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Storm Warning
Jack Higgins
Classic adventure from the million copy bestseller Jack HigginsIn the end all roads lead to hell.It’s 1944 and Germany is facing its final defeat. Five thousand miles across the Allied dominated Atlantic, twenty-two men and five nuns aboard the Barquentine Deutschland are battling home to Kiel.Among them are a U-boat ace captured in a raid on Falmouth. A female American doctor caught in the nightmare of flying bombs. A gunboat commander who’s fought from the Solomons to the Channel and a rear admiral desperate to get some of the action.Allies and enemies, men and women, the hunters and the haunted all drawn into the eye of the storm.
JACK HIGGINS
STORM WARNING
For John Knowler – with oak leaves
From the Journal of Rear Admiral Carey Reeve, USN
… and this I find the greatest mystery of all – the instinct in man to sacrifice himself that others might live. But then, courage never goes out of fashion, and at no other time in my life have I seen it better displayed than in the affair of the Deutschland. In the midst of the greatest war history has known, people on opposite sides in that conflict were able to come together for a time, take every risk, lay themselves on the line, in an attempt to save a handful of human beings from man’s oldest and most implacable foe – the sea. I have never seen the tragic futility of war better demonstrated nor felt prouder of my fellow men than at that time …
Contents
Title Page (#ubfd1165a-4d13-50e0-8292-e45625085e0b)Dedication (#u34f68c10-07d6-5761-b072-e67277f1109d)Chapter One (#u4b2ac3da-bfc1-5f49-bd3c-4dd906235d54)Chapter Two (#u792342b1-0121-5675-8076-5d92d7cacaef)Chapter Three (#ua0a0c785-87fd-5563-b686-7711a40b4359)Chapter Four (#udd1e62e9-2fe4-580b-b1d0-e0d1e7161ed9)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)Also By Jack Higgins (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#ud1b3f7fd-41dc-57f3-ad87-d40e42440297)
Barquentine Deutschland 26 August 1944.Eleven days out of Rio de Janeiro. At anchorage in Belém. Begins hot. Moderate trades. Last of the coal unloaded. No cargo available. In ballast with sand for run to Rio. Hatches battened down and ready to sail. Rain towards evening.
As Prager turned the corner, thunder rumbled far out to sea and lightning flashed across the sky, giving for one brief moment a clear view of the harbour. The usual assortment of small craft and three or four coastal steamers were moored at the main jetty. The Deutschland was anchored in midstream, distinctive if only for the fact that she was the one sailing ship in the harbour.
Rain came suddenly, warm and heavy, redolent with rotting vegetation from the jungle across the river. Prager turned up the collar of his jacket and, holding his old leather briefcase under one arm, hurried along the waterfront towards the Lights of Lisbon, the bar at the end of the fish pier.
There was the sound of music, muted yet plain enough, a slow, sad samba with something of the night in it. As he went up the steps to the verandah he took off his spectacles and wiped rain from them with his handkerchief. He replaced them carefully and peered inside.
The place was empty, except for the bartender and Helmut Richter, the Deutschland’s bosun, who sat at the end of the bar with a bottle and a glass in front of him. He was a large, heavily-built man in reefer jacket and denim cap, with long, blond hair and a beard that made him look older than his twenty-eight years.
Prager stepped inside. The bartender, who was polishing a glass, looked up. Prager ignored him and moved along the bar, shaking the rain from his panama. He dropped the briefcase on the floor at his feet.
‘A good night for it, Helmut.’
Richter nodded gravely and picked up the bottle. ‘A drink, Herr Prager?’
‘I think not.’
‘A wise choice.’ Richter refilled his glass. ‘Cachaca. They say it rots the brain as well as the liver. A poor substitute for good Schnapps, but they haven’t seen any of that since thirty-nine.’
‘Is Captain Berger here?’
‘Waiting for you on board.’
Prager picked up his briefcase again. ‘Then I suggest we get moving. There isn’t much time. Has anyone been asking for me?’
Before Richter could reply a voice said in Portuguese, ‘Ah, Senhor Prager, a pleasant surprise.’
Prager turned quickly as the curtain of one of the small booths behind him was pulled back. The man who sat there, a bottle of wine in front of him, was immensely fat, his crumpled khaki uniform stained with sweat and bursting at the seams.
Prager managed a smile. ‘Captain Mendoza. Don’t you ever sleep?’
‘Not very often. What is it this time, business or pleasure?’
‘A little of both. As you know, the position of German nationals is a difficult one these days. Your government is more than ever insistent on a regular report.’
‘So, it is necessary that Berger and his men are seen by you personally?’
