White Gold

by David Barker

  “Right. So, you have a dating app on your wrist tab? Your official, agency wrist tab?”

  “Obviously not. But you’re good with software, with gadgets. You can sort that, can’t you?”

  Sim got off the bike too and looked around. There was a bench and picnic table in the lay-by. He got out his roll tab and spread it on the wooden surface. After tapping away for a few minutes, he called Freda over to look at the message he had prepared.

  ‘Disavowed members of Wardle appreciation society seeking new Endeavour. You provide the transport and we’ll provide the destination.’

  “Hmm, disavowed. I like that. Sounds all Mission Impossible,” said Freda.

  Sim smiled. “Do I get to be Tom Cruise?”

  “Wait. After six years, you finally got one of my film references? It’s a miracle.”

  “Course I’ve watched the MI series. Required viewing for a teenager who wants to become a spy, no?”

  Two hours later they were on board Captain Hamilton’s submarine, heading for Bjørnøya. The captain was tucking into a substantial breakfast while the two British agents relayed the events over the past two days.

  Freda was watching Hamilton add rounds of buttered toast to his fry-up. “You’re not related to Rabten, are you?”

  “Who?” asked the captain, between mouthfuls.

  “Never mind.”

  “How many fighting men do you have on board?” asked Sim.

  “About a dozen men and women. If I leave just a skeleton crew on board the ship.”

  “That will have to do. It’s clear we can’t ask for reinforcements,” said Freda.

  “What do we know about this bunker they’ve built on the island?”

  “Linnéa was keen to prove she hadn’t been working for the terrorists. So, before we came on board, I asked her to send me the schematics of the place,” Sim said. “We’ll need to surface to check my wrist tab for messages. Assuming she managed to recover them from the ESCO files.”

  The plans were waiting for Sim on the surface of the Norwegian Sea. He stood on the bridge, admiring the design of Hamilton’s vessel. It seemed equally at home whether above or below the waves. But definitely faster on the surface. Hydrofoils had emerged from the side of the hull and the boat was now skimming the surface at 40 knots or more.

  Grey clouds dominated the horizon and the sea had little colour to give except white-tipped waves. It was like one of the monochrome views from the windows of Moon Lab One. Sim remembered watching a rocket launch from the observation desk with his son, James. The pitch of the boat through the foaming waves was nothing compared with the lurch of Sim’s heart. He thought too of the colleagues he’d left behind on the Moon. If this bomb went off, they might just be in the safest possible place. How ironic.

  Finally, the files were downloaded and he went below. Sim, Freda and the captain were standing around a 3D projection of the underground bunker that had been built on Bjørnøya.

  The captain rubbed his chin. “Looks pretty robust. It’s even got an inner sanctuary, just in case either entrance is breached.”

  “There’s a weakness here,” said Freda pointing to the air-vents that led from the surface down to the shelter and inside the core part of the base.

  “Bound to be monitored, or booby-trapped,” said Sim.

  “If the captain and his team attack through the underwater entrance, hopefully they can knock-out the systems that guard the air vents,” Freda replied.

  “Huh,” said the captain. “Reminds me of the end of Star Wars.”

  “Many Bothans died to bring us this information?” said Freda.

  The captain smiled at her. “Episodes four, six and seven.”

  “Have you two quite finished?” asked Sim.

  The captain coughed. “I don’t like sending my team in the front door, but if it buys you some time to get under the radar... Right, full steam ahead.”

  Sim and Freda caught a few hours of much-needed sleep as The Endeavour sailed towards Bjørnøya. When they awoke, Hamilton’s soldiers had prepared for battle by donning body armour, Kevlar helmets and respirators. Most of them were armed with stocky assault rifles, though Sim noticed a couple brandishing Remington pump-action shotguns and one with a two-handed hammer.

  Captain Hamilton kept scratching his chin. He saw Sim watching. “I vowed not to shave until we’ve stopped this monster. Why are new beards always so itchy?”

