“It’s like this. There’s a lot of shipping spilling out of the Gulf into the Indian Ocean, right? Looking at the tracks, most of it travels in much the same direction whether it’s west, east or south. It’s all impossible to track really. But the further away from the Gulf and major continents, the thinner the tracks become until we can begin to identify the individual ships more easily. If we want to, that is.”
This began to sound extremely interesting to Francesini. “Have you identified something then, Bob?” he asked.
Cooke shook his head. “Well, not really; it’s just a theory. Possibly,” he added pointedly. Francesini thought about Einstein. He let the youngster go on.
“There are two ships heading for South Africa, right? Nothing unusual in that. But these two haven’t stopped; they’ve sailed round the Cape and are now heading northwest towards the mid-Atlantic. That’s the long way round, you know.”
“I know,” Francesini agreed.
“Why didn’t they go through the Suez? Much quicker.”
“What are you getting at?”
“It’s just a hunch. It’s like the second ship was riding shotgun. If you’ve got something really valuable on you, why let anyone know? So you avoid docking at any port. And it always helps to have a little security along for the ride. It’s just a gut feeling I’ve got sir.”
“Rather like your fuzzy logic, eh Bob?” He couldn’t resist that.
“Nothing to do with it sir,” Cooke replied with a self-conscious, almost apologetic chuckle. “It’s like I said: just a hunch.”
Francesini liked the young man. He trusted him too. And if Cooke’s hunches were anything like his ability to interpret obscure imagery and apply mind blowing logic to problems, Francesini knew he would probably be on good ground by going along with him. And if Cooke was right; they might even know where the nukes were.
But like the man told him, it was just a hunch, and Starling would have his balls if he relied on hunches when something as serious as missing nukes was concerned; so had to let it go, reluctantly.
He settled back in his chair. “You know, Cookie, I could start a major diplomatic incident if I went along with this; to say nothing of losing my job.” He shook his head gently, wrestling with his own conscience and took a cigar from a humidor on his desk. He lit the half corona and let the smoke drift from his mouth.
“Damn it Cookie, why couldn’t you give me facts?” He wasn’t angry; just frustrated. “You’re probably right, but I can’t put this in front of the admiral; he’d throw it out.” He put his hand on the photos. “Leave them with me anyway, and thanks again.” He winked at Cooke. “I’ll buy you and your lovely wife dinner at the restaurant of your choice if your right. OK?”
Cooke grinned. “No sir, it’s not ok,” he answered. “It will have to be my wife’s choice.” He laughed and left Francesini sitting at his desk with a rueful expression on his face.
*
They launched the Challenger shortly after noon. Marsh had switched from external power supply to the submersibles own power plant and unplugged the umbilical cord that brought power in from the ship’s generators. The sea was reasonably calm although there was a fairly stiff breeze blowing. The Challenger settled into the water and Marsh ran a few checks before securing the entry door to the cockpit. This was just a precautionary measure.
Batista entered the water and clambered on to the submersible’s starboard ballast tank. His job was to connect the ship to sub communication line to a watertight port on the Challenger’s pressure hull. Normally this would not be used; transmission was usually by a sonar device, but because this was a practice dive, it was decided to use a hardwire link.
Marsh was wearing espadrille shoes, loose fitting, denim trousers and a tee shirt. He had also taken with him a woollen jersey and a canvas jacket. Although the cockpit was heated he knew that the temperatures at depth could drop dramatically. The extra clothing was a precaution. He swung the clear, transparent door shut and wound the lock in, then strapped himself in using a simple lap strap. He then began his pre-dive checks.
Above and behind his head were the lithium hydroxide panels used to filter the air he breathed. Below them were the oxygen bottles used to replace the spent oxygen if the carbon dioxide content shown on the instrument gauge rose above two per cent. The pressure inside the cockpit was carefully monitored because of the risk of over pressurising should the bottles bleed too much oxygen into the air.
Marsh set the internal cabin temperature to twenty degrees Celsius, checked communications with the Taliba’s bridge and began opening the air valves on the ballast tanks to allow the sea water to flood in.
When he had completed his immediate checks, he looked round for Batista. The diver was still in the motor dinghy forward of the Challenger. Marsh put a thumb up and Batista acknowledged. This signal told Marsh there were no divers in the vicinity and it was safe to run the propulsion motors. He powered them up one at a time, checking their power levels. When submerged he would only be running them at twenty per cent of their full power.
When Marsh was finally satisfied that it was safe to dive, he informed the Taliba.
“Challenger clear to dive. Have Batista stand by. Lowering to thirty feet.”
He watched as the water lapped over the curved surface of the cockpit. It was a sensational effect, one that Marsh never tired of. The Challenger stopped and Marsh looked up. The sun’s rays poured through the surface of the water like threads of gossamer and above him the sea burst into a million tiny bubbles as Batista plunged in.
Marsh checked the depth reading. It had just moved off the zero mark and would probably not register accurately until he had dived another thirty feet or so. He switched on the submersible’s interior monitor, giving him a wide angle view of the decompression chamber. Warning lights in front of him on the control panel told him which water tight doors were open and which were not.
