“The first major hazard is getting across this patch of illuminated afterdeck from the shadow of the turbine housing to the main superstructure with all its living quarters.”
“So how do you do it?” asked the vice admiral, fascinated by this return from technology to the days of Nelson.
“We don’t, sir,” said Fallon. “We will be on the side of the funnel assembly away from where the Argyll is stationed. We hope the lookout atop the funnel will be looking at the Argyll, away from us. We move across from the shadow of the turbine housing, round the corner of the superstructure to this point here, outside the window of the dirty-linen store. We cut the plate-glass window in silence with a miniature blowtorch working off a small gas bottle, and go in through the window. The chances of the door of such a store being locked are pretty slim. No one pinches dirty linen, so no one locks such doors. By this time we will be inside the superstructure, emerging to a passage a few yards from the main stairway leading up to B, C, and D decks, and the bridge.”
“Where do you find the terrorist leader,” asked Sir Julian Flannery, “the man with the detonator?”
“On the way up the stairs we listen at every door for sounds of voices,” said Fallon. “If there are any, we open the door and eliminate everyone in the room with silenced automatics. Two men entering the cabin; two men outside on guard. All the way up the structure. Anyone met on the stairs, the same thing. That should bring us to D deck unobserved. Here we have to take a calculated gamble. One choice is the captain’s cabin; one man will take that choice. Open the door, step inside, and shoot without any question. Another man will take the chief engineer’s cabin on the same floor, other side of the ship. Same procedure. The last two men will cover the first officer’s and chief steward’s cabins and take the bridge itself; one man with grenades, the second with an Ingram. It’s too big an area, that bridge, to pick targets. Well just have to sweep it with the Ingram and take everybody in the place after the grenades have paralyzed them.”
“What if one of them is Captain Larsen?” asked a ministry man.
Fallon studied the table.
“I’m sorry, there’s no way of identifying targets,” he said.
“Suppose none of the cabins or the bridge contains the leader? Suppose the man with the remote-control detonator is somewhere else? Out on deck taking the air? In the lavatory? Asleep in another cabin?”
Simon Fallon shrugged. “Bang,” he said, “big bang.”
“There are twenty-eight crewmen locked down below,” protested a scientist. “Can’t you get them out? Or at least up on deck where they could have a chance to swim for it?”
“No, sir. I’ve tried every way of getting down to the paint locker, if they are indeed in the paint locker. To attempt to get down through the deck housing would give the game away: the bolts could well squeak; the opening of the steel door would flood the poop deck with light. To go down through the main superstructure to the engine room and try to get them that way would split my force. Moreover, the engine room is vast: three levels of it, vaulted like a cathedral. One single man down there, in communication with his leader before we could silence him, and everything would be lost. I believe getting the man with the detonator is our best chance.”
“If she does blow up with you and your men topside, I suppose you can dive over the side and swim for the Argyll?” suggested another of the ministry civil servants.
Major Fallon looked at the man with anger in his suntanned face.
“Sir, if she blows up, any swimmer within two hundred yards of her will be sucked down into the currents of water pouring into her holes.”
“I’m sorry, Major Fallon,” interposed the Cabinet Secretary hurriedly. “I am sure my colleague was simply concerned for your own safety. Now the question is this. The percentage chance of your hitting the holder of the detonator is a highly problematical figure. Failure to stop the man from setting off his charges would provoke the very disaster we are trying to avoid—”
“With the greatest respect, Sir Julian,” cut in Colonel Hohnes, “if the terrorists threaten during the course of the day to blow up the Freya at a certain hour tonight, and Chancellor Busch will not weaken in the matter of releasing Mishkin and Lazareff, surely we will have to try Major Fallon’s way. We’ll be in a no-win situation then, anyway. We’ll have no alternative.”
The meeting murmured assent. Sir Julian conceded.
“Very well. Defense Ministry will please make to Argylclass="underline" she should turn herself broadside to the Freya and provide a lee shelter for Major Fallon’s assault boats when they arrive. Environment will instruct air-traffic controllers to spot and turn back all aircraft trying to approach the Argyll at any altitude; various responsible departments will instruct the tugs and other vessels near the Argyll not to betray Major Fallon’s preparations to anyone. What about you personally, Major Fallon?”
The Marine commando glanced at his watch. It was five-fifteen.
“The Navy is lending me a helicopter from the Battersea Heliport to the afterdeck of the Argyll,” he said. “I’ll be there when my men and equipment arrive by sea if I leave now. ...”
“Then be on your way, and good luck to you, young man.”
The men at the meeting stood up in tribute as a somewhat embarrassed major gathered his model ship, his plans and photographs, and left with Colonel Holmes for the helicopter pad beside the Thames Embankment.
A weary Sir Julian Flannery left the smoke-charged room to ascend to the chill of the predawn of another spring day and report to his Prime Minister.
At six A.M. a simple statement from Bonn was issued to the effect that after due consideration of all the factors involved, the government of the Federal Republic of Germany had come to the conclusion that it would after all be wrong to accede to blackmail and that therefore the policy of releasing Mishkin and Lazareff at eight A.M. had been reconsidered.
Instead, the statement continued, the Federal Republic’s government would do all in its power to enter into negotiations with the captors of the Freya, with a view to seeking the release of the ship and its crew by alternative proposals.
The European allies of West Germany were informed of this statement just one hour before it was issued. Each and every premier privately asked the same question: “What the hell is Bonn up to?”
The exception was Joan Carpenter in London, who knew already. But unofficially, each government was informed that the reversal of position stemmed from urgent American pressure on Bonn during the night, and informed, moreover, that Bonn had agreed to delay the release only pending further and, it was hoped, more optimistic developments.
With the breaking of the news, the Bonn government spokesman had a brief and very private working breakfast with two influential German journalists, during which the newsmen were given to understand in oblique terms that the change of policy stemmed only from brutal pressure from Washington.
The first radio newscasts of the day carried the fresh statement out of Bonn even as the listeners were picking up their newspapers, which confidently announced the release at breakfast time of the two hijackers. The newspaper editors were not amused and bombarded the government’s press office for an explanation. None was forthcoming that satisfied anyone. The Sunday papers, due for preparation that Saturday, geared themselves for an explosive issue the following morning.