Seawitch

Chapter 9

Worth had barely begun to wipe his brow when two men hurried into the room. One was Palermo and the other was one of the rig crew, Simpson, whose duty it was to monitor the sensory instruments attached to the platform's legs and the tensioning anchor cables. He was obviously in a state of considerable agitation.

Lord Worth said: «What fresh horror does fate hold in store for us now?»

«Somebody below the rig, sir. My instruments have gone a bit haywire. Some object, almost certainly metallic, is ia intermittent contact with the western leg.»

«There can be no doubt about this?» Simpson shook his head. «Seems damnably odd that Cronkite would try to bring down the Seawitch with his own men on board.»

Mitchell said: «Maybe he doesn't want to bring it down, just damage the leg enough to destroy the buoyancy in the leg and the adjacent members and tilt the Seawitch so the drill and pump-hug mechanisms don't work. Maybe anything. Or maybe he would be prepared to sacrifice his own men to get you.» He turned to Palermo. «I know you've got scuba equipment aboard. Show me.» They left.

Marina said: «I suppose he's off to murder someone else. He's not really human, is he?»

Lord Worth looked at her without enthusiasm. «If you call being inhuman wanting to see that you don't die, then he's inhuman. There's only one person aboard this rig he really cares for, and you damned well know it. I never thought Fd be ashamed of a daughter of mine.»

Palermo had, in fact, two trained scuba divers with him, but Mitchell chose only one to accompany him. Palermo was not a man to be easily impressed, but he had seen enough of Mitchell not to question his judgment. In remarkably quick time Mitchell and the other man, who went by the name of Sawyers, were dressed in scuba outfits and were equipped with reloadable compressed-air harpoon guns and sheath knives.

They were lowered to the water by the only available means on such a giant TLP—a wire-mesh cage attached to the boom of the derrick crane. At water level they opened the hinged door, dived and swam to the giant western leg.

Simpson had made no mistake. They were indeed at work down there, two of them, attached by airlines and cables to the shadowy outline of a vessel some twenty feet above them. Both wore powerful headlamps. They_ were energetically engaged in attaching limpet mines, conventional magnetic mines and wraparound rolls of beehive amatol to the enormous leg. They had enough explosives there, Mitchell figured, to bring down the Eiffel Tower. Maybe Cronkite did intend to destroy the leg. That Cronkite was unhinged seemed more probable than not.

The two saboteurs were not only energetically engaged in their task, they were so exclusively preoccupied with it that they failed to notice the stealthy approach of Mitchell and Sawyers. The two scuba divers pressed their masks together, looked into each other's eyes—there was sufficient reflected light from the other divers to allow them to do this—and nodded simultaneously. Not much given to squeamishness where potential killers were concerned, they harpooned the two saboteurs through their backs. In both cases, death was instantaneous. Mitchell and Sawyers reloaded their compressed-air harpoons then, for good measure, sliced their two victims* breathing tubes, which also contained the communication wires.

On the Starlight, Easton and his crew were instantly aware that something had gone drastically wrong. The dead men were pulled up, the harpoons still imbedded in their backs, and as the corpses were being hauled over the gunwales two of the crew cried out in agony: Mitchell and Sawyers had surfaced and picked off two more targets. Whether either had been mortally or grievously injured was impossible to say, but far more than enough had happened for Easton to take off at speed, this time on his much faster diesels: the engines were admittedly noisy, but the darkness was so intense that it was impossible for the alerted gunners on the platform to obtain an accurate fix on them.

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?»

«As far as I can guess at what goes on in Cronkite's mind.»

«My confidence in you, my boy, is total. Well, it's bed for me—I feel, perhaps not unaccountably, extremely tired.»

Marina said: «Me, too. Well, goodnight, fiance».» She kissed him lightly and left with her father.

For once, Lord Worth's confidence in Mitchell was slightly misplaced. The latter had made a mistake, though a completely unwitting one, in sending the radio officer off duty. For had that officer remained on duty he would undoubtedly have picked up the news flash about the theft of the nuclear weapons from the Netley Rowan Arsenal: Mitchell could not have failed to put two and two together.

