Surface With Daring

by Douglas Reeman

  He thought of the people in Bergen, getting up, trying to believe that things were normal. Going to work in the docks, the schools, the canning factory and the brewery. It was probably easier to delude yourself if you could keep from seeing a German uniform.

  Some would be staring unseeingly across the harbour as they went to work. Who in his wildest dreams would imagine there was a tiny steel pod working steadily towards them, with four men sealed inside and two massive charges of explosives.

  Like something from Jules Verne or Walt Disney.

  ‘New course?’

  Niven replied, ‘Steer one-two-zero in,’ he craned over the chart, ‘five minutes.’

  Drake gave a gasp as something clicked against the side. This time it was not an echo.

  Seaton laid his hand on Jenkyn’s shoulder, feeling the muscles bunch as if he had been stabbed.

  ‘Very easy, Alec.’ He sounded so even, so assured, yet every nerve was wanting to scream. ‘Bring her round just a bit to port.’

  He heard the metallic rattle begin again, slowly, rasping over the curved flank.

  Seaton felt his eyes following the sound down the side of the control room. With the set of tide and depth as it was, the mine would probably be just a foot or so above the periscope guard. He could almost see the rough mooring wire as it edged along the hull, looking for a projection to snare it, to drag the hideous death amongst them.

  As the wheel eased over the noise gave one sharp clatter and stopped.

  Seaton squeezed the E.R.A.’s narrow shoulder. ‘Well done.’

  The petty officer bobbed his head but kept his eyes on the gyro. ‘Ta.’

  Seaton raised himself to the table and looked at the chart, to the points of Niven’s dividers as he said tersely, ‘Here, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ He wanted to let out a great sigh, laugh or burst into tears. But he said, ‘Alter course now, Alec. One-two-zero.’ He waited while they adjusted the trim and settled the boat on her new heading.

  Then like conspirators they crept up to periscope depth again, and Seaton saw the entrance to the harbour for the first time. The light was very poor, but enough to see buildings and moored ships of all sizes, overlapping as if they would never move. A church, a slablike dock, and rising above all else, a towering gantry which appeared to be suspended on four great legs. It was unmoving, but gave an impression of watchfulness and menace, like some terrible prehistoric creature waiting to plunge down its head and snatch a helpless victim. It must be huge, he thought, but it had not been mentioned in his notes. So it was probably a floating gantry, recently constructed, or brought round from another port to help the Germans.

  He found himself wishing this was the objective, instead of a human being and some nameless piece of equipment.

  Drake darted a quick glance at him as he lowered the periscope. ‘Okay?’

  ‘On the button.’ It sounded hollow and he added, ‘We’ll head for the adjoining fjord, where the wreck is.’

  Niven said, ‘Puddefjord, sir. About a mile and a half.’

  Seaton looked at the clock. It was amazing what you could put up with. Depth …speed …distance. He massaged his eyes before returning to the chart and his pad of notes and bearings.

  The fact they had been so near to death at the moment of entering the harbour approach had already departed from his mind. The resilience of war. The necessary protection against terror.

  They rose to periscope depth and increased the engine revolutions to compensate for a strong tide and undertow which swept through the fjord.

  A fat tug pushed busily towards the swept channel, two barges towering emptily astern. Nodding buoys and a few more small craft, and a circling mass of gulls, very white against the clouds. Seaton could see their beaks opening wide, their shrill screams mute in the periscope.

  Later he picked out a green marker buoy, and dimly beyond it what looked like part of a submerged hut.

  He examined his reactions like a surgeon with an unpredictable patient.

  The ‘object’ was the uppermost part of the wrecked ship’s bridge. At high water even that would be invisible. From there he would be able to watch the main harbour and rest his boat. The Germans had done well. If he had picked the site himself he would have found none better.

  At exactly eight o’clock in the morning XE 16 settled on the bottom, her hull plates almost touching the buckled side of the wreck.

  While one of their number maintained a listening-watch, the others tried to sleep, or to await the future in their own different ways.

  As dusk moved across Bergen’s seven hills, XE 16 rose warily to periscope depth, brushing against the wreck with a grate of steel.

