The pilot registered a degree of surprise. «I was told to fly straight back.»
«Won't be long. Seems Cronkite is anxious to see Worth and his daughters.»
The pilot grinned and took the envelope from Palermo. He opened it, examined both sides of a blank sheet of paper and said: «What gives?»
«This.» Palermo showed him a gun about the size of a small cannon. «Don't be a dead hero.»
The platform lights went out and six searchlights came on. Larsen's stentorian voice carried clearly. «Throw down your guns. You haven't got a chance.»
One of Mortensen's men suicidally thought different He flung himself to the platform deck, loosed off a burst of submachine fire and successfully killed one of the searchlights. If he felt any sense of gratification it must have been the shortest on record, for he was dead before the shattered glass stopped tinkling down on the platform. The other eight men threw down their guns.
Palermo sighed. He said to the pilot: «See? Dead heroes are no good to anyone. Come on.»
Eight of the nine men, including the pilot, were shepherded into a windowless storeroom and locked inside. The ninth, Mortensen, was taken to the radio room where he was shortly joined by Mitchell. For the occasion, Mitchell had changed into a boiler suit and makeshift hood, which not only effectively masked his face but also muffled his voice. He had no wish to be identified.
He produced the paper on which he had made notes, screwed the muzzle of his .38 into the base of Mortensen's neck, told him to contact Cronkite and read out the message and that the slightest deviation from the script would mean a shattered brain. Mortensen was no fool and in his peculiar line of trade he had looked into the face of death more than once. He made the contact, said all was well, that he and Durand were in complete control of the Seawitch, but that it might be several hours before the helicopter could return, as last-minute engine failure had damaged the undercarriage. Cronkite seemed reasonably satisfied and hung up.
When Larsen and Mitchell returned to Lord Worth's cabin the latter seemed in a more cheerful frame of mind. The Pentagon had reported that the two naval vessels from Cuba and the one from Venezuela were stopped in the water and appeared to be waiting instructions. The Torbello was on its way again and was expected to arrive in Galveston in ninety minutes. Lord Worth might have felt less satisfied if he'd known that the Torbello, shaking hi every rivet, seam and plate, was several hundred miles from Galveston, traveling southwest in calm seas. Mulhooney was in no mood to hang around.
Marina said accusingly: «I heard shots being fired out there.»
«Just warning shots in the air,» Mitchell said, «Scares the hell out of people.»
«You made them all prisoner.»
Lord Worth said irritably: «Don't talk nonsense. Now do be quiet. The commander and I have important matters to discuss.»
«We'll leave,» Mitchell said. He looked at Marina. «Come on—let's see the patients off.»
They followed the two stretchers out to the helicopter. They were accompanied by Durand and Aaron—both with their hands tied behind their backs and on a nine-inch hobble—Dr. Greenshaw and one of Palermo's men, a menacing individual with a sawed-off shotgun who was to ride guard on the captives until they reached the mainland.
Mitchell said to Marina: «Last chance.»
«No.»
«We're going to make a great couple,» Mitchell said gloomily. «Monosyllabic, yet.»
They said their goodbyes, watched the helicopter lift off and made their way back to Lord Worth's quarters. Both Worth and Larsen were on separate lines, and from the expressions on their faces it was clear that they were less happy with life than they might have been. Both men were trying, with zero effect, to obtain some additional tankerage. There were, in fact, some half-dozen idle tankers on the south and east coasts in the 50,000-ton range, but all belonged to the major oil companies, who would have gone to the stake before chartering any of their vessels to the North Hudson Oil Company. The nearest tankers of the required tonnage were either in Britain, Norway or the Mediterranean, and to have brought them across would have involved an intolerable loss of time, not to say money—this last matter lying very close to Lord Worth's heart. He and Larsen had even considered bringing one of their supertankers into service, but had decided against it. Because of the tankers' huge carrying capacity, the loss in revenue would have been unbearably high—and what had happened to the Crusader might happen to a supertanker. True, they were insured at Lloyd's, but that august firm's marine-accident investigators were notoriously, if justifiably, cagey, prudent and cautious men; and although they invariably settled any genuine claim, they tended to deliberate at length before making any final decision.
Another call came through from the Torbello. On course, its estimated time of arrival in Gal-veston was one hour. Lord Worth said gloomily that they had at least two tankers in operation: they would just have to step up their already crowded schedules.
One half hour later another message came through from the tanker. One half hour to Gal-veston. Lord Worth might have felt less assured had he known that now that dark had fallen, the Starlight, leaving the Georgia where it was, had already moved away in the direction of the Sea-witch, its engines running on its electrical batteries. Its chances of sonar detection by the Seawitch were regarded as extremely small. It carried with it highly skilled divers and an unpleasant assortment of mines, limpet mines and amatol beehives, all of which could be activated by remote radioactive control.
Yet another half hour passed before the welcome news came through that the tanker Torbello was safely berthed in Galveston. Lord Worth informed Larsen he intended to make an immediate voice-link call to the port authorities in Galveston to ensure the fastest turnaround ever, money no object
He got his voice link in just one minute—the Lord Worths of this world are never kept waiting. When he made his customary peremptory demands the harbormaster expressed a considerable degree of surprise.
«I really don't know what you're talking about, sir.»
«Goddam it, I always know what I'm talking about.»
«Not in this case, Lord Worth, I'm afraid you've been misinformed or hoaxed. The Torbello has not arrived.»
«But dammit, I've just heard—»
«One moment, please.»
The moment passed into about thirty during which Mitchell thoughtfully brought Lord Worth a glass of scotch, which he half-consumed at one gulp. Then the voice came through again.
«Bad news. There's not only no sign of your tanker, but our radar scanners show no signs of any vessel of that size within a radius of forty miles.»
«Then, what the devil can have happened to her? I was speaking to her only two or three minutes ago.»
«On her own call sign?»
«Yes, dammit»
*Then obviously she's in no trouble.»
Lord Worth hung up without as much as a courtesy thank you. He glowered at Larsen and Mitchell as if what had happened had been their fault. He said at length: «I can only conclude that the captain of the Torbello has gone off his rocker.»
Mitchell said: «And I conclude that he's under lock and key aboard his own ship.'*
Lord Worth was heavily ironic. «In addition to your many other accomplishments you've now become psychic.»
«Your Torbello has been hijacked.»
«Hijacked! Hijacked? Now you've gone off your rocker. Who ever heard of a tanker being hijacked?»
«Who ever heard of a jumbo jet being hijacked until the first one was? After what happened to the Crusader in Galveston, the captain of the Torbello would have been extremely leery of being approached, much less boarded, by any other vessel unless it were a craft with respectability beyond question. The only two such types of craft are naval or coast guard. WeVe heard that the Marine Gulf Corporation's survey vessel has been stolen. A lot of those survey vessels are ex-coast guard with landing space for a helicopter to carry out seismological pattern bombing. That ship was called the Hammond. With your connections you could find out about it in minutes.»