  “Think shaving’s the least of our worries right now,” said Sim.

  The captain shrugged. He had an automatic pistol holstered and was clutching a pair of large rubber-handled bolt cutters. He pointed them at Sim and Freda. “We drop you two off at the shoreline, wait for you to scale the cliffs and then, bam. We hit them hard. OK?”

  By the time Sim and Freda had waded ashore, The Endeavour had already slipped back below the surface. The rocket-propelled grappling hook flew up and gently arced over the top of the cliff. Freda pulled hard. The hook moved a little at first, then held fast. She leaned back, stretching her neck to look along the length of rope. Sim fired his rocket too and the pair of agents began climbing.

  Even with fall-arrest karabiners to give them occasional respite, the freezing cold rain and biting wind were both taking their toll on shoulders and arms by the end of the climb. Sim flopped to the ground at the top of the bluff, resting for a moment. Freda had reached the top first and was impatient to head towards their target. Up here, the island was a barren wasteland. Grey lumps of striped rock, interspersed with small lakes. In the shadows of the lumpy surface, streaks of snow clung on throughout the summer. The camouflage cloth of their outfits had adopted a broken grey and white pattern that blended in perfectly.

  They made their way to the helicopter landing pad. Inside a small hangar, a helicopter waited with folded blades. There was nobody around. Freda disabled a pair of CCTV cameras. Sim forced open the engine compartment of the aircraft and inspected the machinery. He asked Freda for a leg-up to reach inside. Balancing on her cupped hands, Sim stretched into the housing, and sliced through both the fuel lines. No escape route for the slippery bastard this time.

  The entrance to the bunker was not far off. Another pair of cameras was covering the approach. The British agents kept their distance. Instead, they headed to the air vents that were a further 200 metres beyond, tucked away behind an ancient boulder. Freda looked at her wrist tab. “Right on schedule.”

  Ten metres below the surface of the sea, The Endeavour approached the underwater entrance to the bunker. The submarine had accelerated to flank speed. A pair of torpedoes sped out from the craft and detonated on the barrier. The metal gates twisted and parted slightly. The submarine’s prow rammed into the wreckage and forced its way through. The captain winced as the remains of the metal barrier scraped the top and sides of the bridge. A tunnel continued on for another one hundred metres or so before opening to a dock above.

  The Endeavour broke the surface and almost immediately shook as two grenades exploded on the outer hull. Small arms fire drummed the window on the bridge, but could not penetrate the thick glass. In between shots, the captain could hear the wail of a klaxon, announcing their arrival. The submarine’s automated turrets, fore and aft of the control room, swung around and twin barrels burst into life. A stream of bullets homed in on two of the sentries who had been on duty in the concealed harbour. Their bloodied bodies were flung against the wall as the turrets found their mark. The other two guards tried to take cover as the submarine’s guns turned towards them.

  From the back of The Endeavour’s conning tower, a door burst open and the captain charged out. He jumped across to the underground quay while the turrets were keeping the guards occupied. Hamilton poked his head above a crate and then beckoned for the rest of his squad to join him. A scream from one of the guards told of another defender chalked off. But as his squad leapt across from the submarine deck, the last remaining guard fired his machine gun and caught the legs of the man who was carrying the hammer.
He teetered for a moment on the edge of the quay.

  “We need that hammer,” shouted Hamilton. He dove out from behind the crate and scragged the man’s bullet-proof vest just as he was about to fall backwards. The captain grabbed the hammer and then the man’s body shuddered as another volley of bullets found their mark. His eyes rolled up and blood spewed out of his mouth. Hamilton let go of the man’s vest and the body dropped down into the water.

  “Somebody taken out that fucking guard!”

  Petty Officer Simpson threw a flash-bang and two more of Hamilton’s crew darted forwards. A pair of guns fired and then the dockside fell silent. They all ran forward to the door that led to the rest of the complex. The captain smashed the hammer into the hinges of the door. The echo bounced off the walls of the cavern as the shock-wave reverberated along the captain’s arms. After a couple more blows, the door gave way. The captain pointed to a man and woman.

