The Devil's Trinity

by Michael Parker

  There was a catwalk from his position to the platform on which the control room was standing. Part of it was sheltered from the wind. But as he stepped into the wind, it struck him so fiercely that it threatened to pitch him off the catwalk and into the steelwork below.

  He turned and backed into it, using the handrail to steady himself and edged toward the control room deck. He could sense, rather than see the long, empty drop below him, but chose not to dwell on it. His immediate thought was to get to the control room safely before any of the rig’s crew spotted him.

  He sensed Malik before he saw him.

  It was the uncanny sound in that roaring wind of a footfall on the steel plating. He spun round and saw the looming figure of the Arab coming towards him.

  Santos had his weapon slung over his shoulder. He had put it there because he needed both hands free to negotiate the rig in that fearsome wind.

  Malik was holding the Stechkin pistol in his hands. He lifted his arm to fire but the wind caught him and pushed him off balance against the inner rail of the catwalk. Santos seized the moment and launched a kick at Malik, using the handrails to support him. His boot connected and caught Malik a glancing blow to the chest, but Malik fired a round and Santos felt the sting as the bullet tore into the top of his shoulder.

  Malik came forward, seeing that he had wounded the Seal. His clothes billowed out transforming him into a colossal, nightmarish figure. He pointed the gun at Santos, and even as his hand wavered in the wind, Santos knew he wouldn’t miss at that range.

  The shot came just after Santos rolled himself into a ball and hurled himself at Malik’s midriff, thrusting his good arm upwards to ward off Malik’s arm. Malik tried to club Santos but the Seal’s weight brought them both crashing down on to the deck.

  Malik fell on top of Santos. The American knew he would not win a physical contest with the Arab because of the wound in his shoulder. But if he was damaged physically, he wasn’t damaged mentally. His brain was still quick and he was trained to react to any situation,

  As Malik landed on top of him, Santos rolled his body towards the edge of the catwalk. Before Malik could figure out what was happening, he realised that the Navy Seal was using his own body as a roller and pitching him towards the lower gap in the safety rail.

  Malik grabbed for the handrail, but the combined force of the wind and Santos’s rolling motion beneath him, caused him to miss it. Santos stopped and pushed Malik forward. He saw the Arab’s legs thrash the air and then there was nothing: not even the sound of his deathly screams as he plummeted eighty feet into the angry sea below.

  *

  Khan was unaware just how close the Seals were to the control room, because he had two things on his mind: one was to programme the computer, and the other was the searing pain across his chest and down his arms. He was leaning against the computer table, sweat breaking out on his brow. Alongside him were two engineers and although they were both carrying arms, they were not mentally equipped for a fight with America’s finest.

  Khan felt the rig lurch again and his heart protested. The pain squeezed his chest and he instinctively brought his hand up to it. He massaged the area around his heart and prayed that he would be given the strength to last.

  “How much time?” he gasped.

  “Three minutes. The satellites will be in the vector in three minutes.”

  He slipped the disc into the computer’s disc drive, waited until the command came up on the screen and began feeding the figures in. As he watched the screen, small beads of sweat ran down his face. He looked grey and ashen.

  The pain continued to nag at him, reminding him that he didn’t have much time. The sounds of the fire-fight outside had subdued and the eerie silence was broken only by unclear scuffling noises.

  Suddenly there was a terrific bang on the control room door.

  “Open up Khan! Now!” the voice commanded. “If you don’t open the door now, we will blow it and all of you in there will be killed. Now, open up! It’s over!”

  Khan ignored the voice and looked at the engineer.

  “How much time?”

  “Now. The satellite is in position now.”

  Khan felt his knees sag and the sweat began to pour from him. He punched in the commands, running his fingers over the keyboard clumsily, making mistakes and having to correct them. Eventually the screen flashed and asked him to verify the command. He fed in the verification again as more banging came at the control room door. The screen told him to wait and he moved his trembling fingers towards a combination dial mounted next to the screen.

