“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.