The Devil's Alternative
“Ah, yes, Prime Minister. That would of course be a last resort. I understand it is called ‘the hard option.’ ”
“The Israelis stormed the airliner at Entebbe,” mused the Prime Minister. “The Germans stormed the one at Mogadisho. The Dutch stormed the train at Assen. When they were left with no alternative. Supposing it were to happen again.”
“Well, ma’am, perhaps they would.”
“Could the Dutch Marines carry out such a mission?”
Sir Julian chose his words carefully. He had a vision of burly Marines clumping all over Whitehall. Far better to keep those people playing their lethal games well out of the way on Exmoor.
“If it came to storming a vessel at sea,” he said, “I believe a helicopter landing would not be feasible. It would
be spotted by the deck watch, and of course the ship has a radar scanner. Similarly, an approach by surface vessel would also be observed. This is not an airliner on a concrete runway, nor a stationary train, ma’am. This is a ship over twenty-five miles from land.”
That, he hoped, would put a stop to it.
“What about an approach by armed divers or frogmen?” she asked.
Sir Julian closed his eyes. Armed frogmen indeed. He was convinced politicians read too many novels for their own good.
“Armed frogmen, Prime Minister?” The blue eyes across the desk did not leave him.
“I understand,” she said clearly, “that our capacity in this regard is among the most advanced in Europe.”
“I believe it may well be so, ma’am.”
“And who are these underwater experts?”
“The Special Boat Service, Prime Minister.”
“Who, in Whitehall, liaises with our special services?” she asked.
“There is a Royal Marine colonel in Defense,” he conceded, “called Holmes.”
It was going to be bad; he could see it coming. They had used the land-based counterpart of the SUS, the better-known Special Air Service, or SAS, to help the Germans at Mogadisho, and in the Balcombe Street siege. Harold Wilson had always wanted to hear all the details of the lethal games these roughnecks played with their opponents. Now they were going to start another James Bond-style fantasy.
“Ask Colonel Holmes to attend the crisis management committee—in a consultative capacity only, of course.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“And prepare UNICORNE. I shall expect you to take the chair at noon, when the terrorists’ demands are known.”
Three hundred miles across the North Sea, the activity in Holland was already, by midmorning, becoming frenetic.
From his office in the seaside capital of The Hague, the Premier, Jan Grayling, and his staff were putting together the same sort of crisis management committee that Mrs. Carpenter in London had in mind. The first requirement was to know the exact perspectives of any conceivable human or environmental tragedy stemming from the damage at sea to a ship like the Freya, and the various options the Dutch government faced.
To secure this information the same kinds of experts were being called upon for their specialized knowledge: in shipping, oil slicks, tides, speeds, directions, future weather prospects, and even the military option.
Dirk Van Gelder, having delivered the tape recording of the nine o’clock message from the Freya, drove back to Maas Control on the instructions of Jan Grayling to sit by the VHF radiotelephone set in case the Freya called up again before twelve noon.
It was he who at ten-thirty took the call from Harry Wennerstrom. Having finished breakfast in his penthouse suite at the Rotterdam Hilton, the old shipping magnate was still in ignorance of the disaster to his ship. Quite simply, no one had thought to call him.
Wennerstrom was calling to inquire about the progress of the Freya, which by this time, he thought, would be well into the Outer Channel, moving slowly and carefully toward the Inner Channel, several kilometers past Euro Buoy 1 and moving along a precise course of 080.5 degrees. He expected to leave Rotterdam with his convoy of notables to witness the Freya’s coming into sight about lunchtime, as the ride rose to its peak.
Van Gelder apologized for not having called him at the Hilton, and carefully explained what had happened at 0645 and 0900 hours. There was silence from the Hilton end of the line. Wennerstrom’s first reaction could have been to mention that there was $170 million worth of ship being held prisoner out beyond the western horizon, carrying $140 million worth of crude oil. It was a reflection on the man that he said, at length:
“There are thirty of my seamen out there, Mr. Van Gelder. And starting right now, let me tell you that if anything happens to any one of them because the terrorists’ demands are not met, I shall hold the Dutch authorities personally responsible.”
“Mr. Wennerstrom,” said Van Gelder, who had also commanded a ship in his career, “we are doing everything we can. The requirements of the terrorists regarding the distance of clear water around the Freya are being met, to the letter. Their primary demands have not yet been stated. The Prime Minister is in his office now in The Hague doing what he can, and he will be here at noon for the next message from the Freya.”