Алистер Маклин - Seawitch

‘That will not be necessary, Lord Worth.’

‘Then give us a detailed description of those damned evil 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 an emergency. And they have a ninety-minute setting, not sixty. And they can be radio activated.’

‘Something complicated? I mean, a VHF 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 is important to remember that turning this switch off will de-activate the detonating mechanism in the nuclear 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?’

‘My dear fellow, oil is by nature combustible and much more easily vaporized than steel.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Seems to be you want a squadron of supersonic fighter-bombers out there. But I’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 Cronkite could approach and deliver those damned things.’

‘It’s difficult to see how. But then it’s difficult to figure out that devious devil’s cast 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. ‘Helicopters approaching from the north-east.’

‘No worry. 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 offered them no violence. They disembarked in quiet and orderly 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, was in the habit of regularly rotating his drill crews. The new arrivals carried the standard shoulder-slung clothes-bags. 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 inside 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 placed 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 flame-throwers, 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 guns. The only survivor was Larsen, who had been in his own private room in the back: Palermo and all his men were dead.

Four people 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 backwards 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 Oriental 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.

Dr Greenshaw approached Gregson. ‘You are the leader?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m a doctor.’ He nodded to Mitchell, whose white coat accentuated his blood and who was rolling about in a convincing manner, Marina bending over him with bitter tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘He’s hurt bad. Can I take him into the sick-bay and patch him up?’

‘We have no quarrel with you,’ Gregson said, which was, unwittingly, the most foolish remark he’d ever made in his life.

Dr Greenshaw helped the weak and staggering Mitchell into the sick-bay where, the door closed behind him, he made an immediate and remarkable recovery. Marina stared at him in astonishment, then in something approaching anger.

‘Why you deceiving, double-crossing–’

‘That’s no way to talk to a sick man.’ He was pulling off his white coat, jacket and shirt. ‘Never seen you cry before. Makes you look even more beautiful. And that’s real blood.’ He turned to Dr Greenshaw. ‘Superficial wound on the left shoulder, a scratch on the right forearm. Dead-eyed Dick himself. Now make a real good job on me, Doc. Right forearm bandaged from elbow to wrist. Left arm bandaged from shoulder to above the elbow with a lovely big sling. Marina, even ravishing beauties like you carry talcum powder. I hope you’re no exception.’

Not yet mollified, she said stiffly: ‘I have some. Baby powder,’ she added nastily.

‘Get it, please.’

Five minutes later Mitchell had been rendered into the epitome of the walking wounded. His right arm was heavily bandaged and his left arm was swathed in white from shoulder to wrist. The sling was nothing short of voluminous. His face was very pale indeed. He left for his room and returned a few seconds later.

‘Where have you been?’ Marina asked suspiciously.

He reached inside the depths of the sling and pulled out his silenced .38. ‘Fully loaded.’ He returned it to its hiding place where it was quite invisible.

‘Never give up, do you?’ Her voice held a curious mixture of awe and bitterness.

‘Not when I’m about to be vaporized.’

Dr Greenshaw stared at him. ‘What in God’s name do you mean?’

‘Our good friend Cronkite has pinched a couple of tactical nuclear weapons. He intends to finish off the Seawitch in a style of befitting splendour. He should be here about now. Now, Doc, I would like you to do something for me. Take the biggest medical bag you have and tell Gregson that it is your humanitarian duty to go inside that shambles that used to be the Oriental quarters to succour any that may be dying or, if necessary, to put them out of their agony. They have, I know, a respectable supply of hand-grenades in there. I’d like some.’