Cash Laramie and the Sundown Express - Book review

 

This is a first: a Cash Laramie novel written by a collaboration of two authors – in this case, Edward A Grainger (the character’s originator) and Scott D Parker. Previous novels in the series have been penned separately by Grainger or another author. One reason for this combination is that the adventure also features Calvin Carter, ex-actor and detective, created by Parker.

It begins with a mystery: a train is approaching the rail station from the wrong direction. There’s a special delivery thrown onto the platform – a dead body with a message attached. The new train, the Sundown Express, the fastest in the West, has been hijacked by a group of desperadoes. And they want a ransom paid by sunset or they’ll start killing passengers every hour!

To compound matters, the senator’s daughter is one of the passengers, as well as the famous Lillie Langtry. Railroad detective Carter is on board also, but he’s clearly out-gunned.

Chief Penn sends Marshals Laramie and Miles on Mission Impossible – board the speeding train and take down the criminals without any innocent lives being lost. They’re helped by an army colonel and an eccentric professor and a revolutionary invention. Welcome to steampunk Wild West!

The scene is set for a fast-paced no-holds barred adventure, pitting the guile, wits and bravery of our three heroes against the considerable fire-power of at least ten cold-hearted gunmen. And all the while the deadline approaches.

There are some cunning twists in the story and a fair number of darkly humorous one-liners, too. The authors manage to visualise all the main players succinctly, conveying realistic interaction between them, while keeping the narrative heading on track towards the explosive denouement.

A fast, satisfying read. It’s a while since we’ve seen Cash Laramie; it’s Great to be able to welcome him back.

Saturday Story - 'Dead on Time'

Wikipedia commons

 

DEAD ON TIME

 

Nik Morton

 

Ironically, fog had descended a matter of minutes after he alighted from the taxi outside the airport. Thick griseous swathes, blanketing sound as well as sight. Fog always reminded him of Bleak House: 'Fog everywhere... fog all round him, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.'

Having paid the fare, Alan nervously edged his way forward, groping for a door. Perhaps the fog would lift; perhaps they would take off anyway. His fingertips thudded into glass and the door opened to the pressure.

            Sweat-seepage increased as he crossed the gleaming tiled floor beneath the suddenly stark fluorescent lights. Nervously, he looked over his shoulder. A few rogue wisps of fog hovered around the jamb of the door he had entered; outside, vaguely menacing greyness.

            It was nerves, of course. First hijacks must always be like this, he told himself, trying to smile. The place looked empty, devoid of the usual bustle associated with a minor airport of Florida. But, then again, it was only 2am. He had been surprised to find a flight at this hour, really, here. Any plane would do; the sooner it was over, the better.

            Then he saw them, to the right, through a barrier and seated in a glass-partitioned room. He sauntered over, trying to look inconspicuous. He prayed there wouldn't be any metal- or chemical-detectors, and sweat soaked his shirt and his bladder felt weak and cowardly.

            'I'm afraid we've got a shuttle-load, sir...' The attractive stewardess leaned forward solicitously. 'Mr Mason? Are you all right?'

            He started. The damned mist had sent him off dreaming,, mulling over the pain, the loss, the cost. Yes, the terrible cost. 'What?' He must have mentioned his own name, instead of the moniker he'd used when phoning to book a shuttle ticket.

            Nerves, damned nerves! He wiped a wet brow, eyed her. Young and shapely, of course, immaculate in her airline's blue trouser-suit, little pillbox hat perched jauntily on a ginger head of hair.

            She smiled, a trifle unsteadily he thought. 'I don't have room on this flight for you, sir - I'm just waiting for a couple of late-comers...' That smile again: 'The next Nassau plane leaves in two hours, if - '

            'No,' he interrupted, only too aware of other passengers' eyes on him. A soulful lot, not properly awake or asleep yet - as though padding through a nom-man's land between dream and consciousness. 'No way!' he growled. He couldn't face a longer wait! His nerves wouldn't stand it - then, if he flunked now, what would become of poor little Sandy?

