“Well, there won’t be any danger, but I think you’d do better to listen for messages from radar, radio, sonar and so forth.”
“Agreed. And HI call up the Secretary to see
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what luck he’s had in hauling those damned warships off my back.”
Marina said sweetly: “If there’s no danger Fra coming with you.”
“No.”
“You have a very limited vocabulary, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Instead of trying to be a heroine you might try the Florence Nightingale bit—there are two very sick people through there who need their hands held.*’
**You’re much too bossy, Michael.”
“As they say, a male chauvinist pig.”
“Could you imagine me marrying a person like you?”
“Your imagination is your own business. Besides, I’ve never asked you to.” He left.
“Well!” She looked suspiciously at her father, but Lord Worth had his risibility under complete control. He picked up a phone and asked that the Christmas tree be opened and the exploratory drilling restarted.
The helicopter was making its landing approach as Mitchell joined Larsen and Palermo and his men in the deep shadows of the accommodation area. The platform light had been dimmed but the helipad was brightly illuminated. Palermo had six portable searchlights in position. He nodded to Mitchell, then made his un-
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hurried way to the pad. He was carrying an envelope in his hand.
The helicopter touched down, the door opened and men with a discouraging assortment of^auto-matic weapons started to disembark. Palermo said: “I’m Marino. Who’s in charge here?*1
“Me. Mortensen.” He was a bulky young man in battle fatigues, looking more like a bright young lieutenant than the thug he undoubtedly was. “I thought Durand was in charge here.”
“He is. Right now he’s having a talk with Lord Worth. He’s waiting for you in Worth’s quarters.”
“Why are the deck lights so dim?”
“Voltage drop. Being fixed. The landing pads have their own generators.” He pointed. “Over there.”
Mortensen nodded and led his eight men away. Palermo said: “Be with you in a minute. Fve got a private message for the pilot from Cronkite.”
Palermo climbed up into the helicopter. He greeted the pilot and said: “I got a message here for you from Cronkite.”
The pilot registered a degree of surprise. “I was told to fly straight back.”
“Won’t be long. Seems Cronkite is anxious to see Worth and his daughters.”
The pilot grinned and took the envelope from Palermo. He opened it, examined both sides of a blank sheet of paper and said: “What gives?”
a JO
Seawitch
“This.” Palermo showed him a gun about the size of a small cannon. “Don’t be a dead hero.”
The platform lights went out and six searchlights came on. Larsen’s stentorian voice carried clearly. “Throw down your guns. You haven’t got a chance.”
One of Mortensen’s men suicidally thought different He flung himself to the platform deck, loosed off a burst of submachine fire and successfully killed one of the searchlights. If he felt any sense of gratification it must have been the shortest on record, for he was dead before the shattered glass stopped tinkling down on the platform. The other eight men threw down their guns.
Palermo sighed. He said to the pilot: “See? Dead heroes are no good to anyone. Come on.”
Eight of the nine men, including the pilot, were shepherded into a windowless storeroom and locked inside. The ninth, Mortensen, was taken to the radio room where he was shortly joined by Mitchell. For the occasion, Mitchell had changed into a boiler suit and makeshift hood, which not only effectively masked his face but also muffled his voice. He had no wish to be identified.
He produced the paper on which he had made notes, screwed the muzzle of his .38 into the base of Mortensen’s neck, told him to contact Cronkite and read out the message and that the slightest deviation from the script would mean a
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shattered brain. Mortensen was no fool and in his peculiar line of trade he had looked into the face of death more than once. He made the contact, said all was well, that he and Durand were in complete control of the Seawitch, but that it might be several hours before the helicopter could return, as last-minute engine failure had damaged the undercarriage. Cronkite seemed reasonably satisfied and hung up.
When Larsen and Mitchell returned to Lord Worth’s cabin the latter seemed in a more cheerful frame of mind. The Pentagon had reported that the two naval vessels from Cuba and the one from Venezuela were stopped in the water and appeared to be waiting instructions. The Torbello was on its way again and was expected to arrive in Galveston in ninety minutes. Lord Worth might have felt less satisfied if he’d known that the Torbello, shaking hi every rivet, seam and plate, was several hundred miles from Galveston, traveling southwest in calm seas. Mulhooney was in no mood to hang around.
Marina said accusingly: “I heard shots being fired out there.”
“Just warning shots in the air,” Mitchell said, “Scares the hell out of people.”
“You made them all prisoner.”
Lord Worth said irritably: “Don’t talk nonsense. Now do be quiet. The commander and I have important matters to discuss.”
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“We’ll leave,** Mitchell said. He looked at Marina. “Come on—let’s see the patients off.”
They followed the two stretchers out to the helicopter. They were accompanied by Durand and Aaron—both with their hands tied behind their backs and on a nine-inch hobble—Dr. Greenshaw and one of Palermo’s men, a menacing individual with a sawed-off shotgun who was to ride guard on the captives until they reached the mainland.
Mitchell said to Marina: “Last chance.”
“No.”
“We’re going to make a great couple,” Mitchell said gloomily. “Monosyllabic, yet.”
They said their goodbyes, watched the helicopter lift off and made their way back to Lord Worth’s quarters. Both Worth and Larsen were on separate lines, and from the expressions on their faces it was clear that they were less happy with life than they might have been. Both men were trying, with zero effect, to obtain some additional tankerage. There were, in fact, some half-dozen idle tankers on the south and east coasts in the 50,000-ton range, but all belonged to the major oil companies, who would have gone to the stake before chartering any of their vessels to the North Hudson Oil Company. The nearest tankers of the required tonnage were either in Britain, Norway or the Mediterranean, and to have brought them across would have involved an intolerable loss of time, not to say
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money—this last matter lying very close to Lord Worth’s heart. He and Larsen had even considered bringing one of their supertankers into service, but had decided against it. Because of the tankers’ huge carrying capacity, the loss in revenue would have been unbearably high—and what had happened to the Crusader might happen to a supertanker. True, they were insured at Lloyd’s, but that august firm’s marine-accident investigators were notoriously, if justifiably, cagey, prudent and cautious men; and although they invariably settled any genuine claim, they tended to deliberate at length before making any final decision.
Another call came through from the Torbello. On course, its estimated time of arrival in Gal-veston was one hour. Lord Worth said gloomily that they had at least two tankers in operation: they would just have to step up their already crowded schedules.
One half hour later another message came through from the tanker. One half hour to Gal-veston. Lord Worth might have felt less assured had he known that now that dark had fallen, the Starlight, leaving the Georgia where it was, had already moved away in the direction of the Sea-witch, its engines running on its electrical batteries. Its chances of sonar detection by the Seawitch were regarded as extremely small. It carried with it highly skilled divers and an un-
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pleasant assortment of mines, limpet mines and amatol beehives, all of which could be activated by remote radioactive control.
Yet another half hour passed before the welcome news came through that the tanker Torbello was safely berthed in Galveston. Lord Worth informed Larsen he intended to make an immediate voice-link call to the port authorities in Galveston to ensure the fastest turnaround ever, money no object
He got his voice link in just one minute—the Lord Worths of this world are never kept waiting. When he made his customary peremptory demands the harbormaster expressed a considerable degree of surprise.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
“Goddam it, I always know what I’m talking about.”
“Not in this case, Lord Worth, I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed or hoaxed. The Torbello has not arrived.”
“But dammit, I’ve just heard—**
“One moment, please.”
The moment passed into about thirty during which Mitchell thoughtfully brought Lord Worth a glass of scotch, which he half-consumed at one gulp. Then the voice came through again.