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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.
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.
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