by A P Bateman
“Dialled up to eleven by the sounds of it,” said Big Dave.
King remained silent. He hadn’t known that the asset had become infected and having been pursued by a Spetsnaz hit-team, things had been rolling along quickly. He had been lucky to get the asset to the exfiltration point. Lucky to have made it out of the frozen fjord and get away to safety.
“You will, of course, have heard that the submarine has been found,” said Ramsay.
King had seen the news. “I heard,” he said quietly.
“Quite a feat,” said Mereweather. “Considering a nuclear-powered attack submarine is designed to remain undetected. The Admiralty were not aware of the exact route the captain would be taking back, but it was safe to assume that it would be the Norwegian Sea and Atlantic Ocean, as it’s the only practical way back.” He paused. “Now, all we know is the submarine went dark. No communications, no distress signal, and no emergency beacon. All we can assume is that Natalia Grekov infected others onboard and you can insert your own apocalyptic, horror scenario here.”
“The news said a Norwegian salvage team found it by chance,” said King. “But as the wreckage is in something called a green sanctuary, maritime engineers will raise it and tow it to the Faroe Islands. I thought they belonged to Denmark?”
“They do, but it’s not as simple as that.” Mereweather paused. “The green sanctuary is an area the size of France. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Now, a consortium of nations, including the United Kingdom I may add, operate a series of experimental environmental projects inside the green sanctuary. Within this area, Aurora, a green energy think tank and alternative energy power company are conducting hydroelectric non-profit research. It is a similar setup to the accord in Antarctica, in that there can be no military presence from any nation. Which is why a team of marine engineers from various countries within the consortium will be handling the salvaging of the submarine and basing themselves at Aurora’s site. Once raised it will be towed to the Faroe Islands, for safety reasons. Once there, the Royal Navy can take over command and retrieve their submarine.”
“What’s safer about the Faroe Islands?” Big Dave asked, having finished his second bacon roll.
“The marine engineers will have flotation devices around it and they feel any handover should be done at a port,” Ramsay replied. “The Faroe Islands have a more suitable port, as well as being substantially closer to Britain than Spitsbergen. Also, Denmark is not a part of the green sanctuary consortium, so is therefore a neutral party.”
“And you want me to see that whatever is inside that sub remains inside until the Royal Navy collect it?” asked King. “There’ll be Russian interference, of course. So, among the marine biologists, oceanographers and engineers, there’ll be plenty of opportunity for an agent to hide and integrate. You want me to defend the submarine and its secrets, while still blending in and not giving my cover away.”
“Heavens, no,” Mereweather said, shaking his head. “That would be all too simple. No, I want you to destroy it and see that it never again sees the light of day…”
Chapter Three
They had taken over the corner of the beach café. King supposed the place would have once been a seasonal business making enough for the owner from busy summer seasons, but lockdowns, trading restrictions and loss of trade in general had changed things for most people and the tiny beach café was no different, now opening throughout the winter and on dismal early spring days like today, where it felt cold and wet and isolated. They were not being the best customers as they hunkered down over cups of cheap breakfast tea and spoke in little more than whispers, but Big Dave was slowly working his way through the menu and they were now on their third round of teas and coffees, with the big Fijian tucking into a large slab of millionaire shortbread. Nobody else had entered the café since they had been there and when the man stepped inside out of the rain and brushed the water from his coat and shook out his umbrella, King studied him curiously. Sixty years old, fit-looking and with a well-tended white-grey handlebar moustache. He wore a tan trench coat, pinstripe navy-coloured suit, highly polished tan oxfords and carried an umbrella with an ornate silver handle in the shape of a fox’s head. The briefcase he carried had an ornate crest stamped on it, the leather looking thick and polished and well-cared for. The man made his way over to them, and Mereweather stood and greeted him warmly.
“This is Galahad Mereweather,” he said, rather stunted, perhaps a trifle embarrassed. “My father…”
There were a few murmurs of both greeting and surprise all round and the man said, “Thank you, Segwarides.”
