Nucflash (16 page)

That helo pilot was very right about one thing. The water temperature in this part of the North Sea right now was something like forty degrees . . . frigid enough to kill an unprotected man in scant minutes, and in the middle of the night, it would be impossible to find everyone in time. Men were going to
die
if that helicopter ditched at sea.

At the same time, Scott was responsible for the safety of his immense charge and her crew.

Fortunately, the
Noramo Pride
was riding empty at the moment, her only cargo some ten and a half million gallons of ballast sea water, pumped aboard to hold the tanker deep and steady in the rough seas. There was always the danger of explosive gases trapped in her below-deck spaces, of course, but the ship possessed a state-of-the-art inert gas system, which pumped exhaust gases from the ship's engine into the empty tankage spaces below her forward deck, replacing the oxygen there so that explosive or inflammable gases couldn't ignite. It ought to be safe enough. If the pilot seemed to be having difficulties during the approach, Scott could always request that he ditch in the sea nearby while the tanker's crew stood by in lifeboats, ready to haul them out of the water.

In this heavy a sea, the rescue operation alone would put Scott's own people at serious risk. It would be a lot simpler and safer all the way around to let that Dutch helicopter set down on his forward deck.

He held the mike to his mouth, pressing the transmit key.

“Flight Three-one,
Noramo Pride
. What type of aircraft are you? And you'd better give me the dimensions of your rotor. Over.”

“Noramo Pride
, this is Three-one. We are a Westland Naval Lynx, Mark 81. Our rotor diameter is twelve point eight meters.”

Twelve point eight meters . . . that was about forty, no, forty-two feet. There would be plenty of room, so long as the pilot had a good, clear approach to the deck.

“Will you be able to jettison most of your fuel before you land?”

“That is affirmative,
Noramo Pride.”

“Very well, Three-one. You are clear to land on my forward deck. We'll have a spot cleared and lit up for you. Over.”

“That is very, very good news,
Noramo Pride.
Thank you!”

“I will have boat crews standing by in case you run into trouble.” Not that boats would help much at night, in these cold waters, if the helicopter had to ditch.

“Roger,
Noramo Pride
. I'd still rather save the aircraft if I can. It feels like a simple mechanical problem. I may be able to fix it myself . . . but I can't do that until I'm down, and right now you have the only real estate within reach. Over.”

“Copy that.” Scott had a sudden thought. Fifteen passengers . . . might they be VIPs of some sort? Helos were always shuttling important people back and forth across this stretch of the North Sea, either between Great Britain and the Continent or between the beach and one or another of the oilor gas-production platforms located in this mineral-rich region. “Three-one, who are your passengers, over?”

“Noramo Pride
, my passengers are fifteen men of a company of Royal Dutch Marines. We were on maneuvers on one of the Dutch production platforms earlier this evening. We were on our way back to de Kooij when this happened.”

“Understood, Three-one. My radio operator will be standing by on this channel. Captain Scott, out.”

Handing the microphone back to Pelso, Scott turned and left the radio shack, making his way back to his bridge. He'd been sailing these waters and others around the world for nearly twenty years, and he knew of the Royal Dutch Marines. While the Dutch military was not especially highly regarded among the NATO nations of Europe, their marines, at least, had a justifiable reputation as an elite unit, with decent training similar to that of the British SAS or Germany's GSG9 in many respects. They'd seen plenty of action in various terrorist situations back in the seventies, Scott knew. Nowadays, they were charged with the safety of such diverse Royal Netherlands assets as Schipol International Airport, various seaports, and any Dutch-owned oil platforms in the North Sea.

