The two scuba divers, their own headlights now switched on, swam down to the spot where the mines and explosives had been attached to the legs. There were time fuses attached to both mines and explosives. Those they detached and let fall to the bottom of the ocean. For good measure they also removed the detonators. The explosives, now harmless, they unwound and let them follow the time fuses. The mines they prudently left where they were. Both men were explosives experts but not deep-water explosives experts. Mines, as many ghosts can attest, can be very tricky and unpredictable. They consist of TNT, amatol, or some such conventional explosive as the main charge. In their central tube they have a primer, which may consist of one of a variety of slow-burning explosives, and fitted to the top of the primer is a traveling detonator, activated by sea pressure, which usually consists of seventy-seven grains of fulminate of mercury. Even with this detonator removed, the primer can still detonate under immense pressure. Neither diver had any wish to blow up the pile-driven anchors or the tensioning cables attached to the anchors. Via the derrick crane they made their way back to the platform and reported to the radio room. They had to wait for some time before making their report, for Lord Worth was in a far from amicable telephone conversation with Cronkite. Marina sat apart, her hands clenched and her normally tanned face a grayish color. She looked at Mitchell, then averted her eyes as if she never wished to set eyes on him again, which, at the moment, she probably didn't. Cronkite was furious. «You murderous bastard, Worth.» He was clearly unaware that he was talking in the presence of ladies. «Three of my men dead, harpooned through the back.» Involuntarily, Marina looked at Mitchell again. Mitchell had the impression that he was either a monster from outer space or from the nethermost depths: at any rate, a monster.
Lord Worth was no less furious. «It would be a pleasure to repeat the process—with you as the central figure this time.»
Cronkite choked, then said with what might have been truth: «My intention was just temporarily to incapacitate the Seawitch without harming anyone aboard. But if you want to play it rough you'll have to find a new Seawitch in twenty-four hours. That's if you're fortunate enough to survive: I'm going to blast you out of the water.»
Lord Worth was calmer now. «It would be interesting to know how you're going to achieve that. My information is that your warships have been ordered back to base.»
«There's more than one way of blasting you out of the water.» Cronkite sounded very sure of himself. «In the meantime I'm going to offload the Torbello's oil, then sink it.» In point of fact, Cronkite had no intention of sinking the tanker: the Torbello was a Panamanian registered tanker, and Cronkite was not lacking in Panamanian friends. A tanker could be easily disposed of for a very considerable sum. The conversation, if such an acrimonious exchange could be so called, ended abruptly.
Mitchell said: «One thing's for sure. Cronkite is a fluent liar. He's nowhere near Central America. Not with that kind of reception. And we heard him talking to his friend Durand. He elected not to come on that helicopter flight—which lasted only fifteen minutes. He's lying out there somewhere just over the horizon.»
Lord Worth said: «How did things go down there?»
«You heard what Cronkite said. There was no trouble on our part.»
«Do you expect more?»
«Yeah. Cronkite sounds too damn confident for me,»
«How do you think it'll come?»
«Your guess is as good as mine. He might even try the same thing again.»
Lord Worth was incredulous. «After what happened to him?»
«He may be counting on the unexpected. One thing Tm sure of. If he does try the same again he'll» use different tactics. I'm sure he won't try an air or submarine approach, if for no other reason than that he doesn't—he can't—have skilled men. So I don't think you'll need your radar or sonar watchers tonight. In any case, your radio operator may need a rest—after all, he's got an alarm call-up in his cabin. Td keep Simpson on duty, though. Just in case our friends try for one of the legs again.»
Palermo said: «But they'd be waiting this time. They'd be operating close to the surface. They'd have armed guards waiting to protect the divers, maybe even infrared searchlights that we couldn't see from the platform. You and Sawyers were lucky the first time, and luck depends on surprise: but there wouldn't be any surprise this time.»
«We don't need luck. Lord Worth wouldn't have had all those depth charges stolen and brought aboard unless one of your men is an expert in depth charges. You've got such a man?»
«Yeah.» Palermo eyed him speculatively. «Cronin. Ex-petty officer. Why?»
«He could arrange the detonator setting so that the-depth charge would explode immediately or soon after hitting the water?»
«I guess so. Again, why?»
«We roll three depth charges along the platform to within, say, twenty-five yards of each of the legs. Your friend Cronin could advise us on this. My distance could be wrong. If Simpson detects anything on his sensors we just push one of the depth charges over the side. The blast effect should have no effect on the leg. I doubt if the boat with the divers would get anything more than a hard shaking. But for divers in the water the concussive shock effects could hardly miss being fatal.»
Palermo looked at him with cold appraising eyes. «For a man supposed to be on the side of the law, Mitchell, you're the most cold-blooded bastard Fve ever met.'*
«If you want to die just say so. You'd find it a bit uncomfortable nine hundred feet down in the Gulf. I suggest you get Cronin and a couple of your men and get going on the depth charges.»
Mitchell followed to watch Palermo, Cronin and two of their men at work. Cronin agreed with MitchelTs estimate of placing the depth charges twenty-five yards from the legs. As he stood there Marina came up to him.
She said: «More men are going to die, aren't they, Michael?»
«I hope not.»
«But you are getting ready to kill, aren't you?»
«I'm getting ready to survive. I'm getting ready for all of us to survive.»
She took his arm. «Do you like killing?»
«No.»
«Then how come you're so good at it?»
«Somebody has to be.»
«For the good of mankind, I suppose?»
«Look, you don't have to talk to me.» He paused and went on slowly. «Cops kill. Soldiers kill. Airmen kill. They don't have to like it. In the First World War a guy named Marshal Foch got to be the roost decorated soldier of the war for being responsible for the deaths of a million men. The fact that most of them were his own men would seem to be beside the point. I don't hunt, I don't shoot game, I don't even fish. I mean, I like lamb as much as the next man, but I wouldn't put a hook in one's throat and drag it around a field for half an hour before it dies from agony and exhaustion. All I do is exterminate vermin. To me, all crooks, armed or not, are vermin.»
«Is that why you and John got fired from the police?»
«Do I have to tell you that?»
«Have you ever killed what you, what I, would call a good person?»
«No. But unless you shut up—»
«In spite of everything, I think I might still marry you.»
«I've never asked you.»
«Well, what are you waiting for?»
Mitchell sighed, then smiled. «Marina Worth, would you do me the honor—»
Behind them, Lord Worth coughed. Marina swung round. «Daddy,» she said, «you have a genius for turning up at the wrong moment.»
Lord Worth was mild. «The right moment I would have said. My unreserved congratulations.» He looked at Mitchell. «Well, you certainly took your time about it. Everything shipshape and secured for the night?»