62 
Shootout at Sea

The HMS Livingstone, a frigate of the British Royal Navy, ploughed through the waters of the Mediterranean, growing calmer now after the night’s brief squall.

The grey of dawn had just come to the horizon. The officer standing at the prow with binoculars scanning the distance for sign of their quarry only hoped they were not too late.

How much better had they been able to get to them before Marseille. Once out to sea, finding them became nearly impossible. But they had to stop the escape vessel before it reached Italian shores—or before encountering an Alliance warship themselves—otherwise many high-level military secrets could reach enemy hands.

Suddenly the faint outline of a vessel appeared in the distance against the grey light of morning.

The officer squinted and adjusted the focus of the lenses. It was a boat, all right, and bearing almost due east.

He turned and ran to the bridge to alert the captain. Within a minute the Livingstone’s course had changed by fifteen degrees, which would exactly intercept the boat as they reached it.

Forty minutes later the frigate pulled alongside the small yacht. The latter had given no response to repeated messages and commands.

“Stop or be fired upon,” called a voice over the loudspeaker. “This is the British Royal Navy. This is your final warning.”

Still no response was evident.

Captain Logan turned to his second in command. “Mr. Briscoe, send a shot across their bow.”

Thirty seconds later a small torpedo fired out from the Livingstone. It sped through the water just below the surface, missing the bow of the yacht by a mere thirty or forty feet.

At last the smaller craft cut its engines and began to slow.

The captain gave the stop-order to his engine room. On deck the crew made preparations to board the yacht. Still they had seen no one.

“All right, Lieutenant,” said Captain Logan, turning to the officer at his side who had spotted the escape craft. “I suppose it’s your operation now. Tell us what you want us to do.”

“Thank you, Captain,” replied Lieutenant Langham. “Lieutenant Forbes and I will climb down to see if the man is indeed on board.”

“You still cannot tell me who it is?”

“We may be wrong, Captain. If he is here, you will know soon enough.”

The two naval officers on special assignment from the headquarters of the First Lord of the Admiralty prepared to finish the job they had been sent to do. Several petty officers tossed the rope ladder over and secured it. Langham immediately climbed over the rail and made his way down the side of the frigate. Lieutenant Forbes stood in readiness a moment, then followed.

Suddenly a figure appeared at the stern of the yacht below.

“That looks like . . . Colonel Forsythe . . . of the army!” exclaimed the captain where he stood at the railing.

“I’m afraid you’re right, sir,” Forbes called behind him as he climbed over the ship’s side. “We hoped we were wrong. But intelligence reports said that the colonel might try to make a run for it. It appears we were just in time.”

Lieutenant Langham was nearly down by now. He jumped to the yacht’s deck, losing his balance briefly, then stood and began walking calmly toward Forsythe.

“It’s over, Colonel,” he said. “You have no place to go. Give it up, and perhaps—”

“You’re not taking me alive, Langham!” shouted Forsythe, suddenly pulling a gun. “I’ve come this far . . . I’m not going back now!”

Langham froze. On the deck of the frigate a dozen or more officers immediately pulled their weapons and trained them downward. For a second or two, everything stood still.

Behind him, Langham heard Forbes’s booted feet now thudding onto the deck.

Forsythe glanced toward the noise. Langham took the momentary diversion as his opportunity and rushed forward to disarm the traitor.

But Forsythe saw the movement and reacted instantly. Any thought that he was bluffing immediately disappeared when two shots rang out, one followed by the ricocheting ping of a miss against the steel hull of the frigate. But as the second died out Langham fell with a groan on the wooden plankway. The same instant Forsythe turned and ran for below.

Forbes sprinted after him.

“Get down there!” shouted Captain Logan to his men. “Briscoe . . . take the colonel alive!”

Half a dozen more forms scurried down the rope ladder. In several seconds the would-be escape yacht swarmed with the white and blue of the Royal Navy.

Langham pulled himself slowly to his feet. His vision was blurred and pain seared his body. He staggered forward, trying to pull his own gun. Three or four uniformed officers ran by.

“Stop, Forsythe!” Forbes cried. “—You others . . . to the bridge!”

Langham’s senses were dulled. He could barely see clearly. Everywhere men were now running and shouting. More shots rang out. Forbes returned the fire as he ran.

Langham grabbed at a rail and tried to steady himself and focus, but with difficulty. In the midst of the commotion, a man stepped from behind a steel pillar. Langham recognized him vaguely, but in his blurry confusion could not place the face. The man had a gun and now aimed to shoot. Langham lifted his pistol. His arm was heavy. He staggered a step or two. Behind him someone returned the fire. He heard a cry of pain and the sound of a fall. Bullets were screaming and ricocheting everywhere, the air filled with gunshots and metallic, pinging echoes.

Langham struggled a step or two, then stumbled over a body.

“There are two dead,” he heard one of the officers say.

Gradually the gunfire died down.

“We’ve got the control room,” shouted one of Logan’s officers, running out and signaling up to the frigate.

“Drop your weapons!” came the captain’s voice over the loudspeaker.

Langham shook his head to clear his vision, then saw Lieutenant Forbes emerge from below, gun poised on Colonel Forsythe. He tried again to walk toward them. A wave of pain surged through his limbs. Suddenly his vision faded and he fell senseless.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Forbes shoved Colonel Forsythe across the deck until he was in the hands of several others, then turned and ran back to his fallen comrade.

On board the Livingstone, Captain Logan continued to shout down orders. “Briscoe, take charge of the yacht,” he said. “The rest of you make sure it is secure.”

“What about the dead, sir?” Briscoe called up.

“Give me a report on wounded and casualties, then we’ll bury the dead at sea.—See to Lieutenant Langham first.”

“And the crew?” asked Briscoe.

“Bring everyone aboard and put them in the brig. We’ll escort the yacht back to French waters and sort it out later. I don’t know what we’ve uncovered here, but we’ll let Lieutenant Forbes tell us what the navy wants us to do.”