            'No,' he said again, gruffly, emboldened by an unwanted vision. 'This'll do fine.' He noted the Dymo'd nametag: 'Jeanne?' She nodded. 'Well, Jeanne,' he began, bravado swelling his chest, creasing his thin mouth, 'What kind of airline is this, dissuading passengers when there are plenty of seats left, eh?' He forced a chuckle, very conscious of the explosives strapped to his sweating flesh.

            She seemed upset, distraught. The three or four other passengers waited behind him with remarkable patience.

            Gently easing him to one side of the bus's entrance, she said, 'Please stay here, Mr. Mason, till we get the other passengers onboard. Then we'll see about... fitting you in. All right?'

            Tension within him mounted. His muscles ached with it; his jaw was uncomfortably stiff. And still the sweat oozed. He grunted agreement.

            Jeanne kept giving him sidelong glances, clearly worried about his feverish appearance. His hasty, weak smile did little to allay her fears. But why couldn't he go? There was, after all, plenty of room. Some safety regulation, perhaps?

            It was more than nerves, he knew. Reaction, probably. Trauma. Well, he'd had a pretty dreadful three weeks of it...

            As the last passenger clambered up the bus steps, Jeanne followed and unlatched a radio-telephone from the facia, jabbed a button and spoke briefly.

            Finally, she replaced the handset in its recessed bracket and sighed down at Alan's upturned, expectant face.

            'I'm sorry, Mr. Mason, but the Captain is quite adamant, he says he can't make exceptions - his plane has its correct passenger quota - '

Alan swore under his breath then stared. From the condensation-covered windows of the bus the other passengers gazed down at him. He was fuming. So grim and pallid-looking, the lot of them. God, they reminded him of Rachel, of her death-mask, all passion spent, life voided. Yet they had money, were doubtless off to Nassau to get some colour put into them, to throw their money about. Money. Greenbacks galore, and not a smile among them. If it wasn't for Sandy, he'd give it all up. Turn his back on the whole lot. Until you lost, though, you didn't realize how precious life is. Not money, just life. God, how he ached inside. And how smug they looked! But he'd soon change that! He would try arguing once more: 'But, Miss, there are empty seats!'

            Reluctantly, Jeanne climbed down to the tarmac. 'Please - if you won't leave, I'll call up Security.'

            There was nothing for it. He moved closer, threateningly, almost brushing against her in the stair well of the bus entrance. He caught a whiff of her heady perfume, shook his head to dismiss resurrected thoughts of Rachel. Here, nobody could see him hastily open his shirt and reveal the explosives. 'I'm wired to go off at any time I choose, Jeanne.'

And he smiled without feeling.

            Her hazel eyes simply stared, her features becoming pale.

            'Now, go about your business as normal and just do as I say.'

            Obediently, she nodded.

            'I'll sit beside you on the front seat. Okay?' She was about to say something, but he continued, 'The Captain need not know he has an extra passenger just now. All right?' She nodded docilely and they clambered up just as the driver arrived.

            As the bus moved across the fog-bound tarmac, nary a sound of its movement or engine reached his ears. Everything seemed muffled. Fear did that, he remembered reading somewhere: it distances you. At the moment, he'd like to be a thousand miles away.

            Slowly, his pulse began to return to normal as he recovered from the ordeal of getting this far. Thank God they hadn't used the metal-detectors! The last hijack was so long ago that security had, naturally, relaxed. No matter how he tried, though, he couldn't prevent his body trembling, his stomach somersaulting.

            The fog still had not lifted as they climbed into the fuselage. The air-stewardess took the tickets; her eyes widened a little when she saw him, but Jeanne said, 'It's all right, Marge, the Skipper okayed it.'

            'Oh. Fine... Seat 43B, there, sir...'

            'Er, no - that one, by the pantry, if I may?' He cocked an eyebrow at Jeanne.

            Still pale, she nodded.

