“Urgency I can understand,” Marsh replied, “but it might help if I know the reason for the urgency.”
Khan shook his head. “That is not for you to know. Just understand that we are working to a tight schedule.”
Marsh didn’t like it, but there was little he could about it except try to frustrate Khan as much as possible. “If I am piloting the submersible I need to go over the sea trials with my co-pilot. It’s mandatory, as you well know.”
Again the shake of the head. “There will be no co-pilot, Marsh. I know you will cope admirably on your own. Batista will lead the dive. He is an exemplary diver.”
Marsh couldn’t argue with that. Nor could he argue with Khan because the man held all the cards. The best thing he could do in the circumstances was to act as professionally as he could, but at least he could try and unsettle Khan’s plans.
“What about Helen Walsh?” he asked.
Khan’s expression changed and he looked a little nonplussed. “What about her?”
“I want to know where she is,” Marsh told him levelly. “I will not dive unless I know where she is.”
Khan regained his composure, but Marsh’s stance was a little unexpected nevertheless.
“I do not want any histrionics Marsh,” he warned him. “Helen Walsh is safe and well and will remain so until you have completed the dives. If you refuse to cooperate you will jeopardise not only yourself but her also.” He leaned forward. “Do you understand that Marsh? Do I make myself clear?”
There was something unsettling in Khan’s reaction. Unless Marsh was mistaken, there was an inordinate fear in Khan’s manner. Nothing he could actually put his finger on, but underneath the surface, Marsh thought he could see a man who had no way out of the dilemma he was in and would go to extremes to ensure success. Murder and kidnap were already part of Khan’s world, so Marsh considered discretion was really the better part of valour in this case. But he knew he would have to keep alert and find a way of spoiling whatever plans Khan had in mind.
“Can you show me where we are diving then?” Marsh asked reluctantly. “At least do me that courtesy.”
Khan breathed a quiet sigh of relief and got up from the desk. He looked in pain as he walked over to the control centre. There was a chart table there and he beckoned Marsh over to it.
“Here,” he said, putting his finger on the chart. “We shall begin our first dive here in the southern channel.” He was pointing at a bearing about one hundred and fifty miles south of the Florida Keys in the Santaren Channel.”
“What depth will we be diving at?”
“No more than 300 feet.”
“Have you computed the drift rate?”
“We shall remain on fixed line,” Khan told him. “But the drift rate has been computed at about three knots. The dive should last no more than three hours.”
Nine or ten miles, Marsh thought to himself. Plenty of room in the channel for that. He looked up from the chart table.
“I would like to look over the Challenger” he said.
“Of course,” Khan replied. He walked over to his desk. There was glass of water and a small bottle there. He reached for the bottle and shook two tablets on to the palm of his hand. He swallowed them down with the water. “Of course,” he said again, and reached for the phone. “Captain de Leon? I shall be going forward with Marsh to inspect the Challenger. Have Batista there, will you. Thank you.” He put the phone down. “Good. Let’s go.”
The Challenger was secured across the Taliba’s forward deck, just below the foc’sle head. It was a familiar and thought provoking sight to Marsh. She had been freshly painted and the name stood out boldly in brass lettering on the lower ballast tank.
Marsh climbed up her ladder to the topside and lowered himself through the access hatch. He could see the modifications that Khan had undertaken but was only aware of them because they were unlike anything on his own submersible, the Helena. He stopped halfway down the central chamber. Batista followed him down.
“What’s this chamber for?” Marsh asked him.
“Retrieval,” Batista answered and opened the door into the decompression chamber. This was where the divers would decompress after a deep dive. Marsh realised that Batista had studiously ignored any explanation after saying, “retrieval”, but chose not to pursue it; no doubt he would learn more as time went on.
Marsh looked around the chamber. It was cramped and there was barely sufficient room for two divers, but there was enough. There was a control console with some basic controls on it from where the Challenger could be operated in an emergency. There was also a couple of television monitors. Although Marsh had never known of a submersible being operated from the decompression chamber, it was an exercise he and Greg had conducted with Helen and other divers in the past.
There was sufficient space for two divers to sleep and relax while decompressing plus an assortment of charts, lockers, small drawers and an outdated calendar.
He climbed out of the Challenger, going up through the central chamber and back on to the deck of the Taliba then made his way forward to the cockpit. It was a round bubble of acrylic co-polymer plastic, six inches thick, and was designed to withstand a pressure of two thousand pounds per square inch up to a depth of over 1500 feet.
Inside the cockpit the pilot worked at normal atmospheric pressure. Everything needed to control the submersible, including the remote arms and external monitoring cameras was within easy reach.
Marsh opened the door of the cockpit and climbed in, settling himself comfortably in the pilot’s seat. There was another seat beside him for a second crew member, whether pilot, engineer or simply an observer.
He looked at the controls in front of him. The instruments were lifeless except one, which showed that the submersible was connected to an external power source; in this case the Taliba. He reached forward and flicked the master switch. The panels and screens flickered into life and the instrument readouts flashed on in a glow of colours and digits. He scanned from left to right: battery power, air conditioning, oxygen and carbon dioxide content, forward sonar display, gyro compass, scanning sonar, explosive collar arming switch, GPS navigation system, television monitors, trim monitor, repeater and depth gauges.
Marsh unwittingly enjoyed the unashamed luxury of settling into a world where he was probably the master. He was like a child with a new toy. All thoughts of the reasons why he was here had vanished, tucked into the recesses of his mind; locked away.
Marsh was home, comfortable: like a foetus in a womb.
Francesini lifted his head at the sound of someone rapping knuckles on his office door. He called whoever it was to come in and Cooke, from the satellite imagery department poked his head round the door. Francesini was surprised to see him.
“Hallo sir, have you got a moment?”
Francesini put his pen down and leaned back in his chair. He signalled Cooke to sit down. “What can I do for you, Bob?” he asked.
Cooke put some photographs on the desk. “Well sir, you know we’ve been looking out for those nukes?” Francesini said he did. Cooke continued. “Well, I’ve been looking at the images we recorded at the time they disappeared, and I think I might have come up with something.”
Francesini leaned forward. There were various satellite images showing dates, times, satellite identification etcetera. He could see trace lines over the images like the fine, gossamer threads of a spider’s web. “Go on,” he said, and wondered if there was to be more talk of fuzzy logic. But whatever the young man had to tell him, Francesini knew he would not be wasting his time.