There was a far from subtle change in Colonel Pryce’s tone. “It’s quite unnecessary to threaten me.”
“Just a minute. Lord Worth’s just arrived.” Mitchell gave a brief resume of his phone conversation, making sure that Pryce could hear every word.
“Nuclear bloody bombs! That’s why Cronkite said he could blast us out of the water!” Lord Worth snatched the phone from Mitchell. “Worth here. I have a hotline to the Secretary of State, Dr. Benton. I could patch him in in fifteen seconds. Do you want me to do that?”
“That will not be necessary, Lord Worth.”
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Alistair MacLean
“Then give us a detailed description of those damned things and tell us how they work.”
Pryce, almost eagerly, gave the description. It was almost precisely similar to the one that Captain Martin had given to the bogus Colonel Farquharson. “But Martin was a new officer and shaky on his details. The nuclear devices—you can hardly call them bombs—are probably twice as effective as he said. They took the wrong type —those devices have no black button to shut off in emergency. And they have a ninety-minute setting, not sixty. And they can be radio-activated.”
“Something complicated? I mean, a VHP number or something of the kind?”
“Something very uncomplicated. You can’t expect a soldier in the heat of battle to remember abstruse numbers. It’s simply a pear-shaped device with a plastic seal. Strip that off and turn a black switch through three hundred and sixty degrees. It’s important to remember that turning this switch off will deactivate the detonating mechanism in the device. It can be turned on again at any time.”
“If it should be used against us … we have a huge oil-storage tank nearby. Wouldn’t this cause a massive oil slick?”
“Sir—oil is by nature combustible and much more easily vaporized than steel.”
“Thank you.”
“Seems to me you need a squadron of super-
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sonic fighter-bombers out there. I’ll relay the request, but they’ll have to get Pentagon permission first.”
“Thank you again.”
Lord Worth and Mitchell left for the former’s quarters. Lord Worth said: “Two things. We’re only assuming, although it would be dangerous not to assume, that those damned things are meant for us. Besides, if we keep our radar, sonar and sensory posts manned I don’t see how Cron-kite could approach and deliver them.”
“It’s hard to see how. But then, it’s harder to figure out that bastard’s turn of mind.”
From Lord Worth’s helicopter Gregson made contact with the Georgia. “We’re fifteen miles out.”
Cronkite himself replied, “We’ll be airborne in ten.”
A wall radio crackled in Lord Worth’s room. “Helicopter approaching from the northeast.”
“No sweat. Relief crew.”
Lord Worth had gone back to his shower when the relief helicopter touched down. Mitchell was in his laboratory, looking very professional in his white coat and glasses. Dr. Greenshaw was still asleep.
Apart from gagging and manacling the pilots, the helicopter passengers had offered them no violence. They disembarked in quiet and orderly
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fashion. The drill duty crew observed their arrival without any particular interest. They had been well-trained to mind their own business and had highly personal reasons for not fraternizing with unknowns. And the new arrivals were unknowns. Off the coast Lord Worth owned no fewer than nine oil rigs—all legally leased and paid for— and for reasons best known to his devious self he was in the habit of regularly rotating his drill crews. The new arrivals carried the standard shoulder-slung clothesbags. Those bags did indeed contain a minimal amount of clothes, but not clothing designed to be worn: the clothes were there merely to conceal and muffle the shape of the machine pistols and other more deadly weapons in the bags.
Thanks to the instructions he had received from Cronkite via Durand, Gregson knew exactly where to go. He noted the presence of two idly patrolling guards and marked them down for death.
He led his men to the oriental quarters, where they laid their bags on the platform and unzipped them. Windows were smashed and what followed was sheer savage massacre. Within half a dozen seconds of machine-gun fire, bazooka fire and incinerating flamethrowers, all of which had been preceded by a flurry of tear-gas bombs, all screaming inside had ceased. The two advancing guards were mown down even as they drew their
Seawitek
guns. The only survivor was Larsen, who had been in his own private room in the back: Palermo and all his men were dead.
Figures appeared almost at the same instant from the quarters at the end of the block. Soundproofed though those quarters were, the noise outside had been too penetrating not to be heard. There were four of them—two men in white coats, a man in a Japanese kimono and a black-haired guard in a wrap. One of Gregson’s men fired twice at the nearest white-coated figure, and Mitchell staggered and fell backward to the deck. Gregson brutally smashed the wrist of the man who had fired, who screamed in agony as the gun fell from his shattered hand.
“You bastard idiot!” Gregson’s voice was as vicious as his appearance. “The hard men only, Mr. Cronkite said.”
Gregson was nothing if not organized. He detailed five groups of two men. One group herded the drilling-rig crew into the occidental quarters. The second, third and fourth went respectively to the sensory room, the sonar room and the radar room. There they tied up but did not otherwise harm the operators, before they riddled all the equipment with a burst of machine-gun bullets. For all practical purposes, the Seawitch was now blind, deaf and benumbed. The fifth group went to the radio room, where the operator was tied up but his equipment left intact
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Dr. Greenshaw approached Gregson. “You are the leader?”
“Yes.”
*Tm a doctor.*’ He nodded to Mitchell, whose white coat accentuated the stains