by A P Bateman
Chapter Forty-Two
200 miles south of the Polar Icecap,
Barents Sea
Commander JT McClure watched the Russian submarine through the array of monitors. The cutting-edge electronic periscope, known as a photonics mast, relayed the vessel in HD, with a monitor using thermal imaging so powerful that the crew were visible inside the metal hulk, brighter shades of orange denoting the clusters of men as they looked to their captain for what they should do next. Another monitor viewed the vessel in x10 magnification and McClure could dial it all the way to x50 if he so wished.
“She’s listing badly, Sir.” Lieutenant-Commander Jacobs paused. “Do we pull alongside and tether to her?”
McClure wanted to help, but he was damned if he would risk the lives of his crew and the seaworthiness of his vessel. If the Russian submarine went down suddenly, it could pull them with her. He checked the distance and their heading and said, “Get some Survival Systems into torpedo tubes one, two, three and four and release when ready.” McClure paused, looking at his commander. “Get an eight-man security crew ready to go top-side. Full armaments.”
Jacobs nodded, “Sir, I understand, but the Russians will have men on deck armed with Kalashnikovs and pistols before we do. Probably a heavy machine gun as well…”
There was a rush of air as the pods containing life-rafts, lifejackets and emergency heat packs and rations were discharged under compressed air at over 500 psi, enough to launch them close to eighty-metres away before they floated to the surface. If McClure’s calculations were correct, as well as some dead reckoning, the pods should open on the surface close enough to the Russian submarine for the deck crew to retrieve with hook lines.
McClure nodded, then said, “Then perhaps they will need a demonstration…”
“The Cyclops?”
“Forbes has reported that the US Navy are developing a high energy laser for our Virginia class boats, maybe the Russians should have a glimpse of the future. They have reported that nothing under the waves can match the Yasen-class submarine, and I think we’ve already dispelled that rumour…”
“Two for two, Boss?”
“Yes. But get that security detail ready to get on deck ASAP.” McClure turned to the helmsman and said, “Get us broadside to their stern, fifty-metres out and hold depth.” He paused. “Launch the Cyclops, regenerate five-hundred kilowatts from the reactor and wait-out. Radio operator, contact the Russians on the emergency channel…”
“Cyclops ready, Sir,” the WEPS announced nervously. He had fired the nuclear-powered regenerative laser system only a few times in exercises. Ships, aircraft, and high value coastal targets were the targets of the Cyclops – the laser capable for frying circuit boards and communication systems in fractions of a second, or incinerating sections of metals such as engines or communication masts - but submarines were not considered targets because the laser system only worked above water, fired from the refractor which had been built into the multi-function photonics mast.
“Russian submarine reached, Sir. The captain has sent word to Russia that we have committed an act of war and that they will defend their vessel at any cost…”
“Relay my sympathy that he was bested in a fair engagement, inform him that we have black box data that will show that they fired first and completely unprovoked.” He paused. “And that we will assist them in any way possible. However, we would like to inform him that he is taking on water, that we have sent survival systems to aid him, and that we will be surfacing imminently.”
The communications officer relayed the commander’s words, then made shorthand notes as he listened to the message, which again would come through the Russian submarine’s communications officer, and never from the commanding officer. “Sir, the Russian captain said he will fire upon any submerged vessel, and that he does not require our assistance.”
“Tell the Russian captain that his weapons will be useless against our own.”
“Sir, he has asked to inform you that he has men deployed on the deck and they have a twelve-point-seven-millimetre heavy machine gun loaded with armour-piercing rounds, that would suggest otherwise…”
“WEPS, can we see the machine gun?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Melt it…”
“Yes, Sir!”
Commander McClure focussed the camera using the mousepad on the display monitor and studied the two men lying on the deck, their large-brimmed sailor’s caps with ribbon tallies tied around were not the most intimidating, but he knew submariners to be a tough bunch the world over. He watched as the WEPS counted down and fired. The two submariners looked confused, then scared and suddenly leapt up from their position, one sliding overboard into the icy water. The other looked as if he contemplated leaping in, too, as the machine gun and deck area underneath it reached 1000ºc in a matter of seconds and the ammunition cooked off and fired away like a string of firecrackers. The machine gun continued to heat up, glowing red, before buckling and bending and the deck around the weapon started to glow red. The remaining submariner ran for the conning tower and skidded over the wet casing, where sailors aimed their Kalashnikovs at an unseen, unheard threat.
“Tell the Russian captain that we can cook his entire vessel and everything inside if we so choose. Tell him we are surfacing and offering him assistance, and that I suggest he accepts it graciously. Just one shot fired upon us and we will sink his vessel and send both himself and his crew to the bottom of the ocean…”
Chapter Forty-Three
Barents Sea
They were heading back to the Aurora rigs at full speed. The bow of the working boat was crashing down on the gentle swell and cascading huge plumes of icy water over the deck.
“We may have an issue when we get there,” said Grainger ominously. “This swell is small, but it’s building steadily. If they haven’t already pulled in the pontoons, then they most likely soon will.”
“Where does that leave us?” King asked, his eyes on the distant rigs ahead. Slight mounds on the grey horizon that could have been boats had they not known the course and distance.