During the third hour of Lord Worth's conscience-untroubled sleep Mulhooney had been extremely active. He had discharged his fifty thousand tons of oil and taken the Torbello well out-to sea, far over the horizon. He returned later with two companions in the ship's only motorized lifeboat with the sad news that, in the sinking of the tanker, a shattering explosion had occurred which had decimated his crew. They three were the only survivors. The decimated crew were, at that moment, taking the Torbello south to Panama. The official condolences were widespread, apparently sincere and wholly hypocritical: when a tanker blows up its motorized lifeboat does not survive intact. The republic had no diplomatic relations with the United States, and the only things they would cheerfully have extradited to that country were cholera and the bubonic plague. A private jet awaited the three at the tiny airport. Passports duly stamped, Mulhooney and his friends filed a flight plan for Guatemala.

Some hours later they arrived at the Houston International Airport. With much of the ten million dollars still remaining at his disposal, Cron-kite was not the man to worry about incidental expenses. Mulhooney and his friends immediately hired a long-range helicopter and set out for the Gulf.

In the fourth hour of his sleep, which had remained undisturbed by the sound of a considerable underwater explosion, Lord Worth was unpleasantly awakened by a call from a seethingly mad Cronkite, who accused him of killing two more of his men and warned that he was going to extract a fearful vengeance. Lord Worth hung up without bothering to reply, sent for Mitchell and learned that Cronkite had indeed made another attempt to sabotage the western leg. The depth charge had apparently done everything expected of it, for their searchlights had picked up the bodies of two divers floating on the surface. The craft that had been carrying them could not have been seriously damaged for they had heard the sound of its diesels starting up. Instead of making a straight escape, it had disappeared under the rig, and by the time they had crossed to the other side of the Seawitch it was long gone into the darkness and rain. Lord Worth smiled happily and went back to sleep.

In the fifth hour of his sleep he would not have been smiling quite so happily if he had been aware of certain strange activities that were taking place in a remote Louisiana motel, one exclusively owned by Lord Worth himself. Here it was that the Seawitch's relief crews spent their time off in the strictest seclusion. In addition to abundant food, drink, films, TV and a high-class bordello, it offered every amenity off-duty oil-rig men could ever have wished for. Not that any of them would have wanted to leave the compound gates anyway: nine out of ten of them were wanted by the law, and total privacy was a paramount requirement.

The intruders, some twenty in all, arrived in the middle of the night. They were led by a man named Gregson: of all Cronkite's associates, he was by far the most dangerous and lethal and was possessed of the morality and instincts of a fer-de-lance with a toothache. The motel staff were all asleep and were chloroformed before they had any opportunity of regaining consciousness.

The rig relief crew, also, were all asleep but in a somewhat different fashion and for different reasons. Liquor is forbidden on oil rigs, and the relief crews on the night before returning to duty generally made the best of their last chance. Their dormant states ranged from the merely befuddled to the paralytic. The rounding up of them, most of whom remained still asleep on their feet, took no more than five minutes. The only two relatively sober members of the relief crew tried to offer resistance. Gregson, with a silenced Beretta, gunned them down as if they had been wild dogs.

The captives were transported in a completely standard, albeit temporarily purloined, moving van to an abandoned and very isolated warehouse on the outskirts of town. Somewhat less than salubrious, it was perfectly fitted for Gregson's purpose. The prisoners were neither bound nor gagged, which would have been pointless in the presence of two armed guards who carried the customary intimidating machine carbines. In point of fact, the carbines too were superfluous: the besotted captives had already drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

It was in the sixth hour of Lord Worth's equally dreamless slumber that Gregson and his men lifted off in one of Lord Worth's helicopters. The two pilots had been reluctant to accept them as passengers, but Schmeissers are powerfully persuasive agents.

It was in the seventh hour of Lord Worth's slumber that Mulhooney and his two colleagues touched down on the empty helipad of the Georgia. As Cronkite's own helicopter was temporarily marooned on the Seawitch, he had no compunction in impounding both the helicopter and its hapless pilot.

