When the helicopter landed at the base, the Military police were on hand to take into custody Captain de Leon and his crew; those who were fit enough to walk. Francesini disappeared very quickly, as did Lieutenant Santos and his men. Helen was taken to the base hospital for an examination, along with the others who could be described as walking wounded.
She had been at the facility for little more than twenty minutes, in a side room, when Francesini knocked and walked in. Helen was wearing a hospital gown and lying on top of the bed.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Terribly sad,” she told him. “They killed Marsh, you know.”
He nodded. “Look,” he said walking towards the bed. “I had to see someone just now, that’s why I couldn’t come with you.” He hesitated as though lost for words. “But things crop up unexpectedly. You’ve been through a rough time, but there’s somebody here who wants to talk to you. Think you can take it?”
She shrugged and sat up. “After what I’ve been through, I don’t think a little conversation will hurt.”
Francesini turned and called out. The door opened. Helen couldn’t see who had come in because Francesini was standing in the way. Then he moved.
“Hallo Helen.”
It was Marsh.
Chapter 19
Helen did not want to travel in that monstrous helicopter again. The thought of the rough ride, the discomfort, the noise and the memory of why she had been in the helicopter in the first place was enough to make her promise herself she would never fly in one again. Until now.
Marsh sat in the Sea Stallion helicopter oblivious to the noise and the people around him except Helen who was sitting beside him, clutching his hand in a grip so fierce that it spoke a thousand words. Her fear transmitted itself to him through her flesh. It wasn’t fear of death any longer, but fear of losing him. That more than ever weighed her down like a powerful burden and as each thought came into her mind about the terror Marsh must have experienced in the Challenger, it turned her inside out. It was almost as if she had been there herself.
When Marsh walked into the hospital room where Helen had lain recovering, Francesini had wanted to remain there for a few moments and watch the sheer joy and immense relief spread through them both, but he knew it would have been churlish of him to so. He left after a moment and waited outside in the corridor.
Helen had clung to Marsh as though her life had depended on it. The joy, relief, disbelief all rolled into a mixture of emotions that took away her ability, albeit briefly, to think of anything else but Marsh. In the end it was Francesini who had to prise them apart. He gave them sufficient time and then came back in.
“We have a job to do,” he told them.
Marsh had been debriefed swiftly by Francesini and had been able to tell the C.I.A. man that he believed he knew where Khan had flown to. It was when Francesini had told him that Khan had fled the Taliba. Marsh knew it would be the rig. It was the only place Khan could be. He had remembered hearing a voice in the background during the second dive, coming over the sonar link between the Taliba and the Challenger. Someone had said, “It’s the rig sir.” Nothing else. Then there was the unusual approach to the wellhead; the faint, almost imagined outcrop of rock which he now realised was an anchor or a pylon. And finally the fact that he had caught sight of something as Challenger had been swung out for that dive. The way in which the Taliba had been positioned then had practically obscured his view, which was why he thought it was a ship. But it had been a rig: a semi-submersible oil rig.
A raiding party had been hastily assembled comprising ten, well-armed Marines together with Lieutenant Santos and his Seals. Marsh, Helen and Francesini were riding in the Sea Stallion with the Marines. Lieutenant Santos was in a Sea King helicopter with his men.
The reason Helen was there was because Marsh had flatly refused to allow Francesini to keep him and Helen out of the assault operation, despite the fact that they were both civilians. Francesini had been quite philosophical about it and agreed. He realised that they both had a right to be there at the end after what they had been through; particularly Marsh.
These thoughts ran through Marsh’s mind as he sat beside Helen. The clamour of the turbine and the howling wind failed to penetrate Marsh’s inner soul, into that sanctum that had seen the Devil and supped at his table. He glanced at Helen and gave her a tight, nervous smile. She smiled back at him and squeezed his hand.
The discussions beforehand were all based on what Helen had told them, Marsh’s experiences and the report given to Francesini by the expert, Professor Schofield at the Woods Hole Institute. Francesini had contacted the Kennedy Space Centre who told them that there were too many satellites tracking across the Gulf of Mexico to give an accurate assessment of which satellite Khan would use to trigger the bombs, but any time within the next sixty minutes could be considered to be zero hour.
The assault plan was simple enough: Lieutenant Santos and the Seals would drop from the Sea King helicopter first and make directly to the control room. The Marines would come in behind the Seals in the Sea Stallion and sweep the rig to flush out any member of the crew who harboured aspirations of heroism. Marsh and Helen had both been offered a weapon but had refused. Marsh had never fired a gun in his life and Helen had no wish to.
Suddenly the helicopter dropped and Marsh felt his stomach lurch as the pilot brought the aircraft down to a level which would get them low enough to confuse the oil rig’s radar. Marsh could feel the fear crawling round in the pit of his stomach as the wind hammered them with such an incredible force that he was convinced they would all be dashed into the sea.
Everybody knew the hurricane was moving towards Florida and its peripheral winds were reaching out towards them. Marsh could feel the helicopter moving awkwardly, like a carriage riding over cobblestones.