The upper access hatch was open and its warning light was flashing red. It stopped and remained permanently lit as Batista entered the submersible. Once he had secured the hatch, the light changed to green. Although Batista had entered the diving chamber, closed and secured the hatch, the chamber was still full of water.
Marsh thumbed a panel switch. There was a gentle vibration as compressed air forced the water out of the chamber. A green light came on which meant Batista could now open the door to the decompression chamber safely.
Marsh watched the monitor. Batista appeared on the screen and gave him a ‘thumbs up’ signal. Another light came up on the panel telling Marsh that the decompression chamber door was now locked and secured and they could begin the dive.
For the next hour, Marsh and Batista conducted exercises which involved Batista leaving and entering the submersible, practising hand signal manoeuvres, diving to depths in stages and holding there, and generally testing themselves and the men watching everything on the bridge of the Challenger.
It was just before the dive commenced that another diver joined them. He came down by way of Taliba’s diving bell, known as a Galeazzi Tower. Marsh was to learn later that his name was Zienkovitch. He was a safety diver, which was a requirement under diving legislation.
Marsh settled into the routine of piloting the submersible quite happily. It was as if he had been doing it all his life. He manipulated her so that she performed with the grace of a sea creature, following Batista and Zienkovitch in complete circles under the powerful on board spotlights. A ballet of man and machine; two hundred pounds of flesh and blood against fifty thousand pounds, over twenty tons, of sophisticated technology, floating in a marine universe.
The only limit to their stay beneath the surface was physical. The divers were breathing a mixture of helium and oxygen which was absolutely essential to guard against nitrogen narcosis; the euphoric state some unfortunate divers get into which usually leads to death.
That was the reason the Galeazzi Tower was being used. It was suspended from the Taliba at a depth
of one hundred feet. Inside were two other divers. If an accident occurred where Batista or Zienkovitch were overcome, they could be taken up to the diving bell by the two safety divers and returned to the surface.
At the end of their planned dive, Batista and Zienkovitch returned to the submersible’s decompression chamber. When Marsh was satisfied they were both in the first chamber, he expelled the water and brought the air pressure up to that at which they had been diving. Then they opened the door of the decompression chamber and acknowledged Marsh on the monitors. Marsh noted the time and logged it. He knew Batista would do the same. They would now remain in the decompression chamber for an hour or more to allow them to decompress safely.
Marsh signalled to the Taliba that the dive had ended and he was now about to bring the Challenger to the surface. He blew the sea water out of the ballast tanks, filling them with compressed air. He felt good; it has been a successful dive. Slowly and gently the Challenger rose to the surface.
Chapter 11
The police picked up Sweeting Maclean about mid-day; bounced him on a traffic violation and suspicion of a crime committed the previous day. The officers claimed he fitted the description given by a witness and was required for an identity parade.
It was easy picking Maclean up because men of his character broke the rules as regularly as drawing breath. He protested vigorously when they told him they wanted him down at police headquarters for the identity parade, but all his protestations about human rights, being allowed to contact his lawyer, arrest warrants and claims that they couldn’t do this to him simply fell on deaf ears and he ended up at police H.Q.
Inspector Bain knew they had no real grounds to hold the man, but they were buying time and needed him out of the way while they searched his house during the process of recording his traffic violation and putting him into a line-up of five, off duty policemen.
There was nothing grand about the place Maclean lived in. It was situated in the poorer district of Freeport, but men like Maclean had no use for grandeur; their money was usually spent on drink, women, drugs and fast cars.
The police searched Maclean’s place thoroughly. It didn’t take long and they made sure that everything they touched was returned to its proper place. The two men searching noticed that the bed appeared to have been slept on, rather than slept in; as though somebody had lain there. The room itself was typically male but there was a pair of ladies shoes that looked as though they had been tossed carelessly on to the floor. One of the men picked them up.
“Look at these,” he said to his colleague. “And the bed.”
The other policeman was puzzled. “What am I supposed to see?” he asked.
“Girl’s shoes. If Maclean had a woman here last night, the bed would have been in one helluva mess. But the bed’s made. If a woman had made the bed before she left this room, it would have been tidy, and she wouldn’t have left her shoes behind.”
The other man nodded. “I see what you mean; the girl’s been here and gone.”
His companion put the shoes down and shrugged. “Might as well get back to the station; tell the inspector what we’ve seen.”
They let Maclean go, not because they had nothing on which to hold or charge him, but because they needed him back out on the street: he was their only lead to Helen Walsh.
He left the building with the air of someone who had cocked a snook at the police, but beneath the veneer, Maclean was angry. He was like a disturbed wildcat. He climbed into his car. It wasn’t the Buick; that was now a pile of scrap, and pulled away from the parking lot. He drove back to his house, parked the car on the roadway outside and let himself in through the front door.
The moment he stepped inside he could sense there was something wrong. He could almost feel it. Just inside the door was a tallboy drawer unit. He opened the top drawer and took out a small .22 calibre Beretta pistol, a ladies gun, but useful if needed. He walked from room to room with a growing feeling that somebody had been there. Although Maclean was not a particularly tidy man, he was a man of habit and knew where things were.
