Starling thought about Remo Francesini and his own order to dig deep.
“I see,” Starling responded, non-committedly. “I see. You know we lost her on satellite?”
“So I believe, Birdy. But when it comes to satellite tracking, you can’t beat the submariners.”
They both laughed. “I’ll give you that, Digger. Well then, seeing as you’re on the case, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”
“Certainly, as long as my admiral approves. What is it?”
“I won’t tell you over the phone, Digger; I’ll send a signal within the hour. Just don’t lose that boat.”
They finished the conversation in pleasantries then Starling set about putting a plan into operation that would involve the US Navy Seals. He was also beginning to feel a little better about the whole thing because the latest developments had handed him an element of control.
Four hours after James Starling had spoken to his old friend; a Hercules transport plane flew over Commander Spade’s submarine, the U.S.S. Oregon as twilight began to wash over the approaches to the Bahamian Island chain. There was a slight swell, but the submarine managed to cope with that despite being on the surface.
The rear doors of the Hercules opened. Inside the aircraft, standing by the doors but attached to a safety line was the loadmaster. Beside him were two men dressed completely in black and wearing parachutes. As the Hercules approached the drop zone, the voice of the pilot could be heard by the loadmaster through his headset. Suddenly the two red warning lights above the door went out and two greens came on in their place.
“DZ! DZ! Go!”
As the loadmaster shouted and waved the men off, the two figures dropped from the rear door of the Hercules and slipped away swiftly in the slipstream until their fall was checked by the unfurling of their parawing chutes. As they deployed in the darkness they glided gently down towards the sea and the USS Oregon until they both landed on the surface within a hundred feet of the Oregon’s inflatable rescue boat. Within thirty minutes of leaving the aircraft, the two members of the US Seals were standing in front of Commander Spade inside the submarine’s control room.
The Taliba lay at anchor off the island of Cuba. Although the lights from the shore were clearly visible, the ship was anchored well away from the shoreline. It was past midnight and nobody stirred on deck except the two men on watch; one forward, the other aft. It was a warm night and music could be heard very faintly drifting over the calm sea from other craft anchored offshore. The lights of the distant port shimmered above their reflections in the water, their colours fused into the mirror blackness. The riding lights of the other boats swayed gently.
The cocktail of distant lights and faint music drew the attention of the two men on watch, each in his own private world, each one wishing that he could be ashore, enjoying the seductive pleasures on offer. Behind those two men, each separated by the length of the Taliba, the black ocean swept out into the vast emptiness of the night, offering nothing of interest other than an occasional passing ship.
And in that vast emptiness, two heads bobbed above the surface without a sound, just one hundred feet from them.
The two US Navy Seals were wearing wet suits. Their faces were blackened, although one of them was of West Indian origin. His face was blackened to keep it to a matte appearance. They both had rubber caps covering their heads and were virtually invisible to anyone on board the Taliba.
After several minutes studying the ship, they swam beneath the water towards her, surfacing alongside the hull. Then carefully they moved to the stern of the vessel where they knew they would find the boarding platform common with ships using divers. The platform was hoisted vertically into its stowage position, but that presented no obstacle for the two Seals.
They climbed aboard the aft deck and slipped out of sight behind the base of a lifting winch. One of them pointed to the crewman on watch, barely thirty feet from them and made a gesture to his companion. Then he edged forward.
The crewman continued leaning on the ship’s rail, blissfully unaware that he now had company. The Navy Seal stood up behind him without a sound, whipped an arm around his neck and pressed two fingers into the side of his neck beneath the ear. He held him like that for a while until he felt the crewman relax. To avoid letting the man slump to the deck, he positioned him in such a fashion that the unconscious man’s bodyweight kept him propped up against the rail. To casual observation, it looked as though he was staring absently into the sea below.
He quickly turned to his colleague who sprinted from his hiding place to a locker fixed horizontally along the ship’s inboard bulkhead. It was alongside the bulkhead that faced the shore. Inside were mainly lifejackets and ropes. Satisfied it would serve his purpose; he unzipped his wetsuit and pulled a plastic bag from inside. He then opened it and sprinkled the contents into the locker. He then pulled a lighter from his pocket and, shielding the flame with a cupped hand; he lit a piece of saturated gun cotton and dropped it into the locker, closing the lid.
The other Seal waited until he could see smoke billowing from the locker, then he ran across the deck to the crewman who was still unconscious and shook him vigorously. He shouted “Fuego! Fuego!” well into the man’s ear and ran for cover on to the opposite of the ship.
The crewman shook himself and began rubbing his neck, thinking he had fallen asleep. Suddenly he straightened and turned round, his expression turning from one of puzzlement to shock. He began shouting and ran for a fire extinguisher. The crewman on forward watch heard the shouting and ran down to the aft end of the ship. On the way he pushed an alarm button fixed to a bulkhead and suddenly all hell was let loose. Alarm bells burst into life; someone dashed from a door and ran up the steps to the bridge. Others began falling out of doorways, half asleep, all of them heading towards the pall of smoke that billowed out from the rope locker.
The two Navy Seals waited until most of the activity was on the far side of the ship from where they were concealed. Then they ran towards the door leading to the accommodation deck. They took the steps two at a time and pushed open another door. One of them pulled the door back on himself so that he was partially concealed while the other Seal went along the companionway trying each door. As he suspected, none of them were locked because their occupants had all taken to their emergency stations. Except two. One would be Helen Greg and the other Harry Marsham.
At the first door he came to that was locked, he called out Marsham’s name.
Inside the cabin, Marsh was awake. He had heard the commotion but had made no attempt to leave his cabin because he and Helen were locked in at night. When he heard his name being called out, he assumed for a moment that it was Malik. But the voice was different; it was deliberately quiet and hurried. Whoever it was called his name again.
“Marsham! Are you in there?”
Marsh nodded. “Yes!” he answered.
The voice told him to wait for a moment. Marsh could then hear an unfamiliar sound at the keyhole of his door. Suddenly the door flew open and Marsh reeled back in shock.
Standing in front of him was a giant of a black man wearing a wetsuit. He had his finger pressed to his lips, urging Marsh not to say anything. He stepped into the cabin and closed the door behind him.
“Harry Marsham?”
Marsh nodded. “Yes. And who are you?”
“Lieutenant Santos sir, United States Navy. Now will you please tell me what the fuck is going on?”
The door of Francesini’s office swung open and Starling burst in like a bear with its backside on fire. The expression on his face left Francesini under no illusion that this was anything but a friendly visit.