The Floating Zombie, page 9
So Phil worked, shocked and scared, but with a grudging admiration for the pirates’ organization.
The helo had brought in four men in two trips, all obviously experienced tankermen, and their leader, the fat one, equipped with a walkie-talkie, certainly knew his way around AT1’s upper deck. Maybe it didn’t need much guesswork to find the lengths of armored hose, but he went straight to the long lockers on either side of the funnel. Meanwhile, the helo towed a line across from the tanker, which had cautiously edged closer and closer, until the gap between the ships was less than a hundred feet. AT1 held steady on course; however close another ship might get, to keep going straight ahead was the only solution the computer had.
Both searchlights had, for a long time, been flashing U tirelessly at the pirate, until Colmar, walking aft, spotted them. He couldn’t resist the chance to show off.
“How about this, boys?” He yelled; then, the same deadly, blurred action as he drew and fired twice. One man nodded, impressed, but Phil saw the fat boss-man look thoughtfully at Colmar.
The lines secured, the pirate winched the fueling hoses over to her bows, where fresh lengths of hose waited. Soon both lines pulsed as the pump-over began.
Despite everything, Phil watched with interest. It wasn’t exactly Navy-fashion; they took chances, the hoses not properly supported, and the pirate vessel was almighty close at times, but Roscorla guessed that the odd dent in those ancient bows wouldn’t worry anyone, and if the hoses were strained and leaked, well, they were expendable.
Expendable. … A nasty word that dried the mouth, made the heart thump. Outwardly resigned, hauling on lines, manhandling pipes, Phil, spurred on by the will to survive, sought any glimmer of hope, any clue to the pirates’ intentions.
The head-on view of the tanker told him little; certainly old, her name had been painted out recently. He was seemingly free to learn whatever he could. The men in the pirate ship’s bows looked incuriously at him, conspicuous in his light gray, making no effort to hide their faces, and the men aboard AT1 used first names.
He reached the chilling conclusion that, their usefulness ended, AT1’s survivors would follow Mark. What they would do with the ship was another matter, and in Phil’s frame of mind a minor detail, except so far as it touched his future. Two points nagged: that job astern couldn’t take even half AT1’s cargo, and why hadn’t they attempted to get into the computer?
He tried to talk to the men he helped, and got nowhere. Roscorla had seen little outside North European waters; these men could be Arabs, or Turks, or something: they just answered in grunts. He was surer of the boss-man; he spoke English, with a German accent.
“Coffee!” yelled Colmar. “Come and get it!”
They understood that, all right, but even then they retained their discipline. One man stayed tending the hoses, and the boss remained amidships, walkie-talkie close to his ear, one hand on an oil valve.
Jane had changed her shirt, but still looked a wreck, her eyes large with shock, her hair hanging loose. She poured coffee into paper cups, Colmar watching. He pointed.
“That’s yours—drink!”
She did so, her face expressionless.
“And that’s for dear old Phil—go on!”
Phil took the cup hesitantly. Jane had had a soft spot for Mark, and she was the sort of woman who’d do anything if pushed.
“It’s all right, Phil.” Her tired, flat statement rang true.
“Swell!” Grinning, Colmar took Phil’s cup.
Jane shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with any of it—except I hope it chokes you!”
“That’s the spirit!” Strangely, Colmar wasn’t kidding. “I like a woman with spirit!”
“You like a woman with spirit!” she mimicked him savagely, anger overcoming fear. “You? You can’t kid me—you’re neuter, you’re nothing! That gun’s your penis!”
Colmar’s face went deathly pale, his hand hovered over the black butt of his gun. Phil tensed himself to spring; Jane’s life was a bouncing roulette ball, the bet red or black. Slowly Colmar smiled. Ever aware of an audience, he tried to drink his coffee calmly, but his hand shook. Still as a statue, Jane watched. He put the cup down, smiling like a stage villain. Without that gun, Phil would have laughed. Colmar answered her at last.
“Go ahead, go right ahead—have your fun while you can! I’ll settle with you when I’m good and ready! Then we’ll see!”
