“Enhance, please,” Marlowe said. The scene on the monitor zoomed in tight, the complexity of the southeast corner of Bouddica Alpha and the bridge expanding swiftly to almost fill the screen. At this magnification, only a portion of the Rosa’s deck was visible. An open hatch in the deck gaped at the sky; the platform’s crane was hoisting something clear of the opening, while a number of men clustered on the deck guided it along with upraised hands.
What the “something” was was not clear. It was large, certainly, roughly cigar-shaped, and bundled up in tarpaulins and packing straps.
“When we first caught sight of this,” Marlowe went on, “we assumed it might be the terrorists’ bomb. The only problem was, it’s way, way too big, lots bigger than any A-bomb would need to be. In fact, some of our analysts thought the PRR might have taken a shortcut and put together a whopping big conventional bomb instead. Next.”
A second enhanced view showed that the package had been moved from the Rosa’s cargo hatch and onto the afterdeck of the Celtic Maiden, after which the Rosa had moved clear, tying up at another mooring nearby. The tarp-bundled package was resting on some sort of cradle on the Celtic Maiden’s after deck.
“Our satellites could tell us a lot about the thing. It’s a bulky, oblong object about six meters long bundled in a tarp and resting on a wooden cradle. We could estimate that it weighs between eight and twelve tons.” The laser-light pointer flicked past the images of two armed guards standing next to the object. “We could even tell that the bad guys had posted guards armed with H&K submarine guns, which suggests they want to protect it.”
Marlowe flicked off the pointer and turned to address the room. “This, gentlemen, should be an object lesson to those of us who tend to put too much reliance in spy satellites and other long-range, high-tech spy equipment. We never would’ve had a prayer of learning what this thing was if it hadn’t been for the report from our SEALs. In my trade, it’s called HUMINT. That’s human intelligence. You can only rely so far on machines.”
“So what is that thing?” Clayton asked. “If it’s too big to be a bomb…”
“Next.”
The aerial view was replaced by a close-up of what seemed to be the rear end of a very large torpedo or small boat, with a propeller encased in a smooth, shiny shroud. Someone’s black-gloved hand was visible to the left, pulling back a corner of the tarp.
“Enhance.” Writing filled the screen, blocky Oriental characters and several numerals that might have been serial numbers.
“Korean characters,” Marlowe said. “It reads ‘People’s Defense Ministry, Special Project’… and that number. This down here might be a part number. And this on the shroud is the Korean equivalent of ‘no step.’
“We were able to trace the numbers. What we are looking at here is the stern of a small one- or two-man submarine, similar to the Shinkai-series research subs of the Japanese, or our own Alvin. It appears to be of North Korean manufacture but is basically Japanese technology… probably openly purchased, though the material’s supposed to be restricted. I’m sure you’re all well aware of the problems we’ve had with several major Japanese corporations on that count.
“We think this must be a special project of the North Korean Navy that they call ‘Mul ojing o,’ or ‘Squid.’ Designed for salvage work, sabotaging or tapping undersea cables and the like during war, probably mine clearing as well. Like the Japanese model, it’s equipped with teleoperated arms. It would probably be particularly useful for undersea assault.”
“What, with frogmen?” Hemminger said. He shook his head. “It doesn’t look that big. What’d you say, six meters?”
“No, sir. With those remote-control arms, it could plant a bomb against an underwater objective. A big bomb.”
“An underwater objective,” Schellenberg said thoughtfully. Then realization dawned and his eyes opened wide. “You mean like Bouddica.”
“Precisely. It’s likely that the Squid is there to plant the A-bomb beneath the platform.”
“Damn,” Clayton said, his fist clenched on the tabletop before him. “Why didn’t those SEALs take out that sub when they had a chance? What’d they do, just leave it there?”
“They did,” Admiral Bainbridge said. “And I have to believe they did the right thing. According to the report from the officer in charge, they didn’t have time for more than a quick look. Worse, they haven’t found the A-bomb yet. Blowing up that minisub would’ve been a great way to tip our hand and set off the fireworks, don’t you think?”
“What are the SEALs doing now?”
Marlowe looked toward the ceiling and raised his voice slightly. “Can we see the telephoto shots, please? Run through the series.”
On the monitor, a new photo appeared, grainy but distinct. It showed a rough-looking man in watchcap and combat harness, lighting a cigarette. An H&K subgun was slung over his shoulder, muzzle-down. That image was replaced a moment later by another, showing a different man, similarly armed and equipped. He was leaning on a railing, looking out across the sea with an almost pensive expression on his face. Next there were two armed men, obviously engaged in conversation. A long, flat, open wooden box rested on a fifty-five-gallon drum at one man’s elbow. One of the men was pulling something from the box, something like a black spindle on the end of a stick that Bainbridge instantly recognized: rocket-propelled grenades for an RPG.
“To answer your question, the SEALs have been running an OP — an observation post — right under the terrrorists’ noses. They’ve got a digital camera with them, with a telephoto lens, that records images electronically instead of on film. They’ve been shooting pictures of everyone they can see and all of the equipment they can find, then uploading the camera’s catch onto the satellite net for us to decipher here.
“So far, they’ve recorded fifteen different men, though there are certainly more than that present. We’ve been able to identify six of the faces — two are die-hard members of the Provo IRA, the other four were spotted by the German BKA as former members of the Red Army Faction. The SEALs have also catalogued an array of weapons that includes rocket-propelled grenades, submachine guns, and at least one U.S.made M-60 machine gun.”
“And how many SEALs are aboard?” Hemminger wanted to know.
“Five. And there are twenty-eight SAS men in the anchor tug, which left the immediate area after concluding the first round of negotiations but is maintaining station just over the horizon.”
“Thirty-three? Against what amounts to an army?”
“Seems to me we’ve got a more serious problem that that,” Clayton pointed out. “All those weapons, all of those explosives aboard an oil-production rig, for God’s sake. They start shooting, and the PRR isn’t going to need an A-bomb. Remember Piper Alpha?”
Everyone there had received briefings on the history of North Sea oil platforms, including some of the notable disasters. In 1988, the British platform dubbed Piper Alpha had exploded when an undetected gas leak had been touched off by a spark. Of the 231 workers aboard, only 64 had survived.
“Maybe that would be for the best,” Hemminger said, his long face growing longer. “If someone touches off a gas explosion in there, maybe we won’t have to worry about the bomb.”