Ove hesitated but Nils dived in, rolling over the guard without touching him. He sat up just in time to see a flicker of motion as the large engine-room airlock closed. He scrambled up, ran to it and pulled strongly but it would not budge.
“Dogged shut from the other side! Where is Arnie?”
“With them. I saw him. Two men, carrying him. Both armed. Damn!” Skou had his pocket radio out, switched on, but nothing except static was coming from it.
“Your radio won’t work in here,” Ove reminded him, bending over the guard. “You’re surrounded by metal. Get up on deck. This man is just unconscious, he’s been hit by something.”
The other two were past him and gone. There was nothing he could do now for the guard. Ove jumped to his feet and ran after them.
Both airlock doors were open and Skou, on the deck outside, was shouting into his radio. The results were almost instantaneous: he had been prepared for this emergency too.
All of the shipyard lights came on at once, including searchlights on the walls and the arcs mounted on the cranes and ships under construction. The yard was as light as day. Sirens sounded out in the harbor and searchlights played over the black water as two police boats sealed off that side. Nils scrambled down the ladder and jumped the last few meters to the ground, hit running, around the turn of the hull to the stern where the airlock was. The outer door gaped open and he had a quick glimpse of dark figures. He grabbed the arm of a policeman who ran heavily up.
“Do you have a radio? Fine. Call Skou. Tell him they have headed toward the water. They probably have a boat. Hold your fire. There are two men. They are carrying Professor Klein. We can’t risk hurting him.” The policeman nodded agreement, pulling out his radio, and Nils ran on.
The shipyard was a bedlam. Workers ran for cover while police cars careened in through the gate, horns shrieking. Skou passed on Nils’s message in breathless spurts as he ran. There were guards ahead of him, converging on the waterfront and the slipway, where the ribs of a ship under construction stretched rusty fingers toward the sky.
Red flame spurted from behind a stack of hull plates and a guard folded, his hands over his midriff, and collapsed. The others sought cover, raising their guns.
“Don’t shoot!” Skou ordered, going on alone. “Get some lights over there.”
Someone swung a heavy arc light around, following the direction of the spotlight on one of the police cars. It burned, bright as daylight, on the spot. Skou ran on, crookedly, alone.
A man, all in black, stood up, shielding his eyes, raising a long-barreled pistol. He fired once, twice, a bullet hit steel next to Skou and whined away, the other tugged at his coat. Skou stopped, raised his own pistol into the air and lowered it slowly onto the target, calm as though he were on the pistol range. The invader fired again and Skou’s gun cracked out almost at the same instant, a single shot.
The man jerked, spun about and dropped onto the steel plates, the weapon rattling from his grasp. Skou signaled two of the policemen to examine him and hobbled on, ignoring the huddled shape. A line of guards and police closed in behind him; a patrol boat moved closer to shore, its motor rumbling and its spotlight sweeping the deep shadows of the ways.
“There they are!” someone shouted as the spotlight ceased shifting and came to rest. Skou stopped, and halted the others with a signal.
The riveted plates of the keel were a stage, the curved ribs a proscenium, the scene was lit. The drama was one of life and death. A man in shining black from head to toe half crouched behind Arnie Klein’s slumped form. He supported Arnie with an arm across his chest. His other hand held a gun, the muzzle of which was pressed against Arnie’s head. The sirens died, their work done, the alarm given, and a sudden silence fell. In it the man’s voice was loud and hoarse, his words clear.
“Don’t come here—I kill!”
The words were in English, thickly accented but understandable. There were no movements from the onlookers as he began to drag Arnie’s limp form along the keel toward the water’s edge.
Nils Hansen stepped from the shadows behind him and reached out a great hand that engulfed the other’s, trapping it, pulling the gun into the air and away from Arnie’s head. The man in black shrieked, in pain or surprise, and the pistol fired, the bullet vanishing into the darkness.
