The Devil's Trinity

Chapter 19

Helen did not want to travel in that monstrous helicopter again. The thought of the rough ride, the discomfort, the noise and the memory of why she had been in the helicopter in the first place was enough to make her promise herself she would never fly in one again. Until now.

Marsh sat in the Sea Stallion helicopter oblivious to the noise and the people around him except Helen who was sitting beside him, clutching his hand in a grip so fierce that it spoke a thousand words. Her fear transmitted itself to him through her flesh. It wasn’t fear of death any longer, but fear of losing him. That more than ever weighed her down like a powerful burden and as each thought came into her mind about the terror Marsh must have experienced in the Challenger, it turned her inside out. It was almost as if she had been there herself.

When Marsh walked into the hospital room where Helen had lain recovering, Francesini had wanted to remain there for a few moments and watch the sheer joy and immense relief spread through them both, but he knew it would have been churlish of him to so. He left after a moment and waited outside in the corridor.

Helen had clung to Marsh as though her life had depended on it. The joy, relief, disbelief all rolled into a mixture of emotions that took away her ability, albeit briefly, to think of anything else but Marsh. In the end it was Francesini who had to prise them apart. He gave them sufficient time and then came back in.

“We have a job to do,” he told them.

Marsh had been debriefed swiftly by Francesini and had been able to tell the C.I.A. man that he believed he knew where Khan had flown to. It was when Francesini had told him that Khan had fled the Taliba. Marsh knew it would be the rig. It was the only place Khan could be. He had remembered hearing a voice in the background during the second dive, coming over the sonar link between the Taliba and the Challenger. Someone had said, “It’s the rig sir.” Nothing else. Then there was the unusual approach to the wellhead; the faint, almost imagined outcrop of rock which he now realised was an anchor or a pylon. And finally the fact that he had caught sight of something as Challenger had been swung out for that dive. The way in which the Taliba had been positioned then had practically obscured his view, which was why he thought it was a ship. But it had been a rig: a semi-submersible oil rig.

A raiding party had been hastily assembled comprising ten, well-armed Marines together with Lieutenant Santos and his Seals. Marsh, Helen and Francesini were riding in the Sea Stallion with the Marines. Lieutenant Santos was in a Sea King helicopter with his men.

The reason Helen was there was because Marsh had flatly refused to allow Francesini to keep him and Helen out of the assault operation, despite the fact that they were both civilians. Francesini had been quite philosophical about it and agreed. He realised that they both had a right to be there at the end after what they had been through; particularly Marsh.

These thoughts ran through Marsh’s mind as he sat beside Helen. The clamour of the turbine and the howling wind failed to penetrate Marsh’s inner soul, into that sanctum that had seen the Devil and supped at his table. He glanced at Helen and gave her a tight, nervous smile. She smiled back at him and squeezed his hand.

The discussions beforehand were all based on what Helen had told them, Marsh’s experiences and the report given to Francesini by the expert, Professor Schofield at the Woods Hole Institute. Francesini had contacted the Kennedy Space Centre who told them that there were too many satellites tracking across the Gulf of Mexico to give an accurate assessment of which satellite Khan would use to trigger the bombs, but any time within the next sixty minutes could be considered to be zero hour.

The assault plan was simple enough: Lieutenant Santos and the Seals would drop from the Sea King helicopter first and make directly to the control room. The Marines would come in behind the Seals in the Sea Stallion and sweep the rig to flush out any member of the crew who harboured aspirations of heroism. Marsh and Helen had both been offered a weapon but had refused. Marsh had never fired a gun in his life and Helen had no wish to.

Suddenly the helicopter dropped and Marsh felt his stomach lurch as the pilot brought the aircraft down to a level which would get them low enough to confuse the oil rig’s radar. Marsh could feel the fear crawling round in the pit of his stomach as the wind hammered them with such an incredible force that he was convinced they would all be dashed into the sea.

Everybody knew the hurricane was moving towards Florida and its peripheral winds were reaching out towards them. Marsh could feel the helicopter moving awkwardly, like a carriage riding over cobblestones.

The dark clouds had blotted out the sun for so long that it was as if night had crept up on them like a ghost. It was dark and they came out of the black sky; their dull silhouettes merging with the sea and sky. Both helicopters flashed over the wave tops with little room to spare.

Francesini’s headset burst into life in his ear.

“Rig on radar, sir.”

He grimaced. “Signal Homestead,” he ordered with deep reservation. “Have them scramble the F-16’s.”

This part of the plan had been the most difficult and heart rending to assess. In the end it was a decision taken reluctantly. All those involved in the raid on the rig were told about it and given the opportunity to opt out. There were no takers.

