by A P Bateman
“They are taking on water, Sir. Venting the ballast tanks and sending out an SOS to all vessels in the vicinity.” The sonar operator paused. “There is no other shipping nearby…”
“Launch the communication buoy,” McClure said quietly. He turned to Jacobs and said, “Get Washington on the line…”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Barents Sea
The lights cut a swathe in the ocean darkness, occasionally lighting up darting shoals of fish and jellyfish with their long tendrils wafting lazily and snagging shrimp and tiny crustacea in a web of stinging death. King heard his own breathing, shallow and unsteady, but he knew it was down to nerves and adrenaline at what had to be done next. Grainger had made docking the submarine sound easy, but he knew that in practice it would be anything but. The docking collar would need a good, smooth fit. All very well in theory, but they did not yet know if the submarine had sustained damage that would make a secure fit an unrealistic option. And then the water had to be pumped out under a pressurised seal. King would then have to get the hatch open, another two escape hatches below that, and if the British submarine was full of water, then the geyser which could erupt would give Old Faithful a run for its money and the seal would be broken. To save Grainger from this fate, he would first have to lock one of the hatches above him. It was as simple as that. Once they docked, King’s next move would be one of life or death.
They found negative buoyancy halfway down, at around three-hundred and sixty metres. Grainger checked the display and air mix. “Doesn’t hurt to slow descent and get adjusted at this depth.”
“How far down can this thing go?” asked King. There was the sound of metal flexing, the rivets tightening under pressure. The sound was both eerie and worrying. Grainger did not seem unduly bothered, and the fact relaxed King, if only a little.
“We’ve done work at five thousand metres, so it’s signed off to that depth. The oceans aren’t the deepest around here. Six hundred metres mainly, with trenches of up to three thousand metres. To the north in the Arctic are some of the deepest waters on the planet. Of course, the Mariana Trench off the Philippines gets the record, at least that we know of, but the North Atlantic and Arctic Ocean can get bloody deep. Twenty-two thousand feet under the icecap and thirty-thousand feet in parts of the Atlantic Ocean. That’s jumbo jet cruising altitude and certainly higher in terms of direct measurement than Mount Everest. Imagine putting Mount Everest, everything from peak to sea level into the ocean and not being able to see its summit.”
King glanced at his watch. On the face it showed that it was rated to 1000ft or 300m. He’d always marvelled at that fact and wondered if it would work at that depth, then supposed he would find out soon enough if the docking procedure didn’t go according to plan.
The submersible craft was more robot than vehicle. An umbilical cord made up of a cluster of tubes fed a clean air supply down from the support boat, along with their power supply and communication cable. Onboard, air tanks and a separate electric motor meant they could take control and make it back to the surface in the event of the umbilical cluster being severed. Rashid had remained on deck and had asked to be involved in the electric winching process, not least so he could keep an eye on the crew and provide them both with top-side security and with it, the peace of mind that he had their backs. With foreign agents in the mix, nothing was out of the question. King was seated directly behind Grainger, who was naturally at the controls and seated within the bubble, which was made up of three bulbous Perspex windows, which looked in appearance like a giant old-fashioned deep-sea diving helmet. Grainger used what looked like a bicycle handlebar to control the direction of the submersible, with a throttle lever for the electric motor. Compressed air vented from the external bladders at regular intervals to provide the sink they needed, and compressed air tanks would be siphoned into the external bladders to create float. Unlike the military submarines, the craft did not take on water for ballast.
Behind King the bags of explosives and equipment he needed filled the cramped space, and below him the hatch he would need to open and close behind him. Beneath the hatch was the diving chamber and external hatch. King was desperately trying to remember the procedures Grainger had told him on the way down, because Grainger would have to remain at the controls and make subtle adjustments for movement and any current that they encountered, although he assured King that it was never rough at depth and the currents in the Barents were worse nearer the coast where several oceanic currents met the Gulf Stream and gave a conveyer belt ride into the Northern Sea Route.
Grainger started the submersible on its descent once more. King could feel the pressure in his ears and was grateful for the brief pause. Outside two curious sharks cruised slowly past the bubble windows. Each shark was around eight feet in length and swam effortlessly. Their grey bodies with white underbellies were uncannily close in appearance to Great Whites. “Porbeagles grow larger here than in the South Pacific,” said Grainger. “Usually around ten feet in length as opposed to approximately six. The waters are extremely rich in plankton here. Which provides food at the beginning of the food chain, going all the way up. This is the issue with ocean health, it all starts with plankton. Plenty of that and everything benefits. Even the quality of the air on the surface.”
King nodded, transfixed on the two sharks. He had thought they were Great Whites but now felt foolish and didn’t tell Grainger his first thoughts. He wondered if Madeleine would ever see her coveted Greenland sharks this closely. All at once, the two sharks thrashed their tails and were gone. Several squid replaced the sharks, and a shoal of glistening fish blocked their vision entirely as they were engulfed in silver and blue, reflecting in the powerful lights like disco balls. The shoal was immense and stayed with them for most of their descent. They disappeared as suddenly as they arrived, and the silhouette of a large rock was visible at the end of the light’s range ahead of them.
