One thing he was certain of. Whether the final orders ever came through from Washington or not… Murdock was going to find the people responsible for kidnapping Inge Schmidt.
And then he was going to kill them… if he had to force-feed them their own basement nuke one gram of plutonium at a time.
11
“Captain? They’re asking to talk to you.”
Captain Dennis M. Scott swiveled in his vinyl-backed chair, his face stage-lit by the eerie green glow of the radar screen on the bridge console a few feet away. Greg Pelso, his radio officer, had emerged from the dim-lit recesses of the aft bridge space. He sounded both excited and worried.
Scott grunted. “Kathy? How far out now?”
“About ten miles, Captain,” Kathy Moskowiec, the ship’s third mate, announced from the bridge radar console. “Bearing one-nine-five. Closing at one-twenty.”
“Anything else close by?”
“Nothing new. That fishing boat’s still in our wake, about three miles back. Rico Gallant and Perth Amboy are to the north and north-northwest, eight miles, and I’ve got returns from the Viking and Ann production centers to the southwest. The rest is sea clutter.”
“Very well.” Behind them, just ninety miles astern, lay the eastern entrance to the English Channel, and one of the busiest waterways in the world, but if it wasn’t for the ship’s radar, it would be easy to look out those enormous, slanted wheelhouse windows and imagine that the tanker was completely alone in all that vast, black ocean.
It was pitch black out, a raw, moonless night with an overcast sky and five-foot seas that managed to make themselves felt even aboard so large and massive a vessel as the Noramo Pride. Earlier, it had been raining, with gusts of wind approaching thirty knots. Now, however, it was simply raw, wet, and blustery… in short, a typical mid-spring night on the North Sea.
Though not a supertanker, the Pride was a true monster, 883 feet long, 138 feet abeam, and massing some 120,000 deadweight tons. From keel to main deck she measured sixty-eight feet, and when fully loaded, her thirteen cargo tanks could carry some 35.5 million gallons of crude oil. Her crew numbered twenty-four. Moments before, they’d received a radioed message for assistance from a military helicopter a few miles to the south, a Royal Dutch Marine Luchtvaardienst flight out of de Kooij. Now it was up to Scott to make the decision about what they would — or could — do about it.
Scott slid out of the captain’s chair and followed Pelso back to the Noramo Pride’s radio shack, a small area across from the chart room made cramped by the consoles and electronic gear arrayed across three of the bulkheads. Reaching up to his face, he eased his glasses off his nose and rubbed his eyes. He still felt groggy and not entirely awake. Until twenty minutes ago he’d been asleep — his bridge watch had ended at 2200 hours — but they’d called him when the distress message had come through.
Pelso picked up a microphone and held it close to his mouth. “Royal Netherlands Flight Three-one, this is the Noramo Pride,” he said, holding down the transmit key. “Do you read me, over?”
“Noramo Pride, this is Flight Three-one!” came from the speakers mounted high on the bulkhead. The voice, speaking English with a thick, north European accent, was tight and carried a note of urgency; behind it, Scott could hear the hiss of static and the dull, rapidly throbbing boom that meant the speaker was aboard a helicopter. “We copy. Go ahead.”
“Three-one, I have the captain here.” Pelso handed the mike to Scott.
“Royal Netherlands Flight Three-one, this is Captain Scott. What is the exact nature of your emergency?”
“Ah, Captain. We’re getting some very severe high-frequency vibration here. Probably means some trouble associated with the engine, a defective clutch, perhaps, or a bad bearing. We need to set down someplace, and quickly! I formally request permission to land on your deck. Over.”
“Flight Three-one, the Noramo Pride is an oil tanker, not an aircraft carrier. Trying to land a helicopter aboard, a malfunctioning helicopter—”
“Captain,” the voice interrupted. “This is an emergency or I would not have made the request. We have no warning lights showing. The engine is not overheating and there is no indication of fire on board. But I cannot possibly make it back to shore. I need a place to touch down, and your ship is the only choice available. I have fifteen passengers on board this aircraft. Do you have any idea how long they’ll survive if I have to set down in the sea? Over!”
“I read you, Three-one. Wait one.”
Scott thought hard for several seconds, trying to banish the grogginess and see the situation straight. For obvious reason, oil tanker skippers were hesitant about letting any potential fire hazard approach their mammoth charges… and hazard in that context didn’t just mean a fire, but any possible source of a spark. That most certainly included turning rotors or possibly faulty engines. Still, tankers often received supplies, mail, or changes of personnel at sea via helicopter, and if the pilot was any good there shouldn’t be a major problem having them touch down. Besides, there was a moral obligation. All vessels were required to go to the aid of any other party in distress at sea.
That helo pilot was very right about one thing. The water temperature in this part of the North Sea right now was something like forty degrees… frigid enough to kill an unprotected man in scant minutes, and in the middle of the night, it would be impossible to find everyone in time. Men were going to die if that helicopter ditched at sea.
At the same time, Scott was responsible for the safety of his immense charge and her crew.
Fortunately, the Noramo Pride was riding empty at the moment, her only cargo some ten and a half million gallons of ballast sea water, pumped aboard to hold the tanker deep and steady in the rough seas. There was always the danger of explosive gases trapped in her below-deck spaces, of course, but the ship possessed a state-of-the-art inert gas system, which pumped exhaust gases from the ship’s engine into the empty tankage spaces below her forward deck, replacing the oxygen there so that explosive or inflammable gases couldn’t ignite. It ought to be safe enough. If the pilot seemed to be having difficulties during the approach, Scott could always request that he ditch in the sea nearby while the tanker’s crew stood by in lifeboats, ready to haul them out of the water.
In this heavy a sea, the rescue operation alone would put Scott’s own people at serious risk. It would be a lot simpler and safer all the way around to let that Dutch helicopter set down on his forward deck.
He held the mike to his mouth, pressing the transmit key.
“Flight Three-one, Noramo Pride. What type of aircraft are you? And you’d better give me the dimensions of your rotor. Over.”
“Noramo Pride, this is Three-one. We are a Westland Naval Lynx, Mark 81. Our rotor diameter is twelve point eight meters.”
Twelve point eight meters… that was about forty, no, forty-two feet. There would be plenty of room, so long as the pilot had a good, clear approach to the deck.
“Will you be able to jettison most of your fuel before you land?”
“That is affirmative, Noramo Pride.”
“Very well, Three-one. You are clear to land on my forward deck. We’ll have a spot cleared and lit up for you. Over.”