His words could have come straight from a B movie, but whatever the fantasies in the killer’s mind, he was in a position to act them out. Phil wiped the sweat from his face, praying Jane would back off. Slowly she collected the cups and moved to the ladder. She knew that to needle him further would be certain death.
Colmar, relaxed, called after her, “And fix some chow, good chow! We eat at twelve.”
For the first time he could remember that hideous day, Roscorla glanced at his watch: 9:45. Less than two hours ago, all had been normal, Mark alive. And Bill—what of him? Uncertain what to do, but determined to appear completely cowed, he paused in the doorway, looking aft. With the hoses rigged, two men were quite enough.
Had to give it to the bloke driving that tanker; of course, with AT1 steady as a rock and the sea as flat as a pond, it was easier, but to hold that old tub—
“Hey—you! Go grab a swab and clean this up!” Colmar gestured at Langley’s dried blood. “Don’t stay gabbing with that whore, either! And when you come up that ladder, you just say you’re coming! Any sudden movement is apt to make me jumpy, and we don’t want that, do we?”
“No,” mumbled Roscorla. Passing the armory, he saw it was empty. Colmar laughed.
“Yeah—sad! All at the bottom of the ocean except those Blowpipes, and I’ve sent them over to … to the tanker. Get moving!”
Jane was in the galley, her mind in chaos, working mechanically. She jumped at Phil’s entry, fearing Colmar. Filling a bucket, watching the open door, he spoke softly, quickly. “I’ve surrendered, given up—got it? Be back as soon as I can. How’s Bill?”
Quickly, without emotion, she told him, adding, “Learn all you can, Phil—how many—and if they’re all armed.”
“Three of ’em. No, four. All got guns. Must go.”
He worked with meticulous care, spinning out time under Colmar’s watchful, jumpy eye, giving him the chance to talk. He alone had been on relatively friendly terms with the killer. He’d always reckoned Colmar odd, but he liked or was interested in people of all sorts, and Colmar had fascinated him. From Colmar’s angle, Phil wasn’t an ex-Army sergeant, and he was a good listener. Now that fragile relationship could be of vital importance; more than anyone else, Roscorla had an insight into the killer’s twisted mind. Before the hijack, it mattered nothing; now … He wiped the deck clean, uncomfortably conscious of Colmar’s eyes.
“My, you’re real good at that—a regular mom’s help!” Phil dried the deck, ignoring the contemptuous voice. Colmar wanted to talk; let him.
“You know, old buddy, you’re a creep; an even bigger creep than I reckoned. D’you think I’d do that?” He waited, his voice hardened. “Go on, answer!”
“No,” mumbled Phil, thankful Colmar couldn’t see his eyes.
“That, as our old pal, the far too late Sergeant Jacens, would have said, is affirmative! Jacens … he was fast—but I took him. You’d never have had the guts!”
Phil nodded, in complete agreement.
“Gee, if you guys could have seen your faces!” Colmar laughed, reliving his triumph. “None of you, not a single one, had the glimmer of an idea about me—did you?”
Phil looked up. “No, and I still can’t get over it.” He spoke with total sincerity. “Security must have checked you, same as the rest of us—and were they wrong! It beats me.” He made it sound as if it was his biggest single problem.
Colmar loved that. “Security—that shower of creeps! Sure, they checked me forward, sideways, and backward, like you say—and came up with sweet zero! Shall I tell you why? There was nothing to find! Me, I was square and dumb, but with just one leetle difference, and that they missed out on! The man who set up this operation is a real planner. He looks ahead; he had a talent scout—and that guy picked me!” Colmar smiled at happy memories. “Very, very discreet; only one or two meetings—the first right there under their dirty Army noses, in my last camp! I soon saw they’d checked me out before they approached me—careful guys, guys who don’t take chances! Boy, I felt good right then, just fooling those lousy crumbs who fouled up my chances of a commission. That, buddy, was real funny! So this scout sounds me out—he knows the dirty deal I get from that …” Colmar swore, a wild jumble of meaningless obscenities, releasing his bottled rage against the world. Phil kept the deck cloth moving, his head down.