“That’s strange,” said Grainger. He controlled their descent and powered forwards. The seabed looked muddy and devoid of life. There were perfect skeletons of fish reflecting white in the lights, then as they progressed perhaps a dozen metres, King could see thick blankets of crabs travelling across the seabed like lines of traffic. An army of seabed cleaners on their march to pick another carcass clean.
“What’s strange?”
“That’s the submarine ahead.” He checked the laminated notes clipped to a piece of string within easy reach. “We’re bang-on for coordinates and depth, but the outline is all wrong…”
King squinted against the light. There was no real colour, just the thick brown sludge of the seabed and the black void of the ocean beyond the beams of light. He frowned, taking in the sight of the submarine as it came slowly into view. He could make out the conning tower and the thick, bulbous prow, the elongated tail. “It’s too big,” he said. “It’s almost as if…”
“It’s carrying another sub…”
“Shit…” King caught hold of Grainger’s shoulder and said, “Don’t go any closer!”
“Why?” Grainger frowned. He pulled back and the lights moved with the slight change of course from his sudden movement. Then, answering his own question he said, “Oh my god, there’s a smaller submarine attached…”
King stared, transfixed on the submarine piggy-backing the British vessel. “Reverse back, come in on another course, directly from behind.”
Grainger did as King told him, and the powerful lights swept across the black void, then picked up another submarine suspended in empty space over a hundred metres away. It was utterly buoyant with no movement, part of it suspended over the ridge, with the stern above the void. “Christ almighty…” he said quietly.
“That’s a small reconnaissance vessel that has docked the Astute-class,” said King. “The bigger sub looks like a Russian diesel Kilo-class. The Iranians have another name for it, if indeed it is them, but I’m willing to bet that our Iranian friend has been their eyes and their ears and con
tacted them with the coordinates, and now their operation is underway…”
“Look!” Grainger pointed. “There are clamps on the deck of the larger sub, that smaller one must have hitched a ride.”
King nodded. “Keep back and dim the lights. Military submarines don’t have windows like this one, windows can’t cope with depth charges or torpedoes, but that smaller sub will have cameras for sure. Launching from and docking to that large submarine will necessitate the need for cameras, so they could very well see us right now.”
Grainger killed the lights and switched to a red beam that barely reached the large submarine but gave them an ambient light from which they could make out the hulk of the British vessel.
“That smaller sub, do you think it would be large enough to ferry cruise missiles between the two?”
Grainger considered this for a moment and shrugged. “That would depend upon the size of the missiles. How big are they?”
“About fifteen feet long and as wide as this…” King made a ring with his arms until his fingertips touched.”
Grainger thought for a moment then said, “Two at a time, perhaps. It would be a tight squeeze, but I think it would be feasible. Time consuming, certainly.” He paused. “How many do they have on board?”
“At least thirty.”
“Can they do a lot of damage?”
“They flatten large buildings. Like the bunker busters you will have seen during the Gulf War footage on the news,” King replied. “But there has been a development…”
“I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Continued Russian belligerence dictated that the cruise missiles were armed with American nuclear warheads. They are what is known as dial-a-yield, so can be adjusted to flatten say a military base, or at maximum yield, then a town of small city.”
“And the Iranians don’t yet have nuclear weapons,” Grainger said sardonically. “But I guess they do, now…”
“Not if I can help it,” replied King. “Get us back to the surface.”
“It’s going to take an hour,” he replied. “The pressure can’t be ignored.”
The longest hour of my life… King thought.
Chapter Forty
Lake Como, Italy
Sally-Anne Thorpe looked at the monitor and frowned, shaking her head incredulously. Captain Durand looked up at her from his seat, his expression quizzical. Neil Ramsay shrugged when she caught his eye.
“You’ve gone ahead and made arrangements for the meet?” she asked, taken aback.
“Fortez knows he’s meeting a woman,” Durand frowned. “You knew that.”
Thorpe nodded as she straightened up and looked at Ramsay. “I could have gone in her place.”
“Caroline met with Noventa, it was the natural progression of the operation for her to arrange to meet Fortez,” replied Ramsay somewhat curtly, as was his manner.
“But we’ve monitored the email accounts and he did not make further contact until he typed what we told him to say.”
“We did not monitor Noventa’s mobile phone between the café and his home. If he spoke with Fortez, then he could have described Caroline to him.” Ramsay paused. “Caroline is comfortable with doing it. I don’t see a problem.”
“And when was this decided?”
Ramsay shrugged. “We had a conversation this morning while you were out. I trust Caroline and she knows what to do. You’re an investigator and legal expert, Sally-Anne. You’ve never been undercover. It doesn’t state so in your file, at least.”
Thorpe spun around as Caroline entered and said, “Is this down to you? You send me out for your medical supplies, and then work on everybody here?”
