As evil as Khan’s intentions were, he knew that the game had now entered its most dangerous phase. Marsh returned to his cabin with the absorbing and frightening thought that his own time was limited and there was very little he could do about it.
For the remainder of the day, Marsh and Helen were confined to their quarters. No reason asked, no reason given. They used the time to hatch various escape plans and to immediately discard them until the game became useless and an admission of defeat was all they could muster.
There was nothing either of them could do. Marsh knew he could refuse to pilot the submersible, but he also knew that Khan could take over, even if his heart was suspect. Khan would probably survive the dives; his own fanaticism would push him beyond his own limits. Marsh understood that.
And Marsh also understood that he would not be allowed to live beyond a refusal to cooperate. And they had no way of knowing what would happen to Helen; probably the same fate. No, Marsh decided that while he was still in some kind of control, with some part to play in Khan’s evil scheme, he might have a small bargaining counter that could guarantee his and Helen’s freedom. But in his heart, he knew he was kidding himself.
*
Francesini arrived back at his office with a degree of pessimism clouding his day. Such was the urgency now of Francesini’s mission, he had flown from Freeport direct to Langley Air Force Base, and was picked up by a staff car. It had been a demanding flight, not from the point of being tiring, but he had so many unanswered questions floating about in his mind and no-one to bounce them off that he had almost succumbed to melancholia.
It didn’t help when Admiral Starling had admitted to him that he too was under pressure from the President’s National Security Adviser; he wanted results. This meant that the President’s man was under pressure from the President himself. And this meant that the pressure rolled all the way down to the man at the front: Francesini. The buck may stop at the Oval Office, Francesini had told the admiral, but it was certainly uncomfortable from where he was standing.
He thought about the child’s song he would sometimes chant when he was at junior school. ‘Big fleas have little fleas on their backs to bite ‘em. Little fleas have littler fleas and so ad infinitum’.
Did we sing that? He wondered as he sat down at his desk. There was a yellow ‘post it’ note on his desk. The message was scrawled in almost unintelligible writing.
‘Your phone is off. Ring me please.’
It was signed by Cooke, the young man in the satellite imagery department. Francesini frowned and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. Sure enough it was switched off. He shook his head and turned the phone on. He remembered switching it off during the flight. He reached for the desk phone and dialled Cooke’s number.
“Hallo Bob, Francesini here. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve lost the Taliba, sir. It’s gone!”
Francesini sat bolt upright. “What?”
“It’s gone sir; disappeared during the night. We tracked her image into the Atlantic. Her signature was pretty strong for a while, but when I came in to work this morning.” He paused there. Francesini could hear him breathing. He sounded nervous. “Well sir, it’s like I said; she’s gone.”
“Have you checked all the images?” Francesini asked. He knew it was unnecessary.
“All of them, sir. She just faded away.”
Francesini felt the ‘fleas’ on his back. “I’m coming down to your office. Have the images ready for me, will you?”
“Yes sir.”
He put the phone down, the song running through his head. ‘….little fleas have littler fleas and so ad infinitum’.
*
Marsh thought the Challenger was beautiful. To others she was ugly and ungainly, which she certainly was. But Marsh looked at her from an engineer’s point of view, from an oceanographer’s perspective. Everything on that submersible was designed with a distinct purpose in mind; there was nothing surplus. She may not have had an aesthetic appeal, Marsh realised that, but he was still fascinated by her.
He clambered up the short ladder to check the umbilical was securely attached and while he was on top of the submersible, he checked the security of all the lifting rings. He then dropped down the far side and continued his checks along the whole length of the submersible. When he was satisfied that everything was in order, he opened the door of the acrylic polymer cockpit bubble and climbed in.
The Taliba had maintained a good speed to get back on station below the Florida Keys. The dive had been planned for early dawn about twenty four hours after being alongside the freighter. A grey light was beginning to seep over the horizon but it was still dark as Marsh began his internal checks. When he had completed those he thumbed the speech button.
“Taliba, this is Challenger. How do you read? Over.”
“Loud and clear Marsh,” Khan’s voice came back to him. “Dive should commence in thirty minutes.”
Before Khan could close the communication link, Marsh heard a voice in the background. “It’s the rig, sir.”
A moment later Khan came back to him. “Challenger, we shall be on station in fifteen minutes. Computed drift rate four knots, twenty degrees north, north east, surface wind, force five.”
“Challenger acknowledged, roger and out.”
A fresh breeze thought Marsh. The rim of the hurricane was drawing closer. It was a good thing it didn’t blow under water, he mused, although it could still cause a lot of problems.
Batista appeared at the front of the Challenger and motioned to Marsh that the lift was about to begin. Marsh acknowledged him and waited. Suddenly the submersible moved and slipped sideways about three or four inches as the deck winch took the weight of the Challenger and lifted just clear of the deck.
The four lifting hooks attached to each lifting eye spun momentarily and then stabilised. All eyes were on the lift as they swung the submersible over the side of the Taliba, looking curiously odd in her hastily renewed superstructure. Marsh wondered if the dummy rigging on the ship would survive the strengthening winds, but he was sure Khan would have allowed for that and for time being on his side.
