Scanned and proofed by xyz April 2003.
Alistair MacLean
Santorini (Copyright Devoran Trustees Ltd, 1986)
Fontana/Collins.
Back Cover
Santorini
In the heart of the Agean Sea a luxury yacht is on fire and sinking fast. Minutes later a four engined jet with a fire in it's nose cone crashes into the sea.
Is there a sinister connection between these two tragedies. And is it an accident that the Ariadne, a NATO spy ship, is the only ship in the vicinity - the only witness?
Only commander Talbot of the Ariadne, can provide the answers as he uncovers a deadly plot involving drugs and terrorism - leading to the heart of the Pentagon.
To Tom and Rena
Chapter 1.
An overhead broadcaster on the bridge of the frigate Ariadne crackled into life, a bell rang twice and then O'Rourke's voice came through, calm, modulated, precise and unmistakably Irish. O'Rourke was commonly referred to as the weatherman, which he wasn't at all.
'Just picked up an odd-looking customer. Forty miles out, bearing 222.'
Talbot pressed the reply button. 'The skies above us, Chief, are hotching with odd-looking customers. At least six airlines criss-cross this patch of the Aegean. NATO planes, as you know better than all of us, are all around us. And those pesky fighter-bombers and fighters from the pesky Sixth Fleet bloweth where the wind listeth. Me, I think they're lost half the time.'
'Ah! But this is a very odd odd-looking lad.' O'Rourke's voice was unruffled as ever, unmoved by the less than flattering reference to the Sixth Fleet, from which he was on temporary loan. 'No trans-Aegean airline uses the flight path this plane is on. There are no NATO planes in this particular sector on my display screen. And the Americans would have let us know. A very courteous lot, Captain. The Sixth Fleet, I mean.'
'True, true.' The Sixth Fleet, Talbot was aware, would have informed him of the presence of any of their aircraft in his vicinity, not from courtesy but because regulations demanded it, a fact of which O'Rourke was as well aware as he was.
O'Rourke was a doughty defender of his home fleet. 'That all you have on this lad?'
'No. Two things. This plane is on a due south-west to north-east course. I have no record, no information of any plane that could be following this course. Secondly, I'm pretty sure it's a big plane. We should see in about four minutes - his course is on a direct intersection with ours.'
'The size is important, Chief? Lots of big planes around.'
'Not at 43,000 feet, sir, which is what this one is. Only a Concorde does that and we know there are no Concorde's about. Military job, I would guess.'
'Of unknown origin. A bandit? Could be. Keep an eye on him.' Talbot looked around and caught the eye of his second-in-command, Lieutenant-Commander Van Gelder. Van Gelder was short, very broad, deeply tanned, flaxen-haired and seemed to find life a source of constant amusement. He was smiling now as he approached the captain.
'Consider it done, sir. The spy-glass and a photo for your family album?'
'That's it. Thank you.' The Ariadne carried an immense and, to the uninitiated, quite bewildering variety of looking and listening instruments that may well have been unmatched by any naval ship afloat. Among those instruments were what Van Gelder had referred to as the spy-glass. This was a combined telescope and camera, invented and built by the French, of the type used by spy satellites in orbit and which was capable, under ideal atmospheric circumstances, of locating and photographing a white plate from an altitude of 150 miles. The focal length of the telescope was almost infinitely adjustable: in this case Van Gelder would probably use a one in a hundred resolution, which would have the optical effect of bringing the intruder -- if intruder it was -- to an apparent altitude of four hundred feet. In the cloudless July skies of the Cyclades this presented no problem at all.
Van Gelder had just left the bridge when another loud-speaker came to life, the repeated double buzzer identifying it as the radio-room. The helmsman, Leading Seaman Harrison, leaned forward and made the appropriate switch.