  Seaton felt no relief from his restless sleep, nor, at a guess, did the others. The strain had left him tired, cold and irritable. The noise of the wreck against the hull almost made him turn on Drake with a reprimand, when in far worse situations they would have made a joke of it.

  He raised the periscope and swung the lens carefully in a wide arc. Nothing appeared to be moving, but it took extra revolutions to hold the boat steady against the thrusting current. No place for a swim. He thought about the secret equipment he was to carry back to base. It was to be hoped it would be worth the journey.

  Seaton licked his lips. They tasted of oil. A great steaming-hot bath in some fantastic hotel. Pity. There never were hotels like those. Not on a lieutenant’s pay.

  ‘Anything?’ Drake shifted his powerful frame on his little seat.

  ‘We’ve a few minutes yet.’ Seaton thought of the passenger. He would make a change.

  Drake added, ‘Just our luck if the gadget is too big for the bloody boat!’

  Seaton moved his gaze from the periscope and stared at him, surprised and unreasonably angry that he had not thought of that. The most important detail, and nobody had mentioned it.

  Drake looked at him. ‘Sorry, Skipper. Just a thought.’

  That’s all I need!’ He turned back to the lens. ‘Bloody hell!’

  Niven said, ‘Oh, they’d have taken it into consideration.’

  He sounded so confident, so assured, that Jenkyn snapped, ‘They do make foul-ups, y’know!’

  Seaton said softly, ‘Boat coming.’

  The others fell silent, Jenkyn stiffly angry, Niven coldly disapproving.

  Seaton heard the boat’s engine muttering through the water. God, what would happen to the spy systems and intelligence men if the time clock ever went wrong? It was amazing, unnerving. Something planned and discussed at a Whitehall desk was being executed before his eyes. Even as he watched he saw something flare up in the gloom, like a man lighting a pipe downwind.

  The boat was slowing down, barely making a ripple as it continued towards the inner wreck buoy. Then the engine stopped altogether, and Seaton saw the hull rocking on the swell and two or three figures converging in the bows like shrouded monks. They had hooked on to the marker buoy. Waiting.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Revs for two knots. Surface.’

  They had exercised and practised the manoeuvre countless times, and the little submarine revealed herself within yards of the buoy with no more than a sigh.

  Seaton unclipped the hatch, very conscious of the hard pressure against his ribs. His pistol. It would not save him, but might give Drake a chance to get clear with the boat.

  ‘Watch it, Skipper.’

  Seaton glanced at him and nodded. Then he was up through the hatch, half expecting to be met by a challenge or a fusilade of bullets.

  He saw the boat more clearly, a number painted on her bow to show she was official, one of the harbour master’s own craft.

  A rope was thrown, and he made it fast to a bollard while the men in the boat took the strain, hauling both hulls together.

  One figure scrambled to the gunwale and peered across at him, ignoring the midget’s tough hull as it pounded against the boat’s planking.

  ‘Hell’s teeth, it’s you again, is it?’

  Seaton s
tared. It was Trevor.

  He replied, ‘Everyone else is too busy!’ He looked round. ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘Enough.’ Trevor was watching him curiously. ‘The Jerries only patrol this part occasionally.’ He reached out and gripped Seaton’s hand. ‘Bloody nice to see you, and I mean it.’

  Seaton peered at the others. Resistance men, people forced by threat or promises, or just ordinary Norwegians, who could say?

  He asked, ‘Where’s my passenger? Better get a move on. I’ve been told to collect him and the “package”. The bargain is accepted by London.’

  Trevor said, ‘I know.’ He tried to grin. ‘What do you imagine we use here, bloody semaphore?’ He became serious again. ‘Fact is, we’ve a problem.’

  Seaton sighed, remembering Jenkyn’s bitter words. They do make foul-ups.

  ‘The enemy have picked him up? Is that it?’

  ‘Worse in some ways. The local Resistance boys have got him.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake! We’re all supposed to be on the same side!’ He took a firmer grip on himself. Easy. Don’t snap his head off. He asked, ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘We need another day.’ Trevor sounded worried. ‘At least. You’ll have to come ashore with me.’ He hesitated. ‘Right now, as it happens.’

