He reached forward towards the communication panel and hesitated, as though that single act would presage an unstoppable chain of events more terrible than he could ever imagine. He cursed his own weakness and flicked the switch. The click intruded sharply into the silence.
“Taliba, how do you read?”
Khan’s hollow voice washed over him. “Loud and clear, Challenger. Please transfer power.”
“Transferring now.” He fingered the button that would energise a solenoid to operate a heavy duty contactor, switching power from Taliba’s generators to the Challenger’s on board power system. The gauges flickered momentarily, and then held rock steady.
“Transfer complete.”
The cables hanging slack from the ship’s crane went taut and sung in the high wind as it lifted Challenger clear of the deck. Although it was still dark, Marsh could see spindrift whipping off the tops of the waves. They were like thousands of small, white handkerchiefs, mirroring his cowardice.
The Challenger began to swing. Gently at first but soon the arc increased until Marsh feared the lines would snap and hurl him to an uncomfortable dive into the fierce sea.
Despite their care, the Challenger hit the water hard and wallowed in the pitching waves. Marsh was helpless because the submersible was still attached to the lifting frame, and would remain so for a while due to the inclement conditions. It took some considerable time, and nerve for the divers to release the four hooks that attached the frame to Challenger’s superstructure.
Once he had received the all clear from the bridge, Marsh immediately flooded the diving tanks. All he wanted to do now was to get beneath the waves into a calmer, safer environment.
He trimmed out at fifty feet and went through a series of checks with Batista and Zienkovitch. He paused for a moment, not knowing why, and thought of Helen. To have faith and hope is to survive, she had said. Then why the hell was he so frightened? Probably because of some evil portent sitting invisibly beside him in that cockpit: invisible, intangible, but there!
“…… whenever you are Marsh.”
Marsh blinked. “Say again Taliba”
“It’s not the ship, Marsh; it’s Batista. We are ready whenever you are.”
Marsh admonished himself for the unprofessional slip and began flooding the tanks. Slowly the Challenger began to sink.
He looked through the clear polymer construction of the cockpit and saw nothing: just a black void. He called out the depth mechanically as though he was utterly alone, speaking to no-one but his own soul.
A warning light blinked as the rope hanging beneath the submersible touched bottom. He dumped ballast and trimmed her out. Then he switched on the powerful arc lamps and called Batista.
“Go plant your devil’s egg,” he said. “And may whichever god you worship damn you all for eternity.”
*
The F16 rolled over at fifteen thousand feet and dived towards the sea, its starboard wing squeezing water vapour out of the air in a spiralling trail of white mist. The young Navy pilot pulled the stick over to check the roll and eased it back gently to bring the nose up. He had seen the Taliba and was turning to confirm the sighting.
He levelled out at one thousand feet and set his course to parallel to the ship, switching the range on his radar scanning head to fifteen miles. He had deliberately overshot the Taliba in order not to arouse the suspicion of anyone on board, and had turned back only when he knew he would be out of sight.
The Taliba came up on the radar screen allowing the pilot a thin smile. There were other signals imaging on the screen but the Taliba’s seemed to shine like a beacon. He had her, like a hound on the scent. The trail was hot and he would report it to the rest of the pack.
*
The two divers worked swiftly guiding Marsh over the wellhead until the submersible was firmly clamped by her skirt. There was nothing for Marsh to do now except monitor the systems on the submersible and wait. And keep checking his instruments. And worry about the weather up top and the hobgoblin sitting beside him in the cockpit.
His attention was drawn upwards and he was surprised by the appearance of a very faint, yellow light. He focussed on it, wondering what on earth it could be. The light grew in size until it broke up into several lights. There were six, forming a circle, slowly descending towards him.
His expression changed from one of curiosity to one of concern. He turned one of the arc lamps up towards the light and could now see the object clearly.
They were lowering the Galeazzi Tower.
He looked at the depth: two hundred and fifty feet. Normally the tower would not be lowered to that depth, unless it was an emergency.
So what the hell was Khan playing at?
He called them up. “Taliba, Marsh here. Why are you lowering the tower?”
There was no response.
“Taliba, I say again; Challenger here. Why are you lowering the tower?”
He waited a little longer but there was still no answer.
“Taliba!” he called again, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. “Answer me, damn you!”
What Marsh saw next was beyond his comprehension and silenced him completely: Batista and Zienkovitch had emerged from beneath the hull and were swimming up towards the tower. As they swam upwards, both caught in the glare from the Challenger’s arc light, neither of them looked in Marsh’s direction.
Marsh found his voice again. “Taliba, what the hell is going on? Why are the divers using the tower?” He could feel himself sweating. “Taliba!”
The response came so unexpectedly, it startled him.
“Marsh, this is Khan. The third bomb is in place. The trinity is complete; our work is done.”
“What’s happening, Khan?” he demanded to know. “Why have Batista and Zienkovitch gone up to the tower?”
“How else would they get back to the Taliba?”
“Don’t play games with me, Khan. This is not part of the brief. They should be returning with me!”
“You are not returning.”
