Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “Water’s not much better than a few degrees, Kaleun,” the helmsman observed softly beside him, a grimace spreading across his own features. “They won’t last twenty minutes if the plane goes under.”

  “I know that, damn it!” Toepfer shot back in exasperation. “I know that! After so many near misses and wild-goose-chases we finally have this bastard right where we want him, and now we have to divert!” He released a grunt of angry frustration through clenched teeth, before adding: “Advise Bruno we’re on our way. That sneaky swine’s not going anywhere fast at only fifteen knots and shore-based radar can track them anyway – we’ll pick up Haas and his boys and get back into the hunt without too much lost time.”

  “They’re moving again!” Kelly advised in a loud voice, eyes rarely leaving the radar screen as a new helmsman stood at the wheel, allowing the young Brendan a well-earned rest below. They’d been surrounded by a blank, impenetrable wall of white now for several minutes, having diverted slightly eastward as they’d neared the coast to take advantage of cover in the nearest fog bank. Their speed had also slowed dramatically as a result: the closer they came to land, the closer the ship also was to the danger of running aground, something that would signal disaster.

  The tension was affecting everyone as the vessel motored on through the grey blankness, visibility no better than 300 metres or less at best. The morning sun, clear and bright now in the sky above, showed through as no more than a faint, white glow to the east that seemingly served only to increase the hindrance to visibility of the unbroken, white ‘walls’ around them. Kelly didn’t like the fact that they’d been forced to reduce speed but he was also forced to accept that it was only once they’d come within ‘sight’ of the Irish coastline that they were finally able to turn westward. MTB 102 was now heading west at their best speed of fifteen knots, skirting the rocky shores off County Antrim and passing Murlough Bay and the eastern side of the small headland known as Fair Head, north-east of Ballyvoy.

  They’d been given a slight reprieve as the schnellboot had stopped for a few moments off Rathlin’s East Lighthouse – presumably to collect survivors from the shot-down flying boat – but the extra distance they’d put between the torpedo boat and its pursuer would quickly dissipate now as their radar screens clearly showed the S-boat accelerating once more to full throttle and turning onto an intercept heading.

  “Heading of one-nine-eight,” Kelly called out to both weapon’s crews as the torpedo boat continued on at its highest permissible speed. “Bearing of three-four-five off our starboard bow… we’ve a few minutes yet boys, but stay ready on yer guns. We’ll do our best to keep out of the bugger’s way but it’ll be touch-and-go from here on in.”

  Below decks in the engine room, a thin layer of dark, salty water still sloshed about their feet as Seamus and his crew worked feverishly to maintain their single operating engine and simultaneously attempt repairs on the other two. It was colder down there than usual – the heat produced by just one running diesel was far less than that of three – but it was far warmer than the open air above nevertheless and all present were happy to be out of the cold.

  The area was cramped and claustrophobic and the presence of Kransky, Lowenstein, the teens and Brendan only added to the general discomfort as crewmen were forced to dodge around them to be about their business. None complained for all that and Kransky noted that although they were an unorthodox lot that displayed an outward air of casual informality, they all went about their duties on the whole with an air of confident professionalism and pride that he’d rarely seen even in formally-trained military units.

  A small work bench near the ladder up to the main deck carried a small electric kettle, and the young helmsman stood at it now, pouring himself a strong coffee that he quickly added a nip of whiskey to from a hip flask he kept ‘secreted’ about his person. From a discreet distance, watching from the other side of the cylinder banks and manifold of one of the stalled diesels, Kransky also noted that the Jew, Lowenstein, was openly staring at the young helmsman with great interest, something obviously playing on the man’s mind.

  His earlier discussion with Kelly regarding the fellow’s involvement with the children flared in his mind as he considered what reasons there might be for the interest displayed in the young man, but he dismissed any darker thoughts immediately: there was no discernible improper intent displayed in the man’s expression as he watched the helmsman pour his coffee and whatever suspicions there might or mightn’t be about the man he was charged to escort, Kransky considered himself far too good a judge of character to believe Lowenstein’s thoughts included anything of a sexual nature.

