Ice Brothers (73 page)

“Going home?
How?
”

After more excited questions from Brit and more laconic replies from Peomeenie, who continued to grin and eat, Brit said, “He says the little planes and the ship have been taking many Germans out.”

Hell, Nathan thought, the bastards aren't going home—they're evacuating a base they know will be attacked and setting up small weather stations all down the coast. That of course is what they came here to do in the first place, and we've been sucker enough not to stop them.

“Where's the ship now?” he called to Brit above the babble. “Ask him where the ship was when he left.”

After a brief exchange, Brit said, “The ship is in Supportup Fjord now. They are loading her with many oil drums.”

“She's the one who's going home,” Nathan said. “Her job's done. Now she'll load up with their brass and get the hell out of here. Jesus, we've been suckered again. Get Peo out of here. We've got to take him to see Paul. We still might catch that goddamn ship.”

It was difficult for Brit to give Peomeenie any sense of urgency. If the Germans were going home, he kept asking, why was there anything to worry about?

The first that Paul knew about any of this was the sound of the whaleboat approaching the ship in the darkness. With mixed emotions he saw Brit and Nathan standing in the stern as it came alongside the well deck, and then he saw Peomeenie standing beside Brit. He ran from the wing of the bridge to greet them.

“Christ, everything's a mess,” Nathan began. “The Krauts are evacuating. Their planes and their men have probably spread men all along the coast, and when Peo last saw their ship three days ago it was loading oil drums on deck.”

Paul's head felt as though it were spinning. All their carefully laid plans were for nothing. While they'd been sitting fat, dumb and happy with their great strategies, the goddamn Germans had indeed suckered them again.

“How many Krauts are left?” he demanded.

“Peo says he saw no more than twice twenty—not more than twice his fingers and toes,” Brit said. “There may be more underground. He says they live like foxes. And he said their ship is crowded with men.”

“It sounds like it's getting ready to make a dash for home now,” Paul said.

“We might still catch them,” Brit said.

“Wait a minute,” Paul said. “Peo, come with me.”

He led Peo to his cabin and showed him a chart of Supportup Fjord. Unhesitatingly Peo pointed to one of several narrow ravines branching out from it, and showed where the airstrip, the hidden hangar and the hunter-killer were. After quickly jotting down these positions, those of the field guns and the rest of the base, Paul gave them to Nathan.

“Radio these positions to GreenPat. Tell him to start bombing. We'll get under way and wait off the entrance of the fjord for the air strike. If Fatso is already at sea, we'll never catch him, but if he's still there, we'll get him when he comes out.”

Nathan ran to the radio shack, Paul to the bridge. The shouting on the well deck had already brought most of the men from the forecastle.

“Captain,” Boats said, “do you want me to pick up the whaleboat now, or do you want me to take the civilians ashore?”

“Pick it up,” Paul said. “I'll stop at the wharf on the way out. That will be quicker.”

“You can't put me ashore,” Brit said. “Peo and I can help.”

“Don't argue,” Paul said, and called, “all right, let's get the anchor in. Take the boat aboard.”

“Paul!” Brit said, tugging at his arm. “You should hurry. Putting us ashore will be a waste of time.”

“Do what I say. Wait on the well deck with Peo. When I come alongside the wharf, jump fast. I'm not going to tie up.”

“Where's Nathan?”

“Now don't go bothering Nathan! Brit, I don't have time to argue with you. If you and Peo don't jump ashore fast as soon as we get alongside that wharf, you'll be thrown ashore. Now don't give me any more crap.”

“Are those your famous last words to me?”

“Oh, for God's sake—”

“You'll never be back, you'll go right back to the west coast. Mission accomplished.”

“Brit, I got no time for this. I'll try to get in touch later. Now get off the bridge and wait on the well deck.
Please.
”

Brit looked at him, and left the bridge.

“We're over the anchor,” Boats called.

“Break it out. Secure that boat as fast as you can.”