At almost exactly the same moment another

helicopter touched down on the Seawitch and a solitary passenger and pilot emerged. The passenger was Dr. Greenshaw, and he looked, and was, a very tired elderly man. He went straight to the sick bay and, without even trying to remove his clothes, lay down on one of the cots and composed himself for sleep. He should, he supposed, have reported to Lord Worth that his daughter Melinda and John Roomer were in good hands and good shape, but good news could wait.

On the eighth hour, with the dawn in the sky, Lord Worth, a man who enjoyed his sleep, awoke, stretched himself luxuriously, pulled on his splendidly embroidered dressing gown and strolled out onto the platform. The rain had stopped, the sun was tipping the horizon and there was every promise of a beautiful day to come. Privately congratulating himself on his prescience that no trouble would occur during the night, he retired to his quarters to perform his customary and leisurely morning ablutions.

Lord Worth's self-congratulations on his prescience were entirely premature. Fifteen minutes earlier the radio operator, newly returned to duty, had picked up a news broadcast that he didn't like at all and gone straight to MitchelTs room. Like every man on board, even including Larsen and Palermo, he knew that the man to contact in an emergency was Mitchell: the thought of alerting Lord Worth never entered his head.

He found Mitchell shaving. Mitchell looked tired—less than surprising, as he had spent most of the night awake. Mitchell said: «No more trouble, I hope?»

«I don't know.» He handed Mitchell a strip of teletype. It read: «Two tactical nuclear weapons stolen from the Netley Rowan Arsenal yesterday afternoon. Intelligence suspects they are being flown or helicoptered south over Gulf of Mexico to an unknown destination. A worldwide alert has been issued. Anyone able to provide information should—»

«Jesus! Get hold of this arsenal any way you can. Use Lord Worth's name. Be with you in a minute.»

Mitchell was with him in half a minute. The operator said: «I'm through already. Not much co-operation, though.»

«Give me that phone. My name's Mitchell Who's speaking, please?»

«Colonel Pryce.» The tone wasn't exactly distant, just a senior officer talking to a civilian.

«I work for Lord Worth. You can check that with the Fort Lauderdale Police, the Pentagon or the Secretary of State.» He said to the operator but loudly enough that Pryce could hear: «Get Lord Worth here. I don't care if he's in Ms damned bath, just get him here now.» Back on the phone, he said: «Colonel Pryce, an officer of your grade should know that Lord Worth's daughters have been kidnaped. I was hired to recover them and I did so. More important, this oil rig, the Seawitch, is now under threat of destruction. Two attempts have already been made. They were unsuccessful. The Pentagon will confirm that they've stopped three foreign warships headed here for the purpose of destroying the Seawitch. I believe those nukes weapons are heading this way. I want full information about them and Til warn you that Worth will interpret any failure to provide this information as a gross dereliction of duty. And you know the clout that Lord Worth has.»

There was a far from subtle change in Colonel Pryce's tone. «It's quite unnecessary to threaten me.»

«Just a minute. Lord Worth's just arrived.» Mitchell gave a brief resume of his phone conversation, making sure that Pryce could hear every word.

«Nuclear bloody bombs! That's why Cronkite said he could blast us out of the water!» Lord Worth snatched the phone from Mitchell. «Worth here. I have a hotline to the Secretary of State, Dr. Benton. I could patch him in in fifteen seconds. Do you want me to do that?»

«That will not be necessary, Lord Worth.»

«Then give us a detailed description of those damned things and tell us how they work.»

Pryce, almost eagerly, gave the description. It was almost precisely similar to the one that Captain Martin had given to the bogus Colonel Farquharson. «But Martin was a new officer and shaky on his details. The nuclear devices—you can hardly call them bombs—are probably twice as effective as he said. They took the wrong type —those devices have no black button to shut off in emergency. And they have a ninety-minute setting, not sixty. And they can be radio-activated.»

«Something complicated? I mean, a VHP number or something of the kind?»

