Larsen was not to know that his quest was a hopeless one. When Mulhooney had first taken over the Questar it had been called the Hammond, which he had thoughtfully had painted out and replaced by the name of Questar on the way to Galveston. Since Cronkite had since replaced that by the name Georgia, both the Hammond and the Questar had ceased to exist.
But what concerned Larsen even more was his conviction that something was far wrong. He was quite unable to put a finger on what this might be. He was essentially a pragmatist of the first order, but he was also a man who relied heavily on instinct and intuition. He was a man occasionally given to powerful premonitions, and more often than not those premonitions had turned into reality. And so when the loudspeaker boomed ‘Commander Larsen to the radio cabin. Commander Larsen to the radio cabin,’ he was possessed of an immediate certainty that the hour of his premonition had come.
He walked leisurely enough towards the radio cabin, partly because it would never do for Commander Larsen to be seen hurrying anxiously anywhere, partly because he was in no great hurry to hear the bad news he was convinced he was about to hear. He told the radio operator that he would like to take this call privately, waited until the man had left and closed the door behind him, then picked up the telephone.
‘Commander Larsen.’
‘Mitchell. I promised I’d call.’
‘Thanks. Heard from Lord Worth? He promised to keep in touch, but no word.’
‘And no wonder. His daughters have been kidnapped.’
Larsen said nothing immediately. Judging from the ivoried knuckles, the telephone handpiece seemed in danger of being crushed. Although caring basically only for himself, he had formed an avuncular attachment towards Lord Worth’s daughters, but even that was unimportant compared to the implications the kidnapping held about the welfare of the Seawitch. When he did speak it was in a steady, controlled voice.
‘When did this happen?’
‘This morning. And no trace of them. We’ve blocked every escape route in the southern part of the State. And there is no report from any port, airport, or heliport of any unusual departure from any of those since the time of the kidnapping.’
‘Vanished into thin air?’
‘Vanished, anyway. But not into thin air, we think. Terra firma, more likely. We think they’ve gone to earth, and are holed up not all that far away. But it’s only a guess.’
‘No communication, no demands, from the kidnappers?’
‘None. That’s what makes it all so odd.’
‘You think this is a ransom kidnap?’
‘No.’
‘The Seawitch?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know why Lord Worth went to Washington?’
‘No. I’d like to.’
‘To demand naval protection. Early this morning a Russian destroyer and a Cuban submarine left Havana, while another destroyer left Venezuela. They are on converging courses. The point of convergence would appear to be the Seawitch.’
There was a silence, then Mitchell said: ‘This is for sure?’
‘Yes. Well, Lord Worth’s cup of woes would seem to be fairly full. The only consolation is that nothing much else can happen to him after this. Please keep me informed.’
In Lord Worth’s radio room both Mitchell and Roomer hung up their phones.
Mitchell briefly indulged in some improper language. ‘God, I never thought his enemies would go to this length.’
Roomer said: ‘Neither did I. I’m not sure that I even think so now.’
‘Uncle Sam’s not going to let any foreign naval powers play ducks and drakes in his own backyard?’
‘Something like that. I don’t think the Soviets would go so far as to risk a confrontation. Could be a bluff, a diversionary move. Maybe the real attack is coming from elsewhere.’
‘Maybe anything. Could be a double bluff. One thing’s sure: Larsen’s right in saying that Lord Worth’s cup of woes is fairly full. In fact I’d say it was over-spilling.’
‘Looks that way,’ Roomer said absently. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
Mitchell said: ‘Don’t tell me you’re in the throes of intuition again?’
‘I’m not sure. When you were talking to Larsen just now you mentioned “terra firma”. Firm land, dry land. What if it weren’t dry land? What if it were unfirm land?’
Mitchell waited politely.
Roomer said: ‘If you wanted to hole up, really get lost in Florida, where would you go?’
