The Devil's Alternative

“Twenty thousand tons per hour,” said the man. “During discharge, the ship’s balance is maintained by venting several tanks at different points on the ship simultaneously.”

Drake had noted that there was a slight, one-knot tide flowing past the Freya, northeast toward the West Frisian Is­lands. He pointed to a tank amidships on the Freya’s star­board side.

“Open the master valve on that one,” he said. The man paused for a second, then obeyed.

“Right,” said Drake. “When I give the word, switch on the cargo pumps and vent the entire tank.”

“Into the sea?” asked the pumpman incredulously.

“Into the sea,” said Drake grimly. “Chancellor Busch is about to learn what international pressure really means.”

As the minutes ticked away to midday of Saturday, April 2, Europe held its breath. So far as anyone knew, the terrorists had already executed one seaman for a breach of the airspace above them, and had threatened to do it again, or vent crude oil, on the stroke of noon.

The Nimrod that had replaced Squadron Leader Latham’s aircraft the previous midnight had run short of fuel by eleven A.M., so Latham was back on duty, cameras whirring as the minutes to noon ticked away.

Many miles above him, a Condor spy satellite was on sta­tion, bouncing its continuous stream of picture images across the globe to where a haggard American President sat in the Oval Office watching a television screen. On the TV the Freya inched gently into the frame from the bottom rim, like a pointing finger.

In London, men of rank and influence in the Cabinet Of­fice briefing room grouped around a screen on which was presented what the Nimrod was seeing. The Nimrod was on continuous camera roll from five minutes before twelve, her pictures passing to the Data Link on the Argyll beneath her, and from there to Whitehall.

Along the rails of the Montcalm, Breda, Brunner, Argyll, and Moran, sailors of five nations passed binoculars from hand to hand. Their officers stood as high aloft as they could get, with telescopes to eye.

On the BBC World Service, the bell of Big Ben struck noon. In the Cabinet Office two hundred yards from Big Ben and two floors beneath the street, someone shouted, “Christ, she’s venting!” Three thousand miles away, four shirt-sleeved Americans in the Oval Office watched the same spectacle.

From the side of the Freya, midships to starboard, a column of sticky, ocher-red crude oil erupted.

It was thick as a man’s torso. Impelled by the power of the Freya’s mighty pumps, the oil leaped the starboard rail, dropped twenty-five feet, and thundered into the sea. Within seconds, the blue- green water was discolored, putrefied. As the oil bubbled back to the surface, a stain began to spread, moving out and away from the ship’s hull on the tide.

For sixty minutes the venting went on, until the single tank was dry. The great stain formed the shape of an egg, broad nearest the Dutch coast and tapering near to the ship. Finally the mass of oil parted company with the Freya and began to drift. The sea being calm, the oil slick stayed in one piece, but it began to expand as the light crude ran across the sur­face of the water. At two P.M., an hour after the venting ended, the slick was ten miles long and seven miles wide at its broadest.

The Condor passed on, and the slick moved off the screen in Washington. Stanislaw Poklewski switched off the set.

“That’s just one fiftieth of what she carries,” he said. “Those Europeans will go mad.”

Robert Benson took a telephone call and turned to President Matthews.

“London just checked in with Langley,” he said. “Their man from Moscow has cabled that he has the answer to our question. He claims he knows why Maxim Rudin is threaten­ing to tear up the Treaty of Dublin if Mishkin and Lazareff go free. He’s flying personally with the news from Moscow to London, and he should land in one hour.”

Matthews shrugged.

“With this man Major Fallon going in with his divers in nine hours, maybe it doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, “but I’d sure be interested to know.”

“He’ll report to Sir Nigel Irvine, who will tell Mrs. Carpen­ter. Maybe you could ask her to use the hot line the moment she knows,” suggested Benson.

“I’ll do that thing,” said the President.

It was just after eight A.M. in Washington but past one P.M. in Europe when Andrew Drake, who had been pensive and withdrawn while the oil was being vented, decided to make contact again.

By twenty past one, Captain Thor Larsen was speaking again to Maas Control, from whom he asked at once to be patched through to the Dutch Premier, Jan Grayling. The patch-through to The Hague took no time; the possibility had been foreseen that sooner or later the Premier might get a chance to talk to the leader of the terrorists personally and appeal for negotiations on behalf of Holland and Germany.

“I am listening to you, Captain Larsen,” said the Dutch­man to the Norwegian in English. “This is Jan Grayling speaking.”

“Prime Minister, you have seen the venting of twenty thou­sand tons of crude oil from my ship?” asked Larsen, the gun barrel an inch from his ear.

“With great regret, yes,” said Grayling.

“The leader of the partisans proposes a conference.”

The captain’s voice boomed through the Premier’s office in The Hague. Grayling looked up sharply at the two senior civil servants who had joined him. The tape recorder rolled impassively.

“I see,” said Grayling, who did not see at all but was stall­ing for time. “What kind of conference?”

“ ‘A face-to-face conference with the representatives of the coastal nations and other interested parties,’ ” said Larsen, reading from the paper in front of him.

Jan Grayling clapped his hand over the mouthpiece.

“The bastard wants to talk,” he said excitedly. And then, into the telephone, he said, “On behalf of the Dutch govern­ment, I agree to be host to such a conference. Please inform the partisan leader of this.”

On the bridge of the Freya, Drake shook his head and placed his hand over the mouthpiece. He had a hurried dis­cussion with Larsen.

“Not on land,” said Larsen into the phone. “Here at sea. What is the name of that British cruiser?”

“She’s called the Argyll,” said Grayling.

“She has a helicopter,” said Larsen at Drake’s instruction. “The conference will be aboard the Argyll. At three P.M. Those present should include yourself, the West German Am­ bassador, and the captains of the five NATO warships. No one else.”

“That is understood,” said Grayling. “Will the leader of the partisans attend in person? I would need to consult the British about a guarantee of safe-conduct.”

There was silence as another conference took place on the bridge of the Freya. Captain Larsen’s voice came back.

“No, the leader will not attend. He will send a representa­tive. At five minutes before three, the helicopter from the Ar­gyll will be permitted to hover over the helipad of the Freya. There must be no soldiers or Marines on board. Only the pi­lot and the winchman, both unarmed. The scene will be ob­served from the bridge. There will be no cameras. The helicopter will not descend lower than twenty feet The winch­man will lower a harness, and the emissary will be lifted off the main deck and across to the Argyll. Is that under­stood?”

“Perfectly,” said Grayling. “May I ask who the representa­tive will be?”

“One moment,” said Larsen, and the line went dead. On the Freya, Larsen turned to Drake and asked:

“Well, Mr. Svoboda, if not yourself, whom are you sending?”

Drake smiled briefly.