Francesini put the tip of his finger on the grainy, satellite photograph. He could see the Taliba clearly. At least, that’s what Cooke had told him. But the subsequent photographs showed a fainter, less clear image. Weather conditions had done much to obscure the ship, plus the time: two o’clock in the morning. The final print showed nothing, simply a computed position of where the ship would probably be, given that she had stayed on the same heading and not changed course.
“The weather didn’t help sir,” Cooke offered. “But we have these.”
He pulled up a picture on his computer screen that showed several erratic traces. Closer inspection showed that there were actually three distinct traces layered one above the other.
“This top trace,” Cooke was saying, pointing at the screen “is the Taliba’s signature. The other two are unknown.” The screen changed as Cooke punched a finger at the keyboard. “Here the three signatures merge. Almost as if three ships are about to collide,” he added. “Taliba’s computed direction brings her into this contact with the others. And in the next shot,” he said, pulling up another image, “they all merge into one, indistinguishable blob.”
Francesini straightened. “These signatures are through the cloud, right?” Cooke nodded. “And you think the Taliba has made a rendezvous with two other ships?” Cooke nodded again. “So how come you couldn’t pick up Taliba’s trace once the ships had parted company?”
“The satellite was ordered to lock on to the three signatures. But for some reason, it only locked on to two. Neither of them was the Taliba.”
Peering through the gloom, Marsh thought he saw something. Whatever it was lay just on the edge of the arc spread by Challenger’s powerful lamps. He leaned forward instinctively, hoping to get a clearer view, but it didn’t help. He wondered if it was a natural feature of the sea bed; a small outcropping of rock perhaps. He put the submersible’s radar scanning head on and looked at the image on the radar monitor. It was unclear and, as far as Marsh was concerned it was unimportant, but he had little to do except wait until he received instructions from either the divers or the Taliba.
He looked up from the screen and peered out again through the polymer cockpit, but the longer Marsh stared at it, the more bewildering it became. It began to dance and change shape and become distracting, so he gave up looking at it. The important thing was to think more about Batista and Zienkovitch and to keep Challenger functioning; not concern himself with some illusory object of no importance.
Soon the operation was complete and another bomb had been lowered into mother earth. Marsh flooded the ballast tanks to compensate for the weight of the bomb and trimmed the submersible to rise a few feet once he had received the signal from the surface.
Khan’s voice crackled through. “We have a small problem Challenger.”
Marsh’s heart skipped a few beats. “Say again Taliba.”
“A problem Marsh, but don’t worry. A squall has appeared on radar. We had hoped it would pass us by, but judging from its present course, it will pass through us. It will make recovery difficult.”
“I’ll remain on station, Taliba.”
“Negative, Challenger, drift with the stream for a while. It should take you clear. Say three miles.”
“Acknowledged Taliba,” Marsh replied. “Three miles, drifting now.”
There was nothing wrong with this type of manoeuvre and the Taliba had all the necessary sonar and GPS tracking gear to keep station almost immediately above him, so Marsh was not concerned. And he realised it was simple expediency to move away from the path of the squall to recover a few miles distant.
In the event the recovery operation was completely successful and the Challenger was on board the Taliba and hooked into the ship’s generators in less than two hours. Marsh clambered down from the cockpit in a sombre mood. Two bombs were now in position, one left to be planted. The more he thought about it, the more his own fears grew; and the more probable and realistic they became.
If Marsh was right and he had figured out exactly what Khan was up to, then only a terrible catastrophe could result. The line was right, the depth was right. One more bomb, one more chance to do something; but no hope in hell of getting away and telling the world.
Chapter 15
The phone on Starling’s desk jangled at him. He lifted it from its cradle without looking at it and continued writing.
“Starling,” he growled.
“Sir, this is Jennifer.”
He stopped writing and grunted an apology; he wasn’t allowed to growl at his secretary. “Sorry Jennifer. What is it?”
“I have Commander Spade on the line, Admiral. From the U.S. Submarine Oregon?”
Starling frowned. The Oregon was a Benjamin Franklin Class submarine, converted from a former Fleet Ballistic Missile Submarine, an SSBN, but no longer part of America’s nuclear fleet. So what on earth could Commander Spade want, he wondered?
“Digger? Well, well. Put him on, please Jennifer.”
He heard a click and Commander Spade came on the line. Spade and Starling were old friends going way back. They had both been commissioned as young naval officers during the Vietnam War. Their careers had run along similar paths and they usually managed to meet up with each other every two or three years. Spade had been known as ‘Digger’ and had chosen a career in submarines, whereas Starling known as ‘Birdy’, opted for a career as a navy pilot. Neither of them had used their nicknames for years.
“Jim Starling?”
Starling smiled at the sound of his old friend’s voice and recalled many, fond memories. “Hallo Digger, how are you? Long time no see.”
“Hallo Birdy, pressure of work I’m afraid,” Spade answered. “How are you these days?”
“Mustn’t grumble. Although my secretary says I often do. How can I help you?”
“Is your line secure?”
“Secure?” He laughed. “This is the headquarters of the C.I.A.,” Starling reminded him.
“Oh, in that case perhaps I should use a call box,” Spade joked.
Starling laughed again. It felt good. “So why are you calling?”
“I believe you’re interested in the Taliba?”
Commander Spade’s immediate mention of Khan’s ship took Starling by surprise. “Damn right I am,” Starling answered. “But I’m told we’ve lost her.”
“Well we’ve found her. We picked up her signature on sonar an hour ago.”
For a moment Starling didn’t quite know what to say. So he asked the obvious.
“Where?”
“At the moment she is steering a course towards Cuba. We are keeping a discreet distance from her, but we’re on station.”
Starling couldn’t understand it. “How come you’re involved in this?”
“We had a request about twenty four hours ago to look for her. We were given a bearing and asked to do a search. We’re on a shakedown cruise at the moment, so it gave us a little time to play. We’re ‘off book’. Been transferred OPCON”
In the world of military games and necessarily expedient decision making, it was sometimes useful to have a vessel transferred from its Command HQ to another agency so that it remained temporarily ‘off book’. The transfer was always OPCON: operational control.
Starling’s face screwed up into a frown. “Who requested your involvement?” he asked.
“Don’t know old boy, but it had to go through NorthCom (Northern Command). Almost certainly originated from your department.”