‘On the first day of the last week in each month. Your people in Rio are most strict in this respect.’
‘And the good Senhora Prager? I am given to understand she was on the plane with you.’
‘I have a few days’ leave due and she has never seen this part of the country. It seemed the ideal opportunity.’
Richter slipped out without a word. Mendoza watched him go. ‘A nice lad,’ he said. ‘What was it he used to be? Chief helmsman on a U-boat. Obersteuermann, isn’t that the word?’
‘I believe so.’
‘You’ll have a drink with me?’
Prager hesitated. ‘Just a quick one, if you don’t mind. I have an appointment.’
‘With Berger?’ Mendoza nodded to the barman who poured brandy into two glasses without a word. ‘When does he leave to go back to Rio? In the morning?’
‘I believe so.’ Prager sipped the brandy, on dangerous ground now. He was sixty-five, an assistant consul at the German embassy in Rio until August 1942, when the Brazilians, enraged by the torpedoing of several of their merchant ships by U-boats, had declared war. Little more than a gesture, but it had presented the problem of what to do about German nationals – in particular the increasing number of sailors of the Kriegsmarine who found themselves washed up on her shores.
Prager, having spent twenty years in the country, and being acceptable in high places, had been left behind to cope with that. There were, after all, five thousand miles of ocean between Brazil and Germany so no need to set up expensive internment camps. The Brazilian government was content with the monthly reports he presented on his fellow citizens. As long as they were gainfully employed and not a charge on the state, everyone was happy.
Mendoza said, ‘I’ve been harbourmaster here for two years now and for most of that time the Deutschland has been coming in regularly. Say every couple of months.’
‘So?’
‘A boat of that size usually manages with a master, mate, bosun, probably six foremast hands and a cook.’
‘That is correct.’
Mendoza sipped a little of his wine thoughtfully. ‘According to my information, Berger has a crew of something like twenty this trip.’
He smiled genially, but the eyes in the fat face were sharp. Prager said carefully, ‘There are many German seamen in Rio.’
‘And more each day. The war, my friend, does not go well for you.’
‘Berger is probably trying to employ as many as possible.’
Mendoza smiled beautifully. ‘But of course. That explanation had not occurred to me. But I mustn’t keep you. Perhaps we’ll have time for another drink tomorrow?’
‘I hope so.’
Prager went out quickly. Richter was waiting on the verandah by the steps. Beyond, the rain hammered relentlessly into the ground. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ Prager told him. ‘He knows something’s going on. But how could he possibly suspect the truth? No one in his right mind would believe it.’ He clapped Richter on the shoulder. ‘Now let’s get moving.’
The bosun said, ‘I didn’t get a chance to tell you inside, but there was someone asking for you.’
There was a movement behind and, as Prager turned, a nun in tropical-white habit stepped into the light. She was a small woman, not much over five feet tall, with clear, untroubled eyes and a calm, unlined face.
‘Sister Angela,’ Richter said.
‘… of the Sisters of Mercy from the mission station on the Rio Negro. Introductions are not necessary, Helmut. Sister Angela and I are old acquaintances.’
He took off his panama and held out his hand which she clasped briefly in a grasp of surprising strength.
‘It’s good to see you again, Sister.’
‘And you, Herr Prager. I think you know why I’m here.’
‘Why, yes, Sister.’ Otto Prager smiled warmly. ‘I believe I do.’
An anchor light hung from the Deutschland’s forestay, as required by marine regulations, and this they saw first as Richter worked the dinghy across the harbour. Then suddenly she was very close, her masts and spars dark against the sky.
Prager looked up with conscious pleasure as he climbed the Jacob’s ladder. She was a three-masted barquentine built by Hamish Campbell on the Clyde in 1881 and built with love and understanding and grace, with an elegant clipper bow to her and an extended jib-boom.
She had spent a lifetime in trade; Newcastle-on-Tyne with steam coal for Valparaiso; Chilean nitrates for America’s west coast; lumber for Australia; wool for Britain … an endless circle, as sail died in a doomed attempt to combat steam, one owner after another through three changes of name until, finally, she had been bought by the Brazilian firm of Mayer Brothers, a family of German extraction, who had rechristened her Deutschland and put her to the coastal trade. Rio to Belém and the mouth of the Amazon – just the craft for such waters, having a draught of only eight feet fully loaded.
Prager went over the bulwark and extended his hand to Sister Angela. Richter was close behind on the ladder. Three seamen by the main mast gazed in astonishment as the little nun came over the side, and one of them hurried forward to take her other hand.
She thanked him, and Prager said to her, ‘I think it would be better if I spoke to Captain Berger alone to start with.’