«Something very uncomplicated. You can't expect a soldier in the heat of battle to remember abstruse numbers. It's simply a pear-shaped device with a plastic seal. Strip that off and turn a black switch through three hundred and sixty degrees. It's important to remember that turning this switch off will deactivate the detonating mechanism in the device. It can be turned on again at any time.»

«If it should be used against us ... we have a huge oil-storage tank nearby. Wouldn't this cause a massive oil slick?»

«Sir—oil is by nature combustible and much more easily vaporized than steel.»

«Thank you.»

«Seems to me you need a squadron of super-sonic fighter-bombers out there. I'll relay the request, but they'll have to get Pentagon permission first.»

«Thank you again.»

Lord Worth and Mitchell left for the former's quarters. Lord Worth said: «Two things. We're only assuming, although it would be dangerous not to assume, that those damned things are meant for us. Besides, if we keep our radar, sonar and sensory posts manned I don't see how Cron-kite could approach and deliver them.»

«It's hard to see how. But then, it's harder to figure out that bastard's turn of mind.»

From Lord Worth's helicopter Gregson made contact with the Georgia. «We're fifteen miles out.»

Cronkite himself replied, «We'll be airborne in ten.»

A wall radio crackled in Lord Worth's room. «Helicopter approaching from the northeast.»

«No sweat. Relief crew.»

Lord Worth had gone back to his shower when the relief helicopter touched down. Mitchell was in his laboratory, looking very professional in his white coat and glasses. Dr. Greenshaw was still asleep.

Apart from gagging and manacling the pilots, the helicopter passengers had offered them no violence. They disembarked in quiet and orderly fashion. The drill duty crew observed their arrival without any particular interest. They had been well-trained to mind their own business and had highly personal reasons for not fraternizing with unknowns. And the new arrivals were unknowns. Off the coast Lord Worth owned no fewer than nine oil rigs—all legally leased and paid for— and for reasons best known to his devious self he was in the habit of regularly rotating his drill crews. The new arrivals carried the standard shoulder-slung clothesbags. Those bags did indeed contain a minimal amount of clothes, but not clothing designed to be worn: the clothes were there merely to conceal and muffle the shape of the machine pistols and other more deadly weapons in the bags.

Thanks to the instructions he had received from Cronkite via Durand, Gregson knew exactly where to go. He noted the presence of two idly patrolling guards and marked them down for death.

He led his men to the oriental quarters, where they laid their bags on the platform and unzipped them. Windows were smashed and what followed was sheer savage massacre. Within half a dozen seconds of machine-gun fire, bazooka fire and incinerating flamethrowers, all of which had been preceded by a flurry of tear-gas bombs, all screaming inside had ceased. The two advancing guards were mown down even as they drew their guns. The only survivor was Larsen, who had been in his own private room in the back: Palermo and all his men were dead.

Figures appeared almost at the same instant from the quarters at the end of the block. Soundproofed though those quarters were, the noise outside had been too penetrating not to be heard. There were four of them—two men in white coats, a man in a Japanese kimono and a black-haired guard in a wrap. One of Gregson's men fired twice at the nearest white-coated figure, and Mitchell staggered and fell backward to the deck. Gregson brutally smashed the wrist of the man who had fired, who screamed in agony as the gun fell from his shattered hand.

«You bastard idiot!» Gregson's voice was as vicious as his appearance. «The hard men only, Mr. Cronkite said.»

Gregson was nothing if not organized. He detailed five groups of two men. One group herded the drilling-rig crew into the occidental quarters. The second, third and fourth went respectively to the sensory room, the sonar room and the radar room. There they tied up but did not otherwise harm the operators, before they riddled all the equipment with a burst of machine-gun bullets. For all practical purposes, the Seawitch was now blind, deaf and benumbed. The fifth group went to the radio room, where the operator was tied up but his equipment left intact Dr. Greenshaw approached Gregson. «You are the leader?»

«Yes.»

“Tm a doctor.» He nodded to Mitchell, whose white coat accentuated the stains

«We got no quarrel with you,» Gregson said, which was, unwittingly, the most foolish remark he'd ever made.