Three F-16’s were now under orders to attack the rig if the assault failed and no signal was received to say the assault had been successful. Only if the signal of their success was received would the attack be called off.

Francesini could see the rig glowing faintly in the darkening sky, its lights picked out by the harsh storm clouds behind it as he looked through the cockpit.

“Two minutes,” the pilot said.

On the rig, Malik checked his watch for about the tenth time in as many minutes. Khan had been watching him. He looked up at the clock on the wall.

“We have ten minutes yet.”

“Why not programme the computer now?” Malik asked. “Why must you wait until the satellite was in the exact position?”

Khan explained. “If I programme the computer now it would be like sending an open message to the Americans.”

He wished it was simpler because he too was feeling the tension. The pain around his heart was increasing to a degree that began to trouble him immensely.

“We know that when the satellite is in position, the transfer of information will last for micro seconds. The Americans will never pick it up.”

“And you’re not prepared to risk it now?”

Khan shook his head. “We know the Americans are on to us. If I open up the computer link now, it will be transmitting to an empty sky. Their listening stations will be on to us in minutes and they may even be able to jam the signal. No,” he said finally, “we must wait.”

Malik knew Khan was talking sense. There was sure to be an AWAC on patrol now above them somewhere, and if they picked up the signal, not only could they block it, but they could send patrolling aircraft to attack the rig. No, Khan was right: they had to wait.

“But we could go up to the control room,” Khan suggested. “They will have battened down against the storm. It should be quiet and peaceful enough.”

He stood up and reached for his briefcase. He thought about taking two more tablets but thought better of it. He would take a couple later.

They stepped out on to the open catwalk in the lee of the accommodation block. As they turned the corner, the wind slammed into them with such a force it threatened to lift them up and pitch them into the angry sea.

Khan stopped and backed into the lea of the building.

“It’s too risky!” he shouted. “We’ll have to go under the platform,”

They turned back and followed a route which took them down a staircase leading to a protected gallery from where the drilling crew operated. Normally the main riser, the eighteen inch diameter pipe drilling section would descend from there, through the open gallery floor and into the sea. Because of the weather conditions, the pipe had been withdrawn and all that remained was a black void.

The wind inside the gallery crashed around the walls and the thick, Perspex glass windows, but its ferocity was tempered and nowhere near as fierce as on the open deck. They walked quickly, using the handrails for support.

Malik walked in front of Khan and as he reached the foot of the stairs that led to the upper platform, he saw something move outside the windows on the far side of the gallery. He stopped and Khan walked into him.

“What is it?” Khan shouted.

Malik didn’t reply at first, but stared fixedly at the far windows, a deep frown coming on his face. Suddenly he whirled round and almost screamed at Khan.

“We’re being attacked! There!”

Khan looked across the gallery and just caught sight of the Sea Stallion helicopter moving slowly towards the upper decks of the oil rig.

“They won’t know,” Malik shouted desperately. “They won’t know.”

He glanced hurriedly around the metal catwalks and steelwork, searching furiously along the stanchions until he saw an alarm button. It was mounted next to the drillers control point and was for use in an emergency.

Malik brushed past Khan and ran across the gallery floor and slammed the heel of his hand at the button. Suddenly the entire rig seemed to come alive as a blaring klaxon siren came to life and filled the air with a riotous noise.

Khan knew instinctively what was happening. It was what he had feared the most. Ignoring the clamping pain around his chest he began climbing the stairs as quickly as was humanly possible for him. Malik followed. As they reached the main deck of the oil rig, they could see the black shrouded figures dropping from the helicopter.

Malik had a Stechkin automatic pistol with him which he pulled from inside his jacket and began firing. Almost immediately the steelwork around him erupted in a cacophonous noise as the Seals returned his fire.

He stopped shooting and urged Khan forward, pushing and half carrying him up the next flight of stairs to the main control room. Khan felt a massive pain lash at his heart and he cried out and fell to his knees.

“Come on,” Malik urged him, lifting him bodily. “They will have us; it’s our last chance!

He pulled Khan round a protective corner as bullets cannoned off the superstructure. He let Khan go and returned a burst of covering fire. He looked up as Khan reached the door of the control room.

“The lights!” Malik shouted. “Get them to douse the lights!”

He rolled over on to his stomach and emptied the magazine along the catwalk. Then he heard the stuttering sound of automatic rifle fire and knew that others had joined the fight,

The Sea King landed on the heli-pad as all the lights went out.

Helen could not control the trembling that ran riot through her body. She had never known fear like it. The noise of the fire-fight had already penetrated the interior of the helicopter and suddenly they were in darkness. She felt the helicopter bounce on the landing pad and settle, and then the wind punched itself into the interior as a crewman slid the door open.