  There was a sudden clamour outside and an ear splitting noise filled the control room as the Seals fired their weapons at the steel door. The bullets were leaving walnut size impressions around the lock, but the door did not yield.

  The firing stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Khan looked over at the deadlights covering the windows, fearful that the Seals would come in that way. Then a short, high pitched ‘bleep’ drew his attention back to the screen; the satellite had accepted the command and opened the firing channels. He set the dial and put his hand on the Castell key. All he had to do was push and turn the key. This would then complete the uplink and the bombs would be armed. And nothing on earth could stop them.

  “Khan, this is Marsh!”

  Marsh’s voice came through the steel door like a lance, arrowing in on him. It wrapped itself round his heart and began to crush the life from him.

  “No!” he gasped breathlessly. “No Marsh, you’re dead!”

  His fingers closed into a fist as his muscles began to contract with the seizure. He fought hard, trying to push the key, but his arm began to quiver violently and he felt the strength leaving him.

  “You’re dead, Marsh,” he cried soundlessly. “Dead!”

  The breath locked in his throat and he began to topple. The door crashed open and the Seals poured into the room. Khan twisted round as the screen continued to blink at him, asking for the final command. He saw Marsh’s reflection in the screen, a dead man walking. Then his heart stopped and he fell to the ground, dead.

  *

  The F16s dropped to their attack height of fifteen hundred feet. The two wingmen formed up on the lead aircraft. Birdman thumbed his transmit button.

  “Target twelve o’clock, ten miles.”

  Both wingmen acknowledged.

  “Roger Birdman. Have visual.”

  Both his wingmen had the rig on their radar screens.

  “Eight miles.”

  Birdman looked down at his knee pad and then at the TV screen as the rig came up. It was an intensified image. He toggled a switch to move between radar and TV monitoring which came through the moving head of the Maverick missile slung beneath his wing. Selecting TV now for better definition, he moved the target acquisition square around the screen.

  “Contact, Six miles!”

  He locked the missile’s TV head on to the rig. Reached down to the ‘final arm’ switch and moved it to the ‘armed’ position. The Maverick was now ready for firing. He knew his wingmen would be going through the same procedure.

  All missiles were now live.

  “Four miles.”

  He felt the skin tighten on his face as the F16s flew across the surface of the grey sea, moving in for the kill. It was a beautiful target. He was ready to take out the control room and upper superstructure while his wingmen would launch their missiles at the legs of the rig to send it to the bottom of the sea.

  “Two miles.”

  Suddenly a voice buzzed in his ear.

  “Birdman, Sea Horse one” It was the Sea Stallion. “Code Romeo. Abort, abort.”

  For a moment, Birdman sighed. But he recognised the confirmation code and his professionalism and training kicked in.

  “Roger. Code Romeo. Aborting mission.”

  He cursed and then smiled, disarmed the missile and called his wingmen.

  “You heard that guys. Code Romeo. Mission aborted.”

  �
��Birdman roger. We understand Romeo. Aborting mission.”

  “OK guys, let’s go home.”

  They screamed across the top of the oil rig, rocking their wings in recognition, turned as one and sped across the angry sea for home.

  Chapter 20

  Marsh looked across the table at Francesini. The man seemed content with life, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The gardens of the Caravel Club in Freeport were a perfect setting for the occasion. A warm sun shone down on them while a gentle breeze blew in from the Gulf to caress the islands. It instilled a warm tranquillity in him that Marsh found most rewarding.

  With Marsh and Francesini were Helen, Admiral Starling, the Island Police Commissioner and Inspector Bain, lauding it over his guests. They were all wearing casual clothes; no suits or uniforms. It added to the calming effect and made the storming of the rig seem like a bad dream.

  They had come close to failure. So close it was almost unbelievable. Even with Khan lying dead on the floor of the control room, no-one had thought to power down the computer because of the chaos that reigned. It was only the lightning reaction of one of the Seals that had saved them. One of the engineers with Khan had made a lunge for the Castell key only to be killed with a fast, clean shot. The speed of the kill numbed Helen for a moment, and then she suddenly stepped forward, spun the combination on the lock, and fainted.

