Seawitch Part 19

There was a far from subtle change in Colonel Pryce's tone. "It's quite unnecessary to threaten me."

"Just a minute. Lord Worth's just arrived." Mitch.e.l.l gave a brief resume of his phone conversation, making sure that Pryce could hear every word.

"Nuclear b.l.o.o.d.y bombs! That's why Cronkite said he could blast us out of the water!" Lord Worth s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone from Mitch.e.l.l. "Worth here. I have a hotline to the Secretary of State, Dr. Benton. I could patch him in in fifteen seconds. Do you want me to do that?"

"That will not be necessary, Lord Worth."

ZT.

"Then give us a detailed description of those d.a.m.ned 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 b.u.t.ton to shut off in emergency. And they have a ninety-minute setting, not sixty. And they can be radio-activated."

"Something complicated? I mean, a VHP 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's important to remember that turning this switch off will deactivate the detonating mechanism in the 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 ma.s.sive oil slick?"

"Sir-oil is by nature combustible and much more easily vaporized than steel."

"Thank you."

"Seems to me you need a squadron of super- 268.

Seawiiek sonic fighter-bombers out there. I'll relay the request, but they'll have to get Pentagon permission first."

"Thank you again."

Lord Worth and Mitch.e.l.l left for the former's quarters. Lord Worth said: "Two things. We're only a.s.suming, although it would be dangerous not to a.s.sume, that those d.a.m.ned things are meant for us. Besides, if we keep our radar, sonar and sensory posts manned I don't see how Cron-kite could approach and deliver them."

"It's hard to see how. But then, it's harder to figure out that b.a.s.t.a.r.d's turn 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. "Helicopter approaching from the northeast."

"No sweat. Relief crew."

Lord Worth had gone back to his shower when the relief helicopter touched down. Mitch.e.l.l was in his laboratory, looking very professional in his white coat and gla.s.ses. Dr. Greenshaw was still asleep.

Apart from gagging and manacling the pilots, the helicopter pa.s.sengers had offered them no violence. They disembarked in quiet and orderly 209.

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 he was in the habit of regularly rotating his drill crews. The new arrivals carried the standard shoulder-slung clothesbags. 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 m.u.f.fle the shape of the machine pistols and other more deadly weapons in 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 laid their bags on the platform and unzipped them. Windows were smashed and what followed was sheer savage ma.s.sacre. Within half a dozen seconds of machine-gun fire, bazooka fire and incinerating flamethrowers, 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 La.r.s.en, who had been in his own private room in the back: Palermo and all his men were dead.

Figures 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 j.a.panese kimono and a black-haired guard in a wrap. One of Gregson's men fired twice at the nearest white-coated figure, and Mitch.e.l.l staggered and fell backward 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 occidental 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 27O.

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Dr. Greenshaw approached Gregson. "You are the leader?"

"Yes."

*Tm a doctor.*' He nodded to Mitch.e.l.l, whose white coat accentuated the stains < p="">

"We got no quarrel with you," Gregson said, which was, unwittingly, the most foolish remark he'd ever made.

Dr. Greenshaw helped the weak and staggering Mitch.e.l.l 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 relieved ire.

"Why, you deceiving ..."

"That's no way to talk to a wounded man." He was pulling off his white coat, coat and shirt. *Tve 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-eye d.i.c.k himself. Now do a real good job on me, Doc. Right arm bandaged from elbow to wrist. Left arm bandaged from shoulder to above the elbow with a great big sling. Marina, even ravishing beauties like you carry face powder. I hope you're no exception."

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Sea wit eh Not yet mollified, she said stiffly: "I have some. Baby powder," she added nastily.

"Get it, please."

Five minutes later, Mitch.e.l.l 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 voluminous. His face was very pale. He left for his room and returned a few seconds later.

"Where have you been?" she 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 do you mean?"

"Our friend Cronkite has heisted a couple of -tactical nuclear weapons. He plans to finish off the Seawitch in Fourth of July style. He should be here about now. Now, Doc, I want you to do something for me. Take the biggest medical bag you have and tell Gregson that it is your humanitarian duty to go into the occidental quarters to help any of the dying, or, if necessary, put them out of their agony. I know they've got a fair supply of hand grenades in there. I want some."

