The Devil's Trinity

Chapter 16

The lines on Francesini’s face looked as though they had been painted on with an artist’s brush. They were deeply etched into his expression and showed the considerable pressure he was under. Since his meeting with Professor Schofeld at the Woods Hole Institute, he had been subjected to a very uncomfortable meeting with the President’s National Security Adviser who had wasted no time in trying to reduce him to a nervous wreck by an ingenuous attack on his character, his department, his appalling efforts to stop the madman, Hakeem Khan, and anything else he could lay his political tongue too.

James Starling had allowed himself a wry smile after the disastrous meeting and offered the opinion that he was glad to have men like Francesini in his department who could take the flak from career politicians. He also told Francesini that he would still be in a job even after the National Security Adviser had joined the ranks of ex Senators and become part of the after dinner speaking circuit, albeit earning large sums of money.

Starling’s levity did little to appease Francesini’s demeanour because his own worries were genuine; he really feared for the safety of the millions who lived within the killing zone of those three bombs. And the devil of it was, he now knew exactly what Khan was up to but, ludicrous as it was to even consider, he felt might be too late to stop him.

He was now standing in a room at the Guantanamo Naval Base set aside for him by the commanding officer of the Base. He had flown down with James Starling immediately after the meeting with the President’s National Security Adviser. Although there was no change in the time zones, both of them were feeling distinctly jet lagged.

In the room with Francesini and the admiral were eight men. They were seated in two rows and facing the two C.I.A. men. In the front row was the big, black Lieutenant Santos, the Navy Seal who had boarded the Taliba. The eight men had just finished settling themselves into the chairs when Francesini stood up.

On the wall behind him, pinned to a white board, were several photographs. None of them had identifying labels. He pushed his own thoughts of Armageddon to the back of his mind and addressed the men,

“Gentlemen, your brief is straightforward and one which I am sure you have all been asked to do before, but unlike a lot of your missions, we cannot contemplate failure on this. I will not go into details why, although I know Lieutenant Santos is aware of the reasons. His urgent desire to go on this mission should convey sufficiently to you all just how vitally important success is.”

He did not really believe that these men, all experts in their field of covert operations should need convincing, but he laid it on the line for them more for his own sake than theirs. He turned to the photographs and touched one with a collapsible pointer.

“This is the oceanographic survey vessel Taliba. At the moment we understand she is sheltering in Cuban waters. Anywhere else and this meeting would not have been necessary. We are pursuing diplomatic channels of course, and have asked the Cuban government to impound the ship, but as you all know, President Castro is no friend of the Americans.”

He moved to the next photograph. “This is Hakeem Khan, the vessel’s owner. He was never considered an extremist, quite the opposite in fact; but we now suspect that he is a member of Al Qaeda, the extreme Islamic terrorist organisation.”

He moved to the next photograph. “This is Abdul Malik, Khan’s bodyguard. He is a killer, nothing more, nothing less.” He left the rest unsaid. The men in that room were also killers, but only out of expediency.

Lieutenant Santos nodded to himself softly. Not because he had seen Malik when he boarded the Taliba, but because he hoped he would meet Malik face to face.

“This photograph,” Francesini continued, “is of Doctor Harry Marsham, to give him his full title. He is known as Marsh to all his friends. If you speak to him, call him by that name. He’s probably forgotten his real name by now.”

A chuckle spread through the men. Even Starling allowed himself a smile.

“And this woman,” he said finally, “is Helen Walsh. What this young woman has been through you wouldn’t wish upon your worst enemy. Handle her very carefully gentlemen; she could be at breaking point.”

He turned and looked at the admiral who nodded. He sat down and James Starling took over.

“Your brief, gentlemen,” Starling began, “is to board the Taliba the moment she leaves Cuban waters. We want Hakeem Khan alive. We also want Marsh and the woman, Helen Walsh. Malik is to be eliminated. Charges are to be placed below the water line and the Taliba sunk immediately.” He emphasised the word ‘immediately’.

“If there is armed resistance to the point where the mission could be jeopardised, Khan must be snatched and the Taliba sunk. All others on board are forfeit. I repeat: ‘all others’. There are details of the vessel for you to peruse, courtesy of the Naval Architects department in the C.I.A.”

“At the moment the weather, as you can tell just by looking out of the windows, is against us. We expect the Taliba to leave Cuban waters soon. We have been unable to track her successfully by satellite because of the unusually deep cloud cover and the fact that we believe she has had some temporary structural alterations to confuse our satellites. There is a forecast of a hurricane moving into the Caribbean, although we don’t expect it to track too closely to the Taliba’s position. But in any event, whether the hurricane changes course or not, we do not have time on our side. We have land based agents in place and they will inform us as soon as the Taliba puts to sea. If there are no questions gentlemen, I wish you all good hunting.”