No doubt the maneuvers the helicopter pilot had mentioned were part of the marines' counterterrorist training. De Kooij was the naval base ashore where the Royal Navy aviation units were stationed. Understandable, that training. Everybody with a piece of the carved-up North Sea was nervous about the terrorist threat, and justifiably so. A swath down the center of the North Sea, from north of the Shetland Islands to the Broad Fourteen just off the Dutch coast, was pocked by hundreds of oil rigs, production platforms, and tanker-loading buoys gathered together in sprawling clusters of various sizes that marked the oil and natural gas fields discovered so far. This area was among the richest oil- and natural gas–producing regions in the world; the surrounding nations—especially Great Britain, Norway, and Germany, but including other nations as well—had invested hundreds of billions of dollars in these fields, investments that substantially reduced or even eliminated their dependence on the politically uncertain influx of oil from the Middle East. Those drilling and production rigs were attractive, lucrative targets for terrorists . . . especially Middle East terrorists who knew very well just how closely tied were the world's economies to oil.

Hence the considerable interest by elite military units such as the British SAS and SBS, or the Royal Dutch Marines, in defending those investments.

Several minutes passed, in which time Scott gave the orders to several of his crew to make certain that the area on the forward deck chosen for the landing was clear of anything that might get caught up in the rotor wash, and that all potential obstacles such as overhead lines, railings, or the ship's big hose derricks were secure or well back out of the way. A six-man boat crew was told off as well and was waiting on
Noramo Pride's
second deck fully rigged out in foul-weather gear and life jackets, with two lifeboats already swayed out on their davits and ready to put into the sea. Searchlights mounted high up on the tanker's bridge wings and along the main deck's railings were switched on and swung about to paint a brilliant oval of illumination forward, giving the ship the cheery look of a football stadium lit up at night. The helicopter would be directed to touch down on the forward half of the hull, between the foremast rising from the forecastle and the two tall king posts with their hose-handling derricks mounted amidships just aft of the ship's loading station. Though the
Pride's
forward deck encompassed a full two acres, finding a clear spot to land was still a challenge, for much of the deck surface was taken up by a maze of piping, deck machinery, winches, fire hoses and foam dispensers, and the tangle of fittings for the ship's inert gas system. Still, a suitable area had been marked out by the lights, and crew members detailed to secure the helicopter once it was down.

“Captain,” a voice called over the bridge intercom speaker. “Starboard wing lookout here. We've got an aircraft of some kind approaching from the south.”

“That's him, Captain,” Moskowiec confirmed from the radarscope. “Bearing now one-eight-nine, range one mile.”

“Very well.”

Scott walked across the bridge to the starboard windows in time to see the helicopter's lights passing abeam. Off the starboard bow, the lights slowed, pivoted, then brightened as the helo nosed in toward the
Noramo Pride,
quartering in from downwind. The thutter of the rotors could be clearly heard above the wind now. If there was a problem with the engine, Scott couldn't hear it. Whatever the trouble was, then, might not be too bad after all. From the tension in the pilot's voice, he'd half expected to see the chopper limping in, smoke spilling from its manifold, its rotors barely turning fast enough to keep it aloft.

He was happy to be proved mistaken. Despite empty cargo tanks, despite inert gas systems, despite damage control crewmen waiting with foam dispensers in the bows, the
Noramo Pride
could be turned into an inferno in an instant if something went wrong enough to send that helicopter and its load of aviation gasoline crashing into the tanker's deck.

As the helo entered the crisscross of the tanker's searchlights, seemingly balanced atop the white shaft of its own spotlight shining beneath its nose, Scott could make out its blue-black paint scheme, the tripartite red, white, and blue roundel on the fuselage, the words “KON. MARINE” picked out on the tail boom in large, white letters. Dutch Navy, sure enough. The nose came up as the aircraft flared out for touchdown, gentling down precisely between forecastle and king posts despite the wind. The pilot, whoever he was, was
good.
Almost as soon as the helicopter's wheels touched down, the rotor blades began slowing. Several of the
Noramo Pride's
deck crew raced toward the aircraft, heads bent to avoid the dipping blade tips, carrying chains and chocks to make the helicopter secure. The wind might be down now, but if it came up again tonight, that helicopter could be overturned, smashed in an instant into crumpled and possibly burning wreckage.

