Arctic Floor

by Mark Aitken

  They moved slowly through the blackness, their breathing rasping in one another’s ears; Gallen kept radio silence and fought against his desire to grab the flashlight on his right leg and illuminate the environment. He felt the beginnings of both claustrophobia and agoraphobia creeping in as surely as the cold was now settling on his chest like a bag of cement.

  The safety line tugged at his weight belt, he heard a grunt, and turned in time to see a silver flash disappearing into the murk.

  ‘Okay?’ said Gallen.

  ‘Fucking fish,’ mumbled Winter.

  The lights of the Ariadne ebbed in the blackness after another twenty seconds of finning. Letting Winter come alongside, Gallen checked his G-Shock and showed the other man: six minutes to Go.

  The set-up wasn’t as easy as Gallen had assumed; for a start, no one had told him there was a set of downward-facing lights on the Ariadne and that they lit up the deep like a battery of aircraft landing lights.

  Pointing down, Gallen waited for the nod from Winter; when it came they descended, remaining a hundred and fifty feet from the vessel, where the lights wouldn’t catch them. At any ocean depth greater than sixty-five feet, light couldn’t travel as it did above sea level. Gallen was comfortable that they’d be unseen by onboard cameras. His biggest concern was flashes of reflection from the scuba bubbles. Unlike the enclosed rebreather systems they were trained on in Force Recon—that recirculated carbon dioxide through chemical scrubbers—the commercial clearance divers used systems that threw off bubbles like a jet stream.

  When he got the ‘three click’ signal from Hansen, it would indicate that comms had been established with the Ariadne and Hansen’s people had disrupted the downward-facing cameras.

  Finning slowly in the dark to maintain depth, Gallen checked his watch: one minute forty-eight to Go. He raised two fingers directly in front of Winter’s face plate and the Canadian gave the thumbs-up.

  The cold started to push itself on Gallen’s chest and neck and he breathed in regular patterns, making himself think through the steps and the contingencies.

  As he thought about how easily the Ariadne’s walls could be breached with a 9mm slug, there was a quick series of small explosions and the entire ocean went black.

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER 61

  ‘Blue Dog,’ came Winter’s voice, breaking the silence. ‘The fuck just happened?’

  The shocks from the explosions cracked through the water like whip shots.

  ‘Shit,’ said Winter, and Gallen detected panic. Turning, he pulled along the safety line and came up to Winter.

  ‘Cut the dry suit,’ said Winter, gasping. ‘Got the spear gun in the wrong place.’

  ‘Stay calm,’ said Gallen as he switched on his flashlight. Cupping the lens, he found a small tear on the upper leg of Winter’s dry suit.

  ‘It’s an inch long. You should be okay for two minutes. We’re going in.’

  Three clicks sounded over the earpiece, and Gallen grabbed Winter. ‘That’s the signal. You’re up.’

  ‘Water’s coming in, Gerry,’ said Winter, his jaw already setting in reaction to the intense cold. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Let’s move, keep you warm.’

  Kicking out, Gallen led across the inky blackness, briefly looking at the back-lit compass reading on his watch. He had no situational reference point—no up or down, or sense of speed. With his flashlight off again, they slid through the abyss, the silence and cold roaring in like a tropical cyclone. His senses screamed at him, reminding him of the darkness of an Afghan mountain pass at night, where in some of the canyons a man couldn’t see his own hand.

  ‘Shit, boss,’ came Winter’s whisper as they slid through the black. ‘It’s running down my leg. Man, it’s cold.’

  As he turned to face Winter, Gallen hit steel, his helmet bouncing off it with a bell-like dong. They’d found the Ariadne.

  They clung to the side of the huge vessel like a couple of spiders, and Gallen spelled it out. ‘We go in like we planned, okay, Kenny?’

  ‘Sure, boss,’ said the Canadian, close but invisible. ‘Let’s get it done.’

  Feeling his way down one of the steel hulls, Gallen wondered what had happened for the power to go off in the Ariadne. Was it connected to the explosions? Seeing the model of the Ariadne in his mind, he felt along the underside of the curved hull and prepared to swim across to the divers lock where there’d usually be light pouring out. He heard a sound, a faint humming. Stopping, he felt Winter run into the back of him.

  ‘Hear that?’ he whispered into his mouthpiece.

  ‘Motor,’ said Winter, a distinct chatter in his voice. ‘There a sub in the water?’

  They waited, and as they were about to move again, a strong light came on under the Ariadne, making Gallen raise his hand to his face plate. The humming increased and then the light moved downwards, the humming receding once more.

  ‘What was that?’ said Gallen.

  Winter’s speech was now forced. ‘Submersible, but I couldn’t be sure. I think my retinas are burned out.’

  Blinking out the intensity of the sudden light source, Gallen moved across the underbelly of the Ariadne by feel again, a big yellow and purple patch now sitting in the middle of his vision. From zero light to an underwater halogen in a split-second was too much for the human eye.

  The underbelly of the craft stopped and Gallen felt around the edges of the large divers lock and docking bay for submersibles. They were at their destination but Gallen was confused.