Mereweather nodded, flushing red in his cheeks. “Please sit, father. Would you care for some tea?”
“Yes. Earl Grey.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Simon Mereweather stood up and walked to the counter. King watched him go and smiled at the older man. “Segwarides?”
The older man smiled wryly, but there was a youthful twinkle in his eyes. “Many, many generations ago, the men in my family started a tradition of being named after the Knights of the Round Table. My father was Gawain, my uncle was named Galehaut. Naturally, the dozen or so names in common literature and film have long been used up, but there were indeed over one-hundred and fifty knights of legend and still a few names left. Segwarides’ son is Daniel, although that was chosen as a compromise. I suspect my son was pleased that some names work well enough today.”
“So, who was Lancelot?” asked Big Dave.
“A second cousin. Bit of a black sheep. Had a few marriages and many more affairs.”
“The truth’s in the name, then,” Big Dave commented with a grin. He looked up as Simon Mereweather returned with his father’s Earl Grey and placed it in front of him. “Ah, Segwarides…”
“I really should have asked you to go outside,” Mereweather replied without looking at him. “I took the name Simon at university,” he explained somewhat reluctantly. “I wanted to at least stand a little chance with the opposite sex. I figured I could still sign my cheques with an S…”
“What kind of girls were you dating? I’ve never known any chicks who take a cheque.” Big Dave laughed and stood up, swilling the last of his tea down. “Right, I’ll get my coat…”
“For the best, I think,” Mereweather replied curtly. “Don’t steam up the car while you wait in the cold.”
Galahad Mereweather watched the man-mountain leave and said, “Interesting fellow, Segwarides. An interesting fellow indeed…”
Simon Mereweather nodded. “No respect for authority. But he’s a good man.”
“One supposes when you’re that size, nothing and nobody appears to be a threat.”
“He’s never going to be a front man for the Security Service. And he’ll never have his name on an office doorplate.” King nodded. “But you’ll never regret having him by your side in a pinch.”
“Well, that makes two of you,” Galahad Mereweather replied. “I can see that you are a behind the scenes man, too.”
“Father served in the service and later at GCHQ after a career in naval intelligence. He’s retired now,” Simon Mereweather explained.
“But not today,” King commented.
“Not today, no,” Galahad Mereweather replied. He placed the briefcase on the table, then using his signet ring on his right hand, unclipped the locks. “Magnetic,” he said quietly. “The magnet is the same size as the opposable magnets within the locks.”
“You see, Simon, this is what we need; a few gadgets to make the job more exciting,” King said humorously.
“And jumping out of helicopters isn’t exciting enough for you?”
Galahad Mereweather smiled as he took out several sets of plans on thick, folded paper. “That certainly doesn’t sound like the Security Service I knew.”
“We broadened our parameters and played a little faster and looser with our remit,” replied his son.
“We always had those slippery buggers across the river for that sort
of thing. I was previously up at Oxford with half of the men and women who later went to work over at Six when I was in the service. Most of my peers thought I should have gone into bat for them, but I saw something a little less disingenuous about the Security Service. A little less self-serving and a little more tasteful.” Galahad Mereweather paused. “Do make sure you don’t go in for all the theatrics over substance, Segwarides. The games of cowboys and Indians will only do so much. Solid detective work is generally the best approach. Dogged, but inadmissible within the legal system when uncontrived and honestly sought.”
“We’ve just taken on a former detective with the Met to keep things the right side of legal,” Neil Ramsay ventured, seeing his boss looking at his father as awkwardly as a teenager would having the facts of life explained to them. “In the field, that is. God knows the lawyers are always there to tell you what you’re doing wrong. So far, we’re finding it’s been invaluable.”
Galahad Mereweather spread out the plans in front of him. They were of a British Astute class submarine and some of the sheets showed a dissected view. “I can see that this detective has a lot of work in front of him…”
“Her,” Ramsay corrected him quickly.
