“What do you see?” asked Lundquist into a stick microphone.
The seaman’s voice came back into the bridge. “Nothing, sir.”
Meanwhile the launch had passed around the rear of the Freya, under the very overhang of her stern. For seconds it was out of sight. At either side of the stern, the guardrail of A deck was at its nearest point to the sea, just six meters above the water. The two men standing on the cabin roof of the launch had reduced this to three meters. As the launch emerged from the transom shadow, both men slung the three-point grapnels they held, the hooks sheathed in black rubber hose.
Each grapnel, trailing rope, rose twelve feet, dropped over the guardrail, and caught fast. As the launch moved on, both men were swept off the cabin roof to hang by the ropes, ankles in the sea. Then each began to climb rapidly, hand over hand, unheeding of the submachine carbines strapped to their backs. In two seconds the launch emerged into the light and began to run down the side of the Freya toward the courtesy ladder.
“I can see it now,” said the seaman high above. “It looks like a fishing launch.”
“Keep the ladder up until they identify themselves,” ordered Lundquist from the bridge.
Far behind and below him the two boarders were over the rail. Each unhooked his grapnel and heaved it into the sea, where it sank, trailing rope. The two men set off at a fast lope, around to the starboard side and straight for the steel ladders. On soundless rubber-soled shoes they began to race upward.
The launch came to rest beneath the ladder, eight meters above the cramped cabin. Inside, four men crouched. At the wheel, the helmsman stared silently up at the seaman above him.
“Who are you?” called the seaman. “Identify yourself.”
There was no answer. Far below, in the glare of the spotlight, the man in the black woolen helmet just stared back.
“He won’t answer,” said the seaman into his mouthpiece.
“Keep the spotlight on them,” ordered Lundquist. “I’m coming to have a look.”
Throughout the interchange the attention of both Lundquist and Keller had been to the port side and forward of the bridge. On the starboard side the door leading from the bridgewing into the bridge suddenly opened, bringing a gust of icy air. Both officers spun around. The door closed. Facing them were two men in black balaclava helmets, black crew-neck sweaters, black track-suit trousers, and rubber deck shoes. Each pointed a submachine carbine at the officers.
“Order your seaman to lower the ladder,” said one in English. The two officers stared at them unbelievingly. This was impossible. The gunman raised his weapon and squinted down the sight at Keller.
“I’ll give you three seconds,” he said to Lundquist. “Then I’m blowing the head off your colleague.”
Brick-red with anger, Lundquist leaned to the stick mike.
“Lower the ladder,” he told the seaman.
The disembodied voice came back into the bridge. “But sir ...”
“It’s all right, lad,” said Lundquist. “Do as I say.”
With a shrug the seaman pressed a button on the small console at the ladder head. There was a hum of motors and the ladder slowly lowered to the sea. Two minutes later four other men, all in black, were herding the seaman back along the deck to the superstructure while the fifth man made the launch fast. Two more minutes and the six of them entered the bridge from the port side, the seaman’s eyes wide with fright. When he entered the bridge he saw the other two gunmen holding his officers.
“How on earth ...?” asked the seaman.
“Take it easy,” ordered Lundquist. To the only gunman who had spoken so far, he asked in English, “What do you want?”
“We want to speak to your captain,” said the man behind the mask. “Where is he?”
The door from the wheelhouse to the inner stairwell opened, and Thor Larsen stepped onto the bridge. His gaze took in his three crewmen with their hands behind their heads, and seven black-clad terrorists. His eyes, when he turned to the man who had asked the question, were blue and friendly as a cracking glacier.
“I am Captain Thor Larsen, master of the Freya,” he said slowly, “and who the hell are you?”
“Never mind who we are,” said the terrorist leader. “We have just taken over your ship. Unless your officers and men do as they are told, we shall start by making an example of your seaman. Which is it to be?”
Larsen looked slowly around him. Three of the submachine guns were pointing straight at the eighteen-year-old deckhand. He was white as chalk.
“Mr. Lundquist,” said Larsen formally, “do as these men say.” Turning back to the leader he asked, “What exactly is it you want with the Freya?”
“That is easy,” said the terrorist without hesitation. “We wish you no harm personally, but unless our requirements are carried out—to the letter—we shall not hesitate to do what we have to in order to secure compliance.”
“And then?” asked Larsen.
“Within thirty hours the West German government is going to release two of our friends from a West Berlin jail and fly them to safety. If they do not, I am going to blast you, your crew, your ship, and one million tons of crude oil all over the North Sea.”
THE LEADER of the seven masked terrorists set his men to work with a methodical precision that he had evidently rehearsed over many hours in his own mind. He issued a rapid stream of orders in a language neither Captain Larsen nor his own officers and the young seaman could understand.
Five of the masked men herded the two officers and seaman to the rear of the bridge, well away from the instrument panels, and surrounded them. The leader jerked his handgun at Captain Larsen and said in English:
“Your cabin, if you please, Captain.”
In single file, Larsen leading, the leader of the terrorists next, and one of his henchmen with a submachine carbine bringing up the rear, the three men descended the stairs from the bridge to D deck, one flight below. Halfway down the stairs, at the turn, Larsen turned to look back and up at his two captors, measuring the distances, calculating whether he could overcome them both.
“Don’t even try it,” said the voice behind the mask at his shoulder. “No one in his right mind argues with a submachine gun at a range of ten feet.”
Larsen led them onward down the stairs. D deck was the senior officers’ living quarters. The captain’s suite was in the extreme starboard corner of the great sweep of superstructure. Moving to port, next came a small chart library, the door open to reveal locker after locker of high-quality sea charts, enough to take him into any ocean, any bay, any suitable anchorage in the world. They were all copies of originals made by the British Admiralty, and the best in the world.
Next was the conference suite, a spacious cabin where the captain or owner could, if he wished, receive a sizable number of visitors all at one time. Next to this were the owner’s staterooms, closed and empty, reserved for the chairman, should he ever wish to sail with his ship. At the port end was another suite of cabins identical but in reverse to the captain’s quarters. Here the chief engineer lived.
Aft of the captain’s cabins was the smaller suite for the first officer, and aft of the chief engineer dwelt the chief steward. The whole complex formed a hollow square, whose center was taken up by the flight of stairs going around and around and downward to A deck, three levels below.