“The RIBs will run between them for a while. But it’s not a taxi service, we’re talking emergencies or people caught on the wrong rigs. The RIBs will at least run until the swells hit three or four feet, but if the sea becomes choppy, then forget it. We’ll be rig-bound for the foreseeable future.” He paused. “There is a helicopter on Rig Three, the main admin rig, but it will only fly for casualty evacuations to Spitsbergen or special circumstances.”
“Shit!” King snapped. He paced to the port-side window but more for the distraction, returning having not even looked outside. “Okay,” he said decisively. “I need to find someone on one of the rigs. Rig Two, I think. A Swedish girl, or woman… her name is Madeleine. I don’t know her surname. She has just got assigned to the marine biologists studying pods of orcas.”
“Orcas?”
“Yes,” King replied tersely. “Make the call, get somebody to find her and then get her on the line, Grainger. We don’t have much time…”
***
Hormuzd Shirazi did not have much time either. He had the coordinates and the ETA. It would require a leap of faith, but faith was the one thing he had. Unwavering, resolute. Faith was his constant.
He had packed his kit in the duffle bag and changed into his cold weather gear. He was not a fan of the water, so wore a lightweight CO2 inflatable life vest over his jacket. It was the type that inflated upon full water submersion, or by a toggle which could be activated by the wearer. He had assembled the lightweight AR-15 rifle complete with folding stock and a shortened fourteen-inch barrel. He had smuggled the stripped weapon into Spitsbergen inside an empty diving bottle with a false section in the bottom. The weapon, and others like it, had been taken from Israeli commandos who had been killed in a failed attempt to assassinate Iran’s top nuclear scientist. The irony that the assault rifle – made by the Americans and used by their lap dogs in the Middle E
ast - was being used in an operation to arm Iran with nuclear weapons was not lost on Shirazi, nor indeed on the intelligence chief who had hand-picked him for the mission. Shirazi had regretted missing the British agent at the storage depot, and unashamedly missing him again a second time on the rig because of the kafir protecting him. But now, he was of no consequence because his mission would soon be over. The submarine commander and his crew would soon complete their task and rendezvous with him, where they would return to Iran and the glory that awaited them. Heroes of the people of Iran and of the Supreme Leader – the Grand Ayatollah. And, of course, the almighty Allah.
***
Madeleine looked down at them pensively as they disembarked the work boat and climbed the ladder from the inflatable pontoon to the first deck of the rig. Grainger had been correct in his prediction that the linking pontoons would be unshackled, deflated, and stored in each rig. The swell was only running at three feet or so, but King could see that walking a kilometre along the links of inflatable pontoons would be a hazardous affair. Another foot or more of swell and Grainger had been adamant that the docking pontoon would be lifted, too.
“I have what you asked for, but I’ll probably lose my position in the research team when they find out,” she said tersely. “Now, tell me what the hell this is about.”
King smiled. “You won’t lose your job, I’ll see to that,” he replied. “Now, show me how to use it.”
“It’s not as simple as that!” she scoffed. “I…” She stopped as an alarm sounded above them.
“That’s curious,” Grainger said. “That’s the security alarm.”
“Is that rare?” Rashid asked.
“I’ve only ever heard it in practice. Even when things have kicked off between love rivals or gotten out of hand after long periods of separation or being couped up together, it’s usually been sorted out internally. We have a security team, but it’s run like an internal fire team and made up of volunteers. Only in the security team’s case, they are theoretically only called upon when there is a direct threat to life.” Grainger walked past them and lifted the hatch on a red box. He retrieved the telephone receiver and started to talk.
King turned to Madeleine. “You were saying?”
“Right, yes. The codes need entering into the software before and after they are initiated…” She looked at King, who was staring at something behind her. “What now?”
King watched the RIB power away from the second rig. It was barely a spec at a thousand metres distant, but it left a clean, white wake in the greyness of the ocean, and the bright red of the craft was framed not only by the grey water, but of the mirror-image sky. A fleeting red speck in a monochrome backdrop. “Where the hell is that going to? There’s nothing out there…”
“There’s been a fatal stabbing,” Grainger said gravely as he returned. “The suspect has stolen…”
“A RIB and fled the rig?” King interrupted.
“Yes, how did you know?”
King pointed behind him and Grainger turned and stared. “Oh, that’s vexing…” He turned back to King and said, “A security party is being assembled, but all the other RIBs on Rig Two have been slashed or punctured.”
“It’s the Iranian,” said Rashid. “It has to be.”
“But where can he hope to go?” Grainger trailed off. “Oh…”
“Exactly,” King said flatly.
“Would someone just tell me what the hell is going on?” Madeleine exclaimed.
King turned to Grainger. “What’s the fastest boat on this rig?”
“The rescue RIB. Twin one-fifty engines, thirty-foot long.”
“What type of craft is the one fleeing?”
“Sixteen-foot with a single one-hundred horsepower four-stroke Evinrude engine. All of the engines are Evinrude. It was a sponsorship deal.”
