Алистер Маклин - Seawitch

‘Well, thank you very much.’

‘I can – occasionally – be as leery as you. I wouldn’t put it past Cronkite to gain access to the Seawitch. How he would do it I haven’t the faintest idea, but with a devious mind a highly-motivated man can accomplish almost anything he wants. Should he succeed, I don’t want Durand and Aaron pointing accusing fingers at me. I should like to remain an inconspicuous and harmless seismologist.’

Larsen gave a few orders on the phone, then he and Mitchell went through to Lord Worth’s room. Lord Worth was on the phone, listening and scowling. Marina looked at Mitchell with an expression as forbidding as her father’s.

‘I suppose you’ve been littering the platform with a few more dead men?’

‘You do me a grave injustice. There’s no one left to kill.’ She gave what might have been a tiny shudder and looked away.

Larsen said: ‘The ship is in our hands, Lady Marina. We’re expecting a little more trouble in about ten minutes, but we can take care of that.’

Lord Worth replaced his receiver. ‘What’s that?’

‘Cronkite is sending some reinforcements by helicopter. Not many – eight or nine. They’ll have no chance. He’s under the impression that Durand is still in charge here.’

‘I take it he’s not.’

‘He’s unconscious and very securely bound. So is Aaron.’

A yearning look came over Lord Worth’s face. ‘Is Cronkite coming with them?’

‘No.’

‘How very unfortunate. And I’ve just had some more bad news. The Torbello has broken down.’

‘Sabotage?’

‘No. The main fuel supply line to its engine has fractured. Just a temporary stop, though it may take some hours to repair. But there is no cause for worry and half-hourly reports on the state of repairs should be forthcoming.’

Another disturbing point had arisen. No major marine insurance companies or Lloyd’s of London had ever heard of the existence of the Questar. Even more disturbing, however, was that the Marine Gulf Corporation had reported the disappearance of its seismological survey vessel from Freeport. It was called the Hammond.

The US navy had two points of cold comfort to offer. What the United States did with its obsolete submarines was to scrap them or sell them to foreign governments: none had ever fallen into the hands of commercial companies or private individuals. Nor were there any Cousteau-type submersibles along the Gulf Coast.

The telephone call-up bell jangled. Lord Worth switched on the wall-receivers. The radio officer was succinct.

‘Helicopter, flying low, due north-west, five miles out.’

‘Well, now,’ Larsen said, ‘this should provide a diversion. Coming, Mitchell?’

‘In a moment. I have a little note to write. Remember?’

‘The note, of course.’ Larsen left. Mitchell penned a brief note in neat printed script that left no room for misinterpretation, folded it in his pocket and went to the door. Lord Worth said: ‘Mind if I come along?’

‘Well, there’ll be no danger, but I think you’d be better occupied in listening for messages from radar, radio, sonar and those monitoring the sensory devices attached to the massive anchoring cables.’

‘Agreed. And I’ll call up the Secretary to see what luck he’s had in hauling those damned warships off my back.’

Marina said sweetly: ‘If there’s no danger I’m 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 require their hands held.’

‘You’re too bossy by half, Michael.’

‘In today’s idiom, a male chauvinist pig.’

‘Could you imagine me marrying a person like you?’

‘Your imagination is your 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 for the Christmas tree to 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 lights had been dimmed but the helipad was brightly illuminated. Palermo had six portable search-lights in position. He nodded to Mitchell, then made his unhurried way to the helipad. He was carrying an envelope in his hand.

The helicopter touched down, the door opened and men with a discouraging assortment of automatic weapons started to disembark. Palermo said: ‘I’m Marino. Who’s in charge here?’

‘Me. Mortensen.’ He was a bulky young man in battle fatigues, and looked more like a bright young lieutenant than the thug he undoubtedly was. ‘I thought Durand was in charge here?’

‘He is. At the moment he’s having a brief and painful conversation with Lord Worth. He’s waiting for you in Lord Worth’s quarters.’

‘Why are the deck lights so dim?’

‘Voltage drop. Being fixed. The helipads have their own generators.’ He pointed. ‘Over there.’

Mortensen nodded and led his eight men away. Palermo said: ‘Join you in a minute. I have a private message for the pilot from Cronkite.’

Palermo climbed up into the helicopter. He greeted the pilot and said: ‘I have a message here for you from Cronkite.’

The pilot registered a degree of surprise. ‘I was under orders to fly straight back.’

‘Won’t be long. It appears that Cronkite is anxious to see Lord 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?’

‘This.’ Palermo showed him a gun about the size of a small cannon. ‘I can’t stand dead heroes.’

The platform lights went out and six searchlights came on. Larsen’s stentorian voice carried clearly. ‘Throw down your guns. You have no chance.’

One of Mortensen’s men suicidally thought different. He flung himself to the platform deck, loosed off a burst of sub-machine-gun fire and successfully killed one of the search-lights. If he felt any sense of gratification it must have been the shortest on record, for he was dead while the shattered glass was still 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 along.’

Eight of the nine men, together with the pilot, were shepherded into a windowless store-room 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 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 Lord Worth 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 awaiting 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 in every rivet, seam and plate, was several hundred miles from Galveston, travelling south-west in calm seas. Mulhooney was in no mood to hang around.