Marsh had been ordered forward to Challenger. It was barely midnight and the order puzzled him, but he had learned not to ask questions. The directive had been very clear; the Challenger was to be made ready for a dive.

He found the task very unrewarding. Working at night seemed to demand stealth where in fact it was quite unnecessary. Strangely though, he was aware that the rest of the crew were moving about on deck with an almost tangible feeling of anticipation, accompanied by a worrying silence.

This feeling edged its way into his mind and he knew that something extraordinary was going to happen; something to which he was not privy. It troubled Marsh because he knew this was to be the last dive, the last chance to do something. He felt hopeless and helpless, and tried losing himself in the task of readying the submersible, but found even that could not dispel the gnawing fear that was burning away inside him.

Suddenly an order came down from the bridge to extinguish all lights. Marsh climbed out of the Challenger’s open cockpit door and dropped down on to the deck. There was no moon or starlight because of the cloud cover and the order to extinguish all lights did not make sense. He knew they were anchored in Cuban waters, but none of the crew had been allowed ashore.

Malik appeared almost ghostlike beside Marsh and put his finger to his lips. Marsh frowned at the gesture, although he understood clearly what Malik was saying; the warning was pure and menacing. Malik the pointed towards the side of the Taliba and Marsh became aware of the shape of a cargo ship looming up on their starboard side.

He glanced up at the Taliba’s bridge as the red and green navigation lights went out. There was a sudden grumbling noise as the anchor chain was pulled up, and the deck trembled slightly beneath his feet.

As the freighter slipped alongside, Marsh could feel the Taliba’s screws thrashing the water, and she began to move slowly. The freighter was now almost stationary. Marsh knew then that the Taliba was under way. Khan was slipping out under the cover of the freighter.

The crew were all, metaphorically, holding their breath, and Marsh realised then that they had all been warned of what was about to happen. He also knew that Khan must be playing a very dangerous game now and wondered if he suspected that the Navy Seals had paid him a visit twenty four hours earlier. But he dismissed the notion as soon as it entered his head; there was no way Kahn could even suspect that the United States Navy had actually been on board the Taliba.

He looked at Malik. “Why the subterfuge?” he whispered, ignoring Malik’s earlier warning. “Why are we leaving like thieves in the night?”

Malik’s look of surprise was not apparent in the darkness.

“Thieves in the night?” he repeated. Then he pointed towards the aft end of the Taliba as a smile spread across his face. “Look.”

Marsh followed his direction. The Taliba was beginning to turn away from the freighter. Just aft he could see another ship. It was about the same size as the Taliba. He could not see the superstructure too clearly, but she appeared to have moved up in the shadow of the cargo ship. She was coming alongside the freighter.

And then it came to him: Khan had pulled a switch! The ship behind them had taken up position exactly where the Taliba had been anchored. Marsh realised then that Khan was deliberately trying to confuse any observer on the Cuban shore. And it would be dawn at the earliest before the switch was noticed. By then the third bomb would be in place and Khan would have won. Marsh felt a spill of fear trickle through his veins and he wanted to vomit.

He turned to Malik and let out a burst of uncontrollable anger at him.

“You evil bastards,” he snarled. “If you think I’m going to plant your fucking bomb, you’re badly mistaken.” He turned swiftly and went to walk away from Malik, but before he could take two steps, Malik had him by the neck and almost twisted his head from his shoulders.

“The woman still has a chance, Marsh,” Malik whispered angrily in his ear. “But if you refuse to take Challenger down, I will kill her, I promise.” He gave Marsh’s neck a painful twist. “Do you hear me Marsh?”

“Yes, I hear you. Now let me go,” he pleaded.

“But do you understand? If you do not cooperate, your woman will die in front of you.”

Marsh knew Malik was the kind of man who carried out his promises and this would be no exception. He had no choice, as weak as he felt and as abysmal as he felt, Helen’s life was of paramount importance to him.

“Yes Malik, I understand. I will take Challenger down,” he assured him. “Now let me go.”

As Malik let him go, he noticed that the freighter was turning too. And then he understood that the two ships, the freighter and the Taliba would sail alongside each other to avoid detection from radar. And he understood the cunning and the sheer bravado of the man they were up against.

The two ships sailed together for three hours until they eventually separated. Within minutes the freighter was lost in the darkness and the Taliba was alone. The task of keeping the two ships separated in the badly deteriorating weather had called for a high class of seamanship, and Marsh knew that Captain de Leon possessed that in spades. That was the reason Khan hired men of that calibre.

