After ten minutes, Commander Pedersen sat back. He reached for his pipe and began filling it absent-mindedly. He said, “Well, that’s one hell of a story.” He smiled. “And strangely enough, even if I hadn’t had these signals from the Navy Department, I’d believe it. Always did think something like this would happen one of these days. Hell! I have to carry these missiles around, and I’m in command of a nuclear ship. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not terrified by the whole business. Got a wife and two children, and that doesn’t help either. These atomic weapons are just too damned dangerous. Why, any one of these little sandy cays around here could hold the whole of the United States to ransom—just with one of my missiles trained on Miami. And here am I, fellow called Peter Pedersen, age thirty-eight, maybe sane or maybe not, toting around sixteen of the things—enough to damn near wipe out England. However”—he put his hands down on the desk in front of him—“that’s all by the way. Now we’ve got just one small piece of the problem on our hands—small, but as big as the world. So what are we to do? As I see it, the idea of you gentlemen is that this man Largo will be coming back any minute now in his plane after picking up the bombs from where he hid them. If he’s got the bombs, and on what you’ve told me I’ll go along with the probability that he has, this girl will give us the tip-off. Then we close in and arrest his ship or blow it out of the water. Right? But supposing he hasn’t got the bombs on board, or for one reason or another we don’t get the tip-off, what do we do then?”
Bond said quietly, “We follow him, sit close on his tail, until the time limit, that’s about twenty-four hours from now, is up. That’s all we can do without causing one hell of a legal stink. When the time limit’s up, we can hand the whole problem back to our governments and they can decide what to do with the Disco and the sunken plane and all the rest. By that time, some little man in a speedboat we’ve never heard of may have left one of the bombs off the coast of America and Miami may have gone up in the air. Or there may be a big bang somewhere else in the world. There’s been plenty of time to take those bombs off the plane and get them thousands of miles from here. Well, that’ll be too bad and we’ll have muffed it. But at this moment we’re in the position of a detective watching a man he thinks is going to commit a murder. Doesn’t even know for sure whether he’s got a gun on him or not. There’s nothing the detective can do but follow the man and wait until he actually pulls the gun out of his pocket and points it. Then, and only then, the detective can shoot the man or arrest him.” Bond turned to Leiter. “Isn’t that about it, Felix?”
“That’s how it figures. And Captain, Commander Bond here and I are damn sure Largo’s our man and that he’ll be sailing for his target in no time at all. That’s why we agreed to panic and ask you along. One gets you a hundred he’ll be placing that bomb at night and tonight’s the last night he’s got. By the way, Captain, have you got steam up, or whatever the atom boys call it?”
“I have, and we can be under way in just about five minutes.” The captain shook his head. “But there’s one bit of bad news for you, gentlemen. I just can’t figure how we’re going to keep track of the Disco .”
“How’s that? You’ve got the speed, haven’t you?” Leiter caught himself pointing his steel hook threateningly at the captain, and hastily brought it down again to his lap.
The captain smiled. “Guess so. Guess we could give her a good race on a straight course, but you gentlemen don’t seem to have figured on the navigational hazards in this part of the ocean.” He pointed at the British Admiralty chart on the wall. “Take a look at that. Ever seen a chart with so many figures on it? Looks like a spilled ants’ nest. Those are soundings, gentlemen, and I can tell you that unless the Disco sticks to one of the deep-water channels—Tongue of the Ocean, Northwest Providence Channel, or the Northeast— we’ve had it, as Commander Bond would say. All the rest of that area”—he waved a hand—“may look the same blue color on a map, but after your trip in that Grumman Goose you know darned well it isn’t the same blue color. Darned near the whole of that area is banks and shoal with only around three to ten fathoms over it. If I was quite crazy and looking for a nice cosy job ashore, I’d take the ship along surfaced in ten fathoms—if I could bribe the navigator and seal off the echo-sounder from crew members. But even if we got a long spell of ten fathoms on the chart, you got to remember that’s an old chart, dates back to the days of sail, and these banks have been shifting for more than fifty years since it was drawn up. Then there’s the tides that set directly onto and off the banks, and the coral niggerheads that won’t show up on the echo-sounder until you hear the echo of them smashing up the hull or the screw.” The captain turned back to his desk. “No, gentlemen. This Italian vessel was darned well chosen. With that hydrofoil device of hers, she probably doesn’t draw more than a fathom. If she chooses to keep to the shallows, we just haven’t got a chance. And that’s flat.” The captain looked from one to another of them. “Want me to call up the Navy Department and have Fort Lauderdale take over with those fighter bombers you’ve got on call—get them to do a shadowing job?”