Mitchell hardly had to think. ‘We are bright. Unfirm land, infirm land, whatever you want to call it. The swamps, of course. Where else?’
‘Man could hide out for a month there, and a battalion of troops couldn’t find him. Which explains why the cops have been unable to find the station wagon.’ Between them MacPherson and Jenkins had been able to give a fairly accurate description of the kidnappers’ estate wagon. ‘They’ve been checking the highways and byways. I’ll bet they never thought of checking the roads into the swamps.’
‘Did we?’
‘As you said, we’re bright. There are dozens of those roads into the swamps, but most of them are very short and in no time you reach a point where no wheeled vehicle can go any further. A few dozen police cars could comb the nearest swamps in an hour.’
Mitchell said to Robertson: ‘Get Chief McGarrity.’
A knock came on the half-open door and Louise, one of the young housemaids, entered. She held a card in her hand. She said: ‘I was just making up Miss Marina’s bed when I found this between the sheets.’
Mitchell took the card. It was a plain calling card giving Marina’s name and address.
Louise said: ‘Other side.’
Mitchell reversed the card, holding it so that Roomer could see. Handwritten with a ball-point were the words: ‘Vacation. Little island in the sun. No swim-suit.’
‘You know Miss Marina’s handwriting, Louise?’ Mitchell had suddenly realized that he didn’t.
The girl looked at the card. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sure.’
‘Thank you, Louise. This could be very useful.’ Louise smiled and left. Mitchell said to Roomer: ‘What kind of lousy detective are you, then? Why didn’t you think of searching the bedrooms?’
‘Hmm. I can only guess that she asked them to leave while she dressed.’
‘You’d have thought she’d have been too scared to think of this.’
‘The handwriting’s steady enough. Besides, she doesn’t scare easily. Except, that is, when you point a pistol between her eyes.’
‘I wish, right here and now, that I was pointing a pistol between someone else’s eyes. Little island in the sun where you can’t go bathing. An overconfident kidnapper can talk too much. You thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Roomer nodded. The Seawitch.’
At 33,000 feet Lord Worth had just completed a light but delicious lunch accompanied by a splendid Bordeaux wine, specially bottled for him in a Rothschild vinery. He had regained his habitual calm. He was almost philosophical. He had, he reckoned, touched his nadir. All that could happen had happened. In common with Larsen, Mitchell and Roomer he was convinced that the Fates could touch him no more. All four were completely and terribly wrong. The worst was yet to come. It was, in fact, happening right then.
Colonel Farquharson, Lieutenant-Colonel Dewings and Major Breckley were not in fact the people their ID cards claimed they were, for the sufficient reason that there were no officers of that rank with corresponding names in the US army. But then it was a very big army, and nobody, not even the officers, could possibly be expected to know the names of more than a tiny fraction of their fellow officers. Nor were their faces their normal faces, although they could hardly be described as being heavily disguised. The man responsible had been a Hollywood make-up artist who preferred subtlety to false beards. All three men were dressed in sober and well-cut business suits.
Farquharson presented his card to the corporal at the outer reception desk. ‘Colonel Farquharso
n to see Colonel Pryce.’
‘I’m afraid he’s not here.’
‘Then the officer in charge, man.’
‘Yes, sir.’
A minute later they were seated before a young and apprehensive Captain Martin, who had just finished a rather reluctant and very perfunctory scrutiny of their ID cards.
Farquharson said: ‘So Colonel Pryce has been called to Washington. I can guess why.’
He didn’t have to guess. He himself had put through the fake call that had led to Pryce’s abrupt departure. ‘And his second in command?’
‘Flu.’ Martin sounded apologetic.
‘At this time of year? How inconvenient. Especially today. You can guess why we’re here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Martin looked slightly unhappy. ‘Security check. I had a phone call telling me of the break-ins into the Florida and Louisiana armouries.’ Dewings had put through that one. ‘I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.’
‘Doubtless. I have already discovered something that is not in order.’
