James Starling had allowed himself a wry smile after the disastrous meeting and offered the opinion that he was glad to have men like Francesini in his department who could take the flak from career politicians. He also told Francesini that he would still be in a job even after the National Security Adviser had joined the ranks of ex Senators and become part of the after dinner speaking circuit, albeit earning large sums of money.
Starling’s levity did little to appease Francesini’s demeanour because his own worries were genuine; he really feared for the safety of the millions who lived within the killing zone of those three bombs. And the devil of it was, he now knew exactly what Khan was up to but, ludicrous as it was to even consider, he felt might be too late to stop him.
He was now standing in a room at the Guantanamo Naval Base set aside for him by the commanding officer of the Base. He had flown down with James Starling immediately after the meeting with the President’s National Security Adviser. Although there was no change in the time zones, both of them were feeling distinctly jet lagged.
In the room with Francesini and the admiral were eight men. They were seated in two rows and facing the two C.I.A. men. In the front row was the big, black Lieutenant Santos, the Navy Seal who had boarded the Taliba. The eight men had just finished settling themselves into the chairs when Francesini stood up.
On the wall behind him, pinned to a white board, were several photographs. None of them had identifying labels. He pushed his own thoughts of Armageddon to the back of his mind and addressed the men,
“Gentlemen, your brief is straightforward and one which I am sure you have all been asked to do before, but unlike a lot of your missions, we cannot contemplate failure on this. I will not go into details why, although I know Lieutenant Santos is aware of the reasons. His urgent desire to go on this mission should convey sufficiently to you all just how vitally important success is.”
He did not really believe that these men, all experts in their field of covert operations should need convincing, but he laid it on the line for them more for his own sake than theirs. He turned to the photographs and touched one with a collapsible pointer.
“This is the oceanographic survey vessel Taliba. At the moment we understand she is sheltering in Cuban waters. Anywhere else and this meeting would not have been necessary. We are pursuing diplomatic channels of course, and have asked the Cuban government to impound the ship, but as you all know, President Castro is no friend of the Americans.”
He moved to the next photograph. “This is Hakeem Khan, the vessel’s owner. He was never considered an extremist, quite the opposite in fact; but we now suspect that he is a member of Al Qaeda, the extreme Islamic terrorist organisation.”
He moved to the next photograph. “This is Abdul Malik, Khan’s bodyguard. He is a killer, nothing more, nothing less.” He left the rest unsaid. The men in that room were also killers, but only out of expediency.
Lieutenant Santos nodded to himself softly. Not because he had seen Malik when he boarded the Taliba, but because he hoped he would meet Malik face to face.
“This photograph,” Francesini continued, “is of Doctor Harry Marsham, to give him his full title. He is known as Marsh to all his friends. If you speak to him, call him by that name. He’s probably forgotten his real name by now.”
A chuckle spread through the men. Even Starling allowed himself a smile.
“And this woman,” he said finally, “is Helen Walsh. What this young woman has been through you wouldn’t wish upon your worst enemy. Handle her very carefully gentlemen; she could be at breaking point.”
He turned and looked at the admiral who nodded. He sat down and James Starling took over.
“Your brief, gentlemen,” Starling began, “is to board the Taliba the moment she leaves Cuban waters. We want Hakeem Khan alive. We also want Marsh and the woman, Helen Walsh. Malik is to be eliminated. Charges are to be placed below the water line and the Taliba sunk immediately.” He emphasised the word ‘immediately’.
“If there is armed resistance to the point where the mission could be jeopardised, Khan must be snatched and the Taliba sunk. All others on board are forfeit. I repeat: ‘all others’. There are details of the vessel for you to peruse, courtesy of the Naval Architects department in the C.I.A.”
“At the moment the weather, as you can tell just by looking out of the windows, is against us. We expect the Taliba to leave Cuban waters soon. We have been unable to track her successfully by satellite because of the unusually deep cloud cover and the fact that we believe she has had some temporary structural alterations to confuse our satellites. There is a forecast of a hurricane moving into the Caribbean, although we don’t expect it to track too closely to the Taliba’s position. But in any event, whether the hurricane changes course or not, we do not have time on our side. We have land based agents in place and they will inform us as soon as the Taliba puts to sea. If there are no questions gentlemen, I wish you all good hunting.”
Marsh had been ordered forward to Challenger. It was barely midnight and the order puzzled him, but he had learned not to ask questions. The directive had been very clear; the Challenger was to be made ready for a dive.
He found the task very unrewarding. Working at night seemed to demand stealth where in fact it was quite unnecessary. Strangely though, he was aware that the rest of the crew were moving about on deck with an almost tangible feeling of anticipation, accompanied by a worrying silence.
This feeling edged its way into his mind and he knew that something extraordinary was going to happen; something to which he was not privy. It troubled Marsh because he knew this was to be the last dive, the last chance to do something. He felt hopeless and helpless, and tried losing himself in the task of readying the submersible, but found even that could not dispel the gnawing fear that was burning away inside him.
Suddenly an order came down from the bridge to extinguish all lights. Marsh climbed out of the Challenger’s open cockpit door and dropped down on to the deck. There was no moon or starlight because of the cloud cover and the order to extinguish all lights did not make sense. He knew they were anchored in Cuban waters, but none of the crew had been allowed ashore.
Malik appeared almost ghostlike beside Marsh and put his finger to his lips. Marsh frowned at the gesture, although he understood clearly what Malik was saying; the warning was pure and menacing. Malik the pointed towards the side of the Taliba and Marsh became aware of the shape of a cargo ship looming up on their starboard side.
He glanced up at the Taliba’s bridge as the red and green navigation lights went out. There was a sudden grumbling noise as the anchor chain was pulled up, and the deck trembled slightly beneath his feet.
As the freighter slipped alongside, Marsh could feel the Taliba’s screws thrashing the water, and she began to move slowly. The freighter was now almost stationary. Marsh knew then that the Taliba was under way. Khan was slipping out under the cover of the freighter.
The crew were all, metaphorically, holding their breath, and Marsh realised then that they had all been warned of what was about to happen. He also knew that Khan must be playing a very dangerous game now and wondered if he suspected that the Navy Seals had paid him a visit twenty four hours earlier. But he dismissed the notion as soon as it entered his head; there was no way Kahn could even suspect that the United States Navy had actually been on board the Taliba.