            Alan ensconced himself in the centre seat of three, the other two vacant. He had an uninterrupted view of fog through the porthole. He pulled a hand away from his brow: soaking.

            Loosening tie and collar, he peered out the glass port, through the ghostly reflection, his grey almost lifeless eyes, and stiffened. What if they grounded the plane after all? He'd already revealed his intentions to Jeanne, he'd never get away. He turned sharply; his neck cricked painfully.

            She stood by the aisle seat, unsure what to do.

            'This is your Captain speaking.' The tannoy momentarily startled Alan, and he was annoyed to see her register his reaction.

            'Doubtless many of you noticed a little bit of mist...' A few chuckles from the rear greeted this understatement. Alan glowered at the speaker unit. 'Well, rest assured, folks, I've left on schedule these last four years driving this tin can and I intend today to be no different.'

            Somewhat mollified, Alan relaxed, leaned back from the seat's edge. Two elderly passengers across the aisle were laughing at some private joke, or they were easily amused: the Captain wasn't that funny. Still, at least two of this lot had some life in them, he mused. 'I'll hand you over to Jeanne, now, your hostess this trip - '

            While the other girl shut the bulkhead door and disappeared for'ard into the flight cabin, Jeanne explained the workings of the flip-down oxygen masks.

            Alan closed his eyes. For the hundredth time, he told himself, make the demand simple. Collect the money and the parachute at Nassau. Bluff, tell them there's a bomb hidden, triggered by remote if the 'chute doesn't open... Parachute over the Bahamas. A search party would never find him. Then back, circuitously, to Sandy...

            The sudden banshee wail of the jets starting up shook him. Hell, I'm on edge! He gripped the chair arms and craned his neck round. Where the hell was she?

            There, strapping in a blind woman. Now she was walking down the aisle. She settled herself beside him and he smelled that perfume again. She snapped on her seat-belt, said, in a whisper, 'What do you want, Mr Mason?' There was a nervous timbre to her voice. It sounded as edgy as he felt.

            He looked out. A little tug as the throttles went forward. He had the stomach-churning impression of blindly hurtling through impenetrable mist. Intermittently, a runway light glinted redly in the murk.

            He reached out, clasped her cool long hand on the seat arm.

            Then, a slight shift. He eased back in his seat. The FASTEN SEAT-BELTS lights went out. They levelled off, engines droning soporifically; nervous exhaustion threatened, he left her hand go, and his head jerked forward suddenly, scared him alert.

            'I must tend to the passengers, Mr Mason - '

            'No, Jeanne, you stay here. Until I'm ready - '

            'Please, why must you - ?'

            Impulsively, he reached out, knuckles gently brushing her high cheekbones. She sat immobile, wide eyes never leaving his features. 'Have you ever lost someone you loved, Jeanne?'

            Gingerly, she raised a hand, took his own away from her face. Eyes unwavering, she said, 'Yes. A pilot - he flew into a mountain in fog just like this...'

            'Then you'll know something of what I feel, won't you?'

            Still gripping his hand, she whispered, gently, 'But how can hijacking a plane bring her back?'

            Silly, really: his eyelids were becoming moist. Through misted eyes, he studied her.

Concern creased her brow, clouded the hazel irises.

'One day everything's hunkadory,’ he said, ‘then along comes this drunken slob with his battered Oldsmobile and your whole world folds - just like that!'

            'I'm ... sorry...'

            'He wasn't even insured, can you beat that?'

            'Your wife - ?'

            'Yes. Mercifully - their word - Rachel didn't die in pain - so they said, anyway, so I must believe that, hang onto it. Concussion. Deterioration, And cerebral haemorrhage...' Why can the grieved be so clinical when describing the method of death? Some kind of expiation?

            Tears welled as he again saw her lying there with bloody tubes stuck in her once-unblemished flesh, her bruise-ringed eyes and scarred face, the shallow breathing, and then... nothing... while he was miraculously unscathed.

            Now he held both her hands in his.

He was oblivious to all the other passengers.

