The officer of the watch had been on the bridge, thinking about the gathering storm and what it meant to their brief spells ashore. None for the men, or himself for the foreseeable future; they were safer out at sea, running from the hurricane.
As he paced up and down the bridge he glanced occasionally at the radar screen. When he saw the blip at first, he ignored it. But on his second pass along the bridge, he looked again. He frowned and studied it a little more carefully. The bearing on which the trace was moving would bring it directly over the Taliba. Whatever it was, he reasoned that it was significantly slower than an aeroplane so it was probably a helicopter.
In this weather, he wondered? Only fools and birds would want to be airborne with a hurricane on their tail.
He screwed his face up and walked away, sniffing sharply, ignoring it. But as he came by the screen again, he knew that he could not ignore it. He picked up the bridge phone and pressed the button that linked him directly to Captain de Leon’s cabin.
“Are we expecting company?” he asked when the captain came on the line. He received a negative reply. “Only we have what appears to be a helicopter coming our way. It’s on radar.”
De Leon put the phone back, slipped on his shoes and went to the bridge. He studied the trace on the screen, larger now than when the officer of the watch first looked. He nodded absently in agreement and picked up the bridge phone.
Hakeem Khan was working on some paperwork when the phone rang beside him. He picked it up.
“Khan.”
“Sir, this is Captain de Leon. Could you come up to the bridge please?” he asked. “We have something I think you should see.”
Khan put on a waterproof jacket and rubber soled shoes, put his paperwork away and was on the bridge within minutes of de Leon’s phone call. The exertion had left him wheezing and quite breathless. He had his hand over his heart. De Leon showed him the contact on the screen.
“Whoever they are, they will be here in about eight minutes,” Khan observed as he studied the screen. He drew a deep breath, long and hard, knowing instinctively that the contact was hostile. Now that he was so close to completing his task, he could not help but hold the fatalistic view that he could still be stopped, even at his eleventh hour.
“Is the helicopter ready? He asked suddenly. De Leon nodded.
“Good. Have Malik meet me on the helipad in five minutes. I will fly to the rig from here.” He straightened up and went towards the bridge door. He paused and turned towards de Leon.
“Change course. Lead them off. If there is no danger, resume your present heading and meet me at the rig.”
He hesitated as if there was something else he wanted to say. Then he wished de Leon good luck and left the bridge.
Once inside his cabin, Khan hurriedly gathered together the papers he had been working on and stuffed them into a briefcase. Then he went up to the control console that he had so brazenly showed to Helen and unlocked a panel door.
Behind the door was a timer which Khan set to ten minutes. Then he rotated a Castell key which was set into a lock and pushed it forward. He closed the panel door and locked it.
He glanced around the cabin, satisfied. The Taliba would not fall into the wrong hands. In ten minutes the keel would be blown from the hull and the Taliba would sink to the bottom of the Caribbean like a stone.
*
Inside the Sea Stallion helicopter the Navy Seals sat in their seats staring ahead of them, each with their own thoughts. Santos had told them why the mission had to succeed; failure was not an option. Because the mission was of the highest priority, air to air refuelling had been laid on should the Sea Stallion look like it was about to exceed its 550 mile nautical range. The helicopter had been flying steadily for over thirty minutes now and was slowly beginning to feel the effects of the strengthening wind.
Francesini sat with the Seals. He had a headset on and was able to listen in to any talk from the helicopter crew and also Lieutenant Santos. Much of the chatter was of no interest to him until he heard the tone of the pilot’s voice change.
“Sir, Taliba is changing course.” The pilot of the Sea Stallion helicopter spoke to Francesini over the headphones. Francesini got up from his seat and leaned over the pilot’s shoulder. The pilot touched the radar screen with the tip of his gloved finger.
“Looks like someone is leaving too.”
The fluorescent blip that the pilot was pointing at, broke into two; one quite smaller than the other.
“Chopper!”
“Follow the Taliba” Francesini ordered.
Behind him the Seals sat patiently, all with their own thoughts. They were dressed completely in black and only their faces showed through their headgear. Around their waists they carried knives, stun grenades and pistols. And each man was clutching an automatic weapon. None of them shown rank or service insignia.
“Taliba!”
Francesini peered through the patch of windscreen being cleared by the wipers. In the murk he could se the white ship standing out clearly against the dull, grey sea. The whitecaps and spindrift whipped across the bows of the ship. He turned to the men behind him and held up two fingers.
“Two minutes!”
*
Captain de Leon could see the helicopter now. He knew why Khan had left but did not know the sentence of death the madman had passed on them all. The helicopter was almost certainly hostile and in their present position, de Leon and his crew were vulnerable.
He reached for the bridge handset and thumbed the speech button.
“Your attention please! Your attention please!”
The words rattled out of the deck speakers and were whipped away by the howling wind. Below decks his voice bounced around the bulkheads.
“The Taliba is likely to come under hostile action within two minutes. No man is to take action unless he feels directly threatened. Please remain below decks. I repeat…..”
The message rumbled on to its end and de Leon replaced the handset.
The Sea Stallion came straight at them. It slowed to a hover above the bridge and two dark figures dropped down on ropes. De Leon was looking up above him, as though willing himself to see through the deck-head yet not realising what was happening.
