But that was not all of it This man in black had killed one of the crew. Thor Larsen wanted him for that, and he wanted him dead. So he talked the night away to the man opposite him, denying them both sleep.
Whitehall was not sleeping, either. The crisis management committee had been in session since three A.M., and by four, the progress reports were complete.
Across southern England the bulk tanker lorries, commandeered from Shell, British Petroleum, and a dozen other sources, were filling up with emulsifier concentrate at the Hampshire depot Bleary-eyed drivers rumbled through the night, empty toward Hampshire or loaded toward Lowestoft, moving hundreds of tons of the concentrate to the Suffolk port. By four A.M. the stocks were empty; all one thousand tons of the national supply were headed east to the coast.
So also were inflatable booms to try to hold the vented oil away from the coast until the chemicals could do their work. The factory that made the emulsifier had been geared for maximum output until further notice.
At half past three the news had come from Washington that the Bonn cabinet had agreed to hold Mishkin and Lazareff for a while longer.
“Does Matthews know what he’s doing?” someone asked.
Sir Julian Flannery’s face was impassive.
“We must assume that he does,” he said smoothly. “We must also assume that a venting by the Freya will probably now take place. The efforts of the night have not been in vain. At least we are now almost ready.”
“We must also assume,” said the civil servant from the Foreign Ministry, “that when the announcement becomes public, France, Belgium, and Holland are going to ask for assistance in fighting any oil slick that may result.”
“Then we shall be ready to do what we can,” said Sir Julian. “Now, what about the spraying and firefighting vessels?”
The report in the UNICORNE room mirrored what was happening at sea. From the Humber estuary, tugs were churning south toward Lowestoft harbor, while from the Thames and even as far around as the Navy base at Lee, other tugs capable of spraying liquid onto the surface of the sea were moving to the rendezvous point on the Suffolk coast. They were not the only things moving around the south coast that night.
Off the towering cliffs of Beachy Head, the Cutlass, Scimitar, and Sabre, carrying the assorted, complex, and lethal hardware of the world’s toughest team of assault frogmen, were pointing their noses north of east to bring them past Sussex and Kent toward where the cruiser Argyll lay at anchor in the North Sea.
The boom of their engines echoed off the chalk battlements of the southern coast, and light sleepers in Eastbourne heard the rumble out to sea.
Twelve Royal Marines of the Special Boat Service clung to the rails of the bucking craft, watching over their precious kayaks and the crates of diving gear, weapons, and unusual explosives that made up the props of their trade. It was all being carried as deck cargo.
“I hope,” shouted the young lieutenant commander who skippered the Cutlass to the Marine beside him, the second-in-command of the team, “that those whizz-bangs you’re carrying back there don’t go off.”
“They won’t,” said the Marine captain with confidence, “not until we use them.”
In a room adjoining the main conference center beneath the Cabinet Office, their commanding officer was poring over photographs of the Freya, taken by night and day. He was comparing the configuration shown by the Nimrod’s pictures with the scale plan provided by Lloyd’s and the model of the supertanker British Princess lent by British Petroleum.
“Gentlemen,” said Colonel Hohnes, joining the assembled men next door, “I think it’s time we considered one of the less palatable choices we may have to face.”
“Ah, yes,” said Sir Julian regretfully, “the hard option.”
“If,” pursued Hohnes, “President Matthews continues to object to the release of Mishkin and Lazareff, and West Germany continues to accede to that demand, the moment may well come when the terrorists will realize the game is up, that their blackmail is not going to work. At that moment they may well refuse to have their bluff called, and blow the Freya to pieces. Personally, it seems to me this will not happen before nightfall, which gives us about sixteen hours.”
“Why nightfall, Colonel?” asked Sir Julian.
“Because, sir, unless they are all suicide candidates, which they may be, one must assume that they will seek their own escape in the confusion. Now, if they wish to try to live, they may well leave the ship and operate their remote-control detonator at a certain distance from the ship’s side.”
“And your proposal, Colonel?”
“Twofold, sir. Firstly, their launch. It is still moored beside the courtesy ladder. As soon as darkness falls, a diver could approach that launch and attach a delayed-action explosive device to it. If the Freya were to blow up, nothing within a half-mile radius would be safe. Therefore I propose a charge detonated by a mechanism operated by water pressure. As the launch moves away from the ship’s side, the forward thrust of the launch will cause water to enter a funnel beneath the keel. This water will operate a trigger, and sixty seconds later the launch will blow up, before the terrorists have reached a point half a mile from the Freya, and therefore before they can operate their own detonator.”
“Would the exploding of their launch not detonate the charges on the Freya?” asked someone.
“No. If they have a remote-control detonator, it must be electronically operated. The charge would blow the launch carrying the terrorists to smithereens. No one would survive.”
“But if the detonator sank, would not the water pressure depress the button?” asked one of the scientists.
“No. Once under the water, the remote-control detonator would be safe. It could not beam its radio message to the larger charges in the ship’s tanks.”
“Excellent,” said Sir Julian. “Can this plan not operate before darkness falls?”
“No, it cannot,” answered Holmes. “A frogman diver leaves a trail of bubbles. In stormy weather this might not be noticed, but on a flat sea it would be too obvious. One of the lookouts could spot the bubbles rising. It would provoke what we are trying to avoid.”
“After dark it is, then,” said Sir Julian.
“Except for one thing, which is why I oppose the idea of sabotaging their escape launch as the only ploy. If, as may well happen, the leader of the terrorists is prepared to die with the Freya, he may not leave the ship with the rest of his team. So I believe we may have to storm the ship during a night attack and get to him before he can use his device.”
The Cabinet Secretary sighed.
“I see. Doubtless you have a plan for that as well?”
“Personally, I do not. But I would like you to meet Major Simon Fallon, commanding the Special Boat Service.”
It was all the stuff of Sir Julian Flannery’s nightmares. The Marine major was barely five feet eight inches tall, but he seemed about the same across the shoulders and was evidently of that breed of men who talk about reducing other humans to their component parts with the same ease that Lady Flannery talked of dicing vegetables for one of her famous Provenaal salads.
In at least three encounters the peace-loving Cabinet Secretary had had occasion to meet officers from the SAS, but this was the first time he had seen the commander of the other, smaller specialist unit, the SBS. They were, he observed to himself, of the same breed.