Dr. Greenshaw helped the weak and staggering Mitchell into the sick bay, where, the door closed behind him, he made an immediate and remarkable recovery. Marina stared at him in astonishment, then in something approaching relieved ire.

«Why, you deceiving ...»

«That's no way to talk to a wounded man.» He was pulling off his white coat, coat and shirt. *Tve never seen you cry before. Makes you look even more beautiful. And that's real blood.» He turned to Dr. Greenshaw. «Superficial wound on the left shoulder, a scratch on the right forearm. Dead-eye Dick himself. Now do a real good job on me, Doc. Right arm bandaged from elbow to wrist. Left arm bandaged from shoulder to above the elbow with a great big sling. Marina, even ravishing beauties like you carry face powder. I hope you're no exception.»

Not yet mollified, she said stiffly: «I have some. Baby powder,» she added nastily.

«Get it, please.»

Five minutes later, Mitchell had been rendered into the epitome of the walking wounded. His right arm was heavily bandaged and his left arm was swathed in white from shoulder to wrist. The sling was voluminous. His face was very pale. He left for his room and returned a few seconds later.

«Where have you been?» she asked suspiciously.

He reached inside the depths of the sling and pulled out his silenced .38. «Fully loaded.» He returned it to its hiding place, where it was quite invisible.

«Never give up, do you?» Her voice held a curious mixture of awe and bitterness.

«Not when I'm about to be vaporized.»

Dr. Greenshaw stared at him. «What do you mean?»

«Our friend Cronkite has heisted a couple of -tactical nuclear weapons. He plans to finish off the Seawitch in Fourth of July style. He should be here about now. Now, Doc, I want you to do something for me. Take the biggest medical bag you have and tell Gregson that it is your humanitarian duty to go into the occidental quarters to help any of the dying, or, if necessary, put them out of their agony. I know they've got a fair supply of hand grenades in there. I want some.»

«No sooner said than done. God, you look awful! Destroys my faith in myself as a doctor.»

They went outside. Cronkite's helicopter was indeed just touching down. Cronkite himself was the first out, followed by Mulhooney, the three bogus officers who had stolen the nuclear weapons, the commandeered pilot and, lastly, Easton. Easton was the unknown quantity. Mitchell did not appreciate it at the time but Easton's Starlight had been so badly damaged by the depth charge that it was no longer serviceable. Less than four miles away what appeared to be a coast guard cutter was heading straight for the Sea-witch. It required no guessing to realize that this was the missing Hammond, the infamous Tiburon, the present Georgia.

Dr. Greenshaw approached Gregson. (Td like to have a look at what you've left of those quarters. Maybe there's someone still alive in there . . .»

Gregson pointed to an iron door. 4Tm more interested in who's in there. Spicer»—this to one of his men—»a bazooka shot at that lock.»

'That's hardly necessary,» Greenshaw said mildly. «A knock from me is all that's needed. That's Commander Larsen, the boss of the oil rig. He's no enemy of yours. He just sleeps here because he likes his privacy.» Dr. Greenshaw knocked. «Commander Larsen, ifs okay. It's me, Greenshaw. Come on out If you don't, there're some people who're going to blast your door down and you with it. Come on, man.»

There was the turning of a heavy key and Larsen emerged. He looked dazed, almost shell-shocked, as well he might. He said: «What the hell goes on?»

«You've been taken over, friend,» Gregson said. Larsen was dressed, Greenshaw was pleased to note, in a voluminous lumberjacket cinched at the waist. «Search him.» They searched and found nothing.

«Where's Scoffield?» Larsen said. Greenshaw said: «In the other quarters. He should be okay.» «Palermo?»

«Dead. And all his men. At least I think so. I'm just going to have a look.» Stooping his shoulders to look more nearly eighty than seventy, Dr. Greenshaw shambled along the shattered corridor, but he could have saved himself the trouble of acting. Gregson had just met Cronkite outside the doorway and the two men «were talking in animated and clearly self-congratulatory terms.