With his free hand Nils pulled Arnie from the other’s grasp, and slowly and carefully bent to lay him on the steel plate below. The man he held captive writhed ineffectually against his grip, then began beating at Nils with his fist. Nils ignored him until he straightened up again, seemingly ignorant of the blows striking him. Only then did he reach out and pluck the gun from the other’s grasp and hurl it away. And draw his hand back, to bring it down in a quick, open-palmed slap. The man spun half around, dropped, hanging from Nils’s unrelenting grasp.
“I want to talk to him!” Skou shouted, hurrying up.
Nils now had the man in both hands, shaking him like a great doll, holding him out to Skou. He was dressed in rubberized black, a frogman’s suit, and only his head was uncovered. His skin was sallow, with a thin moustache drawn like a black pencil line on his upper lip. One cheek flared red with the print of a great hand.
For a brief moment the man struggled in Nils’s unbreakable grip, looking at the approaching policemen. Then he stopped, realizing perhaps that there was no escape. There was no more resistance in him. He lifted his hand and chewed his thumbnail, a seemingly infantile gesture.
“Stop him!” Shouting, trying to hurry. Too late.
A look of shock, pain, passed over the man’s face. His eyes widened and his mouth opened in a soundless scream. He writhed in Nils’s hands, his back arching, more and more, impossibly, until he collapsed limply, completely.
“Let him go,” Skou said, peeling open one eyelid. “He’s dead. Poison in the nail.”
“The other one too,” a policeman said. “You shot him in …”
“I know where I shot him.”
Nils bent over Arnie, who was stirring, rolling his head with his eyes closed. There was a red welt behind his ear, already swollen.
“He seems to be all right,” Nils said, looking up. He caught sight of the blood on Skou’s pants leg and shoe, dribbling onto the metal plate. “You’re hurt!”
“The same leg they always shoot me in. My target leg. It doesn’t matter. It is more important to get the Professor to the hospital. What a mess. They’ve found us, someone. It is going to get much worse from now on.”
15
Sitting in the darkness, on his bridge, in his chair, Nils Hansen tried to picture himself operating these controls of the Galathea. Normally not a very imaginative man, he could, when he had to, visualize how a machine would operate, how it would behave. He had test piloted almost all the new jets purchased by SAS, as well as tested new and experimental planes for the Air Force. Before flying a plane he would study blueprints and construction, sit in a mock-up for simulated flight, talk to the engineers. He would learn all the intricacies of the craft he was to fly, learn everything that he possibly could before that moment when he was committed, he alone, to taking it into the air. He was never bored, never in a hurry. Others grew exasperated at his insistence upon examining every little detail, but he never did. Once airborne he was on his own. The more knowledge he carried aloft with him, the better chance he had of a successful flight—and of returning alive.
Now, his particular powers had been taxed to their limit. This craft was so impossibly big, the principles were so new.
Yet he had flown Blaeksprutten, and that experience was the most valuable of all. Remembering the problems, he had worked along with the engineers in laying out the controls and instrumentation. Reaching out he touched the wheel lightly—the same standard wheel, purchased from stock, that was in a Boeing 707 jet. He almost felt right at home. This was connected through the computer to the Daleth drive and would be used for precision maneuvers such as take-off and landing. Altimeter, air-speed indicator, true
-speed readout, power consumption—his eyes moved from one to the other, unerringly, despite the darkness.
There was a large pressure-sealed glass port set into the steel wall before him that now gave a good view of the shipyard and the harbor. Although it was after two in the morning and Helsinger was long asleep, the area on all sides of the shipyard was brightly lit and astir with movement. Police cars cruised slowly along the waterfront and flashed their lights into the narrow side streets. A squad of soldiers moved in loose formation among the buildings. Extra spotlights were mounted above the normal streetlights so the entire area was bright as day. The motor torpedo boat Hejren was anchored across the near end of the harbor with its gun turrets manned and trained.
