Алистер Маклин - Seawitch

About ten minutes after their departure Lord Worth’s helicopter touched down beside his Boeing in the city airport. There were no customs, no clearance formalities. Lord Worth had made it plain some years previously that he did not much care for that sort of thing, and when Lord Worth made things plain they tended to remain that way.

It was during the second leg of his flight that the second unfortunate occurrence happened. Again, Lord Worth was happily unaware of anything that was taking place.

The Questar ’s (now the Georgia ’s) helicopter had located the Torbello. The pilot reported that he had sighted the vessel two minutes previously and gave her latitude and longitude as accurately as he could judge. More importantly, he gave her course as 315°, which was virtually on a collision course with the Georgia. They were approximately forty-five miles apart. Cronkite gave his congratulations to the pilot and asked him to return to the Georgia.

On the bridge of the Georgia , Cronkite and Mulhooney looked at each other with satisfaction. Between planning and execution there often exists an unbridgeable gap. In this case, however, things appeared to be going exactly according to plan.

Cronkite said to Mulhooney: ‘Time, I think, to change into more respectable clothes. And don’t forget to powder your nose.’

Mulhooney smiled and left the bridge. Cronkite paused only to give a few instructions to the helmsman, then left the bridge also.

Less than an hour later the Torbello stood clear over the horizon. The Georgia headed straight for it, then at about three miles’ distance made a thirty degree alteration to starboard, judged the timing to a nicety and came round in a wide sweeping turn to port. Two minutes later the Georgia was on a parallel course to the Torbello , alongside its port quarter – the bridge of a tanker lies very far aft – paralleling its course at the same speed and not more than thirty yards away. Cronkite moved out on to the wing of the Georgia ’s bridge and lifted his loud-hailer.

‘Coastguard here. Please stop. This is a request, not an order. I believe your vessel to be in great danger. Your permission, please, to bring a trained search party aboard. If you value the safety of your men and the ship, on no account break radio silence.’

Captain Thompson, an honest sailor with no criminal propensities whatsoever, used his own loud-hailer.

‘What’s wrong? Why is this boarding necessary?’

‘It’s not a boarding. I am making a polite request for your own good. Believe me, I’d rather not be within five miles of you. It is necessary. I’d rather come aboard with my lieutenant and explain privately. Don’t forget what happened to your sister ship, the Crusader , in Galveston harbour last night.’

Captain Thompson, clearly, had not forgotten and was, of course, completely unaware that Cronkite was the man responsible for what had happened to his sister ship: a ringing of bells from the bridge was indication enough of that. Three minutes later the Torbello lay stopped in the calm waters. The Georgia edged up alongside the Torbello until its midships were just ahead of the bulk of the tanker’s superstructure. At this point it was possible to step from the Georgia ’s deck straight on to the deck of the deeply-laden tanker, which was what Cronkite and Mulhooney proceeded to do. They paused there until they had made sure that the Georgia was securely moored fore and aft to the tanker, then climbed a series of companion-ways and ladders up to the bridge.

Both men were quite unrecognizable as themselves. Cronkite had acquired a splendidly bushy black beard, a neatly trimmed moustache and dark glasses and, with his neatly tailored uniform and slightly rakish peaked cap, looked the epitome of the competent and dashing coastguard cutter captain which he was not. Mulhooney was similarly disguised.

There was only Captain Thompson and an unemployed helmsman on the bridge. Cronkite shook the captain’s hand.

‘Good morning. Sorry to disturb you when you are proceeding about your lawful business and all that, but you may be glad we stopped you. First, where is your radio room?’ Captain Thompson nodded to a door set in back of the bridge. ‘I’d like my lieutenant to check on the radio silence. This is imperative.’ Again Captain Thompson, now feeling distinctly uneasy, nodded. Cronkite looked at Mulhooney. ‘Go check, Dixon, will you?’

Mulhooney passed through into the radio room, closing the door behind him. The radio operator looked up from his transceiver with an air of mild surprise.

‘Sorry to disturb.’ Mulhooney sounded almost genial, a remarkable feat for a man totally devoid of geniality. ‘I’m from the coastguard cutter alongside. The captain has told you to keep radio silence?’

‘That’s just what I’m doing.’

‘Made any radio calls since leaving the Seawitch?’

‘Only the routine half-hourly on course, on time calls.’

‘Do they acknowledge those? I have my reasons for asking.’ Mulhooney carefully refrained from saying what his reasons were.

‘No. Well, just the usual “Roger-and-out” business.’

‘What’s the call-up frequency?’

The operator pointed to the console. ‘Pre-set.’

Mulhooney nodded and walked casually behind the operator. Just to make sure that the operator kept on maintaining radio silence, Mulhooney clipped him over the right ear with the butt of his pistol. He then returned to the bridge where he found Captain Thompson in a state of considerable and understandable perturbation.

Captain Thompson, a deep anxiety compounded by a self-defensive disbelief, said: ‘What you’re telling me in effect is that the Torbello is a floating time-bomb.’

‘A bomb, certainly. Maybe lots of bombs. Not only possible but almost certain. Our sources of information – sorry, I’m not at liberty to divulge those – are as nearly impeccable as can be.’

‘God’s sake, man, no one would be so mad as to cause a vast oil slick in the Gulf.’

Cronkite said: ‘It’s your assumption, not mine, that we’re dealing with sane minds. Who but a madman would have endangered the city of Galveston by blowing up your sister tanker there?’

The captain fell silent and pondered the question gloomily.

Cronkite went on: ‘Anyway, it’s my intention – with your consent, of course – to search the engine room, living accommodation and every storage space on the ship. With the kind of search crew I have it shouldn’t take more than half an hour.’

‘What kind of pre-set time-bomb do you think it might be?’

‘I don’t think it’s a time-bomb – or bombs – at all. I think that the detonator – or detonators – will be a certain radio-activated device that can be triggered off by any nearby craft, plane or helicopter. But I don’t think it’s slated to happen till you’re close to the US coast.’

‘Why?’

‘Then you will have the maximum pollution along the shores. There will be a national outcry against Lord Worth and the safety standards aboard his – if you will excuse me – rather superannuated tankers, perhaps resulting in the closing down of the Seawitch or the arrest of any of Lord Worth’s tankers that might enter American territorial waters.’ In addition to his many other specialized qualifications, Cronkite was a consummate liar. ‘Okay if I call my men?’ Captain Thompson nodded without any noticeable enthusiasm.

Cronkite lifted the loud-hailer and ordered the search party aboard. They came immediately, fourteen of them, all of them wearing stocking masks, all of them carrying machine-pistols. Captain Thompson stared at them in stupefaction then turned and stared some more at Cronkite and Mulhooney, both of whom had pistols levelled against him. Cronkite may have been looking satisfied or even triumphant, but such was the abundance of his ersatz facial foliage that it was impossible to tell.