After the first few steps, Greenshaw realized that there could be nobody left alive in that charnel house. Those who were dead were very dead indeed, most of them destroyed beyond recognition, either cut up by machine-gun fire, shattered by bazookas or shriveled by the fiame-throwers. But he did find the primary reason of his visit—a box of hand grenades in prime condition and a couple of Schmeisser subautomatics, fully loaded. A few of the grenades he stuffed into the bottom of his medical bag. He peered out one of the shattered windows at the back and found the area below in deep shadow. He carefully lowered some grenades to the platform and the two Schmeissers beside them. Then he made his way outside again.

It was apparent that Cronkite and Lord Worth had already met, although the meeting could not have been a normal one. Lord Worth was lying apparently senseless on his back, blood flowing from smashed lips and apparently broken nose, while both cheeks were badly bruised. Marina was bending over him, daubing at his wounds with a flimsy handkerchief. Cronkite, his face unmarked but his knuckles bleeding, had apparently, for the moment at least, lost interest in Lord Worth, no doubt waiting until Lord Worth had regained full consciousness before starting in on him again.

Lord Worth whispered between smashed lips: «Sorry, my darling; sorry, my beloved. My fault and all my fault. The end of the road.»

«Yes.» Her voice was as low as his own, but strangely there were no tears in her eyes. «But not for us. Not while Michael is alive.»

Lord Worth looked at Michael through rapidly closing eyes. «What can a cripple like that do?»

She said quietly but with utter conviction: «He'll kill Cronkite and his whole mob.»

He tried to smile through his smashed lips. «I thought you hated killing.»

«Not vermin. Not people who do things like this to you.»

Mitchell spoke quietly to Dr. Greenshaw, then botH men approached Cronkite and Gregson, who broke off what appeared to be either a discussion or an argument. Dr. Greenshaw said: «You've done your damn murderous work all too well, Gregson. There's hardly a soul hi there even recognizable as a human being.»

Cronkite said: «Who's he?»

«A doctor.»

Cronkite looked at Mitchell, who was looking worse by the minute, «And this?»

«A scientist. Shot by mistake.»

«He's in great pain,» Greenshaw said. «Fve no X-ray equipment, but I suspect the arm's broken just below the shoulder.»

Cronkite was almost jovial, the joviality of a man now almost detached from reality. «An hour from now he won't be feeling a thing.»

Greenshaw said wearily: «I don't know what you mean. I want to take him back to the sick bay and give him a pain-killing injection.»

«Why, sure: I want everyone to be fully prepared for what's about to happen.»

«And what's that?»

«Later, later.»

Greenshaw and the unsteady Mitchell moved off. They reached the sick bay, passed inside, went through the opposite side and made their unobserved way to the radio room. Greenshaw stood guard just inside the door while Mitchell, ignoring the bound operator, went straight to the transceiver. He raised the Roamer inside twenty seconds.

«Give me Captain Conde.»

«Speaking.»

«On your next circuit out to the oil tank get around behind it, then head south at full speed. The Seawitch has been taken over, but I'm sure there's nobody here who can operate the antiaircraft guns. Stop at twenty miles and issue a general warning to all ships and aircraft not to approach within twenty miles of the Seawitch. You have its co-ordinates.»

«Yes. But why—»

«Because there's going to be a mighty big bang. Christ's sake, don't argue.»

«Don't argue about what?» a voice behind Mitchell said.

Mitchell turned round slowly. The man behind the pistol was smiling a smile that somehow lacked a genuine warmth. Greenshaw had been pushed to one side and the gun moved in a slow arc covering them both. «I got a hunch Gregsoa would like to see you both.»

Mitchell rose, turned, half-staggered and clutched his right forearm inside the sling. Greenshaw said sharply: «God's sake, man, can't you see he's ill?»