His words rushed out in a hushed torrent: 'I just wanted to explode and tear down the whole goddamned hospital. There it was, crammed full of expertise and fantastic million-dollar equipment yet incapable of saving Rachel. God, how I wanted to cry out and curse, to inflict the pain that swamped my heart and filled my throat to choking - '

            'It's only natural, Mr. Mason, nothing to - '

            ' - and kill, that's what, to kill that mumbling jelly of a drunken swine. Sorry, he kept saying, sorry... Sorry!' Alan's body shook as the catharsis took him: oh, to lather into the slob, to salve his intense feeling of frustration, the terrible knowledge of loss, of emptiness. 'It was so unfair, Jeanne...'

            'What did you do?' she asked softly, a glassy look in her eyes.

            'Nothing. There was Sandy to consider, you see.'

            Although initially in a coma with a dented skull, cracked ribs and a compound fracture of femur, his six-year-old daughter was, thank God, off the critical list.

            Strange, he had never been a religious man. And he had doubts in the Almighty's credibility after losing Rachel. But still he offered thanks all the same when the surgeon informed him that Sandy would pull through.

            He smiled thinly at Jeanne. 'I feel bloody silly, telling you this - especially as - '

            'Never mind, Mr Mason. It does you good to get it off your chest.'

            'Yes. I'm sorry it had to be this plane, really...'

            'Don't think about it. You'll see, afterwards, it'll all be forgotten, a nightmare, you'll live again...'

            'No, my life is as good as done. All I want is money, for a trust.'

            'But?' Beguilingly, she cocked her head.

            'The bills came in. It couldn't have happened at a worse time. The Space Program had run down and I'd been laid off work at the Centre, with little prospect of alternatives in the area. Rachel had had to leave her job after contracting a virus that she'd just shaken off - so we had some hefty doctors' bills to begin with...

            'We hadn't been able to afford either hospital- or life-insurance. Virtually every cent was sunk into our home. That's a laugh! A good choice of words, there. Sunk! About three weeks back I learned that the swamp was reclaiming the land. The property speculators had vanished, the property - among the thousands there - was worthless...

            'So my bank balance read some five thousand dollars, the remnants of my handshake from the Centre when the first hospital bill for Sandy hit me.'

            'I see...'

            'It's already $12,000, and Sandy's keep and nursing is steadily rising at $500 a day!'

            'But, what about Medicaid?'

            'On paper, till the wrangling gets sorted out, I'm not regarded as poor. I'm on my own.'

            Sombrely, she let go of his hands. 'Yes...' She looked down. Her watch told them they had been talking perhaps ten minutes; not time enough to distress Marge up front. 'What now, then, Mr Mason?'

            Outside, there was nothing but wispy cloud. His mouth felt dry; reliving those weeks of loss had drained him, his knees were weak. Maybe fear-seepage was to blame, too.

            'I'm sorry about Sandy,' she said and sounded sad, 'but you won't succeed, you know.'

            He grinned. 'Just watch me!' The adrenaline began to flow again. 'Back up with me to the Flight Deck.'

            Quietly, she obeyed.

            He pushed her through the cabin door, followed, and slammed it shut.

            The navigator's eyes widened in mild dismay and the co-pilot swivelled round, speechless. On their port quarter, the sun rose steadily. Without pausing from the instrument array, the Captain growled over his shoulder, 'What's going on?'

            'An extra passenger, Chief,' Jeanne said. 'He's a hijacker.'

            Alan, tense as he was, felt sure he saw them fleetingly smile. 'This isn't a hoax!' he snapped. 'Now, listen good!' He rubbed a sleeve over his streaming brow, licked dry lips. 'Tell your airline I want $80,000 in used bills waiting at Nassau - with a parachute!'

            Casually, the Captain turned in his bucket seat. 'We can't do that.' Soft-spoken, cool: damn him!

            'You what?'

            'We're - '

            'Chief!' interrupted the co-pilot, pointing out the sloping windscreen. 'It's Rhoda! She must've turned!'