“We had a chat,” said Caroline shrugging off the woman’s accusing manner. “I thought you were only too happy to help me earlier…”
“Bullshit!” snapped Thorpe. “You set this up! You got me to collect the painkillers and your bloody walking stick while you manipulated the rest of the team!”
“Firstly, it’s a crutch, not a bloody walking stick…”
“And secondly?” she fumed.
“Secondly, can I assume the honeymoon is now over?”
“Piss off, you conniving little bitch!” Thorpe snapped.
“Sticks and stones, luv…”
“Ladies…” Neil Ramsay stepped forwards and made himself a buffer between the two women. “Let’s not lose focus. Caroline is more than capable of getting Fortez to admit everything for the recording. The camera is in place, then once we have everything we need, Sally-Anne, you can make the arrest with Captain Durand.” He paused. “Durand, you will read the man his rights using your position with Interpol Special Operations, before we take him across the Swiss border.”
“Sure thing,” the Frenchman said, his amiability suggesting he had tried to lighten the mood.
“See?” Caroline said, staring directly into Thorpe’s eyes and giving her nowhere to go. “You can have the official glory, while I do the dirty work and take all the risks. You should be more than happy with that…”
Chapter Forty-One
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
Robert Lefkowitz wiped his brow with the clean handkerchief and went to tuck it into his pocket, but the nurse reached around and took it from him, leaving a clean one on the table in front of him. The drip had been removed and both men opposite seemed relieved, as if experiencing the man’s relief on his behalf, but Lefkowitz knew it was just that the treatment was a reminder of their own mortality and it had made them uncomfortable. Fools. They worked in an agency where death was merely part and parcel of what they did, but still they had not become used to the idea that death had neither prejudice nor mercy. The inevitability of time was something they still thought they could disregard. Lefkowitz was no longer scared of death. He would welcome it when he was ready, but not before. There were matters to attend to, cases to close. Only when he had secured his legacy would he give up the fight.
“Their orders should still stand,” Admiral Casey argued. “The Russian submarine fired upon them. Multiple times. They were bested, and now they should live or die with the consequences.”
“The operation is still active,” Becker agreed.
Lefkowitz shook his head. “This Russian situation is a gift,” he said. “The world will know that Russia attacked a US submarine on routine patrol in international waters. The US submarine defeated the Russian threat by utilising a non-lethal counterattack, then rescued the Russian crew…”
“But the Russians attacked us, Sir!” Admiral Casey countered belligerently.
“And if our sub leaves and the Russian crew perishes, then we will have committed our own act of war…” Lefkowitz turned to Becker and asked, “What of our agent?”
Becker checked the notes in front of him. “His mission relies upon our submarine. He’s on his own up there and there are hostile forces on location, as well as friendlies.”
“Friendlies?” Lefkowitz frowned.
“There are at least two British agents up there.” Becker paused. “Our asset reports that one is known to us. The MI5 link in the Standing affair…”
“Do you think they can handle it? Tidy up their own mess?”
“They generally tend to get the job done, Sir, yes.”
Lefkowitz nodded, then looked at Admiral Casey and said, “Admiral, with respect, the cat and mouse affair with the Russians has affected our deadline. Our asset is in limbo. But we can come out of this clean and leave the Russians with dirt on their faces. The world will hear about Russia’s aggression, but it will also see that the US showed restraint. Not only bringing superior military tactics to hand, but the merciful action of reacting in a way not learned in The Naval Academy at Annapolis, but by a submarine captain trying to avoid all-out war. This slaps Russia across the face far more than a protracted standoff of firepower and display of military might. And the people left in no doubt of Russia’s part in US vote rigging, leaked documents and communi
cations tampering will see that they are a viable threat. The millennials and post boomers and snowflakes of the world who only get their information from social media need a wake-up call. Perhaps this will be it. Russia has the firepower to blow us off the map, so now they may take the threat seriously.” He paused, reached for the clean handkerchief, and dabbed his brow again. The colour, what little remained, had drained from his cheeks. “Russia will be left knowing it fell short, their tech-laden new submarine was not a match for our own, and the worst of it all is they will have to thank us for saving their crew. Look at the Kursk in two-thousand, and the fiasco of them turning down specialist help from other nations, only to botch the rescue and cost the lives of all one hundred and eighteen souls on board.”
Admiral Casey stared at his hands, looking up slowly. He glanced at Becker, who nodded. “Okay, Director, you make a compelling case.” He paused. “Tell your agent to make alternative travel arrangements.” He stood up and gathered the papers in front of him, packing them into a leather documents case.
“I’ll get word to your asset,” Becker said. “Who is he?”
“He’s my man, Becker…” Lefkowitz coughed several times, covering his mouth with the handkerchief. The nurse stepped around him to offer him some assistance, but was curtly waved away as he said, “I’ll do it…” A good agent was hard to find but keeping one alive required a short chain of command. Lefkowitz had learned this lesson from bitter experience, and even in his twilight tenure of the agency, he would not lengthen the links in the chain at any cost. “Gentlemen, I think we have the result we need. Perhaps not the one we expected or hoped for, but one that will play into our hands all the same.”