'I have an SOS. I think -- repeat think -- vessel's position is just south of Thera. All I have. Very garbled, certainly not a trained operator. Just keeps repeating "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday". Myers, the radio operator on duty, sounded annoyed: every radio operator, the tone of his voice said, should be as expert and efficient as he was. 'Wait a minute, though.' There was a pause, then Myers came on again. 'Sinking, he says. Four times he said he was sinking.'
'Talbot said: That all?'
'That's all, sir. He's gone off the air.'
'Well, just keep listening on the distress frequency, Harrison, 090 or near enough. Can't be more than ten, twelve miles away.' He reached for the engine control and turned it up to full power. The Ariadne, in the modern fashion, had dual engine-room and bridge controls. The engine-room had customarily only one rating, a leading stoker, on watch, and this only because custom dictated it, not because necessity demanded it. The lone watchman might, just possibly, be wandering around with an oil-can in hand but more probably was immersed in one of the lurid magazines with which what was called the engine-room library was so liberally stocked. The Ariadne's chief engineer, Lieutenant McCafferty, rarely ventured near his own domain. A first-class engineer, McCafferty claimed he was allergic to diesel fumes and treated with a knowing disdain the frequently repeated observation that, because of the engine-room's highly efficient extractor fans, it was virtually impossible for anyone to detect the smell of diesel. He was to be found that afternoon, as he was most afternoons, seated in a deckchair aft and immersed in his favourite form of relaxation, the reading of detective novels heavily laced with romance of the more dubious kind.
The distant sound of the diesels deepened - the Ariadne was capable of a very respectable 35 knots - and the bridge began to vibrate quite noticeably. Talbot reached for a phone and got through to Van Gelder, 'We've picked up a distress signal. Ten, twelve miles away. Let me know when you locate this bandit and I'll cut the engines.' The spy-glass, though splendidly gimballed to deal with the worst vagaries of pitching and rolling, was quite incapable of coping with even the mildest vibration which, more often than not, produced a very fuzzy photograph indeed.
Talbot moved out on to the port wing to join the lieutenant who stood there, a tall, thin young man with fair hair, thick pebbled glasses and a permanently lugubrious expression.
'Well, Jimmy, how do you fancy this? A maybe bandit and a sinking vessel at the same time. Should relieve the tedium of a long hot summer's afternoon, don't you think?'
The lieutenant looked at him without enthusiasm. Lieutenant the Lord James Denholm - Talbot called him 'Jimmy' for brevity's sake - seldom waxed enthusiastic about anything.
'I don't fancy it at all, Captain.' Denholm waved a languid hand. 'Disturbs the even tenor of my ways.'
Talbot smiled. Denholm was surrounded by an almost palpable aura of aristocratic exhaustion that had disturbed and irritated Talbot in the early stage of their acquaintanceship, a feeling that had lasted for no more than half an hour. Denholm was totally unfitted to be a naval officer of any kind and his highly defective eyesight should have led to his automatic disbarment from any navy in the world. But Denholm was aboard the Ariadne not because of his many connections with the highest echelons of society - heir to an earldom, his blood was indisputably the bluest of the blue -but because, without question, he was the right man in the right place. The holder of three scientific degrees - from Oxford, UCLA and MIT, all summa cum laude - in electrical
engineering and electronics, Denholm was as close to being an electronics wizard as any man could ever hope to be. Not that Denholm would have claimed to be anything of what he would have said to be the ridiculous kind. Despite
his lineage and academic qualifications, Denholm was modest and retiring to a fault. This reticence extended even to the making of protests which was why, despite his feeble objections - he had been under no compulsion to go - he had been dragooned into the Navy in the first place.
He said to Talbot: 'This bandit, Captain - if it is a bandit - what do you intend to do about it?'
'I don't intend to do anything about it.'
'But if he is a bandit -- well, then, he's spying, isn't he?'
'Of course.'
'Well, then -'
'What do you expect me to do, Jimmy? Bring him down? Or are you itching to try out this experimental laser gun you have with you?'
'Heaven forfend.' Denholm was genuinely horrified. 'I've never fired a gun in anger in my life. Correction. I've never even fired a gun.'