            The once-clear dawn sky was now veiled with a thick yellowish haze. Surging up at an angle from the sparkling sea of Florida Keys, a dark column blotted out the sun, spinning directly in their flight-path. The ominous mass of whirling water and hot air, greyish-green as it neared, was shot through with a weird coppery light.

            'Hurricane Rhoda,' someone said in awe.

            'For Christ's sake, why don't you take avoiding action?' Alan screamed, but no-one seemed to hear.

            Broken fast-moving clouds, like out-riders at Rhoda's side, scudded low beneath them. The body of the storm became black, overshadowing, and Alan's heart sank.

            Only the submarine glow of the gyrating weather-radar and other instruments illumined the cabin.

            Then great windy gusts buffeted the craft, deafeningly.

            Panic tore at Alan's face, contorting his features, but he couldn't move, frozen with fear.

            Rain lashed, echoing.

            They tilted and bucked, vibrations jarring to the core without let-up. Jeanne cannonaded into him. They tumbled onto the canted metal deck amid skidding instruments, flight paraphernalia and papers.

            A change occurred. The pounding noise and frenetic shuddering disappeared, leaving only the muted humming of air outside, like a distant swarm of locusts.

            Damp globules drooled down the windscreen. Sunlight spectrum-streamed from above. Stillness surrounded them.

            'We're in the eye, dammit!' exclaimed the Captain.

            Disbelievingly, Alan stared at the encircling grey-green cloud of spray, a forbidding dense wall. He met Jeanne's ironic gaze. 'You picked a right one here, Mr. Mason!' Then, brushing past, she whispered, 'It's time, again, Chief...'

            'Okay. Delta Echo calling Control... Delta Echo...’

***

'I'll take over, Johnny,' said the relief controller in the tower.

            Johnny removed his head-phones. He looked as white as a ghost. 'We received Delta Echo's distress signal again. Dead on time... That's four years since they were lost in Hurricane Rhoda...'

 

***

Previously published in Fantasy Tales, 1990

Copyright Nik Morton 2015

If you enjoyed this story, you might like my collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat (2013), which features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’.  He is also featured in the story ‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked Cats’ Tales.

Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback and as an e-book.

 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4&keywords=nik+morton

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5&keywords=nik+morton

Or you could try my co-authored fantasy novel Wings of the Overlord (by Morton Faulkner) currently available in hardback (5 good glowing reviews):

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Overlord-Chronicles-Floreskand-Morton-Faulkner/dp/1908483857/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1427540952&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=wings+of+the+overlord

 

Floreskand, where myth, mystery and magic reign. The sky above the city of Lornwater darkens as thousands of red tellars, the magnificent birds of the Overlord, wing their way towards dark Arisa. Inexplicably drawn to discover why, the innman Ulran sets out on a quest. Although he prefers to travel alone, he accedes to being accompanied by the ascetic Cobrora Fhord, who seems to harbour a secret or two. Before long, they realise that it's a race against time: they must get to Arisa within seventy days and unlock the secret of the scheduled magical rites. On their way, they stay at the ghostly inn on the shores of dreaded Lake and meet up with the mighty warrior Courdour Alomar. Alomar has his own reasons for going to Arisa and thus is forged an unlikely alliance. Gradually, the trio learn more about each other -- whether it's the strange link Ulran has with the red tellar Scalrin, the lost love of Alomar, or the superstitious heart of Cobrora. Plagued by assassins, forces of nature and magic, the ill-matched threesome must follow their fate across the plains of Floreskand, combat the Baronculer hordes, scale the snow-clad Sonalume Mountains and penetrate the dark heart of Arisa. Only here will they uncover the truth. Here too they will find pain and death in their struggle against the evil Yip-nef Dom.

 

Saturday story - 'Hoverjack'

This was my first published story, written under the penname Platen Syder, which appeared in Parade on February 6, 1971. I was very pleased with the illustration that accompanied it, too. Naturally, in hindsight I would tighten up certain bits. Still, its 2,000 words possess a fast pace and reflect the Cold War period.
 