The man glanced at Greenshaw for just a second, but a second was all that Mitchell required. The bullet from the silenced .38 took the gunman through the heart. Mitchell peered through the doorway. There was a fair degree of shadow there, no one in sight and the edge of the platform not more than twenty feet away. A few seconds later the dead man vanished over the edge. Mitchell and Greenshaw returned to the main body of the company via the sick bay. Cronkite and Gregson were still in deep discussion. Larsen stood some distance apart, apparently in a state of profound dejection. Greenshaw approached him and said quietly: «How do you feel?»

«How would you feel if you knew they intended to kill us all?»

«You'll feel better soon. Round the back of the building, when you get the chance, you'll find some hand grenades which should rest comfortably inside that lumberjacket of yours. You'll also find two loaded Schmeissers. I have a few grenades in my bag here. And Mitchell has his .38 inside his sling.»

Larsen took care not to show his feelings. He looked as morose as ever. All he said was: «Boy, oh boy, oh boy.»

Lord Worth was on his feet now, supported by his daughter. Mitchell joined them. «How do you feel?»

Lord Worth mouthed his words with understandable bitterness. «I'm in great shape.”

«You'll feel better soon.» He lowered his voice and spoke to Marina. «When I give the word, say you want to go to the ladies' room. But don't go there. Go to the generator room. You'll see a red lever there marked 'Deck Lights.' Pull it down. After you count twenty, throw it back on again.»

Cronkite and Gregson appeared to have finished their discussion. From Cronkite's smile it appeared that his view had prevailed. Lord Worth, Marina, Larsen, Greenshaw and Mitchell stood together, a forlorn and huddled group. Facing them were the ranks of Cronkite, Mul-hooney, Easton, and the bogus Colonel Farqu-harson, Lieutenant-Colonel Dewings, Major Breckley, Gregson and his killers, a formidable group and armed to the teeth.

Cronkite spoke to a man by his side. «Check.»

The man lifted a walkie-talkie, spoke into it and nodded. He said to Cronkite: «Charges secured in position.»

«Excellent. Teh1 them to go due north for twenty miles and stay there.» This was done. Unfortunately for Cronkite, his view to the west was blocked by the shattered building behind him and he could not see that the Roomer was already proceeding steadily to the south.

Cronkite smiled. «Well, Worth, it's the end of the road for both you and the Seawitch.» He dug into a pocket and produced a black pear-shaped metal container. «This is a radioactive detonating device. Note this small switch here. It's supposed to be good for sixty minutes, but I have already run off ten minutes of it. Fifty more minutes and poof: the Seawitch, you, Worth, and everyone aboard will be vaporized. Nobody's going to feel a thing, I assure you.»

«You mean you intend to kill all my innocent employees aboard the rig? Cronkite, you are stark raving mad.»

«Never saner. Can't have any witnesses left to identify us. Then we destroy two of the helicopters, cripple your derrick crane, smash your radio room and take off in the other two helicopters. You could, of course, figure on jumping into the Gulf, but your chances of survival would be about the same as a suicide jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge.»

Mitchell nudged Marina. She said in a faint voice: «May I go to the ladies' room?»

Cronkite was joviality itself. « 'Course. But make it snappy.»

Fifteen seconds later the deck lights went out.

In the end it was Mitchell, with his extraordinary capacity to see in the dark, who ran round the corner of the shattered building, retrieved the two Schmeissers—he didn't bother about the grenades—returned and thrust one into Larsen's hands. In eight seconds two men with submachine guns can achieve an extraordinary amount of carnage. Larsen was firing blind but Mitchell could see and pick out his targets. They were helped in a most haphazard fashion by Dr. Greenshaw, who flung grenades at random, inflicting even more damage on the already shattered building but not actually injuring anyone.

The lights came on again.

There were still seven people left alive—Cron-kite, Mulhooney, Easton, Gregson and three of his men. To those seven Mitchell said: «All right, drop your guns.» Shattered and stunned though the survivors were, they still had enough wits left to comply at once.

Marina arrived back and was promptly sick in a very unladylike fashion.

Mitchell put down his Schmeisser and advanced on Cronkite. «Give me that detonating device.»