“…Her, then.” The older man paused. “Because showing you these plans… which I procured through a contact in the Admiralty… with a view of where to place explosive charges to make this boat unsalvageable, while keeping its nuclear reactor intact, and making sure that the crew… God rest their souls… are sucked out in the shockwave, isn’t exactly keeping one’s nose clean and flying straight and true before the law of the land.”
“Well, we’re a work in progress,” said King.
“I can see that. Far different in my day.”
Ramsay looked at the plans and said, “If the crew are sucked out, then surely they will float to the surface?”
“No,” replied Simon Mereweather. “I have it on excellent authority that if the vessel was intact, or at least watertight, then the air in their bodies would have vented by now. Decomposition would be slow, given the extreme cold temperature, but nevertheless, it would be a factor.”
King thought of the Russian woman. She had been brave and conscientious. She had been a good person, and he couldn’t bear to think about the horrific end she would have had, nor how her body would have reacted to time and temperature and environment. Clinical terms like venting and decomposition didn’t fit with the bright and vivacious young scientist who had been chased through a polar vortex by a Russian Spetsnaz hit team to get to her rendezvous.
“That’s quite right,” said Galahad Mereweather. “Also, the saline level at that depth and the water temperature is a sure way for bodies to sink, rather than float. From there, well predators and bottom feeders will clean things up in no time. From a practical point. From a moral point, it’s reprehensible. May they rest in peace. The poor, unfortunate buggers…” He paused, looking at King, then pointed at the charts. “The charges will need to yield a minimum of eight thousand metres a second detonation rate per kilo with a force value more than four-point-seven kilos per charge. That’s standard PE-four. Here, here, here, and here. Four points, all crucial for the submarine to shift off the bottom, then two charges, here and here, for her to break apart and expunge its… er… contents.”
“From a practical point, Semtex could mean smaller charges,” said King. “Around three-point-five-kilos by my reckoning.”
“EPX-One would have an edge further still. Three kilos, dead,” replied Galahad Mereweather. “But it’s still developmental. Personally, I’d stick with the PE-Four or C-Four. It’s less volatile than that Czech stuff, anyway. That’s the thing with Semtex, at least it blew a few of the Paddies up for us while they were making their homemade bombs during the Troubles.”
“That’s still getting thirty kilos or so of explosive, another six kilos of blasting caps and say, around five kilos of detonation cord down there. What’s the depth?”
“The central charges will need to be closer to ten kilos each.” Galahad Mereweather paused. “So, work on forty kilos, or ninety pounds in full fat, full cream imperial.”
“Depth?” King asked again.
Simon Mereweather coughed to clear his throat, then said, “The submarine is on a ridge, rather like the top of a mountain. Each side of that ridge drops down close to three-thousand metres. Now, with a Rolls-Royce nuclear reactor, or more accurately a PWS2, pressurised water reactor on board, as well as Tomahawk cruise missiles and the Spearfish heavy torpedoes it was carrying, the plan with the charges is to shift the vessel off the ridge with the first series of charges, while two secondary explosions do the required damage on its descent into the deep.”
“What’s the depth?” King repeated.
“The ridge is three hundred metres across, but HMS Armageddon is on the very edge…”
“But, what’s the depth, Simon?” King asked, staring at him curiously.
“It’s seven-hundred and eighty metres…”
“For fuck’s sake!” King sat back in his chair and shook his head. “I can’t dive that deep!”
“You’ve got a PADI certificate,” Ramsay said quite seriously.
“What?” King snorted. “Pay And Die Immediately? That’s okay for holidays in the Red sea or the Mediterranean. I do have rather more than that, but I’m still only certified to two-hundred metres. And that took specialised air, a dive buddy, boat crew and a detailed ascent plan with decompression chamber on standby. No, it can’t be done.”
“No, it can’t. Not practically, at least,” Simon Mereweather conceded.
