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Fleet, the Rjaesen , built in Schichau, a fast new mailship.” He knew her well. He knew just about every ship on the coast. He had drunk in most of them and blotted his copybook in a few. “Captain Ausen, a fine seaman.” The man was a prat but kept good scotch. Last time he had been on board there was some sort of a disagreement at cards – the reasons were hazy, it had been a long night with drink taken – and Lauterbach had been violently ejected. He had ended up full length in the mud, his hat tossed after him by laughing tars. At least they had thrown him off the landward side and it had taken three Russian sailors to do it. That signified a little respect.
    â€œConfirm Mr Lauterbach that we are in international waters.”
    It was touch and go. Sod Ausen. “Confirmed, captain. Well inside.”
    â€œNumber one, make a signal. ‘Stop at once – do not wireless.’” Von Muecke barked orders, stood to attention. Soon he would be rapping on something.
    â€œSparks reports she is sending wireless, requesting help, sir. She’s running for Japanese waters.”
    â€œJam signals. A blank shot across her bows, Number One.”
    The Russian response was to put on more speed, belching black smoke that obscured their view and aim. A shot thudded dangerously close to her bows. Any more of that and they would sink the stupid cow by mistake. Lauterbach settled back in fat contentment bracing himself against the wheel housing.
    â€œAnother round, Number One.” Lauterbach had a brief bewildering vision of them back in the Dachsaal in Tsingtao bibulously ordering more beer. He was recalled to reality by a third sharp crump, an exasperated puff of smoke and the clang of a shellcase on the metal deck. Because of the smoke, that shot too had gone closer than politeness allowed. Von Muecke was panting and dancing on the spot with excitement like a dog watching a squirrel up a tree. Lauterbach’s eyes never left the captain, fascinated by his detachment. The thin lips parted then closed and he had a mouth as tight and snug as a cat’s bum.
    â€œLive rounds, commence fire.”
    Only on the tenth, after another near miss, did the Russian slow. On the twelfth she stopped entirely. The cold blue eyes swivelled round as in a gun turret.
    â€œMr Lauterbach, arm yourself. Take the cutter and a boarding party of twenty men. Examine the documents. If all is in accordance with the conventions of war, declare her a prize of the Reich. You are her new master. Pray apologise to the captain for the closeness of our shooting. I will have a word with the gunner. Assure him that I take full responsibility for it. We shall escort her back to Tsingtao for immediate conversion to an armed auxiliary. If we sight enemy warships you will scuttle her immediately and without compunction.”
    Lauterbach paused. It would be good to see Ausen’s ugly face as he lost his ship. Maybe he would resist a little and he could have him pitched over the rail by three rough sailors and here there was no landward side. Less cheering was the idea of himself labouring up the slippery steel hull of that great ship, in this filthy weather, swinging like a fat clapper in a bell, and then going down with the vessel. As for apologising to that Russian bastard – forget it.
    â€œSir. As you know I care nothing for my own discomfort and safety but perhaps the honour of the Imperial Navy requires that the senior officer have the opportunity of performing this historic task. It is, after all, our first prize.”
    Von Muecke’s whole face collapsed into surprised sentimentality. “Oh I say. Damn decent of you Lauterbach. May I please sir? Please?”
    Von Mueller traced a thin smile. “Sorry, Number One. Your place is on board. Next time perhaps. Mr Lauterbach, if you please. Do not forget to take our flag.”
    He looked at that wet steel cliff, heaving in the darkness and fearful