The dark clouds had blotted out the sun for so long that it was as if night had crept up on them like a ghost. It was dark and they came out of the black sky; their dull silhouettes merging with the sea and sky. Both helicopters flashed over the wave tops with little room to spare.
Francesini’s headset burst into life in his ear.
“Rig on radar, sir.”
He grimaced. “Signal Homestead,” he ordered with deep reservation. “Have them scramble the F-16’s.”
This part of the plan had been the most difficult and heart rending to assess. In the end it was a decision taken reluctantly. All those involved in the raid on the rig were told about it and given the opportunity to opt out. There were no takers.
Three F-16’s were now under orders to attack the rig if the assault failed and no signal was received to say the assault had been successful. Only if the signal of their success was received would the attack be called off.
Francesini could see the rig glowing faintly in the darkening sky, its lights picked out by the harsh storm clouds behind it as he looked through the cockpit.
“Two minutes,” the pilot said.
*
On the rig, Malik checked his watch for about the tenth time in as many minutes. Khan had been watching him. He looked up at the clock on the wall.
“We have ten minutes yet.”
“Why not programme the computer now?” Malik asked. “Why must you wait until the satellite was in the exact position?”
Khan explained. “If I programme the computer now it would be like sending an open message to the Americans.”
He wished it was simpler because he too was feeling the tension. The pain around his heart was increasing to a degree that began to trouble him immensely.
“We know that when the satellite is in position, the transfer of information will last for micro seconds. The Americans will never pick it up.”
“And you’re not prepared to risk it now?”
Khan shook his head. “We know the Americans are on to us. If I open up the computer link now, it will be transmitting to an empty sky. Their listening stations will be on to us in minutes and t
hey may even be able to jam the signal. No,” he said finally, “we must wait.”
Malik knew Khan was talking sense. There was sure to be an AWAC on patrol now above them somewhere, and if they picked up the signal, not only could they block it, but they could send patrolling aircraft to attack the rig. No, Khan was right: they had to wait.
“But we could go up to the control room,” Khan suggested. “They will have battened down against the storm. It should be quiet and peaceful enough.”
He stood up and reached for his briefcase. He thought about taking two more tablets but thought better of it. He would take a couple later.
They stepped out on to the open catwalk in the lee of the accommodation block. As they turned the corner, the wind slammed into them with such a force it threatened to lift them up and pitch them into the angry sea.
Khan stopped and backed into the lea of the building.
“It’s too risky!” he shouted. “We’ll have to go under the platform,”
They turned back and followed a route which took them down a staircase leading to a protected gallery from where the drilling crew operated. Normally the main riser, the eighteen inch diameter pipe drilling section would descend from there, through the open gallery floor and into the sea. Because of the weather conditions, the pipe had been withdrawn and all that remained was a black void.
The wind inside the gallery crashed around the walls and the thick, Perspex glass windows, but its ferocity was tempered and nowhere near as fierce as on the open deck. They walked quickly, using the handrails for support.
Malik walked in front of Khan and as he reached the foot of the stairs that led to the upper platform, he saw something move outside the windows on the far side of the gallery. He stopped and Khan walked into him.
“What is it?” Khan shouted.
Malik didn’t reply at first, but stared fixedly at the far windows, a deep frown coming on his face. Suddenly he whirled round and almost screamed at Khan.
“We’re being attacked! There!”
Khan looked across the gallery and just caught sight of the Sea Stallion helicopter moving slowly towards the upper decks of the oil rig.
“They won’t know,” Malik shouted desperately. “They won’t know.”
He glanced hurriedly around the metal catwalks and steelwork, searching furiously along the stanchions until he saw an alarm button. It was mounted next to the drillers control point and was for use in an emergency.
Malik brushed past Khan and ran across the gallery floor and slammed the heel of his hand at the button. Suddenly the entire rig seemed to come alive as a blaring klaxon siren came to life and filled the air with a riotous noise.
Khan knew instinctively what was happening. It was what he had feared the most. Ignoring the clamping pain around his chest he began climbing the stairs as quickly as was humanly possible for him. Malik followed. As they reached the main deck of the oil rig, they could see the black shrouded figures dropping from the helicopter.
Malik had a Stechkin automatic pistol with him which he pulled from inside his jacket and began firing. Almost immediately the steelwork around him erupted in a cacophonous noise as the Seals returned his fire.
He stopped shooting and urged Khan forward, pushing and half carrying him up the next flight of stairs to the main control room. Khan felt a massive pain lash at his heart and he cried out and fell to his knees.
“Come on,” Malik urged him, lifting him bodily. “They will have us; it’s our last chance!
He pulled Khan round a protective corner as bullets cannoned off the superstructure. He let Khan go and returned a burst of covering fire. He looked up as Khan reached the door of the control room.
“The lights!” Malik shouted. “Get them to douse the lights!”
He rolled over on to his stomach and emptied the magazine along the catwalk. Then he heard the stuttering sound of automatic rifle fire and knew that others had joined the fight,
The Sea King landed on the heli-pad as all the lights went out.
