Seawitch

by Alistair MacLean

  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 collison 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 oilslick 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.

  Captain Thompson, in a stupefaction that was slowly turning into a slow burn, said: ‘What the hell goes?’

  ‘You can see what goes. Hijack. A very popular pastime nowadays. I agree that nobody’s ever hijacked a tanker before, but there always has to be someone to start a new trend. Besides, it’s not really something new. Piracy on the high seas. They’
ve been at it for thousands of years. Don’t try anything rash, Captain, and please don’t try to be a hero. If you all behave no harm will come to you. Anyway, what could you possibly do with fourteen submachine-guns lined up against you?’

  Within five minutes all the crew, officers and men, with one exception, were herded in the crew’s mess under armed guard. Nobody had even as much as contemplated offering resistance. The exception was an unhappy-looking duty engineer in the engine room. There are few people who don’t look slightly unhappy, when staring at the muzzle of a Schmeisser from a distance of five feet.

  Cronkite was on the bridge giving Mulhooney his final instructions.

  ‘Continue sending the Seawitch its half-hourly on time, on course reports. Then report a minor breakdown in two or three hours–a fractured fuel line or something of the sort–enough that would keep the Torbello immobilized for a few hours. You’re due in Galveston tonight and I need time and room to manoeuvre. Rather, you need time and room to manoeuvre. When darkness comes keep every navigational light extinguished–indeed, every light extinguished. Don’t let’s underestimate Lord Worth.’ Cronkite was speaking with an unaccustomed degree of bitterness, doubtless recalling the day Lord Worth had taken him to the cleaner’s in court. ‘He’s an exceptionally powerful man, and it’s quite on the cards that he can have an air and sea search mounted for his missing tanker.’

  Cronkite rejoined the Georgia, cast off and pulled away. Mulhooney, too, got under way, but altered course ninety degrees to port so that he was heading south-west instead of north-west. On the first half-hour he sent the reassuring report to the Seawitch–‘on course, on time.’

  Cronkite waited for the Starlight to join him, then both vessels proceeded together in a generally south-eastern direction until they were about thirty-five nautical miles from the Seawitch, safely over the horizon and out of reach of the Seawitch’s radar and sonar. They stopped their engines and settled down to wait.

  The big Boeing had almost halved the distance between Florida and Washington. Lord Worth, in his luxurious state-room immediately abaft the flight deck, was making up for time lost during the previous night and, blissfully unaware of the slings and arrows that were coming at him from all sides, was soundly asleep.

  Mitchell had been unusually but perhaps not unexpectedly late in waking that morning. He showered, shaved and dressed while the coffee percolated, all the time conscious of a peculiar and unaccustomed sense of unease. He paced up and down the kitchen, drinking coffee, then abruptly decided to put his unease at rest. He lifted the phone and dialled Lord Worth’s mansion. The other end rang, rang again and kept on ringing. Mitchell replaced the receiver, then tried again with the same result. He finished his coffee, went across to Roomer’s house and let himself in with his pass-key. He went into the bedroom to find Roomer still asleep. He woke him up. Roomer regarded him with disfavour.

  ‘What do you mean by waking up a man in the middle of the night?’

  ‘It’s not the middle of the night.’ He pulled open the drapes and the bright summer sunlight flooded the room. ‘It’s broad daylight, as you will be able to see when you open your eyes.’

  ‘Is your house on fire or something, then?’

  ‘I wish it were something as trivial as that. I’m worried, John. I woke up feeling bugged by something, and the feeling got worse and worse. Five minutes ago I called up Lord Worth’s house. I tried twice. There was no reply. Must have been at least eight or ten people in that house, but there was no reply.’

  ‘What on earth do you suppose–’

  ‘You’re supposed to be the man with the intuition. Get yourself ready. I’ll go make some coffee.’

  Long before the coffee was ready, in fact less than ninety seconds later, Roomer was in the kitchen. He had neither showered nor shaved but had had the time and the grace to run a comb through his hair. He was looking the same way as the expressionless Mitchell was feeling.

  ‘Never mind the coffee.’ Roomer was looking at him with an almost savage expression on his face, but Mitchell knew that it wasn’t directed at him. ‘Let’s get up to the house.’

  Roomer drove his own car, which was the nearer.

  Mitchell said: ‘God, we’re a bright lot. Hit us over the head often enough and then maybe–I only say maybe–we’ll begin to see the obvious. But we’re far too smart to see the obvious, aren’t we?’ He held on to his seat as Roomer, tyres screeching, rounded a blind corner. ‘Easy, boy, easy. Too late to bolt the stable door now.’