There was the hum of motors as the bridge door slid open and the radio operator came in, going to his position. Skou was behind him, hobbling on a single crutch. He stood for a moment next to Nils, eyes moving over his posted defenses outside. With a grunt, possibly of approval, he dropped into the second pilot’s chair.
“They know we’re here,” he said. “But that’s all they are going to know. How is this tub?”
“Checked, double-checked, and a few times after that. I’ve done what I can, and the engineers and inspectors have been over every inch of hull and every piece of equipment. Here are their signed reports.” He held up a thick folder of papers. “Anything new on last week’s visitors?”
“A blank, all along the line. Frogman equipment bought right here, in Copenhagen. No marks, tags, papers. Their guns were German P-thirty-eight’s, Second World War vintage. Could have come from anyplace. We thought we had a lead on their fingerprints, but it was a mistaken identification. I checked it myself. Nothing. Two invisible men from nowhere.”
“Then you’ll never know what country sent them?”
“I don’t really care. A wink is as good as a nod. Someone has winked us and, after that dust-up, the whole world knows that there is something going on up here. They just don’t know what, and I’ve kept them far enough away so they can’t learn more.” He leaned forward to read the glowing dial of the clock. “Not too much longer to go. Everything set?”
“All stations manned, ready to go when they give the word. Except for Henning Wilhelmsen. He’s lying down or sleeping until I call him. It’s his job tonight.”
“Better do that now.”
Nils took up the phone and dialed Henning’s number; it was answered instantly.
“Commander Wilhelmsen here.”
“Bridge. Will you report now.”
“On the way!”
“There!” Skou said, pointing to the road at the far end of the harbor where a half-dozen soldiers on motorcycles had appeared. “It’s moving like clockwork—and well it better! She has been staying at Fredensborg Castle, twenty minutes away.”
Two open trucks, filled with soldiers, came behind the motorcycles, then more motorcycles acting as outriders to a long, black, and exceedingly well-polished Rolls Royce. More soldiers followed. As though this appearance had been a signal—and it undoubtedly was—truckloads of troops streamed out of the barracks of Kronborg Castle, where they had been waiting in readiness. By the time the convoy and the car they guarded had reached the entrance to the shipyard, a solid cordon of troops surrounded it.
“What about the lights in here?” Nils asked.
“You can have them on now. It’s obvious to the whole town now that something is up.”
Nils switched on the ultraviolet control-board illumination so that all the instruments glowed coldly. Skou rubbed his hands together and smiled. “It’s all working by clockwork. Notice—I command no one. All has been arranged. Every spy-tourist in town is trying to see what is happening, but they can’t get close. In a little while they will be trying to send messages and to leave and will be even less successful. Good Danes are in bed at this hour, they’ll not be disturbed. But all the roads are closed, the trains are not running, the phones don’t work. Even the bicycle paths are sealed. Every road and track—even the paths through the woods—are guarded.”
“Do you have hawks standing by to catch any carrier pigeons?” Nils asked innocently.
“No! By God, should I?” Skou looked worried and chewed at his lip until he saw Nils’s smile. “You’re only kidding. You shouldn’t do that. I’m an old man and who knows, poof, my ticker could stop at a sudden shock.”
“You’ll outlive us all,” Henning Wilhelmsen said, coming onto the bridge. He was wearing his best uniform, cap and all, and he saluted Nils. “Reporting for duty, sir.”
“Yes, of course,” Nils said, and groped under the control panel for his own hat. “Throw Dick Tracy out of your chair there and we’ll get started on the pre-launch checklist.”
He found the cap and put it on; he felt uncomfortable. He took it off and looked at the dimly seen emblem on the front, the new one with the Daleth symbol on a field of stars. With a quick motion he threw the cap back under the controls.
“Remove your cap,” he said firmly. “No caps to be worn on the bridge.”
Skou stopped at the door and called back. “And thus the first great tradition of the Space Force is bom.”
“And no civilians on the bridge, either!” Nils called after the retreating, chuckling figure.