  ‘This is it,’ he said, wanting to keep Winter talking. ‘Wasn’t there a structure under here?’

  ‘The power room,’ said Winter. ‘Must be on the other side— maybe the tin can swung around with the explosion.’

  The original plan had been to send Winter into the light with the shark gun and for Gallen to follow with his SIG. But with Hansen cutting the diving lock cameras and the lights being down, Gallen decided to get Winter out of the water as fast as he could.

  ‘Straight up stealth,’ he said over the radio. ‘Let’s rise up real quiet and see who’s around.’

  ‘Suits me,’ said Winter.

  Running his hands up the side of the divers lock, Gallen moved towards the surface, unable to see where that was. His helmet struck steel, the sound of it echoing in his brain as if someone had set off an alarm. Feeling above him, he grabbed hold of a steel ladder and pulled himself up the wall of the lock, creating cover for their emergence. Breaking the surface, he grabbed a docking buffer and paused, trying to keep movement and breathing to a minimum.

  He pulled Winter up by the scuba straps; they remained still for thirty seconds until Gallen gave the all-clear and dragged himself onto the dock that ran around the lock’s pool. The room was dark but surprisingly warm and Gallen kicked off his fins then crawled behind large plastic gear boxes.

  Spitting out his regulator mouthpiece and unscrewing the helmet, he placed it carefully on the grated steel dock and beckoned to Winter with a tap on the shoulder. Unscrewing the Canadian’s helmet, Gallen recalled his guided tour and remembered that the divers lock had lockers along one side and diving equipment hanging alongside. Shrugging out of the scuba rig, Gallen crept through the darkness using his hands, feeling over the dry suits and helmets and then running his hands along the smooth painted steel of the lockers. Opening the first, he felt heavy, padded coveralls on a coat hanger and pulled them out. There was a similar pair in the next locker; grabbing them, he headed back to Winter.

  ‘Shit, I’m sorry about that, boss,’ said Winter. He was shivering, and Gallen kneeled in front of him and got him out of the dry suit.

  ‘Get the undergarment off too,’ said Gallen. ‘Got dry coveralls.’

  The sound was very faint but they heard it at the same time, tensing against each other. It was the hatchway opening, a tiny squeak above the lapping of the water.

  Ducking further behind the gear boxes, Gallen realised he’d left his fins in the open. As he unwrapped
the SIG handgun as quietly as he could, Gallen felt a hand on his forearm and then Winter was holding a Ka-bar combat knife in front of his face.

  As the new arrival moved into the divers lock, Gallen remained absolutely still as Winter shifted into a crouch.

  The footfalls continued to the other side of the dock and they could hear the person sit on a gear box, the thick plastic groaning slightly. A flashlight beam lit up the area, making Gallen wince again. The flashlight strafed the water and was switched off.

  Gripping his SIG, Gallen stayed silent, almost holding his breath. After twenty seconds, there was a small sound beside the intruder— his flashlight came on and, as the man stood to check on the noise, the white flash of a second form moved on him. Standing, Gallen moved around the dock as the gurgling death throes of the man sounded above the lapping water.

  ‘Cameraman?’ said Winter in a whisper as Gallen arrived.

  Gallen thought he’d been the sound guy from Du Bois’ film crew; whoever he was, he lay on the grated floor, a bloody smile inscribed around his upper throat.

  ‘Light,’ said Winter, and went to work on the body as Gallen cupped the lens of the flashlight and peered over the Canadian’s shoulder. The dead man’s build was strong and professionally fit, but not in a gym-bunny way.

  Winter checked the man’s shirt pockets, then shifted to the jeans. Empty. He took off the boots and socks and then pulled down the man’s pants.

  ‘Jox,’ said Winter. ‘This guy’s not standing out in any way.’

  ‘Which means he’s standing out.’

  ‘Which means I’m not buying the environmentalist horse shit,’ said Winter. ‘You ever met a greenie who isn’t trying to make a fashion statement?’

  Gallen got what he meant: environmentalists weren’t this stripped down. They had silly hats and issue T-shirts, and tattoos of Maori symbols. They weren’t ‘clean’ in the intel sense of the word.

  ‘Underwear is basic North American,’ said Winter, pulling down the blue Jox, ‘but he’s circumcised.’

  Gallen nodded as Winter pulled them up again. ‘Doesn’t make him Israeli.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Winter, his teeth chattering slightly. ‘But I’m going to check his teeth; if there’s more than twenty grand’s worth of crowns in there, no way this dude’s a Frenchie.’

  ‘Israelis ain’t the only ones with a thing about their teeth, Kenny,’ said Gallen, wanting to get the insulated overalls on.

  ‘Yeah, but the only others I can think of are Americans and Singaporeans, and this dude don’t talk like a Yankee and he don’t look like no Chinaman.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gallen. ‘Check ‘em.’

  Winter opened the man’s mouth, and Gallen shone the flashlight inside. The mouth looked huge and pink contrasted with the dark, and Winter didn’t need long.

  ‘This has the same smell as that dude we found in the snow cave. I think we’re down here with the Mossad.’

  ‘Great,’ said Gallen, standing.

  ‘Ideas?’ said Winter.