Hover-Jack

 

 

 

Keith Segal boarded the hovercraft at 8.15pm sharp. There were only six other passengers: the last trip to the Isle of Wight. As he edged up the aisle, his gun-harness felt tight across his broad shoulders.

Then he spotted his quarry. The little fat man sitting near the rear emergency exit window. Avery.

The hatch lowered. The revs mounted. Amidst the banshee wail of the props, the cushion lifted them and swung the craft round onto water.

As the first waves were buffeted by the air-cushion, Segal rose, withdrawing his automatic. Ignoring the gasps of dismay from his fellow-passengers, he pressed the gun to the pilot’s temple. “Out to sea – between those two Palmerston forts!”

In the rear-view mirror he espied Avery raise his fist to smash out the emergency window.

Pivoting round, Segal fired. The shot puffed deep into Avery’s seat. Cold-bloodedly eyeing him, Segal yelled above the din. “The next one’ll hit, Avery!”

By now the coastguard up ahead would be alerted. He glimpsed their wave-crests nearing. An MTB with them.

“Radio the coastguard!” he ordered the pilot. “Tell them it’s a hijack and these passengers are hostages. Any sign of pursuit and they die…”

Tremulously, the pilot obeyed. Cackling back, the radio acknowledged their message. Segal watched as the boats veered off, heading back inland. Being ex-Navy himself, he knew the Senior Service better than that. They’d now be a little orange blip on the radar screens.

Fifteen minutes later they sidled up to a dirty old tanker commandeered for this operation only, its fuel pipes dangling. Two swarthy sailors speedily refuelled the hovercraft.

As they headed out into the Channel, a slightly built passenger dived at Segal. Viciously chopping the bridge of the balding man’s hooked nose, he saw that two others had also found courage. He was thankful the narrow aisle prevented them both attacking at once. He ducked a ham-fisted blow and elbowed the stocky attacker’s stomach, following up with a knee to his groin.

He didn’t want to shoot if he could help it – the Bossman wouldn’t approve. As the first assailant slumped to the deck, the second, shorter one kicked out. The suede shoe winded him. Ruthlessly he clamped onto the short man’s leg and jerked it high up, unbalancing him.

In control now, he turned to notice the pilot serving the craft inland. The coastguard and MTB were visible ahead on the hazy horizon. They were following all right.

 
Clubbing the pilot’s chin with his automatic, he urged a course-correction. Then, steadying himself against an upright, Segal surveyed the passengers. Avery hadn’t moved – resigned to his fate, probably.
 
The meeting place had better be near, he thought, as I’m not likely to hold this lot at bay for long, unless I start shooting.
 
Heavy thunderclouds hovered, darkening the dusk. In the greyness he discerned a hulk rising. The submarine! Seconds later, the phosphorous wake – a gemini motoring across. The hovercraft. The hovercraft spluttered to a halt. The fuel had just lasted.
 
Warily studying the others, Segal pushed Avery up outside and down into the bobbing gemini. In a way, Segal felt sorry for Avery. He’d lost his wife in a confrontation with the Special Branch eight years ago. For three years they’d kept the grave under surveillance, but he never showed, so they gave it up as a bad job.
 
But Segal didn’t – and it paid off. He soon learned that Avery had moved his Southern Spynet to the Isle of Wight. And wisely, Segal kept the knowledge to himself.
 
Now, Avery’s reports were suspect; he was due for recall. The Kremlin reckoned his work was below acceptable efficiency. So they asked Segal – their Northern operator – to bring Avery out as they guessed he wouldn’t leave of his own accord.
 
As they approached the black fin, he wondered what they would do to Avery. Thank God they don’t know I’m doubling for MI6, he thought.
 
Avery’s enforced return would at least help him to dispel any doubts the Kremlin may have had about his loyalty to the cause.
 
