Though the Freya’s engines were closed down, her turbines and generators hummed rhythmically, churning out the power to keep her systems functioning.
Among these were constant input of tide and weather, of which the latest reports were heartening.
He could have had March gales; instead, an unseasonal area of high pressure almost stationary over the North Sea and the English Channel had brought a mild early spring to the coasts. The sea was almost a flat calm; a one-knot tide ran northeastward from the vessel toward the West Frisians. The sky had been a near-cloudless blue all day, and despite a touch of frost that night, bade fair to be so again on the morrow.
Bidding his officers goodnight, Captain Larsen left the bridge and descended one floor to D deck. Here, on the extreme starboard side, he had his suite. The spacious and well-appointed day cabin carried four windows looking forward down the length of the vessel, and two looking out to starboard. Aft of the day cabin were his bedroom and bathroom. The sleeping cabin also had two windows, both to starboard. All the windows were sealed, save one in the day cabin that was closed but with screw bolts that could be manually undone.
Outside his sealed windows to forward, the facade of the superstructure fell sheer to the deck; to starboard the windows gave onto ten feet of steel landing, beyond which was the starboard rail, and beyond it the sea. Five flights of steel ladders ran from the lowest A deck up five floors to the bridge-wing above his head, each stage of the ladders debouching onto a steel landing. All these sets of ladders and landings were open to the sky, exposed to the elements. They were seldom used, for the interior stairwells were heated and warm.
Thor Larsen lifted the napkin off the plate of chicken and salad the chief steward had left him, looked longingly at the bottle of Scotch in his liquor cabinet, and settled for coffee from the percolator. After eating he decided to work the night away on a final run-through of the channel charts for the morning’s berthing. It was going to be tight, and he wanted to know that channel as well as the two Dutch pilots who would arrive by helicopter from Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport at seven-thirty to take her over. Prior to that, he knew, a gang of ten men from ashore, the extra hands, called “riggers,” who were needed for the berthing operation, would arrive by launch at 0700.
As midnight struck, he settled at the broad table in his day cabin, spread his charts, and began to study.
At ten minutes before three in the morning, it was frosty but clear outside. A half-moon caused the rippling sea to glitter. Inside the bridge Stig Lundquist and Tom Keller shared a companionable mug of coffee. The able seaman prowled the flowing screens along the bridge console.
“Sir,” he called, “there’s a launch approaching.”
Tom Keller rose and crossed to where the seaman pointed at the radar screen. There were a score of blips—some stationary, some moving, but all well away from the Freya. One tiny blip seemed to be approaching from the southeast.
“Probably a fishing boat making sure of being ready on the fishing grounds by sunrise,” said Keller.
Lundquist was looking over his shoulder. He flicked to a lower range.
“She’s coming very close,” he said.
Out at sea, the launch had to be aware of the mass of the Freya. The tanker carried anchor lights above the fo’c’sle and at the stern. Besides, her deck was floodlit and her superstructure was lit like a Christmas tree by the lights in the accommodation. The launch, instead of veering away, began to curve in toward the stern of the Freya.
“She looks as if she’s going to come alongside,” said Keller.
“She can’t be the berthing crew,” said Lundquist. “They’re not due till seven.”
“Perhaps they couldn’t sleep, wanted to be well on time,” said Keller.
“Go down to the head of the ladder,” Lundquist told the seaman, “and tell me what you see. Put on the headset when you get there, and stay in touch.”
The accommodation ladder on the ship was amidships. On a big vessel it is so heavy that steel cables powered by an electric motor either lower it from the ship’s rail to the sea level or raise it to lie parallel to the rail. On the Freya, even full-laden, the rail was nine meters above the sea, an impossible jump, and the ladder was fully raised.
Seconds later the two officers saw the seaman leave the superstructure below them and begin to stroll down the deck. When he reached the ladder head, he mounted a small platform that jutted over the sea, and looked down. As he did so, he took a headset from a weatherproof box and fitted the earphones over his head. From the bridge Lundquist pressed a switch and a powerful light came on, illuminating the seaman far away along the deck as he peered down to the black sea. The launch had vanished from the radar screen; she was too close to be observed.
“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 her
ding 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.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
0300 to 0900
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.
Thor Larsen led his captors to his own cabin and stepped into the dayroom. The terrorist leader followed him in and quickly ran through the other rooms, bedroom and bathroom. There was no one else present.