Paul conned the
Arluk
down the fjord at her top speed. He approached the wharf at the settlement with a reckless dash Mowrey himself might have admired, paused there for the instant it took Brit and Peomeenie to jump ashore, and headed out of the fjord. Nathan appeared suddenly on the bridge.

“GreenPat says the planes should wait for dawn,” he reported. “That's just about five hours. They'll be here then.”

“Good. That will give us a chance to get there. If their ship hasn't already left, the planes will drive it out.”

Raising his voice, Paul told the men on the well deck that they would be off the mouth of Supportup Fjord in about three and a half hours, and that planes would attack the place at dawn. “If their ship hasn't already left, we can expect her to make a run for the open sea as soon as they hear the planes coming. I'm going to close with her as soon as I can.”

The men had been geared up for action and were obviously confused by the prospect of more hours of waiting. After loading the guns, they stood hunched against the cold wind, talking and laughing. Cookie passed out mugs of hot coffee and the men started back to the forecastle.

Paul too felt a letdown after a sense of violent urgency. It was a little before seven in the morning. A three-quarter moon was riding high in the sky, so bright that no stars were visible near it. The recent gales had left only a thin scattering of icebergs near the coast. A belt of gleaming back water separated the icy mountains from the main ice floe, which glistened about three miles offshore. Changing course to steam down the middle of this, Paul said, “Nathan, can you get the mouth of Supportup on the radar?”

“I got it. Nothing's moving, but we couldn't pick up a little wooden ship like that until we're damn near on top of her.”

“Just hope that she's not already on her way to Germany.”

“Skipper, do you really want to close with her? How close?”

“Close as I can get.”

“Machine guns at point-blank range? Can't we do better than that?”

“How? We can't aim that five-incher worth a damn. The three-incher can't hit anything until we're right on top of it. We got two twenties and five fifties. We outgun her.”

“We'll take a beating. Two small wooden ships with machine guns at close range could blow each other up.”

“What would you suggest?”

“Track her and call the planes down on her if we can.”

“If she gets out in the ice pack again they'll never find her and she can outrun us.”

“We could stay just beyond range of her light stuff and give Guns a chance with our three-incher.”

“If we screw around too much she's liable to get away. I'm going to take her this time, I don't give a damn what happens—”

“Just give us a chance with the three-incher first. If that doesn't work, close with her.”

Paul knew he was right, but for some reason that made him angry. “Damn it, I'm going to do this my way,” he said. “After this, you leave the grand strategy to me—”

“O.K.,
skipper
. But don't forget that I want him as much as you do. I just want to take him on our terms, not his. Don't forget he's got torpedo tubes.”

“You think he can hit a trawler with those?”

“I wouldn't give him a chance unless I had to. With the planes and big guns on our side, we shouldn't have to get near him.”

“Right from the beginning, we've been overcautious. You know that, Nathan? We've been fucking chicken. One way or another I'm going to finish this thing today if he's still in there. I'm not going to let him get away.”

“I'm with you,” Nathan said, and meant it as he turned back to the radar set.

Everything continued to be curiously peaceful as the
Arluk
cleared the land and turned south through widely scattered ice floes. Even the wind had reduced its moan to a whisper. It was warmer at sea than in the fjord, though the mercury hovered near thirty below zero. The barometer was dropping, Paul saw as he tapped it. Before long another blizzard was bound to hit. Such good weather in December couldn't possibly last long.

If one of those narrow little ships designed for hunting and killing whales loaded enough fuel to try to cross the Atlantic and took on all the people she could cram below decks, she wouldn't have much speed left, he figured. Maybe he's no faster than I am now. And if an overloaded little ship like that hit a full gale out here, he'd have his hands full without worrying about me. He'd ice up, and roll over or be swamped. Maybe he wouldn't head straight for home. Maybe he'd try to find someplace to hole up in the ice while he waited for his own weather stations to tell him when to make his break. If he has a deck cargo of oil drums, he sure wouldn't want to get machine-gunned. Maybe he'll try to hide instead of running or looking for a fight tonight …

Except who the hell could be sure of anything? For the most part, his clever deductions had led him unerringly to the wrong conclusions for months. Who the hell knew whether the damn ship was in its fjord, three days out to sea or in between?