  Again Seaton was reminded of another’s words. If one of you is unable to continue with the operation …Venables.

  ‘Bit dicey, surely?’ The crazy logic of his remark helped to steady him. A surfaced submarine in an enemy-held harbour, a British agent in a motor boat, everyone chatting as if it was a Sunday cricket match. He added, ‘Well, why not? In for a penny…’

  Trevor did not hide his relief. ‘For a moment there I thought –’ He hurried on, ‘Quick as you can. I’ve got some gear for you to put on, but it’s no problem once you’re ashore. We’ve a lot of friends.’

  Seaton lowered his head through the hatch. ‘Take over the con, Geoff. Same routine. Just like the plan. You’ll keep watch, and ventilate the boat, everything as we discussed it.’

  Drake waited for Niven to take over his controls and then stumbled to the hatch.

  ‘Where the hell are you going? You can’t just take off!’

  He winced as the boat surged and clattered against the hull and then saw Trevor.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’

  Trevor grinned. ‘Always welcome. The story of my life.’

  Seaton said firmly, ‘Forty-eight hours. If I’m not back by then, get the hell out.’ For Trevor’s benefit he added, ‘Sooner, if you feel things are wrong.’ He reached down and patted Drake’s shoulder. ‘Take it off your back. It will be all right.’

  ‘With him?’ Drake nodded, his face tight with anxiety. ‘But if you say so.’

  It was done. Seaton clambered into the boat, and by the time it had been freed from the buoy, XE 16 had vanished. Only the wreck buoy’s winking green eye remained.

  The engine spluttered into life and they turned away towards the shore.

  Trevor said, ‘The local leader is a man called Brynjulf. He’s one of the wild ones, not another Jens.’ He sounded sad. ‘There never are enough of his sort. But Brynjulf is a fighter, and he knows how to hit the Germans.’ A flurry of light snow swept over the boat, and he asked, ‘How’s England, by the way?’

  ‘Raining.’

  ‘Good. You need something familiar to hold on to.’ He peered over the bows. ‘Ten minutes. Get this coat on, and if you meet some Jerries, just show you don’t understand what they’re saying. That’s how the locals behave. Drives the krauts wild, especially as they desperately want to be liked.’

  Seaton struggled into a thick, fur-lined coat.

  ‘After what they’ve done?’

  Trevor lit a cigarette and threw the match overboard.

  ‘You have to understand the Teutonic mind.’

  The boat passed beneath a massive stone jetty, and Trevor said, ‘Here we go. Ready?’

  The helmsman steered as close as he dared, and as Trevor and Seaton stepped off on to some slippery stairs he swung the tiller and headed away down the harbour.

  They both stood in silence, listening to the wind, the water lapping over the stone stairs. Apart from the sound of some vehicles a long way off, it was very still.

  Trevor said abruptly, ‘We’ll walk for a while. You get more time to react.’

  Seaton slipped his hand into his pocket and gripped the pistol tightly. He was walking into Bergen. A few figures passed along the other side of this narrow street, stooping and muffled against the cold. It could be anywhere.

  Trevor seemed to know his way about very well. They went swiftly through a small arch and down another narrow street, their feet slipping on the slushy cobbles.

  On a windswept corner by a shuttered bakery Trevor paused and whispered, ‘Got your gun?’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘There are two krauts coming. If things get awkward, you take the one on the left.’

  Seaton swallowed hard. And he had been thinking it could be anywhere.

  Then he saw them, two bunched figures strolling along the opposite pavement, collars turned up, heads down. But there was no mistaking the helmets, the machine-pistols slung across their shoulders. Seaton thought of the man he had seen bundled out of the little room to be killed.

  The soldiers saw them and hesitated, peering through the soft snow flakes like men-at-arms from an ancient tapestry.

  Trevor raised his hand. ‘Guten abend!’

  The soldiers bobbed and grinned, and one called something in Norwegian.

  Trevor walked on without looking back Then he said, ‘If you speak to them in German they think you’re God’s gift.’ He looked at Seaton. ‘But they shouldn’t have been here. Probably looking for a drink, or a woman.’

  A small, elderly van, overloaded with empty fish boxes, clattered across the cobbles and halted, steam rising from the radiator.