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"No sooner said than done. G.o.d, you look awful! Destroys my faith in myself as a doctor."

They went outside. Cronkite's helicopter was indeed just touching down. Cronkite himself was the first out, followed by Mulhooney, the three bogus officers who had stolen the nuclear weapons, the commandeered pilot and, lastly, Easton. Easton was the unknown quant.i.ty. Mitch.e.l.l did not appreciate it at the time but Easton's Starlight had been so badly damaged by the depth charge that it was no longer serviceable. Less than four miles away what appeared to be a coast guard cutter was heading straight for the Sea-witch. It required no guessing to realize that this was the missing Hammond, the infamous Tiburon, the present Georgia.

Dr. Greenshaw approached Gregson. (Td like to have a look at what you've left of those quarters. Maybe there's someone still alive in there . . ."

Gregson pointed to an iron door. 4Tm more interested in who's in there. Spicer"-this to one of his men-"a bazooka shot at that lock."

'That's hardly necessary," Greenshaw said mildly. "A knock from me is all that's needed. That's Commander La.r.s.en, the boss of the oil rig. He's no enemy of yours. He just sleeps here because he likes his privacy." Dr. Greenshaw knocked. "Commander La.r.s.en, ifs okay. It's me, Greenshaw. Come on out If you don't, 274.

there're some people who're going to blast your door down and you with it. Come on, man."

There was the turning of a heavy key and La.r.s.en emerged. He looked dazed, almost sh.e.l.l-shocked, as well he might. He said: "What the h.e.l.l goes on?"

"You've been taken over, friend," Gregson said. La.r.s.en was dressed, Greenshaw was pleased to note, in a voluminous lumberjacket cinched at the waist. "Search him." They searched and found nothing.

"Where's Scoffield?" La.r.s.en said. Greenshaw said: "In the other quarters. He should be okay." "Palermo?"

"Dead. And all his men. At least I think so. I'm just going to have a look." Stooping his shoulders to look more nearly eighty than seventy, Dr. Greenshaw shambled along the shattered corridor, but he could have saved himself the trouble of acting. Gregson had just met Cronkite outside the doorway and the two men "were talking in animated and clearly self-congratulatory terms.

After the first few steps, Greenshaw realized that there could be n.o.body left alive in that charnel house. Those who were dead were very dead indeed, most of them destroyed beyond recognition, either cut up by machine-gun fire, shattered by bazookas or shriveled by the fiame- 275.

throwers. But he did find the primary reason of his visit-a box of hand grenades in prime condition and a couple of Schmeisser subautomatics, fully loaded. A few of the grenades he stuffed into the bottom of his medical bag. He peered out one of the shattered windows at the back and found the area below in deep shadow. He carefully lowered some grenades to the platform and the two Schmeissers beside them. Then he made his way outside again.

It was apparent that Cronkite and Lord Worth had already met, although the meeting could not have been a normal one. Lord Worth was lying apparently senseless on his back, blood flowing from smashed lips and apparently broken nose, while both cheeks were badly bruised. Marina was bending over him, daubing at his wounds with a flimsy handkerchief. Cronkite, his face unmarked but his knuckles bleeding, had apparently, for the moment at least, lost interest in Lord Worth, no doubt waiting until Lord Worth had regained full consciousness before starting in on him again.

Lord Worth whispered between smashed lips: "Sorry, my darling; sorry, my beloved. My fault and all my fault. The end of the road."

"Yes." Her voice was as low as his own, but strangely there were no tears in her eyes. "But not for us. Not while Michael is alive."

Lord Worth looked at Michael through rapidly closing eyes. "What can a cripple like that do?"

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She said quietly but with utter conviction: "He'll kill Cronkite and his whole mob."

He tried to smile through his smashed lips. "I thought you hated killing."

"Not vermin. Not people who do things like this to you."

Mitch.e.l.l spoke quietly to Dr. Greenshaw, then botH men approached Cronkite and Gregson, who broke off what appeared to be either a discussion or an argument. Dr. Greenshaw said: "You've done your d.a.m.n murderous work all too well, Gregson. There's hardly a soul hi there even recognizable as a human being."