  ‘Find the hostages, drop the bad guys.’

  ‘Works for me,’ said Winter.

  ~ * ~

  The Ariadne felt deserted. With the power off there wasn’t even the hum Gallen would have expected from such a large submerged vessel. What did worry him was the oxygen supply—with comms shut off to the Fanny Blankes-Koen, and the power down, the vessel could get heat and air from emergency back-up batteries, but for how long?

  At the main junction, where the control room sat, Gallen and Winter spread out. There was an eerie, abandoned quiet to the place. Looking over the console for clues, Gallen couldn’t see a thing. It was shut down.

  ‘I’m lighting up,’ he said, and switched on the marine flashlight, cupping the lens as he made a quick search of the computers and screens of the console. It was still warm. Walking around the console, Gallen walked into the back of Winter.

  ‘The captain—-what’s his name?’ said Winter.

  Gallen cupped the flashlight and looked down at the focus of Winter’s interest.

  ‘His name’s Menzies,’ said Gallen.

  Menzies sat slumped against the legs of the control desk, a third eye in his forehead. His arm extended unnaturally up and over the control modules and Gallen followed it: there was a handcuff on the dead man’s wrist to which was secured a security card, jammed in a slot.

  They leaned in: above the slot were the words Emergency ejection system.

  ‘What the fuck’s an emergency ejection system?’ said Winter.

  Gallen saw the set-up and he saw someone who’d been lured into the open and forced to put his card into that slot, probably at the end of a gun. When the job was done, Du Bois’ team had executed him.

  ‘You hear that?’ said Winter, grabbing Gallen by the arm.

  They stood in silence, listening to a faint voice coming from somewhere in the vessel.

  Holding the SIG in front of him, Gallen led Winter along the hull that held the dorms. At the end of the hull, he could make out a crack of light escaping through an incompletely closed hatch, the voice growing louder, recognisably female.

  Pushing into the room with his SIG in front of him, Gallen saw Martina Du Bois, in Ariadne coveralls, talking into a camera on a writing desk. There was a light shining on her face and the whole thing was attached to a tractor battery.

  ‘. . . for the last time has the arrogant West and the hegemony of the big oil companies trodden on the rights of the animals and the indigenous inhabitants in the Arctic Ocean. ArcticWatch has traced the arrogant Oasis Energy as they have lied and deceived their way to the point where they now control most of the Arctic sea floor, and we can now reveal to the world exactly how they were going to make it so profitable: not only were they going to mount an ingenious pumping station on the sea floor, but they were going to power it with a nuclear reactor. Yes, that’s right—Oasis Energy has placed a nuclear power plant in the heart of the last untouched wilderness in the northern hemisphere, purely so they can operate year round and prove sustainable profits to Wall Street. . .’

  Gallen stepped forward, checked the room for assailants, and placed the gun against Du Bois’ head. ‘You’re not an environmentalist, you’re a murderer. Now get up!’

  ‘Ah, it’s our very own John Wayne,’ said Du Bois, turning. ‘Smile, you’re on CNN and Fox, Mr Gerry.’

  ‘Where’s the crew, what have you done with the power?’ said Gallen, as Winter moved into the room to join him.

  ‘Good question, Mr Gerry,’ she sneered. ‘You’re just in time for my announcement: the STAR nuclear power plant has been ejected from this vessel and now lies on the sea bed.’

  ‘That’s useful,’ said Gallen.

  ‘No, Mr Gerry,’ said Du Bois. ‘It’s a statement; a statement no oil company will ever forget.’

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER 62

  ‘Where’s the crew?’ Gallen asked Du Bois again as he disconnected the camera.

  Du Bois smirked. ‘They’re safe.’

  Gallen gave a nod to Winter. The Canadian left and Gallen pushed the terrorist against the wall. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Perhaps not they, Mr Gerry.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Sneering, she was no longer so beautiful. ‘Your boss has behaved arrogantly, Mr Gerry; now she’ll learn some humility.’

  ‘Florita?’ said Gallen, wanting to threaten Du Bois but knowing that was what she wanted.

  ‘She your girlfriend, Mr Gerry?’ said Du Bois. ‘Or doesn’t she screw the help?’

  ‘She doesn’t drop nuclear reactors on the ocean floor, let’s leave it at that.’

  A noise echoed through the vessel. Human voices, shouting, confused. Winter appeared at the door again. ‘Found Tucker, boss.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Got a hole in him, needs a quack,’ said Winter. ‘Mike’s okay.’

  Gallen hated his men being harmed, took it very personally. He wanted Hansen to ha
ul them up, but after too many years of special forces operations in the Ghan he resisted the urge. Gallen’s number-one worry was a booby trap and he knew he had to slow himself down.

  ‘Who else?’ he said.

  Winter shrugged. ‘That’s it. Menzies is dead, Tucker was shot in the leg. And Florita ain’t down here.’

  ‘Where’s Letour?’

  ‘Here,’ said Winter, letting through Ben Letour, Menzies’ second-in-command.

  ‘We need to search this vessel,’ said Gallen. ‘Who knows what surprises they’ve left us with?’