“Just as well, really,” replied Galahad Mereweather. “Because this entire plan can only be done from inside the submarine.” He paused. “And the team operating the salvage recovery program have a mini-submersible quite capable of reaching that depth and getting someone inside via a rescue hatch.”
“Is that all?” King replied sarcastically.
“Well, there is the question of initiating the self-destruct sequence on the missiles and torpedoes,” Galahad said nonchalantly. “Can’t have them lying about for any Tom, Dick or Harry to salvage. Oh, and bringing up the data-logger for inspection. That’s like the black box on an airliner.”
His son nodded. Two decades younger, but essentially a facsimile of his father without the grey hair or moustache. “So, time is of the essence. We need to get you up there and embedded in that team before they make a move without you.” He glanced at his watch, then said, “Finish your tea first…”
Chapter Four
Caroline stood with her back to King, watching the angry sea beyond the edge of the cliff half a mile away. Directly in front of her on the driveway below, Ramsay and Simon Mereweather waited awkwardly in the black Jaguar saloon. Big Dave sat behind the wheel of an identical vehicle, parked nose out and looking unbothered, unhurried, and completely at ease. He’d waved at her through the window, and she’d waved back, but ignored the other two. Dave Lomu was a foot soldier and was here as security for the acting director of MI5.
“It won’t be long,” said King. “And besides, you’ve made it pretty clear that I’ve been getting under your feet lately.”
“Do you want to go?” she asked incredulously.
He shrugged. “It’s important…”
“I get it,” she said, turning around and looking at him. Her eyes were moist, glistening with tears. “You’ve been couped up for a few months and you need the action.” She shrugged. “You’ve been great helping me get back to health and planning our escape has really helped me heal mentally.” She pointed at a world atlas on the wall. It was torn, had been well-folded and was busy with drawing pins and handwritten notes, dates and destinations circled in red pen. “That is what’s important. Buying that yacht and heading out for an adventure at the end of this summer.”
King nodded as she walked from the bay window to an upright leather chair. She favoured her right leg, but she was managing inside without the crutches,
which were propped up against the wall behind her. He went to help her but stopped because the action seemed ridiculous considering he was about to ship out and leave her on her own. Since Caroline had been involved in a traffic collision three months ago, caused by a man chasing her to get to King, she had undergone daily physio and had various follow up appointments with surgeons. She had ditched using the crutches a month before they thought she would, for all but the walks outside that she took every couple of days, such was her dedication to her physiotherapy and well-being. The trip they had planned over the past weeks and months had helped her to reset mentally, enabling her to deal with the PTSD from her experience, as well as previous missions, tragedies, and misadventures. They had both been learning and training online in the theory of seamanship and sailing and they had a series of intensive courses booked throughout the summer at a local sailing club. Caroline had sailed as a child, and King had used a few powerboats and RIBs over the years. It was a crazy plan, but like most things they did, they would bluff through with determination and fluidity, changing the plan along the way to suit them best.
“It’s a matter of closing the circle,” he replied eventually, the silence between them uncomfortable. “I put that poor woman on that submarine and ninety-eight submariners did not come home to their families.”
“And bringing their bodies home will heal a wound inside you?”
King hadn’t gotten as far as the specifics of the operation. He would have loved for the bodies of the crew to be returned to the grieving families, but it wasn’t going to be the right time to tell Caroline he would be attempting to blow up their underwater grave and release them to the deep instead. He settled on, “Seeing that the Russians don’t get something usable out of this will,” he replied truthfully. “A tissue sample or biopsy could change everything.”
Caroline nodded. She had served in army intelligence before becoming a field operative with the Security Service, so she knew that Britain had its enemies and what lengths they would go to strike at them as well as their allies. “Since we’ve been working together, I worry when you go into the field alone,” she said quietly. “You need someone to have your back.” She shrugged. “And it can’t very well be me, because I’m still not fit enough…” She trailed off and King knew it was because she had recently voiced that she wasn’t sure that she ever truly would be again.