‘Whatever you think best, Herr Prager,’ she said tranquilly.
He turned to Richter. ‘Take the good sister down to the saloon, then wait for me outside the Captain’s cabin.’
Richter and Sister Angela descended the companionway and Prager went aft towards the quarterdeck. Berger’s cabin was underneath. He hesitated, then braced himself, knocked on the door and went in.
The cabin was small, spartan in its furnishings – narrow bunk and three cupboards and not much else except for the desk behind which Berger sat, making a measurement with parallel rulers on the chart spread before him.
He glanced up, and there was relief in his eyes. ‘I was beginning to get worried.’
He was at that time forty-eight years old, of medium height with good shoulders, his wiry, dark hair and beard flecked with grey, and his face weathered by sea and sun.
‘I’m sorry,’ Prager said. ‘We ran into a bad electric storm on the flight from Rio. The pilot insisted on touching down at Carolina until the weather cleared. We were there for four hours.’
Berger opened a sandalwood box and offered him a cheroot. ‘What’s the latest war news?’
‘All bad.’ Prager sat in the chair opposite and accepted a light. ‘On the fifteenth of this month American and French forces landed on the Mediterranean coast. Two days ago French tanks entered Paris.’
Berger whistled softly. ‘Next stop the Rhine.’
‘I should imagine so.’
‘And then Germany.’ He stood up, crossed to one of the cupboards, opened it and took out a bottle of rum and two glasses. ‘What about the Russians?’
‘The Red Army is on the borders of East Prussia.’
Berger poured rum into the glasses and pushed one across. ‘You know, Otto, we Germans haven’t had to defend the soil of the Fatherland since Napoleon. It should prove an interesting experience.’
‘Brazil might be the best place to be for the next year or two,’ Prager said. ‘A hell of a time to go home.’
‘Or the only time,’ Berger said. ‘It depends on your point of view. Have you got the papers?’
Prager put his briefcase on the desk. ‘Everything needed and I’ve checked again on the barquentine you mentioned when you first spoke of this crazy affair, the GudridAndersen. She’s still in Gothenburg harbour. Hasn’t been to sea since the first year of the war.’
‘Excellent,’ Berger said. ‘Plain sailing from here on, then.’
‘You are fully prepared?’
Berger opened a cupboard and took out a lifejacket which he dropped on the desk. The legend Gudrid Andersen – Gothenburg was stencilled on the back.
‘And this, of course.’ He produced next a Swedish ensign. ‘A most important item as I’m sure you’ll agree.’ He smiled. ‘Everything is ready, believe me. The official change of name we’ll make once clear of the coastal shipping lanes.’
‘And the log?’
‘I’ve already prepared a false one in the name of the Gudrid Andersen for use with our friends from the other side if we should be so unlucky as to run into them. The true log of the Deutschland I shall continue to keep privately. It would not be correct to do otherwise.’ He put the lifejacket and ensign back in the cupboard. ‘As for you, old friend, what can I say? Without your hard work during these past few months, the information you have obtained, the forged papers, we could not have ever begun to contemplate such an enterprise.’
Prager said carefully, ‘There is just one more thing to discuss, Erich.’
‘What’s that?’
Prager hesitated, then said, ‘Seven passengers.’
Berger laughed harshly. ‘You must be joking.’
‘No, I’m perfectly serious. You’ve carried them before, haven’t you?’
‘You know damned well I have.’ There was something close to anger in Berger’s voice. ‘I have accommodation for eight passengers. Two cabins on either side of the saloon, two bunks to each. I should also point out that this ship is amply crewed by ten men including myself. At the moment, we are twenty-two, as you very well know. Seven passengers would mean that the additional crew would have to bunk elsewhere. An impossible situation.’
‘But you’ll be in ballast.’ Prager said. ‘No cargo, and surely genuine passengers would only strengthen your cover story?’
‘Who are these passengers?’
‘Germans, like you and your men, who want to go home.’ Prager took a deep breath and carried on. ‘All right, you might as well know the worst. They’re nuns. Sisters of Mercy from a mission station on the Negro. I’ve been visiting them regularly for the past two years, just like all the other Germans on my list. Every three months; a special dispensation from the authorities as the place is so difficult to get to.’
Berger stared at him in astonishment. ‘For God’s sake, Otto, am I going out of my mind or are you?’
Prager got up without a word and opened the cabin door. Richter was standing outside smoking a cigarillo. Prager nodded and the bosun hurried away.
‘Now what?’ Berger demanded.
‘I brought one of them on board with me. The others are waiting on shore. At least hear what she has to say.’