  Nevertheless, he watched with great interest as Lowenstein, quite obviously wrestling with his own courage, finally gathered enough of it to approach the bench and gain the young man’s attention.

  “Mister Kelly up there kept calling you ‘Brendan’,” he observed softly, trying to keep the nerves from being obvious in his words. “I’m only asking because you seem very familiar to me… are you Brendan Behan by any chance?”

  “That’s me name, right enough,” the young man replied in a Dublin accent, eyes alight as if his wry grin were just scratching the surface of greater inward laughter. “I don’t recall your face though; have we met, now?”

  “No… no…” Lowenstein shook his head quickly, and Kransky was intrigued now as he realised there was almost a sense of reverence seeping into the man’s words. “We’ve never met…” There was a pause then and his face contorted in discomfort momentarily, as if in realisation he’d said something inappropriate and were now desperately thinking of some way to backpedal. “…But I – I’m a student of British history and I know a little of your family… your father was involved in the War of Independence I believe, and your mother is also politically active – a friend of Michael Collins, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Some would call it suicide for an Englishman to say somethin’ about an Irishman’s parents’ role in The Uprising, or of being associated with Michael Collins…” Behan replied evenly, not offended but wary all the same. “Bit different now though with there bein’ no England and all, but we’ve long memories for that kind o’ thing.”

  “We’re not all that different under the skin though are we, Mister Behan?” Lowenstein countered with a smile of his own, feeling more confident now as they entered territory he was familiar with. “Believe me, as a Jew, I understand as well as any how terrible it is to live beneath the jackboot of racism and oppression, but people are just people in the end.” He shrugged almost theatrically, adding: “German or Jew, Catholic or Protestant, Irish or English; we all bleed red underneath once the politics and the prejudices are stripped away.”

  “That’s a fact,” Behan agreed with a wider grin, lifting his coffee mug and taking a sip, “and call me Brendan, I beg y’: no offence, but yer old enough to be me pa, and ‘mister’ is a hard title to wear.” He nodded solemnly in agreement with Lowenstein’s words. “Before the invasion, I spent a year or two in a British Borstal for the indiscretions of my ‘youth’ and we were all equally downtrodden there no matter what side o’ the fence we came from: I learned that, right enough. As volunteers we were united to fight against the British oppressors… now we’re united with the Brits in a fight against the bloody Germans.” Behan gave a shrug of his own – one of matter-of-fact pragmatism. “There’s an old Chinese proverb: ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend…’”

  “I believe there’s a similar saying in Arabic, Brendan,” Lowenstein observed with a nod of his own, already well aware of Behan having spent time in a Borstal for terrorist activities. “Desperation makes for strange bedfellows, there’s no denying. I’ve no doubt you learned a great deal from your experiences in detention…” a wry, almost tongue-in-cheek smile flickered across his features, as if trying desperately not to chuckle at some great in-joke. “You should write a book about that someday!”

  “Aye…!” Behan agreed enthusiastically as h
e took another sip of his ‘augmented’ coffee. “Aye, there’s a grand idea, and that’s the truth! Maybe I will.”

  The pair talked for some time as the children huddled as close as they dared to the operating engine in search of warmth, and Kransky unashamedly eavesdropped on the conversation for the entire time. He noted immediately that for a young man whom he assumed came from a working class, Irish background, Behan seemed extremely well-educated and was possessed of a broad and well-rounded knowledge of the English language.

  He also immediately recognised that Lowenstein clearly knew of Behan, and his instincts told him that knowledge was more to do with Behan personally than the somewhat lame explanation given about knowing of the man’s parents’ involvement in recent history. Kransky’s subconscious was trying to tell him something as he pondered that information – something important – and he was quite aware of that fact. As he thought deeply on it however, he found that whatever it was simply wouldn’t come.