Cronkite removed it slowly from his pocket and lifted his arm preparatory to throwing it over the side. Whatever else, it would have meant the destruction of the Seawitch. Cronkite screamed in agony as the bullet from MitchelTs .38 shattered his right elbow. Mitchell caught the detonating device even before it could reach the deck.

He said to Larsen: «Are there two absolutely secure places, with no windows and iron doors, which can be locked without any possibility of opening them from the inside?»

«Just two. Safe as Fort Knox vaults. Along here.»

«Search these guys and search them thoroughly. Make sure they haven't even got a penknife.»

Larsen searched. «Not even a penknife.» He led them to a steel-reinforced cell-like structure and he and Mitchell ushered them inside.

In spite of his agony, Cronkite said: «You're not going to leave us in here, for God's sake!»

«Same as you were going to leave us.» Mitchell paused, then added soothingly: «As you said, you won't feel a thing.» He closed the door, double-locked it and put the key in his pocket. He said to Larsen: «The other cell?»

«Along here.»

«This is madness!» Lord Worth's voice was almost a shout. «The Seawitch is safe now. Why in God's name destroy it?»

Mitchell ignored him. He glanced at the timing device on the detonator. «Twenty-nine minutes to go. We'd better move.» He placed the device on the floor of the cell, locked the door and sent the key spinning far out over the Gulf. «Get the men out of the occidental buildings, and out of the sensory, radar, sonar and radio rooms and make sure that all the helicopter pilots are safe.» He glaaced at his watch. «Twenty-five minutes.»

Everyone moved with alacrity except for Lord Worth, who merely stood with a stunned look on his face. Larsen said: «Do we need this mad rush?»

Mitchell said mildly: «How do we know that the settings on that detonator are accurate?»

The mad rush redoubled itself. Thirteen minutes before the deadline the last of the helicopters took off and headed south. The first to land on the Roomer's helipad held Mitchell, Larsen, Lord Worth and his daughter, in addition to the doctor and several rig men, while the other helicopters still hovered overhead. They were still only about fourteen miles south of the Seawitch, which was as far as the Roamer had succeeded in getting. But Mitchell reckoned the margin of safety more than sufficient. He spoke to Conde, who assured him that every vessel and aircraft had been warned to keep as far away as possible from the danger area.

When the Seawitch blew up, dead on schedule, it did so with a spectacular effect that would have satisfied even the most ghoulish. There was even a miniature mushroom cloud such as the public had become accustomed to in the photographs of detonating atom bombs. Seventeen seconds later, those on the Roamer heard the thunderclap of sound, and shortly afterward a series of miniature but harmless tidal waves rocked but did not unduly disturb the Roamer.

After Mitchell had told Conde to broadcast the news to all aircraft and shipping, he turned to find a stony-faced Marina confronting him.

«Well, you've lost Daddy his Seawitch. I do hope you're satisfied with yourself.»

«My, my, how bitter we are. Yes, it's a satisfactory job, even if I have to say it myself: obviously nobody else is going to.»

«Why? Why? Why?»

«Every man who died there was a murderer, some of them mass murderers. They might have got away to countries with no extradition treaties with us. Even if they were caught, their cases might have dragged on for years. It would have been very difficult to get proof. And, of course, parole after a few years. This way, we know they'll never kill again.»

«And it was worth it to destroy Daddy's pride and joy?»

«Listen, stupid. My father-in-law-to-be is—»

«That he'll never be.» She was glaring at him.

«So okay. The old pirate is almost as big a crook as any of them. He associated with and hired for lethal purposes known criminals. He broke into two federal arsenals and mounted the equipment on the Seawitch. If the Seawitch had survived, federal investigators would have been aboard in an hour or so. He'd have got at least fifteen to twenty years hi prison, and he'd probably have died in prison.» Now her eyes were wide, with fear and understanding. «But now every last bit of evidence is at the bottom of the Gulf. Nothing can ever be traced against him.»

«That's really why you vaporized the Sea-witch?»

He eyed her affectionately. «Why should I admit anything to an ex-fiancee?»

«Mrs. Michael Mitchell.» She mused. «I suppose I could go through life with a worse name.»