‘Sir?’ There was a definite apprehension now in Martin’s voice and appearance.
‘Security-consciousness. Do you know that there are literally dozens of shops where I could buy, perfectly legally, a general’s uniform? Those are the speciality shops that cater primarily for the film and stage industries. If I walked in dressed in such a uniform, would you accept me for what my uniform proclaimed me to be?’
‘I suppose I would, sir.’
‘Well, don’t. Not ever again.’ He glanced at his identity card lying on the desk. ‘Forging one of those presents no problems. When a stranger makes an appearance in a top-security place like this, always, always, check his identity with Area Command. And always talk only to the commanding officer.’
‘Yes, sir. Do you happen to know his name? I’m new here.’
‘Major-General Harsworth.’
Martin had the corporal at the front desk put him through. On the first ring a voice answered. ‘Area Command.’
The voice did not in fact come from Area Command. It came from a man less than half a mile away, seated at the base of a telegraph pole. He had with him a battery-powered transceiver. A sheathed copper line from that led up to a crocodile clip attached to one of the telegraph lines.
Martin said: ‘Netley Rowan Armoury. Captain Martin. I’d like to speak to General Harsworth.’
‘Hold.’ There was a series of clicks, a pause of some seconds, then the same voice said: ‘On the line, Captain.’
Martin said: ‘General Harsworth?’
‘Speaking.’ The man by the telegraph pole had deepened his voice by an octave. ‘Problems, Captain Martin?’
‘I have Colonel Farquharson with me. He insists that I check out his identity with you.’
The voice at the other end was sympathetic. ‘Been at the receiving end of a security lecture?’
‘I’m afraid I have rather, sir.’
‘Very hot on security, the Colonel. He’ll be with Lieutenant-Colonel Dewings and Major Breckley?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, it’s hardly the end of your professional career. But he’s right, you know.’
Farquharson himself took the wheel of the car on the three-mile journey, a chastened, compliant Martin sitting up front beside him. A fifteen-foot-high electrical warning barbed-wire fence surrounded the armoury, a squat, grey, windowless building covering almost half an acre of land. A sentry with a machine-carbine barred the entrance to the compound. He recognized Captain Martin, stepped back and saluted. Farquharson drove up to the one and only door of the armoury and halted. The four men got out. Farquharson said to Martin: ‘Major Breckley has never been inside a TNW armoury before. A few illuminating comments, perhaps?’ It would be illuminating for Farquharson also. He had never been inside an armoury of any description in his life.
‘Yes, sir. TNW–Tactical Nuclear Warfare. Walls thirty-three inches thick, alternating steel and ferro-concrete. Door–ten inches tungsten steel. Both walls and door capable of resisting the equivalent of a fourteen-inch armour-piercing naval shell. This glass panel is recording us on TV videotape. This meshed grille is a two-way speaker which also records our voices.’ He pressed a button sunk in the concrete.
A voice came through the grille. ‘Identification, please?’
‘Captain Martin with Colonel Farquharson and security inspection.’
‘Code?’
‘Geronimo.’ The massive door began to slide open, and they could hear the hum of a powerful electrical motor. It took all of ten seconds for the door to open to its fullest extent. Martin led them inside.
A corporal saluted their entrance. Martin said: ‘Security inspection tour.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The corporal didn’t seem too happy.
Farquharson said: ‘You seem to have a troubled conscience, soldier?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then you should have.’
Martin said: ‘Something wrong, sir?’ He was patently nervous.
‘Four things.’ Martin dipped his head so that Farquharson couldn’t see that he had been swallowing. One thing would have been bad enough.
‘In the first place, that sentry gate should be kept permanently locked. It should only be opened after a phone call to your HQ and an electronic link for opening the gate installed in your office. What’s to prevent a person or persons with a silenced automatic disposing of your sentry and driving straight up here? Secondly, what would prevent such people walking through the open doorway and riddling us all with sub-machine-guns? That door should have been shut the moment we passed through.’ The corporal started to move but Farquharson stopped him with upraised hand.