  “You two, stay here and guard this door. Everyone else, split into pairs and spread out. Cause as much mayhem as possible. I’m off to find the control room.” He dropped the hammer and pulled out his pistol. As he ran off down a corridor to his left, he could hear firefights erupting in all directions.

  The control room was exactly where Linnéa’s schematics had indicated it would be. The occupant was now lying on the floor with a big lump on the back of her head. Hamilton had been unable to switch off the monitoring equipment from the bank of desk glass at the heart of the room. So, he had sought out the main box of cables and opted for a more permanent solution with the help of his bolt cutters.

  As his team re-grouped, the captain counted heads. Seven plus him. Five people lost. But the base was now theirs. The occupants were either dead or tied up. All except two. One of his crew had seen a white man and a black woman retreating behind a huge bomb-blast door. Now it was up to Sim and Freda.

  CHAPTER 37

  North Korea

  Gopal powered up the remote vehicle that the hydra had delivered to them. The stars had disappeared and the sky above the eastern rim of the crater was beginning to brighten as he carried the drone to the water’s edge. The pair of agents checked the video feed and control unit. The instructions explained that the RV would submerge and hunt for the missile warhead by itself. Honing in, using radar and a host of sensors tuned into electrical currents, metal objects and radioactivity. In theory, Gopal and Rabten would be able just to sit back and wait for the miniature submarine to surface a couple of hours later, carrying the bomb. Which was a good job, because there would be a bus load of tourists heading their way soon, hoping to catch the first rays of dawn as the sun cleared the summit of Mount Paektu.

  As the ex-Gurkha crouched in front of the control unit, he began biting his nails. The RV had honed in on something almost straight away. But this was near the surface. The video feed had shown some sort of wire mesh but no radioactive signal. And now it seemed as if the underwater drone had snagged itself on the netting. Gopal put a hand in the water to test the temperature and withdrew it almost immediately.

  He looked over at his partner. “I don’t suppose you fancy a quick dip, do you?”

  Rabten shook his head. “Never learnt to swim.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  Another shake of the head. “No need at the monastery. Meditation, martial arts and prayer. That’s all we did. In between meal times.”

  “Well, stay alert. And get ready to haul me out when I surface. It’s bollocking cold in here.”

  Gopal stripped down to his pants and, leaving his clothes and rifle on the shoreline, waded out into the lake. His breath came in big gulps. His feet slipped and stumbled painfully on the small stones at the water’s edge until they became numb with cold. He waded a little further and finally re-gained control of his breathing. Gopal dove forwards and began to swim. The control unit had given him a rough idea of where the RV was stuck. But it wasn’t going to be easy to judge the distance, especially with the water trying to turn his brain into an ice cube.

  Rabten watched his partner swimming out. Once the bobbing head had become difficult to spot, he switched his attention to the RV control unit. Tiny screens relayed a murky underwater picture. He assumed the lotus pose, listening to the sound of local birds welcoming the imminent dawn. His breathing and his heart rate slowed. A heron landed close by and Rabten had to resist the temptation to turn his head and watch.

  There was a noise behind him and the bird took off with a flurry of wings. Rabten rolled to one side, ducking behind a rock as a spray of bullets ricocheted off the pebbles he had just been sitting on. The RV control unit jumped across the shingle, finishing upside down, a cracked and fizzing wreck.

  Rabten picked up a fat, round pebble and flung it across the shoreline. Another spray of bullets followed the noise and he was able to scurry across a little further, now hiding behind a large boulder.

  “I know where you are,” a voice shouted. “Why don’t you come out and surrender?”

  There was a pause as if the man was expecting Rabten to acquiesce. The ex-monk crouched there in silence looking around the edge of the boulder as much as he dared.

  “This doesn’t have to end in violence, you know.”