They ran through the list, which ended with calling the crew to their stations. Henning switched on the PA system, and his voice boomed the command in every compartment of the ship. Nils looked out of the port, his attention caught by a sudden bustle below. A fork lift was pushing out a prefabricated wooden platform, ready draped with bunting. It was halted just at the curve of the bow and secured in position; men, dragging wires, ran up the stairs on its rear. Everything was still going according to schedule. The phone rang and Henning answered it.
“They’re ready with that patch from the microphones now,” he told Nils.
“Tell them to stand by. Hook it into the PA after you have made an alert check on all stations.”
The crew was waiting, ready at their stations. They were checked, one by one, while Nils watched the crowd of notables come forward. A military band had appeared and was playing gustily; a thin thread of the music could be heard even through the sealed hull. The crowd parted at the stand and a tall brown-haired woman made her way up the stairs first.
“The Crown Princess Margrethe,” Nils said. “You better get that patch connected.”
The small platform was soon filled, and the PA system came on in the middle of an official speech. It was astonishingly short—Skou’s security regulations must have ordered that—and the band struck up again. Her Royal Highness stepped forward as one of the crewmen on deck lowered a line to the platform, a bottle of champagne dangling from the end. The Princess’s voice was clear, the words were simple.
“I christen thee Galathea….”
The sharp crash of the bottle against the steel hull was clearly heard. Unlike an ordinary christening the ship was not launched at once. The officials moved back to a prepared position and the platform was dragged clear. Only then were the launching orders given. The retaining blocks were knocked clear, and a sudden shudder passed through the ship.
“All compartments,” Nils said into the microphone. “See that your loose equipment is secured as instructed. Now take care of yourselves, because there is going to be a slam when we hit the water.”
They moved, faster and faster, the dark water rushing toward them. A tremor, more of a lifting surge than a shock, ran through the fabric of the ship as they struck the water. They were slowed and stopped by the weight of the chain drags, then rocked a bit in the waves caused by their own launching. The tugs and service boats closed in.
“Done!” Nils said, relaxing his hands from their tight grip on the edge of the control panel. “Is the launching always this hard on one?”
“Never!” Henning answered. “Most ships aren’t more than half-finished when they are launched—and I have never heard of one being launched that was not only ready to c
ruise but had an entire crew aboard. It’s a little shocking.”
“Unusual times cause unusual circumstances,” Nils said calmly, now that the tension of the launching was over. “Take the wheel. As long as we are seaborne you’re in command. But don’t take her down like you would one of your subs.”
“We cruised on the surface most of the time!” Henning was proud of his seamanship. “Plug me into the command circuit,” he called to the radio operator.
While Henning made sure that all of the launching supports had been towed free and that the tugs were in position, Nils checked the stations. There had been no damage, they were not shipping water. They were ready to go.
They could have moved under their own power, but it had been decided that the tugs should warp them free of the harbor first. No one knew what kind of handling characteristics this unorthodox ship would have, so the engines would not be started until they were in the unobstructed waters of the Sound. After a brief exchange of sharp, fussy blasts on their whistles, the tugs got under way. As they moved slowly down the harbor, following the torpedo boat that had weighed anchor and preceded them, they had their first clear sight of the area beyond.
“Some secret launching,” Henning said, pointing at the crowds that lined the seawall. They were cheering, waving their arms, and the bright patches of Danish flags were to be seen everywhere.
“Everyone in town knew that something was up here. Once we were launched you couldn’t stop them from turning out.”
The tugs swung a long arc and headed for the harbor entrance. The mole and seawall on either side were black with people, and still more running toward the entrance. As the ship slipped through they waved and shouted, many of them with coats over pajamas, wearing a motley array of fur hats, raincoats, anoraks, anything that could be thrown on quickly. Nils resisted a strong impulse to wave back. Then they were through, away from the lights, into the waters of the Øresund: the first waves broke over the low decks, washing around the boots of the crewmen who tended the lines there.
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