As a statement it was simple, but so stunning that Marsh was unable to say anything for a moment. It was surreal. It wasn’t happening.
“Khan, for God’s sake, what are you doing?”
“Nothing Marsh,” came the laconic reply. “As far as you’re concerned, our work is complete. Goodbye Marsh.” The communication link went quiet. Marsh heard the click as Khan closed the speaker switch on the bridge.
Marsh felt beads of sweat begin to break out on his forehead. His mind froze itself to the realisation of what Khan had planned for him. Strangely though, he couldn’t believe that Khan was willing to leave Challenger beneath the surface. Abandon it? Although he had never really believed that Khan would kill him, the reality of it hit him with shocking force; that Khan had planned this moment all along. He cursed himself for his own stupidity and weakness.
He tried to think rationally. Fear was impeding his thought processes and he was on the verge of blind panic, but he knew that those emotions would never get him out of the awful nightmare he was in.
He breathed in slowly in an attempt to calm himself down, trying to reduce the rate at which his heart was now pounding in his chest. He had to think. Think!
He started dumping ballast. He dumped the lot. As he did, thousands upon thousands of particles of lead shot tumbled from the Challenger and turned the sea bed into little spiralling columns of sand that drifted upwards in a cloud to envelop him.
He felt the Challenger strain, but she didn’t move. He knew then that Batista and Zienkovitch had not released the clamps on the skirt.
Marsh slumped back in his seat. He was devastated. He could not believe that the two divers would be willing accomplices in this deadly game. But it was no game; it was murder.
He then thought of the explosive collar, but something told him it would not work. But he had to try. He leaned forward and opened the firing panel. There were two buttons and two lights. He pressed and held the green b
utton which, he hoped would charge the firing capacitors. He expected to see the red light glow that would signal that the explosive collar was armed and ready to fire. But nothing happened.
He tried again, holding the charging button longer than the mandatory five seconds. But still nothing happened; there was still no light. Desperate now he flipped the cover of the firing button open and pushed the button all the way home.
Five seconds and the explosive collar would fire.
He counted.
“….. four, five, six, seven.” Nothing. “Come on, come on!” he shouted in desperation. “Fire damn you, fire!”
But there was nothing. He hammered the firing button, but still nothing happened; the explosive collar remained dormant.
He looked up at the tiny speaker mounted just above his head and screamed abuse at Khan. He hurled every blasphemy he could lay his tongue to and screamed insensibly. But there was nothing except his own voice in that bubble; bouncing off the smooth interior, assaulting his ears and fading into a sob; the deep despair of a frightened man.
And outside the cockpit, the Challenger’s arc lights peered into the emptiness of the pervasive darkness. Now there was nothing but silence and a thousand demons laid their hands on him and waited for him to die.
Chapter 17
Helen could hear the wind; its whining threnody changing pitch as the Taliba dipped its prow and then lifted above the restless waves. She sensed that the motion of the ship had changed in a subtle way; as if shorn of a burdensome yoke.
By now, Helen would have expected Marsh to have returned to his cabin. He would usually have knocked on her door to let her know the dive was finished. The fear that he had attempted to conceal from her before the dive now drove itself into her and she felt impatient to be with him.
For some reason, unknown to her, Helen’s cabin door had been locked from the outside, which only added to her blossoming fear. She banged on the door for a few moments and called out, but there was no response. She pummelled the door again with her closed fists and called out Malik’s name, but still there was no reply.
Her fear was turning to anger and she began beating ferociously on the door and picking up loose objects from her cabin and hurling them at the barrier between her and the alleyway outside the cabin.
It was some time before Helen heard a cautioning voice and a key turning in the lock. Her hands began to tremble and she had to clasp them together to stop them from shaking. The door opened and Helen reached forward, pulling it open. She knew now, instinctively, that something was terribly wrong. Ignoring the crewman who had opened her door, Helen pushed past him and rushed out, flew up the stairs two steps at a time and fetched up on the open deck.
The wind struck Helen with such savagery that she almost toppled over. It took her breath away and she had to clutch at the hand rail for support. She suddenly felt very cold; the temperature had dropped remarkably and there were dull, thunder clouds scudding overhead like massive anvils that obscured the sun.
The sea around her was grey and the waves burst open upon each other in fingers of angry surf which the wind picked up and flung at the Taliba. Helen gasped at the cold and winced as the driving spray lashed at her clothing. She put her head down and lunged forward awkwardly, grasping the hand rail with each step, hand over hand.
She reached Khan’s stateroom just beneath the bridge and clutched at the handle of the door. Just before she made an attempt to open the door, she glanced forward and froze in terror: the Challenger was no longer there!
Helen held that pose, staring with disbelief at the forlorn, empty space where the submersible was always stowed. For a moment she was oblivious to the cold spray and punishing wind. All that occupied her thoughts then was that something terrible had happened and Marsh would be with the Challenger.
That moment of realisation numbed her so intensely that she no longer felt any fear. She reached for the cabin door and wrenched it open.