‘Thirdly, all people who are not base personnel–such as us–should be finger-printed on arrival–I will arrange to have your guards trained in those techniques. Fourthly, and most importantly, show me the controls for those doors.’
‘This way, sir.’ The corporal led the way to a small console. ‘The red button opens, the green one closes.’
Farquharson pressed the green button. The massive door hissed slowly closed. ‘Unsatisfactory. Totally. Those are the only controls to operate the door?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Martin looked very unhappy indeed.
‘We shall have another electronic link established with your HQ, which will render those buttons inoperable until the correct signal is sent.’ Farquharson was showing signs of irritation. ‘I would have thought all those things were self-evident.’
Martin smiled weakly. ‘They are now, sir.’
‘What percentage of explosives, bombs and shells stored here are conventional?’
‘Close on ninety-five per cent, sir.’
‘I’d like to see the nuclear weapons first.’
‘Of course, sir.’ A now thoroughly demoralized Martin led the way.
The TNW section was compartmented off but not sealed. One side was lined with what appeared to be shells, stowed on racks, the other with pear-shaped metal canisters about thirty inches high, with buttons, a clock-face and a large knurled screw on top. Beyond them were stacked what looked like very odd-shaped fibre-glass suitcases, each with two leather handles.
Breckley indicated the pear-shaped canisters. ‘What are those? Bombs?’
‘Both bombs and landmines.’ Martin seemed glad to talk and take his mind off his troubles. ’Those controls on top are relatively simple. Before you get at those two red switches you have to unscrew those two transparent plastic covers. The switches have then to be turned ninety degrees to the right. They are then still in the safe position. They then have to be flipped ninety degrees to the left. This is the ready-to-activate position.
‘Before that is done, you have to put the time setting on the clock. That is done by means of this knurled knob here. One complete turn means a one-minute time delay which will show up on this clock face here. It registers in seconds, as you can see. Total time delay is thirty minutes–thirty turns.’
‘And this black button?’
‘The most important of them all. No cover and no turning. You might want to get at it in a hurry. Depressing that stops the clock and, in fact, deactivates the bomb.’
‘What’s the area of damage?’
‘Compared to the conventional atom bomb, tiny. The vaporization area would be a quarter-mile radius. Perhaps less. The blast, shock and radiation areas would, of course, be considerably greater.’
‘You said they could be used as both bombs and mines.’
’For mines I should perhaps have said an explosive device for use on land. As bombs the setting would probably be only six seconds–in tactical warfare they would be carried by low-flying supersonic planes. They’d be about two miles clear by the time the bomb went off and moving too fast for the shock waves to catch up with them. For land use–well, say you wanted to infiltrate an ammunition dump. You’d check how long it would take you to infiltrate there, calculate how long it would take you to get out and clear of the blast zone and set the timer accordingly.
‘The missiles here–’
‘We’ve seen and heard enough,’ Farquharson said. ‘Kindly put your hands up.’
Five minutes later, with furiously reluctant assistance from Martin, they had loaded two bombs, safely concealed in their carrying-cases, into the trunk of their car. In so doing the need of the two carrying handles became clear: each bomb must have weighed at least ninety pounds. Farquharson went back inside, looked indifferently at the two bound men, pressed the button and slipped through the doorway as the door began to close. He waited until the door was completely shut, then climbed into the front seat beside Martin, who was at the wheel this time.
Farquharson said: ‘Remember, one false move and you’re a dead man. We will, of course, have to kill the sentry too.’
There were no false moves. About a mile from the armoury the car stopped by a thicket of stunted trees. Martin was marched deep into the thicket, bound, gagged and attached to a tree just in case he might have any ideas about jack-knifing his way down to the roadside. Farquharson looked down at him.
Seawitch Page 10