  Trevor walked unhesitatingly to the cab and said, ‘Kjør meg til Brynjulf.’

  The driver was so swathed in clothing and scarves that he looked like a mummy. He gestured at Seaton, and Trevor shook his head. ‘Nej.’

  Trevor explained to Seaton, ‘He wanted to know if you’ve been here before.’ He opened the door for him. ‘So you’ll have to kneel down and put this scarf round your eyes.’

  Seaton crouched and felt the gears grind into action. Who were they protecting? Themselves, him or their prisoner?

  It was an uncomfortable journey, and Seaton tried to picture the various places they passed. He caught the heavy smell of fish and heard the clank of winches. Then more traffic sounds and a girl laughing. Snatches of song and music, the scent of hot food.

  Eventually the van lurched to a halt, and Trevor said, ‘Here we are.’

  He helped Seaton to the ground, and when he removed the scarf he saw they were both inside a small hallway, with the street door just closing behind them. He heard the van grinding away again.

  An inner door was flung open, and Seaton saw a man in a leather coat and patched engineer’s trousers. He was slightly built, but had great, compelling eyes which seemed to dominate his face.

  He nodded to Trevor and then strode across to take Seaton’s hand in his.

  ‘Welcome. I am Brynjulf. I command here.’ He glanced calmly at Trevor. ‘No matter what you may have heard.’

  There were several other men in the adjoining room, and one stepped into the hallway and asked, ‘Are you armed?’

  Seaton nodded and put his hand in his pocket.

  But Brynjulf shook his head. ‘No. Keep it. We trust each other here. Life is short otherwise.’

  Trevor said curtly, ‘I think we must talk.’

  ‘Yes.’ The man nodded impassively. ‘But first we drink.’

  11

  The Trap

  SEATON SAT WITH HIS elbows on the table, thinking of that other time, the great, glowing stove. Here it was not very warm, and the house had a damp and neglected air about it.

  There was ten
sion too, and as he watched the Norwegian, Brynjulf, pouring another round of aquavit, he guessed it was not the first time that he and Trevor had disagreed.

  Trevor leaned back on a rickety chair, squinting against the one naked light bulb which lit the room.

  ‘A bargain is a bargain.’

  Brynjulf raised his glass. ‘Skal!’ He smiled, his huge eyes glowing. ‘Bargains can be changed, my friend.’

  Seaton left his glass untouched. He said suddenly, ‘My orders are to take the passenger and the device. What has changed?’

  The Norwegian regarded him thoughtfully. ‘From my point of view, nothing.’

  Trevor said wearily, ‘The passenger is Professor Paul Gjerde.’

  Brynjulf snapped, ‘Traitor! A damned collaborator! He should be shot, and that is better than he deserves.’

  Trevor explained, ‘Gjerde worked at the university here. As you have been told, he is something of an expert in propulsion fuels. When the Germans occupied Norway, he volunteered to go to Berlin, and later to a secret laboratory in Stettin. I don’t suppose he saw himself as a traitor, but he was most certainly an opportunist, a professional scientist who put his work before country. At the time it seemed unlikely that Norway would ever be free again.’

  Seaton looked at Brynjulf. ‘What is your plan?’

  He grimaced. ‘Kill the swine, and then get on with the war.’

  Seaton thought of London, the patient hopes for an invasion into Europe. A sight of the end, if not the end itself.

  ‘This secret equipment could be vital to the Allies. British towns and villages have taken a lot of bombing in the past four years. Another new hazard, more deaths and destruction might be too much. And at a time when we may be turning the corner.’

  ‘You sound like the B.B.C.’ Brynjulf shrugged. ‘But you must see it our way, too. Bombing and possible invasions are difficult to translate into daily reality. We are occupied, you are not. You think of winning, we hope first for survival.’

  Trevor said desperately, ‘Traitor or not, Professor Gjerde is now prepared to help the Allies. Killing him would serve no purpose, and might do untold harm.’ He looked at Seaton. ‘I was to take you to him. Only by showing you to be what you are could we convince him of our intentions, and that we would keep our part of the arrangement. Instead –’ he glared at the Norwegian, ‘– we have this bloody-minded bandit to contend with!’