*
The Navy Seals were assembled in the briefing room at the United States Base at Guantanamo Bay on the Island of Cuba. Lieutenant Santos had briefed his men and they now waited for the word to go. Outside the operations building, on the pan was a Sea Stallion Helicopter, crewed up and waiting for the Seals to board once they had received the final brief from James Starling. Remo Francesini was standing nervously beside his boss silently praying that everything would go smoothly and they would be in time to prevent an awesomely, devastating terror. And he prayed that the weather would not be against them.
In the ops, room, the commanding officer was conferring with his Met. Officer about the risks of sending the Sea Stallion into the storm that was fast approaching. The phone bleeped and the Met. Officer picked it up.
“Ops.”
He listened for a moment and held the phone out for the captain. “It’s Lieutenant Santos, sir.”
The C.O. took the phone and listened, then gave an affirmative. “We go now.”
In the briefing room, Lieutenant Santos replaced the phone and gave a nod to his men. Silently they all stood up, gathered up their equipment and followed a deck officer, who had been assigned to them out to the waiting Sea Stallion Helicopter. Francesini, who had been given permission to ride with the Seals, followed them out; his nerves bubbling inside him like a boiling cauldron of water.
He followed the Seals out to the helicopter, praying fervently inside that these men would be able to stop Khan and his murderous plans. As he boarded the Sea Stallion, Lieutenant Santos turned and helped him up.
“We’re in God’s hands now sir,” he said, and pulled the door shut behind him.
*
Khan looked up from his desk as the door flew open. Helen stood there, framed in the doorway. Her hair was wet and much of it lay across her face in waspish strands. Her dress clung to her body accentuating the curve of her breasts and the provocative bulge between her thighs. Had he not known why she was there; Khan could not have failed to be aroused by her ingenuous display of overt sexuality.
“Where’s Marsh?” she asked with a biting edge to her voice. The sound of the wind almost whipped her words away.
“We had to leave him” Khan answered levelly, without a trace of emotion in his voice. “The weather was too bad for recovery.”
His voice rattled suddenly in his chest and he coughed as Helen stepped into the cabin.
“I don’t believe you,” she screamed at him. “You’ve murdered him!”
Her eyes were blazing with an intensity that made them sparkle like precious stones. Khan thought it looked like controlled insanity. Although Helen had not closed the door there a great deal of warmth of the cabin and her cheeks began to glow fiery red. Khan found the whole effect quite disarming.
He got up from his desk and walked past her to the cabin door which he closed. The noise of the wind abated and a semblance of peace descended.
“Challenger was unable to surface because of the storm,” he told her tritely.
Helen’s teeth flashed as she spat out her words.
“You’re lying, Khan. Marsh has sat through worse storms than this. He is a very skilful pilot. He would know what to do.”
Khan shrugged. “We did all we could, but Marsh understands. We have marked the area. Recovery will begin as soon as the weather conditions permit.”
Khan’s manner was so offhand it was offensive. Helen swung her hand out and slapped him with a tremendous blow to the head. Khan rocked back immediately as blood began to seep from the marks left by Helen’s slashing fingernails.
“Then why are we underway?” she shouted at him. “We should be keeping station over the Challenger until the weather calms down.”
He put a hand to his face and pulled it away. He looked at the blood on his hand and then at Helen.
“You bitch,” he snapped back at her, ignoring her question. “You will pay for that.”
His breathing began to sound quite laboured.
“You’ve murdered Marsh,” s
he screamed at him. “You’re nothing but an evil, murdering bastard.” She flung herself at him and started punching him about the head.
For a moment, Khan was too surprised to react to the torrent of blows that Helen rained down on him. Then suddenly he thrust his arms upwards and brought a single, punishing blow with the back of his hand that caught her on the jaw bone.
Helen rocked back and staggered towards his desk, falling against it. The blow jarred her spine and the pain seemed to rocket through her body. She cried out and clung to the desk for support as her legs weakened and threatened to buckle beneath her.
The fight was gone from her; drained in that one awful blow from Khan. She knew that she would be no match for his man’s strength and would achieve nothing but pain if she tried to attack him again.
Khan walked past her and slumped in the chair. He looked up at her and suddenly smiled.
“I admire you for your pluck, but it serves no purpose. Marsh is not here and you now have to think of your own safety.”
“I can think of nothing but Marsh,” she cried. “Why did you have to kill him? He did what you asked.”
“No,” Khan said sternly. “Marsh did what I told him to do. If he had agreed to do what I had asked, you would not have been involved and you would have both been free to live your lives as you both saw fit. Marsh has brought this upon himself.”
She studied him for a while. There was an eerie silence, intruded upon only by the sound of the winds outside. He looked expressionless; absolved by his own warped ethics of complicity in Marsh’s death.
“What are you planning to do that is so important that you quite willingly took the life of a perfectly innocent man? She asked quietly.
Instead of answering immediately, Khan got up from the desk and walked over to a control console from where he could listen to, and if necessary, supervise the dives. Above the console was a small door set into the bulkhead. He unlocked it with a key from his pocket and swung the door open. He turned then and looked at Helen like man who was about to reveal a masterpiece: a hidden treasure.
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