N-for-Nancy. For a moment he thought the aircraft was alive and he wondered if fear was causing him to hallucinate.

  He thought of Rebecca and the last time that he had seen her, asleep on the couch, and he wished that he had left a note or awakened her to say good-bye, or something. But he didn’t and he wondered how much of a bastard he had been to her and if perhaps he could have done more to help her.

  He thought about praying but he didn’t believe in God, not in any real sense, just some nebulous unformed entity that people spoke of with reverence but to his logical, educated mind simply could not exist. No atheists in foxholes, he had heard before, and maybe that was right but he did not seek God as N-for-Nancy dropped slowly to oblivion; he inventoried his failures and regrets. There they were, listed on a tally sheet for him to check off, and it seemed that he had more than his share on the negative side of the ledger.

  What have I given my life for? he wondered, and the answer came immediately: to satisfy my own ambition—an ambition that had nearly consumed him and did destroy any relationship that he was fortunate to have. But inside, as N-for-Nancy lost altitude and he saw Prentice’s lips moving rapidly in prayer, he knew his arrogance would never permit him regrets. Regrets meant that he had been fallible and he just couldn’t accept that notion when he was this close to death.

  But that didn’t silence the fear.

  Oh God, he could see through the open door and the waves were becoming larger, becoming more distinct, taking on shape and character—blue-green hillocks with white, frothy crests. The plane was getting lower and soon it would be even with the waves and an instant after that, impact.

  N-for-Nancy fell slowly and Cole watched the waves rise to meet them, and as the waves neared, his nerves grew taut, twisted so tight that he knew they would snap.

  They were lower now, skimming over the tops of the waves. They must be biting into hillocks, destroying the crests, but there was no sound except the roar of the open door and the high-pitched whine of N-for-Nancy’s one, pitiful engine. He could smell the sea. The scent was sharp, clean, and for some reason it comforted him.

  Atlantic City. His parents took him to Atlantic City when he was a boy and he let the waves roll him onto the shore, feeling his body scrape along the sand, giving himself up to the power of the ocean.

  There was a bump behind them and N-for-Nancy shuddered harshly as the fixed tail wheel dug into the waves.

  A second later N-for-Nancy collided with the sea.

  Chapter 23

  The Admiralty, London, England

  A low light from the hallway flooded Bimble’s office, followed by a soft knock on the door. Bimble, who had been working at his desk by the light of a small lamp, looked up w
earily. The moon might crash into the sun, German ships might gobble up British cruisers, and the end of the world might be on hand, but nothing, nothing must interfere with the reports required by Their Lords of the Admiralty, completed in the proscribed manner, and within the specified time. Bloody nuisance, Bimble labeled it, sailing a wooden desk with paper sails.

  “Sir Joshua?” It was Hawthorne. The light gathered around the outline of his body like a halo.

  “Yes,” Bimble said, rubbing his sore eyes. “What’s the time?”

  “Just after four.”

  “A.M. or P.M.?”

  “In the morning, Sir Joshua. We’ve received some news. Harland has called to say the Home Fleet’s going out.”

  “High time. Never known Townes to be so slow about things.”

  “Not all of them,” Hawthorne said. “KG V and Rodney. Three cruisers and assorted destroyers.”

  Something in Hawthorne’s tone told Bimble that he had more information.

  “Well?” Bimble said curtly.

  “Our intelligence chaps picked up a transmission from the German vessel and a return message from Group North. Our chaps have finally been able to determine her name. She’s the D.K.M. Sea Lion.”

  “Sea Lion?” Bimble said. “She’s not on the registry.”

  “She’s not any place, sir. No one has heard of her so we’re left to suppose that she is the vessel that Commander Hamilton’s men happened upon. The H-class.”

  “The class that was never built?” Bimble said, his irritation rising. “We know nothing more than her name, do we, Hawthorne? We don’t know where she is or what she intends to do?”

  “We do know from the transmissions that it appears that she wants to return home by way of the Bay of Biscay.”

  “Brest or St. Nazaire?”

  “We don’t know,” Hawthorne said. “But our chaps are on it. They feel that they can determine that and her location from her radio transmissions.”