Cronkite said: "Who's he?"

"A doctor."

Cronkite looked at Mitch.e.l.l, who was looking worse by the minute, "And this?"

"A scientist. Shot by mistake."

"He's in great pain," Greenshaw said. "Fve no X-ray equipment, but I suspect the arm's broken just below the shoulder."

Cronkite was almost jovial, the joviality of a man now almost detached from reality. "An hour from now he won't be feeling a thing."

Greenshaw said wearily: "I don't know what you mean. I want to take him back to the sick bay and give him a pain-killing injection."

"Why, sure: I want everyone to be fully prepared for what's about to happen."

"And what's that?"

"Later, later."

Greenshaw and the unsteady Mitch.e.l.l moved off. They reached the sick bay, pa.s.sed inside, went through the opposite side and made their un.o.bserved way to the radio room. Greenshaw stood guard just inside the door while Mitch.e.l.l, ignoring the bound operator, went straight to the transceiver. He raised the Roamer inside twenty seconds.

"Give me Captain Conde."

"Speaking."

"On your next circuit out to the oil tank get around behind it, then head south at full speed. The Seawitch has been taken over, but I'm sure there's n.o.body here who can operate the antiaircraft guns. Stop at twenty miles and issue a general warning to all ships and aircraft not to approach within twenty miles of the Seawitch. You have its co-ordinates."

"Yes. But why-"

"Because there's going to be a mighty big bang. Christ's sake, don't argue."

"Don't argue about what?" a voice behind Mitch.e.l.l said.

Mitch.e.l.l turned round slowly. The man behind the pistol was smiling a smile that somehow lacked a genuine warmth. Greenshaw had been pushed to one side and the gun moved in a slow arc covering them both. "I got a hunch Gregsoa would like to see you both."

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Mitch.e.l.l rose, turned, half-staggered and clutched his right forearm inside the sling. Greenshaw said sharply: "G.o.d's sake, man, can't you see he's ill?"

The man glanced at Greenshaw for just a second, but a second was all that Mitch.e.l.l required. The bullet from the silenced .38 took the gunman through the heart. Mitch.e.l.l peered through the doorway. There was a fair degree of shadow there, no one in sight and the edge of the platform not more than twenty feet away. A few seconds later the dead man vanished over the edge. Mitch.e.l.l and Greenshaw returned to the main body of the company via the sick bay. Cronkite and Gregson were still in deep discussion. La.r.s.en stood some distance apart, apparently in a state of profound dejection. Greenshaw approached him and said quietly: "How do you feel?"

"How would you feel if you knew they intended to kill us all?"

"You'll feel better soon. Round the back of the building, when you get the chance, you'll find some hand grenades which should rest comfortably inside that lumberjacket of yours. You'll also find two loaded Schmeissers. I have a few grenades in my bag here. And Mitch.e.l.l has his .38 inside his sling."

La.r.s.en took care not to show his feelings. He looked as morose as ever. All he said was: "Boy, oh boy, oh boy."

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Lord Worth was on his feet now, supported by his daughter. Mitch.e.l.l joined them. "How do you feel?"

Lord Worth mouthed his words with understandable bitterness. "I'm in great shape.'*

"You'll feel better soon." He lowered his voice and spoke to Marina. "When I give the word, say you want to go to the ladies' room. But don't go there. Go to the generator room. You'll see a red lever there marked 'Deck Lights.' Pull it down. After you count twenty, throw it back on again."

Cronkite and Gregson appeared to have finished their discussion. From Cronkite's smile it appeared that his view had prevailed. Lord Worth, Marina, La.r.s.en, Greenshaw and Mitch.e.l.l stood together, a forlorn and huddled group. Facing them were the ranks of Cronkite, Mul-hooney, Easton, and the bogus Colonel Farqu-harson, Lieutenant-Colonel Dewings, Major Breckley, Gregson and his killers, a formidable group and armed to the teeth.

Cronkite spoke to a man by his side. "Check."

The man lifted a walkie-talkie, spoke into it and nodded. He said to Cronkite: "Charges secured in position."