Scott raised a pair of 7x50 binoculars to his eyes. The helicopter's side door had been slid back, and soldiers were spilling out one after another, lining up and moving aft across the deck. They were big men, made bulky by the cold weather gear, combat vests, satchels, and weapons they carried. They were wearing watchcaps instead of helmets, and their faces were blacked with camouflage paint. It looked like they were carrying a mix of exotic-looking weapons, including both submachine guns and military assault rifles, but Scott had heard that elite units like this one often carried different kinds of guns, and lots of them. One of the men, a tall, heavily built man with a shock of very pale, almost silver-blond hair poking out between painted skin and black watchcap, appeared to be the leader. He paused to talk briefly to the crew securing the helicopter, talked a moment more with the aircraft's pilot, then started walking aft with the rest of the men.

“Kathy?”

“Yes, Captain?”

Scott stopped himself. He'd been about to send the third mate down to the galley on an errand, and that sort of thing had been a source of friction more than once already on this voyage. Kathy Moskowiec was a bright, attractive woman five years out of Kings Point Maritime Academy. Sensitive about being the only woman aboard ship—women had been serving with tanker crews only for the past ten years or so, and never in great numbers—she took her professional image very seriously.

“Take the wheel, please,” he said, changing his order. “David?”

“Yes, Cap?”

The A/B—the able-bodied seaman—standing at the ship's wheel was David Ramos, a stocky Filipino who'd been in the merchant marine, then in tankers, for almost as long as Moskowiec had been alive.

“Haul yourself down to the galley,” he told the man. “Tell the cook to make sure there's plenty of tea and coffee laid on. I imagine that bunch is going to want to get warmed up.”

“Right you are, Cap.” Kathy took David's place at the wheel, and the A/B hurried off the bridge. For several minutes, there was no sound save the warm hum of the bridge ventilators and electrical systems. The searchlights outside were switched off, and the
Noramo Pride
again plowed ahead through the sea in a blackness relieved only by her red, white, and green running lights.

Then one of the aft bridge doors opened, and five of the visitors entered, led by Mike Beatty, the ship's chief mate. The silver-haired man was with them, looking particularly ominous in his black combat garb, and with a wicked-looking submachine gun strapped across his chest.

Scott frowned. He'd been in the U.S. Navy for four years before he'd gone into tankers, and he knew something about the military. While he'd never worked with SEALs or similar commando units, he'd had the impression that they didn't haul loaded weapons around, especially aboard ship or on a helicopter, in order to reduce the risk of accidents. These men all had magazines plugged into the receivers of their weapons.

Well, maybe the Dutch did things differently. Or maybe those magazines were empty. Perhaps he could speak to the unit's commander about it after the amenities were over. “Welcome aboard, sir,” Scott told them. “Do you speak English?”

“Ja,
” the leader replied, smiling. “A little, anyway. Some of my men, maybe not so good.”

“Well, we've laid on coffee and tea for you all down in the mess, and I imagine Cookie can rustle up some midrats, if you're interested.”

“Midrats?”

“Midnight rations. Something for your boys to eat.”

“Ah! Thank you very much for your hospitality, Captain,” the man replied slowly. “It was . . . how you English say? A bit dicey out there.”

“Actually, sir, we're Americans.” He extended a hand. “The
Noramo Pride
is an American vessel. Captain Scott, at your service. And you are? . . .”

“Delighted to meet you, Captain Scott. I have one rather urgent request, before we do anything else. Might you show me, please, your radio room? I need to report to base that we are okay.”

“Of course. This way, if you please.”

Scott had led the man—followed by two of his black-garbed soldiers—up to the door of the radio shack before a question occurred to him. “Uh . . . excuse me, sir,” Scott said as he opened the radio-room door and held it for the man, “but why do you need to use our radio? You could have used the one aboard the helicopter to call—”

The gunfire was shockingly loud contained within the narrow, steel-walled confines of the ship's passageways, as the black-garbed commando opened up with his submachine gun from the open doorway, spraying the radio shack from bulkhead to bulkhead, from overhead to deck. Greg Pelso was just rising from his seat, his mouth gaping open in astonishment as half-a-dozen bullets slammed into his torso in a bloody, splattering tattoo that sent him crashing backward, arms flailing, into an electronics cabinet.