'If I wanted to bring him down a teeny-weeny heat-seeking missile would do the job very effectively. But we don't do things like that. We're civilized. Besides, we don't provoke international incidents. An unwritten law.'
'Sounds a very funny law to me.'
'Not at all. When the United States or NATO play war games, as we are doing now, the Soviets track us very closely indeed, whether on land, sea or air. We don't complain. We can't. When they're playing their game we do exactly the same to them. Can, admittedly, have its awkward moments. Not so long ago, when the US Navy were carrying out exercises in the Sea of Japan an American destroyer banged into, and quite severely damaged, a Russian submarine which was monitoring things a little too closely.'
'And that didn't cause what you've just called an international incident?"
'Certainly not. Nobody's fault. Mutual apologies between the two captains and the Russian was towed to a safe port by another Russian warship. Vladivostok, I believe it was.' Talbot turned his head. 'Excuse me. That's the radio-room call-up.'
'Myers again,' the speaker said. 'Delos. Name of the sinking vessel. Very brief message - explosion, on fire, sinking fast.'
'Keep listening,' Talbot said. He looked at the helmsman who already had a pair of binoculars to his eyes. 'You have it, Harrison?'
'Yes, sir.' Harrison handed over the binoculars and twitched the wheel to port. 'Fire off the port bow.'
Talbot picked it up immediately, a thin black column of smoke rising vertically, unwaveringly, into the blue and windless sky. He was just lowering his glasses when the bell rang twice again. It was O'Rourke, the weatherman, or, more officially, the senior long-range radar operator.
'Lost him, I'm afraid. The bandit, I mean. I was looking at the vectors on either side of him to see if he had any friends and when I came back he was gone.'
'Any ideas, Chief?'
'Well...' O'Rourke sounded doubtful. 'He could have exploded but I doubt it.'
'So do I. We've had the spy-glass trained on his approach bearing and they'd have picked up an explosion for sure.'
'Then he must have gone into a steep dive. A very steep dive. God knows why. I'll find him.' The speaker clicked off.
Almost at once a telephone rang again. It was Van Gelder.
*22.z, sir. Smoke. Plane. Could be the bandit.'
'Almost certainly is. The weatherman's just lost it off the long-range radar screen. Probably a waste of time but try to get that photograph anyway."
He moved out on to the starboard wing and trained his glasses over the starboard quarter. He picked it up immediately, a heavy dark plume of smoke with, he thought, a glow of red at its centre. It was still quite high, at an altitude of four or five thousand feet. He didn't pause to check how deeply the plane was diving or whether or not it actually was on fire. He moved quickly back into the bridge and picked up a phone.
'Sub-Lieutenant Cousteau. Quickly.' A brief pause. 'Henri? Captain. Emergency. Have the launch and the lifeboat slung outboard. Crews to stand by to lower. Then report to the bridge.' He rang down to the engine-room for Slow Ahead then .said to Harrison: 'Hard a-port. Steer north.'
Denholm, who had moved out on to the starboard wing, returned, lowering his binoculars.
'Well, even I can see that plane. Not a plane, rather a huge streamer of smoke. Could that have been the bandit, sir -- if it was a bandit?'
'Must have been.'
Denholm said, tentatively: 'I don't care much for his line of approach, sir.'
'I don't care much for it myself, Lieutenant, especially if it's a military plane and even more especially if it's carrying bombs of any sort. If you look, you'll see that we're getting out of its way.'
'Ah. Evasive action.' Denholm hesitated, then said doubtfully: 'Well, as long as he doesn't alter course.'
'Dead men don't alter courses.'
'That they don't.' Van Gelder had just returned to the bridge. 'And the man or the men behind the controls of that plane are surely dead. No point in my staying there, sir -Gibson's better with the spy-glass camera than I am and he's very busy with it. We'll have plenty of photographs to show you but I doubt whether we'll be able to learn very much from them.'