Suddenly both doors on either side of the bridge flew open and two black figures rushed in. They were brandishing automatic weapons.
“Nobody move!”
The order was quite unmistakeable and needed no repeating. De Leon said nothing. Through the windows of the bridge he could see the Sea Stallion hovering above the helipad and the remainder of the raiding party dropping on to it.
Within seconds the helicopter had moved away and taken up station about a hundred feet off the starboard quarter.
“You, slow engines!”
De Leon reached for the engine room telegraph and signalled the order to slow engines. Almost immediately the Taliba began to lose way.
Lieutenant Santos felt the change in speed and sprinted down the stairs to the lower accommodation deck where he knew he would probably find Marsh and Helen. He had one man with him.
He reached Marsh’s cabin door, remembering its location from his previous visit. He tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. He stepped inside quickly, but he could see there was no reason to linger. He had no time to dwell on the fact that Marsh was not there.
He then signalled his fellow Seal to work with him and they opened each cabin door. One would kick the door open; the other would go in, weapon raised and ready to fire. They flushed out a few crew members who gave no resistance at all. Then they found Helen’s cabin. The door was locked.
Just then the scuttling charges blew, sending a shudder through the whole of the ship as the explosion ripped the bottom out of the hull.
Even though the Taliba was slowing, the effect was devastating. It was like hitting a brick wall. The ship stopped as the sea crashed into her open belly and she dipped her nose into the windswept ocean.
Lieutenant Santos and his colleague picked themselves up, the assault forgotten. They both realised exactly what had happened. And as they struggled to their feet, they knew the ship would be gone in less than a minute.
Helen had listened to all the commotion, knowing what was happening because of de Leon’s broadcast. She could see little through the porthole of her cabin so had to content herself with hoping and praying that she would escape this hell hole she had been confined to.
As she listened to the sounds of Lieutenant Santos and his fellow Seal getting into each cabin and shouting at the crew, she could only stand, her hands clasped together almost in an attitude of prayer, but paralysed in fear.
Then the scuttling charges went off and Helen was thrown to the floor. She screamed out, knowing with fearful certainty what had happened. She scrambled to her feet and began pounding on the cabin door, shouting at the top of her voice. She could hear voices ordering everyone to abandon ship. She could imagine someone shouting that it was every man for himself.
She hurled herself at the door again and beat furiously at it with her closed fists. Then the ship lurched and threw Helen away from the door. She screamed out and fought against the pull of gravity. Suddenly the cabin door gave way beneath a huge, crashing boot and an enormous black figure stepped into the cabin, lifted her up effortlessly and put her over his shoulder.
“Lieutenant Santos at your service, Ma’am. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
As Santos stepped out on to the badly listing top deck, he knew there was no time to consider the best alternatives. He launched himself, with Helen still over his shoulder into the sea. As they hit the water and went under, he pulled Helen in close and kicked out for the surface.
Helen felt the water close over her and was astonished at its coldness. After the warmth of her cabin, the sudden drop in temperature was almost like being in the Arctic and the shock of it went through to her very core. She could feel Santos’s strong arms support her as he kicked up with powerful scissor strokes. As the broke through the surface, Helen gasped and shouted at him.
“Leave me, I can swim! I’m OK, I can swim!”
Most of what she said was blown away by the howling wind.
“Stay close then!” Santos shouted at her. “It’s your only chance.”
Above them the helicopter hovered a downwind as a crewman kicked a dinghy from the open door. It tumbled down on a line and inflated the moment it hit the water. Santos swam towards it with Helen doing her best to keep up with him.
The crewman in the helicopter had attached a line that was clipped securely to the helicopter so that the dinghy did not get blown away by the strong winds.
The wind battered Santos remorselessly as he swam towards the dinghy. From time to time he disappeared beneath the waves only to surface again without check. Helen continued to swim behind him, but the gap between them was increasing.
He reached the boat and lunged for the grab line attached to the side. Kicking hard with his legs, he pulled himself into the dinghy. Then he turned round and waited for Helen.
He could see her head and arms battling against the sea and the wind. Her efforts seemed pitiful against the rumbling surf and howling gale. Its fury seemed to be hurled at her frail figure, and Santos began to fear for her safety.
He glanced up at the crewman in the helicopter and made a slashing movement with his hand across his throat. The crewman acknowledged and released the rope holding the dinghy. As the dinghy began to move with the wind, Santos grabbed an oar from its stowage and began steering the dinghy towards Helen.
Helen began swimming at an angle that she hoped would bring her in line with the dinghy. As they came together, the rubber of the boat nudging Helen’s face, she felt her strength leave her and slipped beneath the surface.
Santos leaned forward and reached out for her. Their arms locked and he pulled hard, lifting her into the dinghy where she collapsed in a coughing fit. Not giving her a chance to feel relieved or to feel sorry for herself, Santos unshipped another paddle and shoved it at Helen.
“Row!” he shouted.
Helen looked up, a little disorientated, but quickly realised what was expected of her. She had little strength left but she had courage, so she knelt against the side of the dinghy and drove her paddle into the sea with all the might and strength left in her body.
