cabin was fairly close to the gas flare—close enough to feel its heat—and the choppers gave them both a wide berth.
Dockrell took his eyes off the crane controls to watch each Bell disgorge its passengers. His gaze remained fixed on Avedesian
when he emerged. He expected him to hurry to a gangway leading down into the flotel superstructure, to escape the chopper
engine noise and the downdraft of its rotors. Instead, he walked to the edge of the helideck, followed by the American namedHank Washington. They appeared to be shouting and arguing. Dockrell wasted no time.
The crane operator was a big man, heavily muscled and wearing a hard hat. Coming at him from behind, by surprise, Dockrell
was fairly sure he could immobilize him without attracting attention. But with a very strong man, like a construction worker,
in prime condition, he just couldn’t be sure, and he needed to be. He was in a glass-walled box, observable to anyone who
cared to stare up, and he needed to move fast. The crane operator had just set a container on the Hotel platform and the crewmen
were freeing the hook.
Dockrell pulled out the Glock 17 from an inside pocket of his coat. The 9 mm pistol, manufactured by the Austrian company
of Gaston Glock, near Vienna, was almost totally plastic. Only the barrel, slide and one spring were steel. Dockrell had broken
these down and scattered them in his luggage so they would look meaningless on an X-ray. The plastic gun itself neither showed
on an X-ray nor set off a metal detector. The cartridges had been his main problem. He had put eighteen in the container for
his electric razor and had no trouble in Washington, London, Aberdeen or Sumburgh.
The crane operator glanced around as he heard the pistol being cocked. Dockrell shot him once, just above the left eyebrow,
quickly pocketed the gun and caught the man before he fell forward out of his chair onto the control levers. Avoiding the
blood trickling down one side of the man’s face, Dockrell eased him out of thechair and onto the floor. Because of the lack of space, he had to curl him on his side around the base of the chair like a
large sleeping dog.
Dockrell sat in the operator’s chair and looked down. Only one man was looking upward, and that was the seaman making signals
up to him from the ship’s deck far below. At the angle of his view, the floor of the control cabin would have prevented him
from seeing what had happened. He was now waving his arms for the hook to drop, puzzled by the delay. The crewmen on the flotel
platform were too busy logging in the last container—entering the long string of numbers on its side into forms on clipboards—to
pay any heed to the pause in the work. Avedesian and Washington were still arguing together off to one side of the helideck.
Dockrell prided himself on his fast learning. This was going to be a test of what he could do. A major performance with no
rehearsal. He wound the levers to swing the boom out over the side of the platform. He saw the container on the ship’s deck
that the seaman was signaling toward. He estimated when the tip of the crane’s boom was nearly over it, waited for the vessel
to sink in a trough and begin to rise on the next swell, then worked the lever to drop the hook. It fell into the sea about
two container lengths aft of the ship’s stern. Dockrell cursed. Clearly this was going to be even trickier than he had guessed.
His steep view down distorted distances for him.
He had to try twice more and even then was lucky to land the hook on the container’s top. By this time theseaman was signaling so ferociously, he looked like he would tie himself in a knot. The other two deckhands got the hook in
the cables, jumped clear and Dockrell got the signal to lift.
Things went badly again. Instead of being picked clean and fast off the ship’s deck, the container rose slowly and swayed
at the end of the crane cable. As Dockrell fought
Dockrell took his eyes off the crane controls to watch each Bell disgorge its passengers. His gaze remained fixed on Avedesian
when he emerged. He expected him to hurry to a gangway leading down into the flotel superstructure, to escape the chopper
engine noise and the downdraft of its rotors. Instead, he walked to the edge of the helideck, followed by the American namedHank Washington. They appeared to be shouting and arguing. Dockrell wasted no time.
The crane operator was a big man, heavily muscled and wearing a hard hat. Coming at him from behind, by surprise, Dockrell
was fairly sure he could immobilize him without attracting attention. But with a very strong man, like a construction worker,
in prime condition, he just couldn’t be sure, and he needed to be. He was in a glass-walled box, observable to anyone who
cared to stare up, and he needed to move fast. The crane operator had just set a container on the Hotel platform and the crewmen
were freeing the hook.
Dockrell pulled out the Glock 17 from an inside pocket of his coat. The 9 mm pistol, manufactured by the Austrian company
of Gaston Glock, near Vienna, was almost totally plastic. Only the barrel, slide and one spring were steel. Dockrell had broken
these down and scattered them in his luggage so they would look meaningless on an X-ray. The plastic gun itself neither showed
on an X-ray nor set off a metal detector. The cartridges had been his main problem. He had put eighteen in the container for
his electric razor and had no trouble in Washington, London, Aberdeen or Sumburgh.
The crane operator glanced around as he heard the pistol being cocked. Dockrell shot him once, just above the left eyebrow,
quickly pocketed the gun and caught the man before he fell forward out of his chair onto the control levers. Avoiding the
blood trickling down one side of the man’s face, Dockrell eased him out of thechair and onto the floor. Because of the lack of space, he had to curl him on his side around the base of the chair like a
large sleeping dog.
Dockrell sat in the operator’s chair and looked down. Only one man was looking upward, and that was the seaman making signals
up to him from the ship’s deck far below. At the angle of his view, the floor of the control cabin would have prevented him
from seeing what had happened. He was now waving his arms for the hook to drop, puzzled by the delay. The crewmen on the flotel
platform were too busy logging in the last container—entering the long string of numbers on its side into forms on clipboards—to
pay any heed to the pause in the work. Avedesian and Washington were still arguing together off to one side of the helideck.
Dockrell prided himself on his fast learning. This was going to be a test of what he could do. A major performance with no
rehearsal. He wound the levers to swing the boom out over the side of the platform. He saw the container on the ship’s deck
that the seaman was signaling toward. He estimated when the tip of the crane’s boom was nearly over it, waited for the vessel
to sink in a trough and begin to rise on the next swell, then worked the lever to drop the hook. It fell into the sea about
two container lengths aft of the ship’s stern. Dockrell cursed. Clearly this was going to be even trickier than he had guessed.
His steep view down distorted distances for him.
He had to try twice more and even then was lucky to land the hook on the container’s top. By this time theseaman was signaling so ferociously, he looked like he would tie himself in a knot. The other two deckhands got the hook in
the cables, jumped clear and Dockrell got the signal to lift.
Things went badly again. Instead of being picked clean and fast off the ship’s deck, the container rose slowly and swayed
at the end of the crane cable. As Dockrell fought
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