Free The White Guns (1989) by Douglas Reeman

voice sounded miles away. 'Sorry, sir.' The usual hesitation. 'Are you all right, sir?'
     
Marriott made himself unwind, piece by piece. So it had not gone away. The shrill of the telephone still brought the memories. The fear.
     
'Yes.' He peered at his watch. It was unbelievable. He had slept for four hours.
     
He heard himself ask, 'It's not time to alter course, is it?' He shook himself. What was the matter with him?
     
'No, sir. The Chief is worried about one of his pumps. Wants to slow down. Better still, to stop altogether. He says he can clear it in no time.'
     
Marriott nodded although Fairfax could not see him. He felt his breathing, like his heartbeat, returning to normal. The intakes had probably sucked up some extra filth from the harbour. Better now than later. He made up his mind.
     
'Is it all clear?'
     
'Yes. No shipping. Sea's pretty calm.'
     
'Right. I'll come up.' He replaced the handset. 'Getting past it.' He spoke aloud without realising it. Then he swung his legs to the deck and rubbed his eyes.
     
He was the captain again.
     

4
Allies
With her engines stopped, MGB 801 drifted broadside-on to the sea. The motion was sickening so that even Marriott felt his stomach heave in the familiar, musty confines of the chartroom. He jammed his elbows on the chart table and studied the pencilled lines and bearings, the neatly worded notes beside the small light. Lowes as the third-hand looked after the charts and attended to the log. It earned him the honoured nickname of Pilot, but in fact his work was little more than a navigator's yeoman in any larger vessel. He heard Fairfax breathing at his elbow, his eyes doubtless watching every move as he checked their approximate position, the brass dividers glinting in the small glow.
     
Marriott said eventually, 'I estimate that we're about here. Some ten miles north of Rostock. We could get a good fix if it was daylight, good enough anyway.' He swore silently as something metallic crashed down in the engineroom. 'God, he's taking his bloody time!' He peered at his watch, knowing he was getting rattled, worse, that Fairfax would know it.
     
Fairfax asked, 'Will it make much difference, sir?'
     
It sounded as if he was blaming himself. Just as Meikle accused me of doing.
     
He replied, 'As soon as we can get under way again I shall call for revs for twenty knots. I know all the warnings about fuel consumption, but I want to sight Bornholm by dawn. The ship should be easy enough to find. According to Operations she can only make seven knots.'
     
Fairfax watched him, seeing the emotions, the doubts crossing his face.
     
'What will we do, sir?'
     
Marriott sighed. 'We have to turn them back. Germans they may be, but they're from the Russian sector.'
     
Fairfax said, 'Trying to get away. Sweden perhaps?'
     
'Doubt that. After being so pally with the Nazis during the war I don't expect the Swedes will want to antagonise Uncle Joe more than they have already.' He touched his forehead. It was damp and cold. A sure sign. It was all he needed, to throw up in front of the others. They climbed up to the open bridge and Marriott stared at the mass of tiny stars which seemed to pitch from side to side in the motion.
     
He said, 'Ask the Chief –' He added, 'No, don't. He'll be doing all he can.' He took several deep breaths. How clean it tasted after Kiel. That was better. He groped for his pipe then stiffened as Silver called, 'Engines, sir! Fast-movin'!'
     
Marriott grasped the rail and turned his head this way and that. He could feel the hair rising on his neck. Would it never go away? All those times in the North Sea and Channel when they had drifted, engines stopped like now, waiting and listening. Even when you expected it, there was always a sense of shock. The thrum-thrum-thrum of the E-Boat's powerful Daimler Benz engines. Usually returning after a successful attack on coastal shipping, or on their way to seek out fresh targets. To hear them first was to