As Challenger rotated slightly on the lifting ropes, Marsh though he saw another ship off Taliba’s beam, but the light was too bad to discern any real shape. And whatever it was, it was soon hidden from view. He ignored it and concentrated on getting the submersible settled on to the surface.
Once the Challenger was on the water, the lifting sling, with its four wire ropes was quickly detached. Marsh waited for an all clear signal from the Taliba and allowed the Challenger to slip beneath the waves, calling out the depth as it sank slowly towards the sea bed.
When the submersible was thirty feet from the bottom, Marsh trimmed her out and held her there. Batista and Zienkovitch left the chamber. At that moment Khan’s voice crackled inside the bubble.
“Marsh, we estimate the well-head is three hundred feet off your port beam.”
Marsh frowned. It was not like Khan to make such an error and miss the well-head by such a margin.
“One hundred yards off port beam,” he repeated. “Still holding at two hundred feet and turning left.”
Marsh piloted the submersible almost blindly, relying on the Taliba to call out his position. He could have navigated using the Global Positioning System on board, but it was much easier to let Khan guide him on.
The two divers followed him as he brought Challenger over the well-head. He reduced power to the thrust motors and settled the submersible above its station, keeping an eye on the hand signals from both divers. Ten minutes later the Challenger was attached to the well-head by its skirt and Marsh sat alone in the bubble. He felt detached and alone in the underwater world that surrounded him.
*
Francesini put the tip of his finger on the grainy, satellite photograph. He could see the Taliba clearly. At least, that’s what Cooke had told him. But the subsequent photographs showed a fainter, less clear image. W
eather conditions had done much to obscure the ship, plus the time: two o’clock in the morning. The final print showed nothing, simply a computed position of where the ship would probably be, given that she had stayed on the same heading and not changed course.
“The weather didn’t help sir,” Cooke offered. “But we have these.”
He pulled up a picture on his computer screen that showed several erratic traces. Closer inspection showed that there were actually three distinct traces layered one above the other.
“This top trace,” Cooke was saying, pointing at the screen “is the Taliba’s signature. The other two are unknown.” The screen changed as Cooke punched a finger at the keyboard. “Here the three signatures merge. Almost as if three ships are about to collide,” he added. “Taliba’s computed direction brings her into this contact with the others. And in the next shot,” he said, pulling up another image, “they all merge into one, indistinguishable blob.”
Francesini straightened. “These signatures are through the cloud, right?” Cooke nodded. “And you think the Taliba has made a rendezvous with two other ships?” Cooke nodded again. “So how come you couldn’t pick up Taliba’s trace once the ships had parted company?”
“The satellite was ordered to lock on to the three signatures. But for some reason, it only locked on to two. Neither of them was the Taliba.”
*
Peering through the gloom, Marsh thought he saw something. Whatever it was lay just on the edge of the arc spread by Challenger’s powerful lamps. He leaned forward instinctively, hoping to get a clearer view, but it didn’t help. He wondered if it was a natural feature of the sea bed; a small outcropping of rock perhaps. He put the submersible’s radar scanning head on and looked at the image on the radar monitor. It was unclear and, as far as Marsh was concerned it was unimportant, but he had little to do except wait until he received instructions from either the divers or the Taliba.
He looked up from the screen and peered out again through the polymer cockpit, but the longer Marsh stared at it, the more bewildering it became. It began to dance and change shape and become distracting, so he gave up looking at it. The important thing was to think more about Batista and Zienkovitch and to keep Challenger functioning; not concern himself with some illusory object of no importance.
Soon the operation was complete and another bomb had been lowered into mother earth. Marsh flooded the ballast tanks to compensate for the weight of the bomb and trimmed the submersible to rise a few feet once he had received the signal from the surface.
Khan’s voice crackled through. “We have a small problem Challenger.”
Marsh’s heart skipped a few beats. “Say again Taliba.”
“A problem Marsh, but don’t worry. A squall has appeared on radar. We had hoped it would pass us by, but judging from its present course, it will pass through us. It will make recovery difficult.”
“I’ll remain on station, Taliba.”
“Negative, Challenger, drift with the stream for a while. It should take you clear. Say three miles.”
“Acknowledged Taliba,” Marsh replied. “Three miles, drifting now.”
There was nothing wrong with this type of manoeuvre and the Taliba had all the necessary sonar and GPS tracking gear to keep station almost immediately above him, so Marsh was not concerned. And he realised it was simple expediency to move away from the path of the squall to recover a few miles distant.
In the event the recovery operation was completely successful and the Challenger was on board the Taliba and hooked into the ship’s generators in less than two hours. Marsh clambered down from the cockpit in a sombre mood. Two bombs were now in position, one left to be planted. The more he thought about it, the more his own fears grew; and the more probable and realistic they became.
If Marsh was right and he had figured out exactly what Khan was up to, then only a terrible catastrophe could result. The line was right, the depth was right. One more bomb, one more chance to do something; but no hope in hell of getting away and telling the world.
Chapter 15
The phone on Starling’s desk jangled at him. He lifted it from its cradle without looking at it and continued writing.
“Starling,” he growled.
“Sir, this is Jennifer.”