*
Helen could not control the trembling that ran riot through her body. She had never known fear like it. The noise of the fire-fight had already penetrated the interior of the helicopter and suddenly they were in darkness. She felt the helicopter bounce on the landing pad and settle, and then the wind punched itself into the interior as a crewman slid the door open.
“Now listen up!” someone shouted. “When you hit the deck, grab hold of the net. Wait until the chopper has lifted clear of the rig before you let go of the rope. And don’t move until you’re told to!”
Helen found herself tumbling out of the door into that incredible wind. Marsh pushed her to the ground and she could feel the coarse hemp beneath her. His mouth pushed up against her ear.
“Stay with me!” he shouted.
She nodded but he didn’t see it.
Suddenly a Marine Sergeant sprawled alongside them. “Listen up. My orders are to get you up to the control room.” The wind whipped the words away and they could barely hear him. “When we go, stay close.” He waited until the Sea King drew away from the rig, then he hit them both between the shoulder blades and almost drove the breath from their bodies.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” he shouted. “All the way!”
*
At Homestead Air Reserve Base, the Bird Colonel charged with the mission to destroy the oil rig glanced over his shoulder, left and right at his wingmen. He gave them a salute and applied the full power of the F 16’s Pratt and Whitney engines. The aircraft trembled under the power of the jet’s reheat exhaust until he released the brakes, the seat slammed into his back and the aircraft accelerated along the runway.
The two wingmen rolled with him at speed and soon the tarmac was flashing by beneath them. As the nose came up, he lifted the undercarriage and let the reheat fire him up towards their formation height. At two thousand feet he levelled and let the wingmen form up on him. Then the three aircraft turned and headed out over the angry sea.
At that point, Birdman, the mission leader in the lead jet, thumbed his transmit button and spoke on a radio frequency connecting him directly to the Sea Stallion helicopter.
“Sea Horse one, this is Bird one. How do you read? Over.”
“Bird one, this is Sea Horse one. Charlie Tango. Over.”
Birdman looked down at his knee pad. On it were written three letters: C, T and R; Charlie, Tango and Romeo. The first two letter were the code to authenticate the call from Bird One; the Sea Stallion helicopter. The third letter, Romeo would not be used unless the mission had to be aborted.
Birdman was satisfied.
“Roger that, Sea Horse one. Birds one, two and three are flying. Out.”
The three F-16’s climbed from their two thousand feet level and roared up to thirty thousand feet to get above the storm. Once above it, the formation leader set the co-ordinates, checked the ‘time-on-target’ with his wingmen and offered up a short prayer.
“OK guys, this is it,” he called over his radio. “Let’s go hunting!”
*
Marsh followed the Marine Sergeant in the darkness, clutching Helen’s hand tightly. He caught brief glimpses of the soldier’s silhouette against the flickering lights of muzzle flash and ricocheting bullets. The rig seemed to be lit up like a Christmas tree with flashing lights.
Although the crew on the rig were well armed, none of them were really prepared for this kind of professional assault. Many of them had come straight from their rest rooms or places of work without the benefit of camouflage clothing or even a prepared plan of action. Against the Seals and the Marines, they stood little chance.
The wind screamed and hammered at the sergeant and his two charges as they made slow progress up the stairs. It seemed to toy with them. One moment it would slacken and eddy to a soft swirl; then suddenly it would rise up into a gigantic fury. High in the derrick tower the wind tore at the rigging lines and the whole rig seemed to shake and resonate beneath the sava
ge fury of the wind.
They reached the top of the stairs and huddled against a wall for protection. In the flickering light the sergeant’s eyes seemed to detach themselves and float before them.
“I hope this damn rig can stand up to it,” he shouted. “She’s beginning to move.”
It was true; Marsh could sense the enormous strain on the anchor chains. They vibrated with a hum that echoed through the deck plating. Much more, he thought, and the rig would start dragging its anchors.
The battle to get into the control room had reached something of an impasse as the Seals were forced to keep their heads down because of the covering fire coming from the men defending the rig.
The sergeant motioned to Marsh and Helen to stay put and not move.
Lieutenant Santos crouched on the upper platform cursing his luck. He had seen Malik and realised it was him who was orchestrating the defence of the control room. And he guessed that Khan was already inside, feeding the figures into the rig’s computer.
“I’m going up top!” he shouted to his men. “Hold their attention.”
Santos knew his way around oil rigs. It was not because rigs were his particular forte, but he had conducted so many classroom scenarios in rig protection, and had participated in active exercises, that he had come to know many rig layouts. And this rig was no exception.
He left his position and clambered down to the lower gallery. The roaring of the wind and the sea combined with the cathedral like space induced in him a complete sense of detachment. It was as though he has moved into another world.
He felt his way round the gallery catwalk using a faint illumination from the insipid daylight to help him pick his way round the steel structure. He found the stairwell he figured would take him directly to the rear of the control room deck.
At the top he peered cautiously along the deck until he was certain nobody was there. He was on the far side of the rig, away from the immediate fire-fight.
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