The pilot of the helicopter acted very professionally although he watched in horror at the events unfolding beneath him.
He thumbed the speech button on his headset.
“Homestead, this is Sea Horse One. We have a problem.” He kept the helicopter hovering about sixty feet above the surface of the water. “Taliba destroyed by unknown explosion. Bodies in the water. Request assistance, immediate. Over.”
The reply came back instantly.
“Seahorse One, this is Homestead. We copy request for assistance immediate. Scrambling Search and Rescue Chopper now. Contact frequency two, two niner decimal five. Repeat: contact frequency two, two niner decimal five. Good luck. Over.”
“Homestead we copy.” He repeated the frequency and contacted the search and rescue helicopter.
Lieutenant Santos had seen a second dinghy tumble from the helicopter, but still tethered. One of his men scrambled into it as it inflated and quickly released the rope tethering it to the helicopter. He then set about getting as many survivors into the dinghy as possible.
As the two dinghies moved through the water, they managed to pick up several swimmers. Among them was Captain de Leon. He looked pale and disillusioned, but said nothing to Helen because they were now joined in the dramatic, unifying battle for survival.
Despite the strong winds, they were able to send the more seriously injured up to the Sea Stallion by use of the winch man. The rescue work was extremely slow and tedious with the ever present risk of losing sight of other survivors in the stormy sea. It was obvious the group was being scattered and drifting apart. And bobbing heads could be seen as much as one hundred yards apart.
It was twenty minutes after the helicopter pilot had put out a distress call that the Search and Rescue Helicopter from the Homestead base arrived. After that the rescue became more coordinated, releasing the first pilot of the harrowing burden of choice; choosing who would stay in the water and who would be picked up.
The two machines worked well, circling the area, picking up those swimmers who were furthest from the dinghies. The wind seemed to increase in strength and frustrate their efforts. Added to the downdraught from the helicopter blades, it made it hell for everyone. At one stage, the downdraught almost overturned one of the dinghies, threatening to pitch everybody on board into the water.
Forty five minutes after the Taliba went down, Lieutenant Santos scrambled on board the Sea Stallion helicopter. He turned and glanced at the angry sea below and just caught a glimpse of the dinghies being swept away by the raging wind.
The sea was empty now, the dinghies gone. The helicopter winch man pulled the sliding door shut.
“OK!” he shouted above the noise of the helicopter. “Let’s go home!”
*
Khan watched the rig come into view as Malik guided the helicopter towards the overhanging heli-pad. The wind pushed and pulled it mercilessly, but slowly, inch by inch, Malik brought the helicopter safely on to the pad.
Khan breathed a sigh of relief but felt the pain around his heart and massaged his chest softly. He wondered how long he could go on. He glanced at Malik, the man's face set grimly in an expressionless feature.
“Allah is still with us, Malik. He is still with us.”
Malik turned his head a little and looked impassively at Khan.
“Then may Allah give you strength to finish the task.”
After bringing the helicopter down safely on to the heli-pad, Malik killed the engine. The blades spun for a short while and then stopped. Through the cockpit windows he could see the landing area was covered with a net of strong rope, put there for safety reasons.
Once the helicopter was safely on the pad, two of the rig’s crew threw lashing hooks over the skids. Malik waited until they had secured the helicopter before opening the door. He immediately moved round to Khan’s side, head bent against the wind and helped him out.
Although the wind buffeted them considerably, they seemed to be in little danger of being hurled over the side. They made their way quickly up to the oil rig’s accommodation deck, followed by the two men who had seen them on to the rig.
Once they were inside, into the relative peace and calm of the building’s lounge area, Khan collapsed into a nearby chair. Malik asked one of the men to bring some water. The moment it arrived, Khan reached into his pocket and took out two of his heart pills. He swallowed them hastily.
“Malik,” he gasped, looking up. “How long before the satellite will be in position?”
Malik spoke to one of the two men. He picked up a wall phone and dialled the control room. After a short conversation and a short silence, he replaced the phone and turned to Malik
“Two hours,” he told him.
Khan closed his eyes. “Praise Allah,” he intoned. “In His wisdom He has given us time. We will see the end of the Great Satan yet.” He struggled to his feet. Malik helped him.
“Our enemies will never win against the forces of Islam. May Allah be praised.”
*
On the journey back to the Homestead Air Reserve Base, Helen sat in an extremely uncomfortable seat not designed for sitting in over periods extending more than a couple of minutes. She felt exhausted and tried to close her eyes and sleep. But sleep would not come. Her eyelids fluttered, closed and then opened again. During one of these moments she noticed Francesini. He had his hand to his earpiece and his face was screwed up into an impossible frown. Then his eyebrows lifted and his mouth opened. She could see him mouthing the word ‘what?’, but gave it no thought. Then he glanced at her and she thought she saw him smile. No, it wasn’t a smile, it was something more; relief perhaps? He shook his head gently and leaned back against the wall of the helicopter, and she swore she could see him chuckling. She wondered just what there was to make someone laugh at a time like this. She let the thought drift from her mind and tried to sleep.
The Devil's Trinity Page 23