There was nothing either of them could do. Marsh knew he could refuse to pilot the submersible, but he also knew that Khan could take over, even if his heart was suspect. Khan would probably survive the dives; his own fanaticism would push him beyond his own limits. Marsh understood that.
And Marsh also understood that he would not be allowed to live beyond a refusal to cooperate. And they had no way of knowing what would happen to Helen; probably the same fate. No, Marsh decided that while he was still in some kind of control, with some part to play in Khan’s evil scheme, he might have a small bargaining counter that could guarantee his and Helen’s freedom. But in his heart, he knew he was kidding himself.
Francesini arrived back at his office with a degree of pessimism clouding his day. Such was the urgency now of Francesini’s mission, he had flown from Freeport direct to Langley Air Force Base, and was picked up by a staff car. It had been a demanding flight, not from the point of being tiring, but he had so many unanswered questions floating about in his mind and no-one to bounce them off that he had almost succumbed to melancholia.
It didn’t help when Admiral Starling had admitted to him that he too was under pressure from the President’s National Security Adviser; he wanted results. This meant that the President’s man was under pressure from the President himself. And this meant that the pressure rolled all the way down to the man at the front: Francesini. The buck may stop at the Oval Office, Francesini had told the admiral, but it was certainly uncomfortable from where he was standing.
He thought about the child’s song he would sometimes chant when he was at junior school. ‘Big fleas have little fleas on their backs to bite ‘em. Little fleas have littler fleas and so ad infinitum’.
Did we sing that? He wondered as he sat down at his desk. There was a yellow ‘post it’ note on his desk. The message was scrawled in almost unintelligible writing.
‘Your phone is off. Ring me please.’
It was signed by Cooke, the young man in the satellite imagery department. Francesini frowned and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. Sure enough it was switched off. He shook his head and turned the phone on. He remembered switching it off during the flight. He reached for the desk phone and dialled Cooke’s number.
“Hallo Bob, Francesini here. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve lost the Taliba, sir. It’s gone!”
Francesini sat bolt upright. “What?”
“It’s gone sir; disappeared during the night. We tracked her image into the Atlantic. Her signature was pretty strong for a while, but when I came in to work this morning.” He paused there. Francesini could hear him breathing. He sounded nervous. “Well sir, it’s like I said; she’s gone.”
“Have you checked all the images?” Francesini asked. He knew it was unnecessary.
“All of them, sir. She just faded away.”
Francesini felt the ‘fleas’ on his back. “I’m coming down to your office. Have the images ready for me, will you?”
“Yes sir.”
He put the phone down, the song running through his head. ‘….little fleas have littler fleas and so ad infinitum’.
Marsh thought the Challenger was beautiful. To others she was ugly and ungainly, which she certainly was. But Marsh looked at her from an engineer’s point of view, from an oceanographer’s perspective. Everything on that submersible was designed with a distinct purpose in mind; there was nothing surplus. She may not have had an aesthetic appeal, Marsh realised that, but he was still fascinated by her.
He clambered up the short ladder to check the umbilical was securely attached and while he was on top of the submersible, he checked the security of all the lifting rings. He then dropped down the far side and continued his checks along the whole length of the submersible. When he was satisfied that everything was in order, he opened the door of the acrylic polymer cockpit bubble and climbed in.
The Taliba had maintained a good speed to get back on station below the Florida Keys. The dive had been planned for early dawn about twenty four hours after being alongside the freighter. A grey light was beginning to seep over the horizon but it was still dark as Marsh began his internal checks. When he had completed those he thumbed the speech button.
“Taliba, this is Challenger. How do you read? Over.”
“Loud and clear Marsh,” Khan’s voice came back to him. “Dive should commence in thirty minutes.”
Before Khan could close the communication link, Marsh heard a voice in the background. “It’s the rig, sir.”
A moment later Khan came back to him. “Challenger, we shall be on station in fifteen minutes. Computed drift rate four knots, twenty degrees north, north east, surface wind, force five.”
“Challenger acknowledged, roger and out.”
A fresh breeze thought Marsh. The rim of the hurricane was drawing closer. It was a good thing it didn’t blow under water, he mused, although it could still cause a lot of problems.
Batista appeared at the front of the Challenger and motioned to Marsh that the lift was about to begin. Marsh acknowledged him and waited. Suddenly the submersible moved and slipped sideways about three or four inches as the deck winch took the weight of the Challenger and lifted just clear of the deck.
The four lifting hooks attached to each lifting eye spun momentarily and then stabilised. All eyes were on the lift as they swung the submersible over the side of the Taliba, looking curiously odd in her hastily renewed superstructure. Marsh wondered if the dummy rigging on the ship would survive the strengthening winds, but he was sure Khan would have allowed for that and for time being on his side.
As Challenger rotated slightly on the lifting ropes, Marsh though he saw another ship off Taliba’s beam, but the light was too bad to discern any real shape. And whatever it was, it was soon hidden from view. He ignored it and concentrated on getting the submersible settled on to the surface.
Once the Challenger was on the water, the lifting sling, with its four wire ropes was quickly detached. Marsh waited for an all clear signal from the Taliba and allowed the Challenger to slip beneath the waves, calling out the depth as it sank slowly towards the sea bed.
When the submersible was thirty feet from the bottom, Marsh trimmed her out and held her there. Batista and Zienkovitch left the chamber. At that moment Khan’s voice crackled inside the bubble.
“Marsh, we estimate the well-head is three hundred feet off your port beam.”
Marsh frowned. It was not like Khan to make such an error and miss the well-head by such a margin.
“One hundred yards off port beam,” he repeated. “Still holding at two hundred feet and turning left.”
Marsh piloted the submersible almost blindly, relying on the Taliba to call out his position. He could have navigated using the Global Positioning System on board, but it was much easier to let Khan guide him on.
The two divers followed him as he brought Challenger over the well-head. He reduced power to the thrust motors and settled the submersible above its station, keeping an eye on the hand signals from both divers. Ten minutes later the Challenger was attached to the well-head by its skirt and Marsh sat alone in the bubble. He felt detached and alone in the underwater world that surrounded him.