A second radio call had arrived from the tanker at 5:30. Adler had warned Brayson once again that he was not to communicate with his superiors ashore — well, it was too late for that warning to have meaning — and informed him that the men aboard the Noramo Pride possessed portable rocket launchers, trained now on Bouddica Alpha’s gas-processing plant and separators.
That announcement had crushed any thought Brayson might have been entertaining about resisting the terrorists, now that their tanker was at rest and no longer a threat to the platform. In retrospect, Brayson had to admit that this operation had been carefully planned, each step designed to force only the next level of compliance from the BGA people on Bouddica. He dared not resist in the face of threatened rocket fire, not when an explosion in the separators could loose a fireball that would engulf the entire platform.
The terrorists, obviously, were counting on his reluctance to risk the one disaster most dreaded by all oil-platform workers.
The helicopter landed on Alpha shortly after dawn, touching down on the helipad atop the crews’ quarters and disgorging a small army of black-clad men carrying automatic weapons. Adler had radioed further instructions. As directed, Bouddica’s full complement, save for the Celtic Maiden’s crew, was waiting in the platform’s main recreation hall when Adler finally made his appearance. It had been a rude awakening for the off-duty crew members. Many were still in their underwear or were wearing bathrobes. Brayson watched with slowly mounting anger as three of Adler’s men made a careful count of everyone present.
“Drei hundert zwei, ” one of the terrorists reported when the last person was counted.
“Which with the ten on the tug makes three hundred twelve,” Adler said, nodding with apparent satisfaction. He was standing with Brayson near the center of the enormous room, with the crowd ringed around them in near-silent, watchful dread. “Good. I am pleased to see that your crew is well behaved, Mr. Brayson. That will make things considerably easier.”
He was a tall, powerful, blond-haired man with the evident self-confidence born of training and experience. Unlike the others, he wasn’t carrying a submachine gun, but he did have an automatic pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He did not require the gun, however, to convince Brayson that he was a dangerous man.
“That was not my intent,” Brayson said through clenched teeth. “Listen. I don’t know what your political philosophy is, what you hope to gain here, but—”
“My philosophy,” Adler said quietly, “is to accept no interference from anyone.” He paused and looked about the room. As big as a fair-sized school auditorium, it was luxuriously furnished, with thick carpeting, modern furniture, and an enormous central open fireplace. The room was located near the center of Bouddica’s living quarters module, and there were no windows. At the moment, with over three hundred BGA employees crowded inside, with black-garbed men holding submachine guns standing around the crowd’s perimeter, it felt claustrophobic.
Adler raised one hand and ran it along the edge of the gleaming copper-colored hood above the central fireplace pit. He smiled. “A fireplace? I’d heard you people were extraordinarily careful about sparks and flames in a place such as this.”
Brayson said nothing but wondered what Adler might be driving at. It was true that care was taken aboard the platform to avoid igniting the odorless and invisible natural gas fumes that could spread from an unsuspected leak. Visitors to Bouddica’s work areas were asked to remove everything that might cause a spark, even the tiny batteries for the light meters and flashes in their cameras. The main rec room, however, was carefully sealed and was in fact one of the safest areas on the platform, reinforced against blast and equipped with elaborate automated-sprinkler and foam devices. Large amounts of money had been spent in Bouddica’s construction to attract and keep skilled workers on this lonely North Sea outpost, on tours of duty that balanced two weeks of isolated and demanding work here with four weeks off ashore.
“Your people will stay here,” Adler said after another moment’s inspection of the area. “I see sanitary facilities down there at the end, and we can have food brought in from your commissary as needed. My men will organize small working parties from your group to go to the sleeping quarters and bring mattresses here. It should be quite cozy.”
“You sound as though you plan to stay for a while.”
Adler regarded him coldly. “As long as is necessary, Mr. Brayson. If all goes well, I and my men will leave in a few days, taking a few of you with us to ensure our safe passage to our destination. Those whom we select will be released once our own safety is guaranteed. I assure you that we are not murderers. If you do as you are told, all of you should come through this safely. Understand?”
Jerkily, Brayson nodded.
“Good. Your people will be searched to ensure that none are hiding weapons. Your employees aboard the safety craft will be brought here shortly. After that a count will be made at intervals to make certain that all are present. If anyone is missing, five of your people will be shot for each missing person. Do I make myself clear?”
The captain nodded again.
“You will impress upon your people the necessity of obeying our orders. First among these.” Adler glanced about the crowded room. “There are four doors out. A guard will be posted at each. A line will be marked in tape on the floor ten feet from each door. Your people are forbidden to cross those lines. If they do, they will be shot. After the sanitary facilities have been thoroughly searched, your people can come and go there as they please.”
Almost irrationally, Brayson felt a small surge of appreciation for this one concession to dignity, and fought it down. He was furiously angry at this, this interruption of routine, this intrusion into his life and career. He wanted to fight back, yet felt pathetically inadequate before this hard and competent man.
There was another factor involved as well that Brayson was keenly aware of. Alicia Roberts, one of the facility’s office managers, was sitting on the floor close by, her large eyes riveted on him as she followed his every move. Five hours ago, he’d been in bed with her. More than once during his two years as head of this facility, Brayson had enjoyed the charms of one or another of the women in his employ, something he’d always thought of as a perquisite of the job. Alicia, however, blackhaired, pretty, bright, had become much more than mere recreation. He’d been sleeping with her every time she was working on Bouddica for the past several months, and it had reached the point where he was seriously considering getting a divorce from Jane so that he could marry Alicia.
He knew she was watching him. He wanted to protect her from all of this, to shield her from these monsters… and he didn’t want her to see the fear that was hammering away inside his chest and throat right now.
Adler was looking at his watch. “It is now seven-thirty. At precisely eleven o’clock this morning, I will make a radio broadcast from your control center. I will require you and one of your radio operators to open the correct channel and to initiate the appropriate protocols.”
So these terrorists weren’t omniscient, Brayson thought. Their knowledge of the facility’s layout had half-convinced him that there were traitors within his crew or, possibly, in the BGA headquarters staff ashore. If they didn’t know the radio procedures, they might well be unaware of the seafloor land line that serviced the station’s telephone system.