“Sit down, Captain,” he said, the voice slightly muffled by the mask. “You will remain here until I return. Please do not move. Place your hands on the table and keep them there, palms downward.”
There was another stream of orders in a foreign language, and the machine gunner took up a position with his back to the far bulkhead of the cabin, facing Thor Larsen but twelve feet away, the barrel of his gun pointing straight at the white crew-neck sweater Thor Larsen wore. The leader checked to see that all the curtains were well drawn, then left, closing the door behind him. The other two inhabitants of the deck were asleep in their respective cabins and heard nothing. Within minutes the leader was back on the bridge.
“You”—he pointed his gun at the boyish seaman—“come with me.”
The lad looked imploringly at First Officer Stig Lundquist.
“You harm that boy and I'll personally hang you out to dry,” said Tom Keller in his American accent. Two submachine-gun barrels moved slightly in the hands of the ring of men around him.
“Your chivalry is admirable, your sense of reality deplorable,” said the voice behind the leader’s mask. “No one gets hurt unless you try something stupid. Then there’ll be a bloodbath, and you’ll be right under the taps.”
Lundquist nodded to the seaman.
“Go with him,” he said. “Do what he wants.”
The seaman was escorted back down the stairs. At the D deck level, the terrorist stopped him.
“Apart from the captain, who lives on this deck?” he asked.
“The chief engineer, over there,” said the seaman. “The first officer, over there, but he’s up on the bridge now. And the chief steward, there.”
There was no sign of life behind any of the doors.
“The paint locker, where is it?” asked the terrorist. Without a word the seaman turned and headed down the stairs. They went through C deck and B deck. Once a murmur of voices came to them, from behind the door of the seamen’s messroom, where four men who could not sleep were apparently playing cards over coffee.
At A deck they had reached the level of the base of the superstructure. The seaman opened an exterior door and stepped outside. The terrorist followed nun. The cold night air made them both shiver after the warmth of the interior. They found themselves aft of the superstructure on the poop. To one side of the door from which they emerged, the bulk of the funnel towered a hundred feet up toward the stars.
The seaman led the way across the poop to where a small steel structure stood. It was six feet by six and about the same in height. In one side of it there was a steel door, closed by two great screw bolts with butterfly nuts on the outside.
“Down there,” said the seaman.
“Go on down,” said the terrorist. The boy spun the twin butterfly handles, unscrewing the cleats, and pulled them back. Seizing the door handle, he swung it open. There was a light inside, showing a tiny platform and a steel stairway running down to the bowels of the Freya. At a jerk from the gun, the seaman stepped inside and began to head downward, the terrorist behind him.
Over seventy feet of the stairs led down, past several galleries from which steel doors led off. When they reached the bottom they were well below waterline, only the keel beneath the deck plating under their feet. They were in an enclosure with four steel doors. The terrorist nodded to the one facing aft.
“What’s that lead to?”
“Steering-gear housing.”
“Let’s have a look.”
When the door was open, it showed a great vaulted hall all in metal and painted pale green. It was well lit. Most of the center o
f the deck space was taken up by a mountain of encased machinery the device which, receiving its orders from the computers of the bridge, would move the rudder. The walls of the cavity were curved to the nethermost part of the ship’s hull. Aft of the chamber, beyond the steel, the great rudder of the Freya would be hanging inert in the black waters of the North Sea. The terrorist ordered the door closed again and bolted shut.
Port and starboard of the steering-gear chamber were, respectively, a chemical store and a paint store. The chemical store the terrorist ignored; he was not going to make men prisoners where there was acid to play with. The paint store was better. It was quite large, airy, well ventilated, and its outer wall was the hull of the ship.
“What’s the fourth door?” asked the terrorist. The fourth was the only door with no handles.
“It leads to the rear of the engine room,” said the seaman. “It is bolted on the other side.”
The terrorist pushed against the steel door. It was rock-solid. He seemed satisfied.
“How many men on this ship?” he asked. “Or women. No tricks. If there is one more than the figure you give, we’ll shoot them.”
The boy ran his tongue over dry lips.
“There are no women,” he said. “There might be wives next trip, but not on the maiden voyage. There are thirty men, including Captain Larsen.”
Knowing what he needed to know, the terrorist pushed the frightened young man into the paint locker, swung the door closed, and threw one of the twin bolts into its socket. Then he returned back up the ladder.
Emerging on the poop deck, he avoided the interior stairs and raced back up the outside ladders to the bridge, stepping in from outside where they reached the bridgewing.