As she listened to the sounds of Lieutenant Santos and his fellow Seal getting into each cabin and shouting at the crew, she could only stand, her hands clasped together almost in an attitude of prayer, but paralysed in fear.
Then the scuttling charges went off and Helen was thrown to the floor. She screamed out, knowing with fearful certainty what had happened. She scrambled to her feet and began pounding on the cabin door, shouting at the top of her voice. She could hear voices ordering everyone to abandon ship. She could imagine someone shouting that it was every man for himself.
She hurled herself at the door again and beat furiously at it with her closed fists. Then the ship lurched and threw Helen away from the door. She screamed out and fought against the pull of gravity. Suddenly the cabin door gave way beneath a huge, crashing boot and an enormous black figure stepped into the cabin, lifted her up effortlessly and put her over his shoulder.
“Lieutenant Santos at your service, Ma’am. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
As Santos stepped out on to the badly listing top deck, he knew there was no time to consider the best alternatives. He launched himself, with Helen still over his shoulder into the sea. As they hit the water and went under, he pulled Helen in close and kicked out for the surface.
Helen felt the water close over her and was astonished at its coldness. After the warmth of her cabin, the sudden drop in temperature was almost like being in the Arctic and the shock of it went through to her very core. She could feel Santos’s strong arms support her as he kicked up with powerful scissor strokes. As the broke through the surface, Helen gasped and shouted at him.
“Leave me, I can swim! I’m OK, I can swim!”
Most of what she said was blown away by the howling wind.
“Stay close then!” Santos shouted at her. “It’s your only chance.”
Above them the helicopter hovered a downwind as a crewman kicked a dinghy from the open door. It tumbled down on a line and inflated the moment it hit the water. Santos swam towards it with Helen doing her best to keep up with him.
The crewman in the helicopter had attached a line that was clipped securely to the helicopter so that the dinghy did not get blown away by the strong winds.
The wind battered Santos remorselessly as he swam towards the dinghy. From time to time he disappeared beneath the waves only to surface again without check. Helen continued to swim behind him, but the gap between them was increasing.
He reached the boat and lunged for the grab line attached to the side. Kicking hard with his legs, he pulled himself into the dinghy. Then he turned round and waited for Helen.
He could see her head and arms battling against the sea and the wind. Her efforts seemed pitiful against the rumbling surf and howling gale. Its fury seemed to be hurled at her frail figure, and Santos began to fear for her safety.
He glanced up at the crewman in the helicopter and made a slashing movement with his hand across his throat. The crewman acknowledged and released the rope holding the dinghy. As the dinghy began to move with the wind, Santos grabbed an oar from its stowage and began steering the dinghy towards Helen.
Helen began swimming at an angle that she hoped would bring her in line with the dinghy. As they came together, the rubber of the boat nudging Helen’s face, she felt her strength leave her and slipped beneath the surface.
Santos leaned forward and reached out for her. Their arms locked and he pulled hard, lifting her into the dinghy where she collapsed in a coughing fit. Not giving her a chance to feel relieved or to feel sorry for herself, Santos unshipped another paddle and shoved it at Helen.
“Row!” he shouted.
Helen looked up, a little disorientated, but quickly realised what was expected of her. She had little strength left but she had courage, so she knelt against the side of the dinghy and drove her paddle into the sea with all the might and strength left in her body.
The pilot of the helicopter acted very professionally although he watched in horror at the events unfolding beneath him.
He thumbed the speech button on his headset.
“Homestead, this is Sea Horse One. We have a problem.” He kept the helicopter hovering about sixty feet above the surface of the water. “Taliba destroyed by unknown explosion. Bodies in the water. Request assistance, immediate. Over.”
The reply came back instantly.
“Seahorse One, this is Homestead. We copy request for assistance immediate. Scrambling Search and Rescue Chopper now. Contact frequency two, two niner decimal five. Repeat: contact frequency two, two niner decimal five. Good luck. Over.”
“Homestead we copy.” He repeated the frequency and contacted the search and rescue helicopter.
Lieutenant Santos had seen a second dinghy tumble from the helicopter, but still tethered. One of his men scrambled into it as it inflated and quickly released the rope tethering it to the helicopter. He then set about getting as many survivors into the dinghy as possible.
As the two dinghies moved through the water, they managed to pick up several swimmers. Among them was Captain de Leon. He looked pale and disillusioned, but said nothing to Helen because they were now joined in the dramatic, unifying battle for survival.
Despite the strong winds, they were able to send the more seriously injured up to the Sea Stallion by use of the winch man. The rescue work was extremely slow and tedious with the ever present risk of losing sight of other survivors in the stormy sea. It was obvious the group was being scattered and drifting apart. And bobbing heads could be seen as much as one hundred yards apart.
It was twenty minutes after the helicopter pilot had put out a distress call that the Search and Rescue Helicopter from the Homestead base arrived. After that the rescue became more coordinated, releasing the first pilot of the harrowing burden of choice; choosing who would stay in the water and who would be picked up.
The two machines worked well, circling the area, picking up those swimmers who were furthest from the dinghies. The wind seemed to increase in strength and frustrate their efforts. Added to the downdraught from the helicopter blades, it made it hell for everyone. At one stage, the downdraught almost overturned one of the dinghies, threatening to pitch everybody on board into the water.
Forty five minutes after the Taliba went down, Lieutenant Santos scrambled on board the Sea Stallion helicopter. He turned and glanced at the angry sea below and just caught a glimpse of the dinghies being swept away by the raging wind.
The sea was empty now, the dinghies gone. The helicopter winch man pulled the sliding door shut.
“OK!” he shouted above the noise of the helicopter. “Let’s go home!”
Khan watched the rig come into view as Malik guided the helicopter towards the overhanging heli-pad. The wind pushed and pulled it mercilessly, but slowly, inch by inch, Malik brought the helicopter safely on to the pad.
Khan breathed a sigh of relief but felt the pain around his heart and massaged his chest softly. He wondered how long he could go on. He glanced at Malik, the man's face set grimly in an expressionless feature.
“Allah is still with us, Malik. He is still with us.”
Malik turned his head a little and looked impassively at Khan.
“Then may Allah give you strength to finish the task.”
After bringing the helicopter down safely on to the heli-pad, Malik killed the engine. The blades spun for a short while and then stopped. Through the cockpit windows he could see the landing area was covered with a net of strong rope, put there for safety reasons. Once the helicopter was safely on the pad, two of the rig’s crew threw lashing hooks over the skids. Malik waited until they had secured the helicopter before opening the door. He immediately moved round to Khan’s side, head bent against the wind and helped him out.