He stopped writing and grunted an apology; he wasn’t allowed to growl at his secretary. “Sorry Jennifer. What is it?”
“I have Commander Spade on the line, Admiral. From the U.S. Submarine Oregon?”
Starling frowned. The Oregon was a Benjamin Franklin Class submarine, converted from a former Fleet Ballistic Missile Submarine, an SSBN, but no longer part of America’s nuclear fleet. So what on earth could Commander Spade want, he wondered?
“Digger? Well, well. Put him on, please Jennifer.”
He heard a click and Commander Spade came on the line. Spade and Starling were old friends going way back. They had both been commissioned as young naval officers during the Vietnam War. Their careers had run along similar paths and they usually managed to meet up with each other every two or three years. Spade had been known as ‘Digger’ and had chosen a career in submarines, whereas Starling known as ‘Birdy’, opted for a career as a navy pilot. Neither of them had used their nicknames for years.
“Jim Starling?”
Starling smiled at the sound of his old friend’s voice and recalled many, fond memories. “Hallo Digger, how are you? Long time no see.”
“Hallo Birdy, pressure of work I’m afraid,” Spade answered. “How are you these days?”
“Mustn’t grumble. Although my secretary says I often do. How can I help you?”
“Is your line secure?”
“Secure?” He laughed. “This is the headquarters of the C.I.A.,” Starling reminded him.
“Oh, in that case perhaps I should use a call box,” Spade joked.
Starling laughed again. It felt good. “So why are you calling?”
“I believe you’re interested in the Taliba?”
Commander Spade’s immediate mention of Khan’s ship took Starling by surprise. “Damn right I am,” Starling answered. “But I’m told we’ve lost her.”
“Well we’ve found her. We picked up her signature on sonar an hour ago.”
For a moment Starling didn’t quite know what to say. So he asked the obvious.
“Where?”
“At the moment she is steering a course towards Cuba. We are keeping a discreet distance from her, but we’re on station.”
Starling couldn’t understand it. “How come you’re involved in this?”
“We had a request about twenty four hours ago to look for her. We were given a bearing and asked to do a search. We’re on a shakedown cruise at the moment, so it gave us a little time to play. We’re ‘off book’. Been transferred OPCON”
In the world of military games and necessarily expedient decision making, it was sometimes useful to have a vessel transferred from its Command HQ to another agency so that it remained temporarily ‘off book’. The transfer was always OPCON: operational control.
Starling’s face screwed up into a frown. “Who requested your involvement?” he asked.
“Don’t know old boy, but it had to go through NorthCom (Northern Command). Almost certainly originated from your department.”
Starling thought about Remo Francesini and his own order to dig deep.
“I see,” Starling responded, non-committedly. “I see. You know we lost her on satellite?”
“So I believe, Birdy. But when it comes to satellite tracking, you can’t beat the submariners.”
They both laughed. “I’ll give you that, Digger. Well then, seeing as you’re on the case, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”
“Certainly, as long as my admiral approves. What is it?”
“I won’t tell you over the phone, Digger; I’ll send a signal within the hour. Just don’t lose that boat.”
They finished the conversation in pleasantries then Starling s
et about putting a plan into operation that would involve the US Navy Seals. He was also beginning to feel a little better about the whole thing because the latest developments had handed him an element of control.
Four hours after James Starling had spoken to his old friend; a Hercules transport plane flew over Commander Spade’s submarine, the U.S.S. Oregon as twilight began to wash over the approaches to the Bahamian Island chain. There was a slight swell, but the submarine managed to cope with that despite being on the surface.
The rear doors of the Hercules opened. Inside the aircraft, standing by the doors but attached to a safety line was the loadmaster. Beside him were two men dressed completely in black and wearing parachutes. As the Hercules approached the drop zone, the voice of the pilot could be heard by the loadmaster through his headset. Suddenly the two red warning lights above the door went out and two greens came on in their place.
“DZ! DZ! Go!”
As the loadmaster shouted and waved the men off, the two figures dropped from the rear door of the Hercules and slipped away swiftly in the slipstream until their fall was checked by the unfurling of their parawing chutes. As they deployed in the darkness they glided gently down towards the sea and the USS Oregon until they both landed on the surface within a hundred feet of the Oregon’s inflatable rescue boat. Within thirty minutes of leaving the aircraft, the two members of the US Seals were standing in front of Commander Spade inside the submarine’s control room.
*
The Taliba lay at anchor off the island of Cuba. Although the lights from the shore were clearly visible, the ship was anchored well away from the shoreline. It was past midnight and nobody stirred on deck except the two men on watch; one forward, the other aft. It was a warm night and music could be heard very faintly drifting over the calm sea from other craft anchored offshore. The lights of the distant port shimmered above their reflections in the water, their colours fused into the mirror blackness. The riding lights of the other boats swayed gently.
The cocktail of distant lights and faint music drew the attention of the two men on watch, each in his own private world, each one wishing that he could be ashore, enjoying the seductive pleasures on offer. Behind those two men, each separated by the length of the Taliba, the black ocean swept out into the vast emptiness of the night, offering nothing of interest other than an occasional passing ship.
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