Frederick Forsyth - The Devil's Alternative

Mike Manning put out his hand and stared into the eyes of the bearded Norwegian.

“Good to meet you, Captain.” The words stuck in his throat. Thor Larsen looked into his eyes a fraction longer than he had into those of the other naval commanders, and passed on.

“Finally,” said Captain Preston, “may I present Major Si­mon Fallon of the Royal Marine commandos.”

Larsen looked down at the short, burly Marine and felt the man’s hard fist in his own. So, he thought, Svoboda was right after all.

At Captain Preston’s invitation they all seated themselves at the expansive dining table.

“Captain Larsen, I should make plain that our conversa­tion has to be recorded, and will be transmitted in uninterceptible form directly from this cabin to Whitehall, where the British Prime Minister will be listening.”

Larsen nodded. His gaze kept wandering to the American; everyone else was looking at him with interest; the U.S. Navy man was studying the mahogany table.

“Before we begin, may I offer you anything?” asked Preston. “A drink, perhaps? Food? Tea or coffee?”

“Just a coffee, thank you. Black, no sugar.”

Captain Preston nodded to a steward by the door, who dis­appeared.

“It has been agreed that, to begin with, I shall ask the questions that interest and concern all our governments,” continued Captain Preston. “Mr. Grayling and Mr. Voss have graciously conceded to this. Of course, anyone may pose a question that I may have overlooked. Firstly, may we ask you, Captain Larsen, what happened in the small hours of yesterday morning.”

Was it only yesterday? Larsen thought. Yes, three A.M. in the small hours of Friday morning; and it was now five past three on Saturday afternoon. Just thirty-six hours. It seemed like a week.

Briefly and clearly he described the takeover of the Freya during the night watch, how the attackers came so effortlessly aboard and herded the crew down to the paint locker.

“So there are seven of them?” asked the Marine major. “You are quite certain there are no more?”

“Quite certain,” said Larsen. “Just seven.”

“And do you know who they are?” asked Preston. “Jews? Arabs? Red Brigades?”

Larsen stared at the ring of faces in surprise. He had for­gotten that outside the Freya no one knew who the hijackers were.

“No,” he said. They’re Ukrainians. Ukrainian nationalists. The leader calls himself simply Svoboda. He said it means ‘freedom’ in Ukrainian. They always talk to each other in what must be Ukrainian. Certainly, it’s Slavic.”

“Then why the hell are they seeking the liberation of two Russian Jews in Berlin?” asked Jan Grayling in exasperation.

“I don’t know,” said Larsen. “The leader claims they are friends of his.”

“One moment,” said Ambassador Voss. “We have all been mesmerized by the fact that Mishkin and Lazareff are Jews and wish to go to Israel. But of course they both come from the Ukraine, the city of Lvov. It did not occur to my govern­ment that they could be Ukrainian partisan fighters as well.”

“Why do they think the liberation of Mishkin and Lazareff will help their Ukrainian nationalist cause?” asked Preston.

“I don’t know,” said Larsen. “Svoboda won’t say. I asked him; he nearly told me, but then shut up. He would say only that the liberation of those two men would cause such a blow to the Kremlin, it could start a widespread popular uprising.”

There was blank incomprehension on the faces of the men around him. The final questions about the layout of the ship, where Svoboda and Larsen stayed, the deployment of the ter­rorists, took a further ten minutes. Finally, Preston looked around at the other captains and the representatives of Hol­land and Germany. The men nodded. Preston leaned for­ward.

“Now, Captain Larsen, I think it is time to tell you. Tonight, Major Fallon here and a group of his colleagues are going to approach the Freya underwater, scale her sides, and wipe out Svoboda and his men.”

He sat back to watch the effect.

“No,” said Thor Larsen slowly, “they are not.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“There will be no underwater attack unless you wish to have the Freya blown up and sunk. That is what Svoboda sent me here to tell you.”

Item by item, Captain Larsen spelled out Svoboda’s message to the West. Before sundown every single floodlight on the Freya would be switched on. The man in the fo’c’sle would be withdrawn; the entire foredeck from the bow to the base of the superstructure would be bathed in light.

Inside the superstructure, every door leading outside would be locked and bolted on the inside. Every interior door would also be locked, to prevent access via a window.

Svoboda himself, with his detonator, would remain inside the superstructure, but would select one of the more than fifty cabins to occupy. Every light in every cabin would be switched on, and every curtain drawn.

One terrorist would remain on the bridge, in walkie-talkie contact with the man atop the funnel. The other four men would ceaselessly patrol the taffrail around the entire stern area of the Freya with powerful flashlights, scanning the sur­face of the sea. At the first trace of a stream of bubbles, or someone climbing the vessel’s side, the patrol would fire a shot. The man atop the funnel would alert the bridge watch, who would shout a warning on the telephone to the cabin where Svoboda hid. This telephone line would be kept open all night. On hearing the word of alarm, Svoboda would press his red button.

When Larsen had finished, there was silence around the table.

“Bastard,” said Captain Preston with feeling. The group’s eyes swiveled to Major Fallon, who stared unblinkingly at Larsen.

“Well, Major?” asked Grayling.

“We could come aboard at the bow instead,” said Fallon.

Larsen shook his head.

“The bridge watch would see you in the floodlights,” he said. “You wouldn’t get halfway down the foredeck.”

“We’ll have to booby-trap their escape launch, anyway,” said Fallon.

“Svoboda thought of that, too,” said Larsen. “They are go­ing to pull it around to the stern, where it will be in the glare of the deck lights.”

Fallon shrugged.

“That just leaves a frontal assault,” he said. “Come out of the water firing, use more men, come aboard against the op­position, beat in the door, and move through the cabins one by one.”

“Not a chance,” said Larsen firmly. “You wouldn’t be over the rail before Svoboda had heard you and blown us all to kingdom come.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Captain Larsen,” said Jan Grayling. “I don’t believe the Dutch government would agree to a suicide mission.”

“Nor the West German government,” said Voss.

Fallon tried one last move.

“You are alone with Svoboda for much of the time, Cap­tain Larsen. Would you kill him?”

“Willingly,” said Larsen, “but if you are thinking of giving me a weapon, don’t bother. On my return I am to be skin-searched, well out of Svoboda’s reach. Any weapon found, and another of my seamen is executed. I’m not taking any­thing back on board. Not weapons, not poison.”

“I’m afraid it’s over, Major Fallon,” said Captain Preston gently. “The hard option won’t work.”

He rose from the table.

“Well, gentlemen, barring further questions to Captain Lar­sen, I believe there is little more we can do. It now has to be passed back to the concerned governments. Captain Larsen, thank you for your time and your patience. In my personal cabin there is someone who would like to speak with you.”

Thor Larsen was shown from the silent wardroom by a steward. An anguished Mike Manning watched him leave. The destruction of the plan of attack by Major Fallon’s party now brought back to terrible possibility the order he had been given that morning from Washington.