a gross
registered tonnage of just under one million tons, plus cargo of
another million.”
One of the Americans—it was the senior one, Hammerbeck—raised
his hand. “How many men involved?”
“Nine thousand merchant seamen. One thousand passengers.”
“Who are the passengers?”
“Mainly servicemen. Some ladies from the American Red Cross.
Quite a lot of children. A party of Catholic missionaries,
curiously enough.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Cave permitted himself a crimped smile. “Quite.”
“And whereabouts are the U-boats?”
“Perhaps I might let my colleague answer that.”
Cave sat down and the other British officer, Villiers, took the
floor. He flourished the pointer.
“Submarine Tracking Room had three U-boat packs operational as
of zero-zero-hundred Thursday—heah, heah, and heah.” His accent
barely qualified as recognisable English, it was the sort that
pronounced “cloth” as “clawth” and “really” as “rarely”, and when
he spoke his lips hardly moved, as if it were somehow
ungentlemanly—a betrayal of the amateur ethos—to put too much
effort into talking. “Gruppe Raubgraf heah, two hundred miles off
the coast of Greenland. Gruppe Neuland, heah, almost precisely
mid-ocean. And Gruppe Westmark heah, due south of Iceland.”
“Zero-zero Thursday! You mean more than thirty hours ago?”
Hammerbeck’s hair was the colour and thickness of steel wool,
close-cropped to his scalp. It glinted in the fluorescent light as
he leaned forwards. “Where the hell are they now?”
“I’m afraid I’ve no idea. I thought that was why we were heah.
They’ve blipped awf the screen.”
Admiral Trowbridge lit another cigarette from the tip of his old
one. He had transferred his attention from Jericho and now he was
staring at Hammerbeck through small, rheumy eyes.
Again, the American raised his hand. “How many subs are we
talking about in these three wolf packs?”
“I’m sorry to say, ah, they’re quite large, ah, we estimate
forty-six.”
Skynner squirmed in his chair. Atwood made a great show of
rummaging through his papers.
“Let me get this straight,” said Hammerbeck. (He was certainly
persistent—Jericho was beginning to admire him.) “You’re telling us
one million tons of shipping—”
“Merchant shipping,” interrupted Cave.
“—merchant shipping, pardon me, one million tons of merchant
shipping, with ten thousand people on board, including various
ladies of the American Red Cross and assorted Catholic
Bible-bashers, is steaming towards forty-six U-boats, and you have
no idea where those U-boats are?”
“I’m rather afraid I am, yes.”
“Well, I’ll be fucked,” said Hammerbeck, sitting back in his
chair. “And how long before they get there?” “That’s hard to say.”
It was Cave again. He had an odd habit of turning his face away
when he talked, and Jericho realised he was trying not to show his
shattered cheekbone. “The SC is the slower convoy. She’s making
about seven knots. The HXs are both faster, one ten knots, one
eleven. I’d say we’ve got three days, at the maximum. After that,
they’ll be within operational range of the enemy.”
Hammerbeck had begun whispering to the other American. He was
shaking his head and making short chopping motions with his hand.
The admiral leaned over and muttered something to Cave, who said
quietly: “I’m afraid so, sir.”
Jericho looked up at the Atlantic, at the yellow discs of the
convoys and the black triangles of the U-boats, sewn like shark’s
teeth across the sea lanes. The distance between the ships and the
wolf packs was roughly eight hundred miles. The merchantmen were
making maybe two hundred and forty miles every twenty-four hours.
Three days was about right. My God, he thought, no wonder Logie was
so desperate to get me back.
“Gentlemen, please, if I may?” said Skynner loudly, bringing the
meeting back to order. Jericho saw he’d plastered on his “come let
us smile in
registered tonnage of just under one million tons, plus cargo of
another million.”
One of the Americans—it was the senior one, Hammerbeck—raised
his hand. “How many men involved?”
“Nine thousand merchant seamen. One thousand passengers.”
“Who are the passengers?”
“Mainly servicemen. Some ladies from the American Red Cross.
Quite a lot of children. A party of Catholic missionaries,
curiously enough.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Cave permitted himself a crimped smile. “Quite.”
“And whereabouts are the U-boats?”
“Perhaps I might let my colleague answer that.”
Cave sat down and the other British officer, Villiers, took the
floor. He flourished the pointer.
“Submarine Tracking Room had three U-boat packs operational as
of zero-zero-hundred Thursday—heah, heah, and heah.” His accent
barely qualified as recognisable English, it was the sort that
pronounced “cloth” as “clawth” and “really” as “rarely”, and when
he spoke his lips hardly moved, as if it were somehow
ungentlemanly—a betrayal of the amateur ethos—to put too much
effort into talking. “Gruppe Raubgraf heah, two hundred miles off
the coast of Greenland. Gruppe Neuland, heah, almost precisely
mid-ocean. And Gruppe Westmark heah, due south of Iceland.”
“Zero-zero Thursday! You mean more than thirty hours ago?”
Hammerbeck’s hair was the colour and thickness of steel wool,
close-cropped to his scalp. It glinted in the fluorescent light as
he leaned forwards. “Where the hell are they now?”
“I’m afraid I’ve no idea. I thought that was why we were heah.
They’ve blipped awf the screen.”
Admiral Trowbridge lit another cigarette from the tip of his old
one. He had transferred his attention from Jericho and now he was
staring at Hammerbeck through small, rheumy eyes.
Again, the American raised his hand. “How many subs are we
talking about in these three wolf packs?”
“I’m sorry to say, ah, they’re quite large, ah, we estimate
forty-six.”
Skynner squirmed in his chair. Atwood made a great show of
rummaging through his papers.
“Let me get this straight,” said Hammerbeck. (He was certainly
persistent—Jericho was beginning to admire him.) “You’re telling us
one million tons of shipping—”
“Merchant shipping,” interrupted Cave.
“—merchant shipping, pardon me, one million tons of merchant
shipping, with ten thousand people on board, including various
ladies of the American Red Cross and assorted Catholic
Bible-bashers, is steaming towards forty-six U-boats, and you have
no idea where those U-boats are?”
“I’m rather afraid I am, yes.”
“Well, I’ll be fucked,” said Hammerbeck, sitting back in his
chair. “And how long before they get there?” “That’s hard to say.”
It was Cave again. He had an odd habit of turning his face away
when he talked, and Jericho realised he was trying not to show his
shattered cheekbone. “The SC is the slower convoy. She’s making
about seven knots. The HXs are both faster, one ten knots, one
eleven. I’d say we’ve got three days, at the maximum. After that,
they’ll be within operational range of the enemy.”
Hammerbeck had begun whispering to the other American. He was
shaking his head and making short chopping motions with his hand.
The admiral leaned over and muttered something to Cave, who said
quietly: “I’m afraid so, sir.”
Jericho looked up at the Atlantic, at the yellow discs of the
convoys and the black triangles of the U-boats, sewn like shark’s
teeth across the sea lanes. The distance between the ships and the
wolf packs was roughly eight hundred miles. The merchantmen were
making maybe two hundred and forty miles every twenty-four hours.
Three days was about right. My God, he thought, no wonder Logie was
so desperate to get me back.
“Gentlemen, please, if I may?” said Skynner loudly, bringing the
meeting back to order. Jericho saw he’d plastered on his “come let
us smile in
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