'As bad as that? You weren't able to establish anything?'
'Very little, I'm afraid. I did see the outer engine on the port wing. So it's a four-engined jet. Civil or military, I've no idea.'
'A moment, please.' Talbot moved out on the port wing, looked aft, saw that the blazing plane - there was no mistaking the flames now -- was due astern, at less than half the height and distance than when he had first seen it, returned to the bridge, told Harrison to steer due north, then turned again to Van Gelder.
'That was all you could establish?'
'About. Except that the fire is definitely located in the nose cone, which would rule out any engine explosion. It couldn't have been hit by a missile because we know there are no missile-carrying planes around -- even if there were, a, heat-seeking missile, the only type that could nail it at that altitude, would have gone for the engines, not the nose cone. It could only have been an up-front internal explosion.'
Talbot nodded, reached for a phone, asked the exchange for the sick bay and was through immediately.
'Doctor? Would you detail an SBA - with first-aid kit - to stand by the lifeboat.' He paused for a moment. 'Sorry, no time to explain. Come on up to the bridge.' He looked aft through the starboard wing doorway, turned and took the wheel from the helmsman. 'Take a look, Harrison. A good look.'
Harrison moved out on the starboard wing, had his good look - it took him only a few seconds - returned and took the wheel again.
'Awful.' He shook his head. 'They're finished, sir, aren't they?'
'So I would have thought.'
'They're going to miss us by at least a quarter mile. Maybe a half.' Harrison took another quick look through the doorway. 'This angle of descent -- they should land -- rather, hit the sea - a mile, mile and a half ahead. Unless by some fluke they carry on and hit the island. That would be curtains, sir.'
'It would indeed.' Talbot looked ahead through the for'ard screens. Thera Island was some four miles distant with Cape Akrotiri lying directly to the north and Mount Elias, the highest point of the island -- it was close on 2.000 feet -- to the north-east. Between them, but about five miles further distant, a tenuous column of bluish smoke, hardly visible against a cloudless sky, hung lazily in the air. This marked the site of Thira Village, the only settlement of any size on the island. 'But the damage would be limited to the plane. The south-west of the island is barren. I don't think anyone lives there.'
'What are we going to do, sir? Stop over the point where it goes down?'
'Something like that. You can handle it yourself. Or maybe another quarter or half mile further on along the line he was taking. Have to wait and see. Fact is, Harrison, I know no more about it than you do. It may disintegrate on impact Or, if it survives that, it may carry on some distance under water. Not for far, I should think - not if its nose has gone. Number One -' this to Van Gelder '-what depths do we have here?'
'I know the five fathom mark is about half a mile offshore along the south
of the island. Beyond that, it shelves pretty steeply. I'll have to check in the chart-room. At the moment I'd guess we're in two to three hundred fathoms. A sonar check, sir?'
'Please.' Van Gelder left, brushing by Sub-Lieutenant Cousteau as he did. Cousteau, barely in his twenties, was a happy-go-lucky youngster, always eager and willing and a more than competent seaman. Talbot beckoned him out on to the starboard wing.
'Have you seen it, Henri?'
'Yes, sir.' Cousteau's normal cheerfulness was in marked abeyance. He gazed in unwilling fascination at the blazing, smoking plane, now directly abeam and at an altitude of under a thousand feet. 'What a damnable, awful thing.'
'Aye, it's not nice.' They had been joined by Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander Andrew Grierson. Grierson was dressed in white shorts and a flowing multi-coloured Hawaiian shirt which he doubtless regarded as the correct dress of the day for the summer Aegean. 'So this is why you wanted Moss and his first-aid box." Moss was the Leading Sick Bay Attendant. 'I'm thinking maybe I should be going myself.'-Grierson was a West Highland Scot, as was immediately evident from his accent, an accent which he never attempted to conceal for the excellent reason that he saw no earthly reason why he ever should. 'If there are any survivors, which I consider bloody unlikely, I know something about decompression problems which Moss doesn't.'
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