  The recollection of it all made Marsh smile inwardly. There had been bedlam after that. Lieutenant Santos came staggering into the control room nursing a broken shoulder and screaming instructions to contact the helicopter and get the attack called off. Within seconds it seemed, three F-16’s roared over the top of the rig and had them all diving for the dubious cover of the control room floor.

  Now they were here enjoying a cool, refreshing drink in the Bahamian sunshine. Enjoying the free world, he mused ruefully. If it could ever be free after the colossal events they had been through. He was certain that all they had achieved was a lull in the never ending conflict between fanatical terrorists and the free world.

  “I was convinced you knew what Walsh was involved in,” Francesini was saying. “I even had you as a member of the opposition at one time,” he told him.

  The irony was not lost on Marsh. “Well, you could say I was, after all I did end up working for them, didn’t I?”

  They all laughed.

  “Better stick to fishing trips in future,” Francesini joked.

  Helen glanced at Marsh. “I expect that’s all he’ll want to do after this.”

  Admiral Starling cleared his throat and pulled a couple of envelopes from his pocket. He gave one each to Marsh and Helen.

  “No fishing trips yet, I’m afraid. These are commissions to retrieve the bombs. We’ll need your submersible, of course, and your expertise.”

  Marsh opened his envelope and read through the contents. He whistled softly through his teeth; the remuneration was extremely generous. More than enough to get the yard back on its feet again and back into business.

  “Is this by way of saying thank you?”

  The admiral nodded. “If something had gone wrong, thousands upon thousands would be dead by now. Who knows how many would have suffered the long term effects of Khan’s deadly fanaticism? You two became unwitting pawns in a dirty and very dangerous game. Even now we cannot admit officially that it happened.” He shrugged. “We can always explain terrorist behaviour when they ply their deadly trade publicly. But there are times when we have to keep the lid very tight on some of their tricks. Can you imagine the outcry and panic if it got out into the public domain that there were three nuclear bombs sitting out there? So, yes, we are saying thank you and asking for your commitment and your silence.”

  “Asking?”

  Starling grimaced. “Well, insisting actually. I’m afraid it has to be that way.”

  Marsh folded the envelope and pushed it into his pocket.

  “Well, our business needs the work and it won’t hurt to get a healthy bank balance again. All we’ll need now is an experienced diver, but what about his silence?”

  Francesini leaned forward. “We have an experienced diver and I am sure we can count on his silence.”

  “Who is it?” Marsh asked. “Do we know him?”

  Francesini grinned. “Batista.”

  Marsh and Helen sat bolt upright in their seats immediately. “Batista?” they echoed together.

  “That’s right. He’s a professional and worth his weight in gold in such an endeavour. After all, who could be better? He put the bombs there; he can get the damn things out again. And remember, the fewer the people who know about this, the better. Batista has every reason to keep silent; his life wouldn’t be worth squat if his involvement in this got into the public domain.”

  “I thought he would be going to prison,” Helen protested.

  It was the inspector who answered. “Why? He hasn’t really committed a crime. Oh sure, he is responsible for a certain complicity, but all this was in international waters. What would a judge give him? Couple of years?”

  “So it’s bargaining time, right?” asked Marsh.

  “Quite,” answered Bain. “But you could always drown him when it’s over”

  Helen stood up. The others got up out of courtesy. “Well I’m sure you’ll all work out the details,” she said. “But for now I think I would like some time with Marsh. We have a great deal to talk about.”

  They all shook hands and Helen took her leave with Marsh. Out of sight of the others she squeezed his hand.

  “Let’s go somewhere quiet and more private.”

  She led him through the flowered walkway to the car. Marsh followed contentedly, the past events forgotten, and only the future with Helen on his mind.

  The Devil’s Trinity was a thing of the past. Now they could start living again.

  THE END

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