  Mutara Nebula… the name again rose unbidden in his mind, and again he was unable to recall where he’d heard of it before. There was something that Kransky was missing – some link his conscious mind wasn’t yet making – that would explain the mystery of the man he knew of as Samuel La Forge. The American was willing to be patient: he knew it would come to him eventually – it always did – and all he needed for that to happen was to keep watching the man and take in what was going on.

  “The bugger’s closing fast!” Seán Michaels noted nervously, having returned to the bridge and taking a turn at the radar screen as Kelly stood beside him at the wheel. “Four nautical miles – I make him no more than five or six minutes away at current speed.”

  “Is he still holdin’ a steady intercept course?” Kelly demanded, his eyes fixed dead ahead as if willing his vision to penetrate the all-encompassing white ‘soup’ through which they were travelling.

  “Aye, sure enough,” Michaels replied instantly. “…Turned one or two degrees more to the south a few minutes after our last course change, but steady otherwise.”

  “They’re trying to narrow down the distance between us, no mistake,” Kelly observed grimly. “They’ll manage it, too – we’ve no hope of outrunning them on one bloody engine.” He shrugged in resignation. “Our gunners are ready for ‘em and this fog means we’ll at least be on even-money: there’s nought much more we could ask for under the circumstances.”

  “‘Even-money’ or not, what bloody chance do we have against a fookin’ E-boat?” Michaels growled, none too happy with the situation. He’d been unconscious while the decision had been made to seek cover in the fog bank, and it had been far too late to back out of it by the time he’d finally regained consciousness. He stood there now in a borrowed pea coat, the upper sections of his head swathed in bandages and a large field dressing that covered his left ear that showed the faint stain of blood beneath its centre.

  “More chance in here than we’d have out in the open, that’s for sure,” Kelly shot back nervously, the tension of command clear in his voice. “We’re two engines down and right square in the middle of occupied sea lanes that are crawling with fookin’ Germans if y’ hadn’t noticed. With the sun up now we’d never make it twenty miles under clear skies before the bloody Luftwaffe sent us all to meet Saint Peter – at least we’ve an even chance while we’re hidin’ in this shite…” He would’ve said more on the subject, but instead halted for a moment as something Michaels had said finally registered in his mind.

  “They changed course ‘a few minutes’ after us y’ say?” Kelly demanded suddenly, a faint glimmer of hope flaring in the back of his mind.

  “Aye, right enough – wasn’t long after, but one or two minutes after all the same,” Michaels confirmed, thinking about it. “…That mean anythin’…?”

  “It might… it might…” Kelly answered, thinking quickly. “They’re followin us on radar – there’s no doubt about that – but I’m wondering now where that radar is. I was assumin’ the E-boat was carryin’ its own set but if that were so it shouldn’t be takin’ them so long to adjust to our course changes.” He paused to take a short breath. “If they’re getting their directions from land-based radar on the other hand…”

  “That’d explain the delay between our course changes and theirs,” Michaels reasoned, realising where the other man was going with the idea and seeing the logic in it. “It’d probably take a minute or two by the time information from the radar station was relayed through to their local controller, then on to the ship, then to the captain.”

  “…Either that or that E-boat crew are completely bloody useless, which I doubt,” Kelly added finally, mostly thinking out loud. “Only one way to find out,” he continued, making a snap decision as he suddenly turned the wheel sharply to starboard and the MTB began to come about onto a north-westerly heading. “Watch that screen, Seán, and tell me the moment those buggers change course to match ours!”

  “What’s going on?” Kransky asked sharply, having climbed up from below decks the moment he’d noted the obvious change in direction. “We just turned to starboard… toward the bad guys if I’m not mistaken.”

  “We did… and you’re not…” Kelly shot back, giving a mirthless grin. “They’re only a few minutes away now and we’ve no chance of avoiding. I think they’re working off land-based radar reports though and that gives us an advantage – if it’s true. We’re waiting now to see how long it takes this bastard to react to my change – if he’s slow about that, it may come in handy when we go ‘all-in’.”