The wind had freshened to twenty knots, normally too high to launch the submersible. This added to Marsh’s fears but was small beer compared to the fear he had for his own life. He knew that the high wind speed would not stop Khan from launching the Challenger, but it could seriously jeopardise recovery. At the rate the wind was freshening, it could reach moderate to gale force by the time the dive was over.

And the devil of it was he knew they were sailing into the edge of a hurricane.

Working in almost total darkness was dangerous and stressful, particularly when the load going into the submersible was a nuclear bomb. Marsh found it difficult to maintain a level conversation with Batista and Zienkovitch; their responses often seemed careful and guarded. He had expected to see Khan but the man did not even venture down to oversee the loading operation. In fact, everyone was on edge.

The one, bright moment during the lengthy night was Helen’s appearance. She told Marsh that she had insisted on seeing him. Had he not seen her before the dive, it would have added to the inexplicable feeling of being a condemned man.

With barely minutes to go before he was due to shut himself in Challenger’s cockpit, Helen put her arms around him and drew him in close.

“I love you, Marsh” she whispered. “Remember; to have faith and hope is to survive.”

He held her tight for a moment, and then kissed her passionately on her lips. They were soft and yielding; like tender pillows to cushion his anxiety.

“I love you too, Helen.”

He pulled away and looked over at Malik who, as ever, was never far away. He walked over to him and stood in such a way that Helen would not be able to see his face. Summoning as much strength and appeal in his voice as he could, he spoke to Malik through gritted teeth.

“Don’t let anything happen to her, Malik. Make me that promise.”

Malik nodded slowly. “You have my word.”

Satisfied, Marsh turned away and climbed into the cockpit of the Challenger.

The young signals officer hovered beside James Starling; afraid to deliver the message that he was sure would bring down the world of Hades on his vulnerable, young shoulders. The admiral was sitting in an upright chair in the base commander’s office. He was talking earnestly to Francesini and was unaware of the young signals officer.

The young man coughed. “Excuse me sir.”

Starling stopped talking to Francesini and looked up at the officer. “Yes, what is it?”

“I’m afraid we’ve lost the Taliba.”

Starling said nothing for a few seconds. His expression darkened. “What did you say?”

“It’s the Taliba, sir; I’m afraid we’ve lost her.”

“Lost her?” Starling sprang to his feet. His chair toppled over behind him and crashed to the floor. Francesini couldn’t believe it. The might of the American security services had lost the Taliba again. He bent down and picked up the fallen chair.

“Lost her? What the hell do you mean?” Starling asked angrily.

“Simply that, sir,” the signals officer replied nervously. “Our observers have reported that the Taliba slipped out under the cover of darkness.”

“Well dammit, man,” Starling bellowed. “We knew she would. That’s why we’ve been watching her.”

“Yessir,” the young man agreed meekly. “But it would appear that the Taliba managed to leave a decoy ship in her place. That’s why the disappearance wasn’t noticed until first light this morning.”

Starling continued to stare at the young officer. “What about the F16s we have on patrol?”

“We contacted Homestead Base, sir. There are no reports of any changes to the situation. They were not aware of the Taliba’s disappearance until we advised them.”

Homestead Base was home to the National Air Reserve in Florida. It was America’s most southerly base.

Starling hissed through closed teeth and nodded his head resignedly. “Damn you, Khan. Damn you and all your kind to hell.”

His massive shoulders heaved and he looked at the signals officer from beneath his dark eyebrows. Looking at his watch he began to compute times and distances in his mind.

“The observers noticed the switch at first light; about six a.m. We have to assume the switch was made at midnight. Six hours.”

He turned his attention to Francesini knowing he would be automatically computing the figures with him. “If she makes twenty knots and is still under way, she could be one hundred and thirty miles out by now.”

Francesini cut in. “But with the weather conditions deteriorating, we might have to assume half that speed and distance; seventy miles.”

Starling swung back to the signals officer. “Contact Colonel Riddell at Homeland Base and ask him to scramble four F16s. I want them on a quartering search, one hundred and fifty miles north of Havana. As soon as contact is made, I want to know.”

The signals officer thought that there might be more, but there wasn’t. Starling glared at him.

“Now sonny, now!”

The young man ran from the room and Starling shook his head and gazed into thin air.

“Where are you, Khan? Where are you and your insidious crew?”

Francesini stood beside him. His face seemed to be carved from stone as he let the awful truth sink in.

Once inside the polymer cockpit bubble, the outside world was shut away. Marsh was cocooned like an embryo in his own, silent world, feeding off the warm belly of the Challenger, but he was like the beating heart of the submersible.

He went through his checks, robotic like, throwing switches, checking pressures, reading gauges. He checked the television monitor, peering unseen into the decompression chamber like an Orwellian overlord. He nodded his satisfaction.

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 button 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.