To slow up the rate of descent and hold the Challenger steady so that she would neither rise nor fall, Marsh used static balancing as opposed to the dynamic balancing he had used on the way down.
Quite simply, Challenger had three hundred kilos of lead shot on either side of the hull which could be dumped slowly by metering it out from the small holding tanks in which the shot was stored. As the lead shot was dumped, so the weight of the Challenger decreased along with the sink rate.
He began dumping the lead ballast as Challenger approached the planned operating depth and Marsh could see the sea bed lit by the Challenger’s powerful arc lamps. Inside the decompression chamber, Batista and Zienkovitch would know from the instrument read out that it was time to begin their part of the operation.
Marsh flicked a switch on the panel and ordered them into the central chamber. Batista and Zienkovitch were wearing the yellow bottles containing helium and oxygen. Because the air pressure inside the chamber was changing automatically to equal the pressure at the depth they had reached, there would be no risk to the divers when they left the Challenger.
They stepped into the central chamber, closed the watertight door to separate them from the decompression chamber behind them and waited. They would wait until Marsh had flooded the central chamber before opening the upper and lower hatches.
They were standing just a yard away from the nuclear bomb.
Marsh held Challenger steady for the next phase of the dive as Zienkovitch swam out of the central chamber once it had been flooded. His exit was through an opening in the metal skirt. The skirt was rather like a large, overturned bowl, beneath the submersible.
Batista remained inside the central chamber. Above him the bomb was held rigid by three pressure pads extending from the side of the chamber. He floated upwards until he was looking down at the bomb, then he hooked up the cylinder to a lifting arm which was attached to the chamber wall.
When he was satisfied that everything was secure, he opened a small panel and operated a winch which tensioned the nylon rope now attached to the lifting eye of the bomb. He then released the pressure pads so there was a small clearance between them and the smooth sides of the cylinder. Then he pressed the lift button until the bomb was at the top of the chamber which gave him a clear working space beneath it. Satisfied with what he had done, Batista patted the side of the bomb and swam out of the chamber.
Marsh had been so engrossed in maintaining the trim that he was surprised to see Batista and Zienkovitch so soon. He acknowledged them both and let water into the ballast tanks and Challenger began sinking slowly to the bottom.
One old fashioned method used to tell a submersible pilot when he is near the bottom is by way of a weighted rope hanging free beneath the craft. As it touches bottom, the rope slackens and allows a switch to operate, signalling to the pilot that he has the length of the rope to go.
Marsh was already slowing when the signal lamp flashed on and a small buzzer sounded. He immediately dumped ballast and Challenger settled as he trimmed her out. Batista and Zienkovitch then guided Marsh on to the capped well head which was barely fifteen feet from him. Marsh could speak to both divers through the sonar link but it was only Batista to whom he spoke to avoid mistakes. By following Batista’s one word commands, he successfully brought the submersible immediately over the well head.
On the outer rim of the well cap were three, bullet shaped spigots which located into three holes on the rim of the Challenger’s skirt. Marsh felt her twitch as she settled on the spigots. Immediately Batista and Zienkovitch closed a set of spring clamps which were also attached to the skirt rim.
Marsh thought back to that moment when Khan had showed him the nuclear bomb. If only the Coast Guard had found the bomb when they searched the Taliba, he thought to himself bitterly.
Suddenly Batista’s dismembered voice broke into Marsh’s thoughts.
“You can relax now, Marsh,” he said. “The cuckoo is in the nest.”
Francesini heard the sound of his wife’s soft footfall behind him. He was in the kitchen fixing a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal. He turned towards her as she came through the door. She looked a little sleepy still, her hair tousled and untidy. She walked over to him and kissed him gently on the cheek. He loved her as much now as he did when they married, probably even more. He welcomed the show of affection, even at such an ungodly hour.
“Coffee?” he asked.
She shook her head, pulling her dressing gown round her body unconsciously, accentuating the curves of her body. He never tired of looking at her, whether she was dressed for a dinner party of for bed. It mattered not to him.
“Go sit down,” she ordered. “I’ll fix this.”
He put his arm round her. “Laura, I’m sorry about this. I….”
“Remo,” she interrupted. “We’ve been through this before, so don’t beat yourself up about it. I knew what I was letting myself in for when I married you.”
He did as he was told and sat down at the breakfast bar. He remembered the day they married, in New York, just a week after he had graduated from the ‘Farm’: the C.I.A. Academy. It had rained, but they were happy. And yes, she did know what she was letting herself in for. She had courted him when he was working the beat, on shifts with the NYPD after he had left the military, knowing in her heart what he really wanted to do, and that was to join the C.I.A. He had studied law in the evenings at night school when he was able and graduated with a good degree. Some thought he would stay with the police force, but the C.I.A. was his calling.
“When are you leaving?” she asked. “And where are you going? Or am I not permitted to ask?”
He smiled. He could never tell her where he would be because he might not know or, perhaps worse, he might have to lie. But this time he knew and this time he wouldn’t lie.
“There’s a car on the way,” he told her. “Should be here soon.” He looked at his watch. “Then I’m off to the Grand Bahamas. Freeport.”
“Jimmy Starling going with you?”
She always called James Starling by that name, but never to his face. It was her way of reducing the admiral’s heavy reputation to one of more manageable proportions. But behind that she quite liked her husband’s boss. He was a pussycat really, she often told her husband; but she never told Jimmy Starling.
“Not yet.”
She put the coffee and cereal in front of him. “This going to be the last job?” she asked, tongue in cheek.
He held a spoonful of cereal in front of his mouth. “As ever,” he lied.
She reached down and kissed him again. “Don’t let anybody shoot you,” she warned him. “I get used to having you around. Sometimes!”
“I’ll give you a call,” he said when he had finished eating the mouthful of cereal, but she was already through the door and on her way back to bed.
Perhaps this should be the last one, he thought to himself. He got up and put his empty cereal bowl into the sink and drained his coffee cup.
But if that bastard Khan has three nuclear bombs to detonate, he thought to himself, it could be the last one for a lot of people.
On board the Taliba, Hakeem Khan breathed out heavily and settled back in his softly upholstered swivel chair. His face was ashen and a small pain had been gathering force inside his chest. He had been sitting at the control console in his cabin, monitoring the dive. Malik was with him. Neither had spoken as Challenger had descended to the well-head. For a long while all that penetrated the silence in the cabin was the sound of the strengthening wind hurrying along the superstructure of the ship, and the occasional depth calls and simple commands from the submersible and the bridge of the Taliba. It was ethereal and unreal; the other world beneath the sea intruding into the real world of his well-appointed cabin.