God, let him still be in his base, Paul found himself thinking. Let me have him, I
want
him. I want his blood. Now what the hell kind of prayer was that?

It was at least an honest prayer. Paul was a little astonished to realize that at the moment, all he wanted to do was fight. The fears that had been making him doubt himself ever since he could remember had disappeared. The idea of spotting the German ship for the planes and letting them attack it was infuriating, and he didn't really want to try to sink the German with his three- or five-incher while staying safely out of range of his machine guns. No, if he obeyed his instincts he'd simply charge the enemy with all guns firing, bring the five-incher to point-blank range and ram the bastard if he stayed afloat. Reason told him that the German machine guns were sure to kill many of his men in such a battle and that he stood a good chance of dying himself, but after months of this dancing around it really was time to fight. Now. Only the delay was hard to take and the thought that the German might already have gotten away. I want him, Paul kept saying to himself, I want him and this time I'm going to have him. Please, God, don't let him get away—

Except this was crazy. With all the odds on his side, why get a bunch of men killed?

Paul shook his head to clear it, as though he were drunk. Nathan was right—he should close with the German only as a last resort. This was no time to pull an Errol Flynn.

“Get Guns up here,” he said to the quartermaster.

Almost immediately Guns appeared.

“If I can, I'm going to stay just beyond the range of this guy's machine guns,” Paul said. “Do you think you can get him with the three-incher?”

“We'd have to be pretty darn close,” Guns said. “I can get him with the three-incher at two thousand yards if you give me time for enough shots.”

“We'll try it,” Paul said. “If it doesn't work, I'm going to steam right down the bastard's throat.”

Guns nodded. “We'll get him, sir. One way or another. The crew is ready.”

The moonlight was so bright that they could see the glittering humps of the mountains around Supportup Fjord while they were still twenty miles away. The ice pack had pressed closer to the coast there, the radar showed, and there were several large icebergs in the two-mile strip of relatively open sea between the mouth of the fjord and the main floe.

“We're going to have to go in close,” Paul said to Nathan. “If we don't stay right on top of the mouth of that fjord, he could get away.”

“If he's loaded deep, he couldn't have too much speed.”

“But we don't know how much and we don't know if he'll try to run north, south or east when he gets out.”

“There's a good-size berg about fifteen-hundred yards just off the mouth of the fjord,” Nathan said, studying the radar. “If we hid behind that we might have some surprise going for us.”

“If they have lookouts on the shore they'd spot us before we got in that close.”

“Do you suppose their field guns could get us out there?” Nathan said.

“If that damn Eskimo was right, they're further in the fjord. Hell, we got to go in close. Any other way, he could duck us.”

As they neared the mouth of the fjord, the bleak white mountains and the rocky coast looked so barren that it was difficult to imagine that a base of any kind could be nearby. No light, no wisp of smoke, no mark in the snow showed anywhere. Paul brought the ship slowly toward the iceberg which was less than a mile off the entrance to the fjord. It was about three times the size of the
Arluk
with a slanting flat top like the roof of a big shed. The sea had eaten away its waterline, producing a ledge about ten feet wide which ran around the edge of it like a skirt. Keeping the iceberg between the ship and the shore, Paul stopped and drifted with his bow only about fifty feet away from it.

“Can you see over it from the flying bridge?” he shouted through the voice tube.

“No,” Krater answered.

Paul went to the flying bridge and jockeyed the ship until he could see over the slanting top of the iceberg. All but a few feet of the bow of the
Arluk
and the mast were hidden from the shore. When he stopped the engine, the men could hear a gentle groundswell sloshing under the snowy skirt of the iceberg and the strange catlike mewing of gulls with black-tipped wings that swooped around them. Paul glanced at his wristwatch. Twenty minutes after ten, about an hour and a half before dawn.