“Now listen up!” someone shouted. “When you hit the deck, grab hold of the net. Wait until the chopper has lifted clear of the rig before you let go of the rope. And don’t move until you’re told to!”

Helen found herself tumbling out of the door into that incredible wind. Marsh pushed her to the ground and she could feel the coarse hemp beneath her. His mouth pushed up against her ear.

“Stay with me!” he shouted.

She nodded but he didn’t see it.

Suddenly a Marine Sergeant sprawled alongside them. “Listen up. My orders are to get you up to the control room.” The wind whipped the words away and they could barely hear him. “When we go, stay close.” He waited until the Sea King drew away from the rig, then he hit them both between the shoulder blades and almost drove the breath from their bodies.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” he shouted. “All the way!”

At Homestead Air Reserve Base, the Bird Colonel charged with the mission to destroy the oil rig glanced over his shoulder, left and right at his wingmen. He gave them a salute and applied the full power of the F 16’s Pratt and Whitney engines. The aircraft trembled under the power of the jet’s reheat exhaust until he released the brakes, the seat slammed into his back and the aircraft accelerated along the runway.

The two wingmen rolled with him at speed and soon the tarmac was flashing by beneath them. As the nose came up, he lifted the undercarriage and let the reheat fire him up towards their formation height. At two thousand feet he levelled and let the wingmen form up on him. Then the three aircraft turned and headed out over the angry sea.

At that point, Birdman, the mission leader in the lead jet, thumbed his transmit button and spoke on a radio frequency connecting him directly to the Sea Stallion helicopter.

“Sea Horse one, this is Bird one. How do you read? Over.”

“Bird one, this is Sea Horse one. Charlie Tango. Over.”

Birdman looked down at his knee pad. On it were written three letters: C, T and R; Charlie, Tango and Romeo. The first two letter were the code to authenticate the call from Bird One; the Sea Stallion helicopter. The third letter, Romeo would not be used unless the mission had to be aborted.

Birdman was satisfied.

“Roger that, Sea Horse one. Birds one, two and three are flying. Out.”

The three F-16’s climbed from their two thousand feet level and roared up to thirty thousand feet to get above the storm. Once above it, the formation leader set the co-ordinates, checked the ‘time-on-target’ with his wingmen and offered up a short prayer.

“OK guys, this is it,” he called over his radio. “Let’s go hunting!”

Marsh followed the Marine Sergeant in the darkness, clutching Helen’s hand tightly. He caught brief glimpses of the soldier’s silhouette against the flickering lights of muzzle flash and ricocheting bullets. The rig seemed to be lit up like a Christmas tree with flashing lights.

Although the crew on the rig were well armed, none of them were really prepared for this kind of professional assault. Many of them had come straight from their rest rooms or places of work without the benefit of camouflage clothing or even a prepared plan of action. Against the Seals and the Marines, they stood little chance.

The wind screamed and hammered at the sergeant and his two charges as they made slow progress up the stairs. It seemed to toy with them. One moment it would slacken and eddy to a soft swirl; then suddenly it would rise up into a gigantic fury. High in the derrick tower the wind tore at the rigging lines and the whole rig seemed to shake and resonate beneath the savage fury of the wind.

They reached the top of the stairs and huddled against a wall for protection. In the flickering light the sergeant’s eyes seemed to detach themselves and float before them.

“I hope this damn rig can stand up to it,” he shouted. “She’s beginning to move.”

It was true; Marsh could sense the enormous strain on the anchor chains. They vibrated with a hum that echoed through the deck plating. Much more, he thought, and the rig would start dragging its anchors.

The battle to get into the control room had reached something of an impasse as the Seals were forced to keep their heads down because of the covering fire coming from the men defending the rig.

The sergeant motioned to Marsh and Helen to stay put and not move.

Lieutenant Santos crouched on the upper platform cursing his luck. He had seen Malik and realised it was him who was orchestrating the defence of the control room. And he guessed that Khan was already inside, feeding the figures into the rig’s computer.

“I’m going up top!” he shouted to his men. “Hold their attention.”

Santos knew his way around oil rigs. It was not because rigs were his particular forte, but he had conducted so many classroom scenarios in rig protection, and had participated in active exercises, that he had come to know many rig layouts. And this rig was no exception.

He left his position and clambered down to the lower gallery. The roaring of the wind and the sea combined with the cathedral like space induced in him a complete sense of detachment. It was as though he has moved into another world.

He felt his way round the gallery catwalk using a faint illumination from the insipid daylight to help him pick his way round the steel structure. He found the stairwell he figured would take him directly to the rear of the control room deck.

At the top he peered cautiously along the deck until he was certain nobody was there. He was on the far side of the rig, away from the immediate fire-fight.

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.