Silence followed the outburst. Colmar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at the sailor in surprise, as if he had just appeared from nowhere. Slowly the false grin returned, and the arrogance with it.
“Yeah. I’m picked—me! They’ve got it all doped out. I finish my time, a few weeks, an honorable discharge and all that baby’s crap! That gets me a security guard’s job. You know what? Second week on the job, I’m on a payroll collection from a bank—some jerk tries a snatch!” He laughed again. “Imagine! A snatch against me! Guess how that one went! That really makes me; I move to tankers—as planned. Four trips. Meanwhile, I volunteer for this job—as planned. This whole goddamn operation has been planned, right down to the very last detail! I knew the time we’d be hit—within an hour—before I even set foot in Bahrain!”
Phil looked up, exhibiting more surprise than he felt.
With frightening insight Colmar jeered at him. “Sure you want to know more—and mighty little good it’ll do you! The whole operation turned on me, and I’ve done it—me! Jacens was good, but I took him! Right now there’s more dough than you’ve ever dreamed of waiting for me—never you mind where.” He grinned at Phil’s dejected figure with contempt. “You’re a born loser, buddy. Sad … sad—and tough!” Suddenly he tired of his audience. “Go on, scram! Fix me a can of lime juice—unopened. Then give that scarface cow a hand with the chow—that’s your level!” He sneered as the sailor obediently rose to his feet. “If you two want to cook any plans to ease you outta this jam, go right ahead! All I want is just one teeny excuse to ice both of you. It’d be a real pleasure—especially her!”
Phil knew he wasn’t kidding.
With eight mouths to feed, plus tending Langley, Jane needed help. Pale and subdued, Phil went back to the galley, sickened by the realization that in the long run, their usefulness ended, Colmar intended to kill them.
They talked in whispers, asking and answering each other’s questions. For Phil the only bright spot was when Jane told him of the gun; she sighed with relief on learning Colmar had ditched all the armament except the Adens, and they were useless, for their ammunition had also gone over the side.
Temporarily the thought of the secret Browning raised Phil’s hopes, but the more he thought about it, the less he liked it. It would be worse than useless for him to try, sheer suicide. Keyed up, Colmar would have him before he could blink.
In a cold, contained voice, Jane said she did not think it would be difficult for her to kill Colmar. She did not have to add that she would have no compunction in shooting him in the back, but what of the rest? Even if, between them, they put all six out of action, there was still the tanker, and that had the Blowpipes, plus an unknown armament.
Colmar gave them little time, constantly ringing down for fresh cans of soft drinks, taunting, jeering at the sailor when he delivered them.
Relief came from an unexpected quarter. Colmar made one of them taste everything provided for dinner, including the salt. The fat German seaman watched in impassive silence. He inspected his steak with great care, but once satisfied, he and his henchmen got on with it, but Colmar, having sent the captive pair to the galley, kept recalling one or the other on a variety of pretexts. The third time the white-faced, tight-lipped Cornishman appeared—Colmar required a clean fork—the German spoke.
“Dot iss enuff, Colmar!” He jerked his close-shaven head in dismissal at Roscorla. Thereafter he remained silent. Colmar shrugged, but took it.
During the afternoon, Roscorla had to help on deck. He was only too glad to be free of Colmar’s constant needling. Then it was back to help out with supper. Jane had been busy with Langley, feverish and in pain. She gave him morphine and settled him down. Without a transfusion, rest was the only answer. Exhausted, she turned to the galley, glad of Phil’s help and company. Now she was clear of initial shock. In fear of her life, her woman’s mind still found time to mourn the man, who, if she had not loved him, had loved her.
In their brief time together, she had come to respect him, and in that one meeting on deck, now another life away, had submitted to his strength of character. Then the matter of her disfigurement had been a vital matter to her; now … And why had she given herself to him? Respect and affection she had had; love, no. Gratitude was partly responsible for her impulsive action, one that she certainly did not now regret. And Mark, dying, had told her to take the gun. … Would she have the guts to use it?
Yes. She and Phil had very little hope, and Langley even less, but if she had the chance, Colmar had none.