  “Visibility’s still shithouse…!” Kransky observed sourly as he appeared beside them, not pulling any punches with his assessment of their surroundings and using an Australian expletive he’d picked up two years before during his time with Max Thorne’s unit. “Less than three hundred yards, I figure.” He gave a dark, humourless smile of his own. “Maybe I can make some use of that though. I’ll be right back…” And with that he dived back down through the engine room hatch before anyone could say another word.

  Neither man was disposed toward light conversation in any case. The silent seconds wore on, Kelly’s eyes never leaving the fog ahead, but the whole time he was waiting with baited breath for some word from the man beside him. Michaels was also tense, and watched the screen before him with desperate eyes as he began to fully grasp the definite albeit incredibly slim possibility to grasp the initiative that now lay before them. One minute passed, the two vessels drawing ever-closer, and still there was no indication of a change of course on the part of their pursuer.

  As ninety seconds passed and the ships had drawn perhaps another kilometre or two closer on their convergent courses, a definite change of direction finally became clear on the tiny radar screen.

  “Course change… now one-eight-three…!” Michaels called excitedly as both men realised that Kelly’s suspicions were probably correct. “Three minutes to intercept, give or take…”

  Kelly was about to reply when he was interrupted by the raucous and positively wonderful sound of another of their diesel engines suddenly kicking over. It turned twice, spluttered, backfired loudly and almost died again before finally catching completely and exchanging its shuddering start-up for a low, clattering idle. Over all that noise, the whoops of joy from the engineers below were nevertheless clearly audible.

  “Number one engine back on line, Mister Kelly,” Seamus called out with excitement from below. “Still not enough to outrun an E-boat, but if we’re gonna have to fight it at least gives us enough speed to dance about the ring!”

  “You and your boys are fookin’ geniuses, Seamus… we’ve got the bugger now and no doubt!” Kelly almost crowed in elation, resting his hand on the throttle for the newly-started second engine but holding off on pushing it to full throttle. He’d let the engine warm up a little before pushing it too hard and he had no interest in showing their hand to the enemy in any case. “Stand to, boys…!” He shouted loudly to all within earshot. “I’m gonna come
about hard and they’re gonna be off our port bow as we pass. I’ll do my best to give you fellas a clear broadside if I can: easier now with thirty knots up me sleeve than it would ‘a been with fifteen. We’ll be past ‘em in the blink of an eye so make every round count!”

  “Might be able to lend you guys a hand,” Kransky chimed in from somewhere behind.

  Kelly allowed himself a moment of distraction and turned his head to find the American at the port side, standing on a small section of the open deck between the flying bridge and the aft 15mm gun position. In his hands he carried a huge, almost impossibly-long rifle that Kelly had last seen him fire on a testing range two years earlier. It was as the Irishman remembered: almost 150cm long and weighing over 15kg loaded, the intimidating black weapon was constructed entirely of steel and its long, fluted barrel was capped by a huge, multi-chambered muzzle brake.

  This time however the usual telescopic sight he also remembered was gone and in its place was a strange, black apparatus that was only recognisable as an optical sight because of the rubberised eyepiece fitted at its rear end. Appearing like little more than a small, square box with lens fitted to the forward end and an eyepiece at the rear, it looked nothing like a conventional scope sight – something that in any case would’ve been useless under the current circumstances.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Richard… sure and I’d forgotten about that fookin’ cannon of yours. Not sure how much use it’ll be in this fog though, happy as I am for any extra assistance.”

  “Don’t need to be able to see ‘em”, Kransky replied evenly, staring off into the nothingness to port. “This sight here’ll do all the seeing for me.” He gave a cold, positively evil smile. “You just get me close enough and I’ll do some damage for you… judging by the thickness of this crap, four or five hundred yards should be enough.”