  With what was clearly a conscious effort of will Roomer slowed down. He said: ‘Yes, we’re the clever ones, Lord Worth offered as an excuse for his actions a threat of the girls’ abduction. You told him to offer the threat of the girls’ abduction as an excuse for our presence there last night. And it never occurred to either of our staggering intellects that their abduction was both logical and inevitable. Lord Worth was not exaggerating–he has enemies, and vicious enemies, who are out to get him, come what may. Two trump cards–and what trumps. All the aces in the pack. He’s powerless now. He pretends to be loftily indulgent towards the two girls. He’ll give away half his money to get them back. Just half. He’ll use the other half to hunt them down. Money can buy any co-operation in the world, and the old boy has all the money in the world.’

  Mitchell now seemed relaxed, comfortable, even calm. He said: ‘But we’ll get to them first, won’t we, John?’

  Roomer stirred uncomfortably in his seat as they swung into the mansion’s driveway. He said: ‘I’m just as sick and mad as you are. But I don’t like it when you start to talk that way. You know that.’

  ‘I should say I’m expressing an intention or at least a hope.’ He smiled. ‘Let’s see.’

  Roomer stopped his car in a fashion that did little good to Lord Worth’s immaculately raked gravel. The first thing that caught Mitchell’s eye as he left the car was an odd movement by the side of the driveway in a clump of bushes. He took out his gun and went to investigate, then put his gun away, opened his clasp-knife and sliced through MacPherson’s bonds. The head gardener, after forty years in Florida, had never lost a trace of a very pronounced Scottish accent, an accent that tended to thicken according to the degree of mental stress he was undergoing. On this occasion, with the adhesive removed, his language was wholly indecipherable–which, in view of what he was almost certainly trying to say, was probably just as well in the circumstances.

  They went through the front doorway. Jenkins, apparently taking his ease in a comfortable armchair, greeted them with a baleful glare, a glare that was in no way directed at them. He was just in a baleful mood, a mood that was scarcely bettered when Mitchell swiftly, painfully, and with scant regard for Jenkins’s physical and mental feelings, yanked away the adhesive from his lips. Jenkins took a deep breath, doubtless preparatory to lodging some form of protest, but Mitchell cut in before he could speak.

  ‘Where does Jim sleep?’ Jim was the radio operator.

  Jenkins stared at him in astonishment. Was this the way to greet a man who had been through a living hell, snatched, one might almost say, from the jaws of death? Where was the sympathy, the condolences, the anxious questioning? Mitchell put his hands on his shoulders and shook him violently.

  ‘Are you deaf? Jim’s room?’

  Jenkins looked at the bleak face less than a foot from his own and decided against remonstrating. ‘In back, first floor, first right.’

  Mitchell left. So, after a second or two, did Roomer. Jenkins called after him in a plaintive voice: ‘You aren’t leaving me too, Mr Roomer?’

  Roomer turned and said patiently: ‘I’m going to the kitchen to get a nice sharp carver. Mr Mitchell has taken the only knife we have between us.’

  Jim Robertson was young, fresh-faced and just out of college, a graduate in electrical engineering in no hurry to proceed with his profession. He sat on the bed massaging his now unbound wrists, wincing slightly as the circulation began to return. As tiers of knots, Durand’s
henchmen had been nothing if not enthusiastic.

  Mitchell said: ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Mad.’

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder. Fit to operate your set?’

  ‘I’m fit for anything if it means getting hold of those bastards.’

  ‘That’s the general idea. Did you get a good look at the kidnappers?’

  ‘I can give you a general description–’ He broke off and stared at Mitchell. ‘Kidnappers?’

  ‘It appears that Lord Worth’s daughters have been abducted.’

  ‘Holy Christ!’ The assimilation of this news took some little time. ‘There’ll be all hell to pay for this.’

  ‘It should cause a considerable furore. Do you know where Marina’s room is?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  Her room showed all the signs of a hasty and unpremeditated departure. Cupboard doors were open, drawers the same and some spilled clothing lay on the floor. Mitchell was interested in none of this. He quickly rifled through the drawers in her bedside table and within seconds found what he had hoped to find–a United States passport. He opened it and it was valid. He made a mental note that she had lied about her age–she was two years older than she claimed to be–returned the passport and hurried down to the radio room with Robertson, who unlocked the door to let them in. Robertson looked questioningly at Mitchell.

  ‘The County Police Chief. His name is McGarrity. I don’t want anyone else. Say you’re speaking on behalf of Lord Worth. That should work wonders. Then let me take over.’

  Roomer entered while Robertson was trying to make contact. ‘Seven more of the staff, all suitably immobilized. Makes ten in all. I’ve left Jenkins to free them. His hands are shaking so badly that he’s bound to slice an artery or two, but for me the freeing of elderly cooks and young housemaids lies above and beyond the call of duty.’