Starling swung back to the signals officer. “Contact Colonel Riddell at Homeland Base and ask him to scramble four F16s. I want them on a quartering search, one hundred and fifty miles north of Havana. As soon as contact is made, I want to know.”
The signals officer thought that there might be more, but there wasn’t. Starling glared at him.
“Now sonny, now!”
The young man ran from the room and Starling shook his head and gazed into thin air.
“Where are you, Khan? Where are you and your insidious crew?”
Francesini stood beside him. His face seemed to be carved from stone as he let the awful truth sink in.
Once inside the polymer cockpit bubble, the outside world was shut away. Marsh was cocooned like an embryo in his own, silent world, feeding off the warm belly of the Challenger, but he was like the beating heart of the submersible.
He went through his checks, robotic like, throwing switches, checking pressures, reading gauges. He checked the television monitor, peering unseen into the decompression chamber like an Orwellian overlord. He nodded his satisfaction.
He reached forward towards the communication panel and hesitated, as though that single act would presage an unstoppable chain of events more terrible than he could ever imagine. He cursed his own weakness and flicked the switch. The click intruded sharply into the silence.
“Taliba, how do you read?”
Khan’s hollow voice washed over him. “Loud and clear, Challenger. Please transfer power.”
“Transferring now.” He fingered the button that would energise a solenoid to operate a heavy duty contactor, switching power from Taliba’s generators to the Challenger’s on board power system. The gauges flickered momentarily, and then held rock steady.
“Transfer complete.”
The cables hanging slack from the ship’s crane went taut and sung in the high wind as it lifted Challenger clear of the deck. Although it was still dark, Marsh could see spindrift whipping off the tops of the waves. They were like thousands of small, white handkerchiefs, mirroring his cowardice.
The Challenger began to swing. Gently at first but soon the arc increased until Marsh feared the lines would snap and hurl him to an uncomfortable dive into the fierce sea.
Despite their care, the Challenger hit the water hard and wallowed in the pitching waves. Marsh was helpless because the submersible was still attached to the lifting frame, and would remain so for a while due to the inclement conditions. It took some considerable time, and nerve for the divers to release the four hooks that attached the frame to Challenger’s superstructure.
Once he had received the all clear from the bridge, Marsh immediately flooded the diving tanks. All he wanted to do now was to get beneath the waves into a calmer, safer environment.
He trimmed out at fifty feet and went through a series of checks with Batista and Zienkovitch. He paused for a moment, not knowing why, and thought of Helen. To have faith and hope is to survive, she had said. Then why the hell was he so frightened? Probably because of some evil portent sitting invisibly beside him in that cockpit: invisible, intangible, but there!
“…… whenever you are Marsh.”
Marsh blinked. “Say again Taliba”
“It’s not the ship, Marsh; it’s Batista. We are ready whenever you are.”
Marsh admonished himself for the unprofessional slip and began flooding the tanks. Slowly the Challenger began to sink.
He looked through the clear polymer construction of the cockpit and saw nothing: just a black void. He called out the depth mechanically as though he was utterly alone, speaking to no-one but his own soul.
A warning light blinked as the rope hanging beneath the submersible touched bottom. He dumped ballast and trimmed her out. Then he switched on the powerful arc lamps and called Batista.
“Go plant your devil’s egg,” he said. “And may whichever god you worship damn you all for eternity.”
The F16 rolled over at fifteen thousand feet and dived towards the sea, its starboard wing squeezing water vapour out of the air in a spiralling trail of white mist. The young Navy pilot pulled the stick over to check the roll and eased it back gently to bring the nose up. He had seen the Taliba and was turning to confirm the sighting.
He levelled out at one thousand feet and set his course to parallel to the ship, switching the range on his radar scanning head to fifteen miles. He had deliberately overshot the Taliba in order not to arouse the suspicion of anyone on board, and had turned back only when he knew he would be out of sight.
The Taliba came up on the radar screen allowing the pilot a thin smile. There were other signals imaging on the screen but the Taliba’s seemed to shine like a beacon. He had her, like a hound on the scent. The trail was hot and he would report it to the rest of the pack.
The two divers worked swiftly guiding Marsh over the wellhead until the submersible was firmly clamped by her skirt. There was nothing for Marsh to do now except monitor the systems on the submersible and wait. And keep checking his instruments. And worry about the weather up top and the hobgoblin sitting beside him in the cockpit.
His attention was drawn upwards and he was surprised by the appearance of a very faint, yellow light. He focussed on it, wondering what on earth it could be. The light grew in size until it broke up into several lights. There were six, forming a circle, slowly descending towards him.
His expression changed from one of curiosity to one of concern. He turned one of the arc lamps up towards the light and could now see the object clearly.
They were lowering the Galeazzi Tower.
He looked at the depth: two hundred and fifty feet. Normally the tower would not be lowered to that depth, unless it was an emergency.
So what the hell was Khan playing at?
He called them up. “Taliba, Marsh here. Why are you lowering the tower?”
There was no response.
“Taliba, I say again; Challenger here. Why are you lowering the tower?”
He waited a little longer but there was still no answer.
“Taliba!” he called again, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. “Answer me, damn you!”
What Marsh saw next was beyond his comprehension and silenced him completely: Batista and Zienkovitch had emerged from beneath the hull and were swimming up towards the tower. As they swam upwards, both caught in the glare from the Challenger’s arc light, neither of them looked in Marsh’s direction.
Marsh found his voice again. “Taliba, what the hell is going on? Why are the divers using the tower?” He could feel himself sweating. “Taliba!”
The response came so unexpectedly, it startled him.
“Marsh, this is Khan. The third bomb is in place. The trinity is complete; our work is done.”
“What’s happening, Khan?” he demanded to know. “Why have Batista and Zienkovitch gone up to the tower?”
“How else would they get back to the Taliba?”
“Don’t play games with me, Khan. This is not part of the brief. They should be returning with me!”
“You are not returning.”
As a statement it was simple, but so stunning that Marsh was unable to say anything for a moment. It was surreal. It wasn’t happening.
“Khan, for God’s sake, what are you doing?”
“Nothing Marsh,” came the laconic reply. “As far as you’re concerned, our work is complete. Goodbye Marsh.” The communication link went quiet. Marsh heard the click as Khan closed the speaker switch on the bridge.