But everything seemed a little too precise. Everything was in its place, but they had another spirit on them. His Obeah instincts manifested themselves in a growing belief that his house had been searched while he had been held by the police. And now he knew the reason they had picked him up; because they had a suspicion he was involved in the woman’s kidnap and wanted him away from his house while they searched it. He knew now that he would have to be very careful.
When he walked into his bedroom, he saw Helen’s shoes. They were placed neatly at the foot of the bed. He knew they had not been like that when he took the girl away. He picked the shoes up and held for a while. Then he smiled and lifted his finger in silent rebuke.
“Oh, mister policeman,” he intoned, “you have made a big mistake.”
He knew then what the police were up to; they wanted him back on the street to lead them to Helen Walsh. He gave up looking round the house and went to the windows, looking from each one until he saw the car with two men in it, sitting there waiting. He wondered if the police were being deliberately stupid.
So be it, he thought, let’s give them something to follow. He would not go back to Helen Walsh for some time. Instead he would stay in Freeport.
He thought about the shoes and how absent minded someone had been to put them back so neatly. He laughed.
“Oh yes, mister policeman; a very big mistake.”
*
After the dive, Marsh asked Khan to tell him exactly why he wanted him to pilot the Challenger and what for. He was in Khan’s cabin with the Captain and Malik. Malik always seemed to be around. Marsh wondered if it was protection for Khan. He noticed also that Khan’s face had taken on a very pallid colour and he wondered just how ill the man really was.
“Very well Marsh, I suppose you are entitled to know what it is we want you to do and why we need your skill and experience.” Khan was sitting in a comfortable chair. Marsh was leaning against the desk, facing him.
“The Challenger,” Khan began, “will dive on to a capped well-head. It is a dry well. The cap of the well-head is designed to allow the submersible to anchor on to it using the skirt that is attached to the underside of the Challenger. Batista and Zienkovitch will take care of that procedure. Your job is to guide the Challenger on to the well head following precise instructions from either of the divers.” He coughed and reached for a glass of water, his face mirroring the discomfort he felt in his chest. When he had drank a little of the water, he continued.
“There is sufficient room for one diver to work inside the skirt. Zienkovitch will do that while Batista remains in the central chamber to prepare the device for lowering into the well.”
“What device?” Marsh asked.
Khan held up his hand. “Later. The device will be lowered into the well head to a depth of one thousand feet. Once it is secure in the well, Zienkovitch will recap the well head and you will all return to the surface.”
“What’s the device?” Marsh asked again. “Was that what you were lifting when you asked me to leave the sea gallery?”
Khan then breathed in deeply and looked like he had come to a decision. He struggled to his feet, pausing as he stood to regain his breath. “Very well,” he said tiredly, “We shall go below; then all your questions will be answered.”
They filed out of Khan’s cabin and into a wind that seemed to be getting stronger and Khan, more than the others had to lean into it to make headway. Malik shadowed him all the way. They reached a door just beneath the foc’sle head and went down the companionway to the sea gallery.
Marsh recalled his brief visit there before. He took in all that he could see, which included a pallet on top of which was a tarpaulin cover. Malik immediately went towards the pallet and removed this cover, dropping it on to the deck and beckoned Marsh forward.
Marsh walked towards Malik and the pallet which was quite small, but on it were two cylinders. At first M
arsh assumed they were small, oil drums, but saw quite clearly that they were nothing as simple as that. What he saw was two cylinders strapped together.
Marsh looked at them beneath the light from the bulkhead lamps. Malik watched him with a curious expression on his face; like someone who was about to reveal something remarkable. The others, Khan and de Leon all seemed to look at it with a kind of reverence. Marsh could see the cylinders had been highly polished and had markings on their sides which he was unable to decipher. The others continued to watch him as he peered closer. On top of each cylinder was a lifting ring. He saw lettering on the far side of one of the cylinders. He was quite sure it was Russian. There was also a series of numbers there which meant nothing to Marsh.
Then he saw something which did, three black segments within a yellow circle: the international sign for radiation.
Marsh straightened and looked directly at Khan, whose face was washed in the poor light from the bulkhead lamps.
“They’re nuclear bombs,” Marsh whispered as though the sound of his voice might trigger the thing.
He looked back at the cylinders, strangely fascinated by them, by their incongruity. Then it struck him that the Coast Guard had failed to find them. He was also surprised at how small they were. Although he had never seen a nuclear bomb before, he had always assumed they were quite large. But he had also heard of battlefield devices which could be carried in the trunk of a medium size car. He decided these were probably typical of such bombs.
“But the Coast Guard, why didn’t they find them?”
Khan smiled. “They weren’t here when the Americans searched our ship.”
Marsh realised now exactly what had happened when he saw Batista diving and the Galeazzi tower being lowered. They were retrieving the bombs from their hiding place on the sea bed where they had been dropped when the Coast Guard appeared. The tower had only been used as a source of lighting because Batista had finished the dive within twenty minutes or so.
The Devil's Trinity Page 13