King nodded, calculating the disparity in engines versus the lightweight advantage of the smaller RIB. The rescue RIB would have the advantage, but after the weight they would be taking with them was allowed for, it would not be an easy race. He turned to Rashid. “Did you get a rifle in Svalbard?”
“Of course. It’s the law. Not many places can say that.”
“Is it on this rig?”
“I’m on it,” he replied, seeing where King was going, and sprinted across the grating to the stairwell.
“Grainger, I want that rescue RIB.”
“And I’m on that…” Grainger went back to the telephone and picked up the receiver.
“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on?” Madeleine protested.
King pushed past her and stood at the edge of the deck. He signalled for the skipper, who ducked outside of the wheelhouse and frowned up at him. “Change of plan, I need my equipment!” King turned back to Madeleine. “Just be ready to move. And are you sure that’s all the kit you need?”
“Of course.” She paused. “I only need to…” She frowned as she realised that King was no longer looking at her, nor paying attention. “What?”
“Grainger! Who is on the second RIB?” He pointed at a flash of red tracking down the fading wake of the first craft.
Grainger put down the phone. “Nobody knows. It came in from Rig Three, moored briefly at Rig Two, then took off after the first RIB. The rescue RIB is now cleared for launch.”
“Cleared for launch?” King said, then watched a mechanical arm lowering on the other side of the platform. He ran around the gangway and watched as the craft was lowered from the centre of the rig. He looked back as Rashid ran from the stairwell breathlessly. He had a rifle in his hands, the same standard Browning A-Bolt .30-06 model that King had rented back at the gun shop back in Longyearbyen. “Get my equipment,” he snapped at nobody in particular, but all three ran back to the mooring and heaved the bags back to him. King took out the Leatherman knife he had purchased at the gun shop in Longyearbyen and worked his way among the row of RIBs which were all hauled out for storage. He pulled out the anchors and the six-feet lengths of chain and sliced through the ropes attaching them with the razor-sharp blade. He tossed the anchors onto the galvanised steel grating floor and shouted for Grainger when he returned with one of the bags to get the rescue RIB ready for launch. “Rashid get my equipment aboard! Madeleine, load those anchors!” King shouted as he heaved the last of the anchors at her feet, then turned to watch the two boats, but could no longer see the first. He estimated the second RIB to be five-hundred metres distant.
Grainger started the engines and detached the craft from the automatic mechanical arm. He used a little throttle to square the boat to the bottom of the ladder, then feathered the throttle to match the swells, and keep the boat steady. Rashid dropped the first heavy bag into the centre of the boat, then climbed the ladder to fetch the second bag. The RIB was essentially a solid fibreglass hulled craft with inflatable sides that were multi-chambered to withstand several punctures, the advantages of the design giving rigidity and lightness, as well as rendering it unsinkable. The second bag was dropped beside the first and Rashid climbed the rest of the way down the ladder. Madeleine looked at King with uncertainty.
“Go on!” he shouted. “We don’t have much time!”
Madeleine shouldered her bag and caught hold of the ladder. “But I still don’t know what we’re doing!” She shook her head and hurried down, where Rashid caught hold of her and steadied her into the boat.
King slid down the ladder, clutching the sides with his hands and clamping his feet on either side. He landed heavily and shouted to Grainger. “Here, give me the controls,” he snapped. He pushed the throttle forwards and the engines roared into life, the bow coming up steeply. “Rashid, get ready on the rifle!”
“On it,” Rashid replied, loading the Browning magazine with three bullets. He worked the bolt, checked the safety, and ejected the magazine to load another and give him four bullets at his disposal. The small magazine capacity was an unfamiliar trait compared to the rifles he used and trained with, but he reflected that
the rifle had been designed for hunting and not for combat. “Who’s in the second boat?”
“I have a suspicion, but I’m not certain. But if the first boat is being driven by the Iranian, then I think we can be sure how he’s getting home…”
“And if it isn’t?”
King thought of the tiny reconnaissance submarine docked on top of the British submarine. He had known that returning to the rig carried its risks. There had been nothing more he could have done down there. He couldn’t have dived at that depth and he certainly wouldn’t have been able to get on board the Iranian vessel. Capturing Shirazi had been his first thought, but if the Iranian was supporting the submarine from the surface, then he would need a ticket out of there. But had Shirazi fled because King and Grainger had been seen? The reconnaissance craft would undoubtedly be equipped with cameras and certainly would have been able to fire upon them, and if the hunter-killer fired upon them in the submersible, or upon the support boat, then they would give themselves away and risk a full-scale military retaliation. No, the Iranian submarine commander would have calculated the time it would take them to return to the Aurora rigs and by then, they could alert their asset and he could head for the rendezvous. Which meant the Iranian submarine was close.
“We just have to hope it is,” replied King. “They wouldn’t steal the missiles or the warheads and risk leaving their asset behind. It would be too risky. He could be captured and interrogated before they made it through the Northern Sea Route and by then, the Yanks could hunt them on the other side from their bases in Alaska. No, Hormuzd Shirazi is on that first boat for certain.”
“Then who the hell is on that second RIB?” Rashid settled the rifle on the edge of the control panel and squinted through the monochrome hue ahead. “Friend or foe?”
King said nothing.
Friend or foe, indeed.