Phil’s suspicion that the German had said something to Colmar became a virtual certainty after supper. Almost sullenly he said, “You two. Quit fooling around with the dishes. If you want the can, now’s your chance. You’ll be locked up for the night.”
“What about Bill—he can’t be left.”
Colmar enjoyed her anger. “Who said he’d be left? There’s another bunk—you can have it!”
“Here! Jacens. … You can’t put her—”
“Yeah, why not? She fancied him!”
Phil struggled to keep his temper. “Hell, you can’t. Look, let me move him!” He made but one step before Colmar’s gun appeared, as if by magic.
“Go on, buddy—just one more step!”
Locked in his cabin, Roscorla hated himself for his lack of courage, although he realized it would have been useless to resist. He sat thinking, trying to find some ray of hope. He hadn’t said so in as many words to Jane, but he knew Colmar would kill them, was eager to do it, to kill anyone who had seen him ordered about, by his lights, humiliated. Why hadn’t he killed Langley? Maybe he missed his aim in the citadel—for sure he’d never admit it—and later, perhaps the German had influenced him. He and Jane were needed for the time being; to shoot Langley would not help the operation, and while he was allowed to live, at least Phil and Jane could nurse the illusion that they might live.
Phil jumped convulsively as his phone buzzed. Christ! Was Colmar going on with his needling?
Jane spoke. “Phil, Colmar must have forgotten the phone; that’s something. I just called to say I’m all right, and to say I admired the way you kept your temper. Don’t give up hope.”
Roscorla flopped on his bunk, fully dressed, thinking what a girl Jane had turned out to be: sort of bird a bloke could marry—if they had the ghost of a chance. … Exhausted, he slept.
Very much more tired, Jane lay awake crying for herself, for Mark. Yes, Colmar would pay. Please God, whatever else, let that be true. …
XI
At first light Colmar released them, sending Jane to the galley and Roscorla on deck. The sailor glanced around, shivering in the relative chill of dawn, cursing the luck of the pirates; the sea was still flat calm.
Astern, the tanker, much lower in the water, was still fueling. Roscorla relieved a red-eyed, unshaven pirate, who went below to eat. Phil watched; the tanker could not take much more. What would happen then? He tried not to think about that, and got on with his job.
This was not difficult or particularly arduous. Mats to stop chafing had to be adjusted under the thumping pipelines, relieving tackles tightened or eased. It kept him busy. With the return of the second man from breakfast, the German clumped aft, his belly bulging over his gunbelt.
“Sailor—you eat. I say so!”
Phil stretched himself, nodded gratefully to the German. His word would be an effective passport.
His jaw dropped, he stared in amazement, joy flooding into his face. Six or seven miles away on the port bow was another ship! He turned toward the German.
“Nein, mein freund! No. Do not hope. It no goot iss. Iss unser—ours.” Something akin to pity showed in the tough German’s face.
“Oh, Christ!” The sudden hope, so quickly extinguished, was almost too much for Phil. He turned into the citadel, slouching past Colmar, who taunted him to no purpose, his dejection no act.
But men of Phil’s happy-go-lucky disposition cannot be kept down for long. He ate well, reflecting that with another tanker to come—and this one looked bigger—at least they had bought more time, and he firmly believed that while there was life there was hope.
Back on deck, he had to admire the timing and organization. By eleven A.M. the new tanker was approaching from astern, and the activity aboard the first pirate was intense. Hoses were uncoupled, capped, buoyed, and cast off; speed was reduced, and the laden tanker dropped back as the second one moved up. The helo jumped from ship to ship, men were flown in from the new arrival, and the first team, except the German, returned to their ship.
In spite of his anxieties, Phil watched with professional interest: how would the second ship pick up the hoses? Skillfully, the helo flew low, dragging a grapnel, hooking up a long bridle attached to the two trailing hoses, and towed it across the bows of the empty ship. Cut in two, winching each hose aboard was easy. By 11:30, high-seas robbery had begun again.
The German, relaxing after the hectic activity, read Roscorla’s expression. “Iss goot—ja?”
“Fine, if the weather’s right!”
“Plis?”