The metal surface of the submarine’s casing clanged hollowly underfoot as they boarded. A pattern of barnacles twinkled wetly in the moonlight. The skipper called down to his two ratings dressed in black. They used English – unnecessarily for his sake – he observed, since he could speak fluent Russian.
 
Hastily, they were urged through a door in the front of the fin. Segal followed Avery into the dark confines of its skeletal framework. From above, an officer clambered down through the network of steel girders.
 
The short rotund Russian shook his hand heartily. Grinning a broad, golden-toothed  smile. “Welcome aboard my vessel, Mr Segal. I am Captain Karistavok.”
 
“Thanks, Captain, nice to be here.” He looked pointedly at Avery flanked by the Executive Officer and a rating. Both held machine carbines. “He’s in safe hands I see.”

Karistavok arched a picaresque eyebrow. He said, “Yes. But now we are about to dive, Mr Segal. Shall we go below?”

 
“I’d appreciate it. Wouldn’t like to get caught up top as she goes under,” he joked.
 
“Ah, yes, your sense of humour, no?”
 
Suddenly he heard the tannoy bawl: “Dive the submarine!” And, alarmingly, he was pushed in the dark, down into the black gap. His feet touched nothing the first six feet, then bruisingly hit into a metal ladder in the dark.

He felt the wind-blast hammering at his face. With the hatch open the turret was like a wind-tunnel. Grabbing hold, he cast a quick glance down at the red lights under him as a rubber-soled boot almost landed on his windswept head.
 
“Get down, man. Do y ou want yhoiur MTB to discover us?”
 
Obediently, Segal lowered himself, hand over hand, down the control tower. Again his hands slipped on the greasy rungs. The raucous wind forced him back, pummelling him. Slitting his eyes against the gale, he heard the hatch echo shut.
 
Above him, the Executive Officer cried, “One clip secured, two clip secured, three clip…” The dive-klaxon ground out its harsh music.
 
Clumsily, Segal landed at the foot of the ladder, in the centre of the control room. On either side of him rose the shafts of two periscopes, the for’ard one with a smaller snout, used for attack.
 
He heard the high-pressure air being released from the tanks as they sank under the waves. Now he whiffed the clinging odour of diesel oil and grease.
 
Instinctively, he surveyed his surroundings. Behind the attack ‘scope sat their Coxswain, gently raising and lowering the steering lever. Above him he saw the course indicator.
 
They were sinuating between 120 and 160 degrees – a wide zigzag. The magnetic compass showed them heading SSE. The telegraph dials read Full Ahead, both in Russian.
 
As the others joined him, he realised he was glad to see them. Somehow he believed the ratings already down here – especially those two bearded fellows on the hydroplanes – were hostile towards  him.
 
“I think you deserve a rest, Mr Segal,” suggested Karistavok.
 
He nodded wearily. “Yes, I am rather tired now. Thanks for taking Avery off my hands, anyway. I imagine you’ll be landing him off Algiers?”
 
“Perhaps…” Karistavok replied evasively.
 
The steward showed him to a spare bunk up for’ard in the fore-ends. “We don’t bother to undress,” he was told. All of the eight fold-up bunks ranged along the bulkheads. Alongside his own bunk two huge gunmetal-blue torpedoes were stacked on top of each other, resembling two young whales mating.
 
For the length and breadth of the boat’s bulkheads and deck-heads, bare wire circuits snaked and coursed, valve wheels protruded; dizzying, claustrophobic.

Fully clothed, Segal dozed fitfully for about three hours. An incessant p-e-e-e-nnng invaded his subconscious. He surmised they were being searched for on active sonar.

 
Eventually, unable even to doze, he rose cautiously from his bunk. Silently he passed tightly packed, musty smelling messes on the port side, and stowage lockers on the starboard. In the twilight of red-lighting, he likened the messes to a squashed London tube train.

Eyes unaccustomed to the red light, he accidentally kneed the pantry hatch-door, bruising himself from a row of extinguisher-refills let into the door-rack. A wheel-spanner clattered to the metal deck. Groping and finding it, he replaced it on the door’s ledge.

Karistavok was pacing the control room, hands clasped behind him. Avery lounged near the underwater telephone, unsupervised. “I don’t–” Karistavok began when he noticed Segal. “Hallo, Mr Segal! Sleep well?”

           
“Reasonably, Captain.”
 
Reaching for the microphone that hung above him, Karistavok said, “Excuse me – duty, you know…” He flicked the handset’s switch. “XO to control room, please.”

Studying the actin plot, Segal estimated they were well into the Bay of Biscay. A shadow crossed over the plot. He looked up.

Illuminated in the ruddy glow, he saw Avery flanked by Karistavok and his XO. The XO raised his machine carbine.

So they did know! All that about Avery was a ruse!

“I was bait, Segal,” Avery murmured, grinning.

They wanted him, not Avery.

Levelling his carbine on Segal, the XO twisted his moist lips, sneered, “Your gun – throw it over – slowly…”

He did as he was told, watching them through narrowed eyes. As the gun clanged on the deck, he edged backwards, into the gangway, near the pantry’s hatch.

 
Oblivious to what was happening, a young radio operator stepped from the state board. Unhesitatingly, Segal pushed him into the XO. The gun clattered to the deck, loosening a spurt of lead. Sparks splattered the ultra-violet gloom. The after-hydroplanes operator screamed, his thigh reddening.
 
Segal slammed the hatch door shut, shot the clips. The wheel-spanner fell again, but this time he kept it.
 
At that instant the steward emerged from the senior ratings’ mess. “Hey!” Without compunction, Segal rammed the sharp spanner in the steward’s ashen face. As the blood poured he dashed through the corridor leading for’ard. It was narrow and cramped. His shoulders buffeted against wheels, dials, pipes and cupboards.
 
A crew-cut mechanic wearing overalls moved out from his mess, barred Segal’s path. Without slowing, Segal thrust his knee into the Russian’s stomach and sprawled over as the man fell backwards. Landing catlike on all fours, Segal saw a red padlocked box labelled in Russian: Sten guns.
 
Loaded, he hoped, bashing his steel heel down on the lock. As the wood splintered open, he heard the others emerging from the pantry hatch. Wrenching the sten from its bracket, he trained it and fired. The nearest was a matter of five yards off; he jack-knifed head over heels with lead puncturing his chest.
 
Suddenly the noise was ear-shattering. Bullets ricocheted off pipes and metal boxes, severed cables and holed ducts. Water and high-pressure air gushed everywhere.
 
Taking advantage of the confusion, Segal backed through the hatchway leading into the fore-ends. As he slammed the hatch shut and wrenched the pins down, clamped tight, he turned to face three seamen rising sleepy-eyed from their bunks.
 
At that instant the tannoy addressed him: “You can’t escape, Segal…”
 
The three sailors must have realised what was happening. They rose and hit the deck and advanced on him. He had no choice. The sten barked its staccato message and they received the jerk from life to death. A few bullets rebounded and he felt a burning sensation in his left arm.
 
But his naval training had been thorough. He knew only too well Karistavok would seal off the fore-ends and increase the pressure, blacking him out within seconds. He had to work fast!
 
“Give yourself up, Segal, you can’t escape. You have one minute!”
 
Eyeing the depth-gauge nearby, he realised they were already down to four hundred feet: Karistavok was right.
 
Spotting the fore-ends fuel-dip to the right of the torpedo-stowage compartment, he used up the remainder of his ammunition blasting off the lock and unscrewed the short chain of the dip itself.
 
Fully aware of the precious seconds ticking by, he withdrew his false pen filled with high-explosive – standard equipment which he’d often shunned – and gently lowered it into the dip’s half-inch hole.

Then the pressure mounted in the compartment. He could feel his head reeling, everything going black…

 

***

“A Soviet submarine with fifty-eight men on board mysteriously exploded and sank in the Bay of Biscay during naval manoeuvres yesterday” – Reuter.

Copyright Nik Morton, 2014