  Rabten peeped out a little further and a bullet zinged off the boulder just in front of his face. If only the man would come a little closer. Maybe Rabten could dive out and grapple him to the ground. But not from this distance. The man seemed in no rush, holding his ground. The grenades were out of reach. He would be mowed down if he tried to make a dash for those.

  Rabten was running out of ideas, his back resting against the boulder and looking out to the lake. He noticed that his partner was swimming slowly back towards shore. Rabten bent down to pick up a dozen pebbles and began lobbing them roughly in the direction of the armed man.

  “What’s this? Sticks and stones, eh? You’ll have to try harder than that, mate.”

  Rabten threw some more, this time standing up a little straighter and exposing his arm above the boulder. Another burst of bullets. One of them went through the fleshy part of his hand. He gasped in pain and sat down quickly, trying to squeeze the wound shut. Blood oozed out between his fingers. He grabbed more pebbles with his left hand and started throwing those. Using his wrong hand, the trajectory and aim was feeble. But he had to keep distracting the man while Gopal swam to shore.

  The stones he picked up were getting smaller as he ran out of natural ammunition lying near the boulder. The blood from his wound was making them slippery and difficult to throw. He was tensing himself for a suicidal charge at the man when a single shot rang out, reverberating off the sides of the crater rim.

  Rabten peeped over the top of the boulder and saw the other man writhing on the ground. The monk ran forward and kicked away the gun. But Ivan Jenkins was not finished yet. The mercenary leader hauled himself to his feet and pulled a large knife from his belt. Rabten could see that the man was hobbling and blood was seeping from a wound in his left leg.

  The knife flashed in front of Rabten’s face. But he just grinned. Now the odds were more even. Both of them injured. One armed with a knife, the other a White Crane martial arts expert. Rabten’s foot lashed out and kicked the other man’s injured leg. It buckled and there was a howl of pain. Ivan’s face contorted. A snarl of anger, but his eyes darted from side to side and Rabten could see the fear in them.

  The mercenary made a clumsy lunge with his knife. Rabten easily dodged to one side, grasping the man’s wrist. He twisted and jammed his own bloodied hand into the elbow, pushing it in the wrong direction. Another yelp and the knife fell to the ground. Rabten let go and Ivan’s right arm dropped lifelessly to his side. He started to back away as Rabten advanced. A yoko geri kekomi kick thrust Rabten’s heel into Ivan’s chest and he toppled backward into a heap.

  Ivan tried to roll over. Rabten hovered next to him, wondering whether to knock him unconscious with a strike to the head, but not sure if they might need to question him. The pause was
just enough time for Ivan to reach into a pocket and slip something into his mouth. He groaned and then rolled onto his back as his face become bright red. His mouth began to foam and his spine arched upwards as if the earth beneath him was too hot to touch. He collapsed back down and the bubbles coming from between his lips ceased.

  Rabten felt for a pulse but could find nothing. Then a groan from the shoreline and he remembered his partner. He rushed over and pulled a freezing cold Gopal from the edge of the water. The man’s arms and fingers were so rigid, Rabten found it hard to prise the hunting rifle from his grip. He tried to dry off his partner and wrapped him in blankets. He rubbed Gopal’s limbs, trying to get the blood flowing again, even though the movement was causing agony in his own wounded hand. Gopal’s teeth were chattering uncontrollably. And all Rabten could do was press his body against his friend, trying to share his own warmth. He offered to light a fire, but Gopal refused. He whispered, in halting snatches, that they had to stay hidden until the bomb had been brought to the surface and disarmed.

  By the time the RV surfaced, Gopal’s teeth had stopped chattering. But his limbs felt no warmer. Rabten was starting to shiver too.

  “Come on, Gopal, stay awake. Look, the drone has found it.” He slapped his friend’s cheek but got little response. As the RV nuzzled into the shoreline, Rabten laid Gopal down, covering him up as much as possible, and went to recover the bomb. It was so heavy, he could barely drag it onto dry land.

  Rabten rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. The idiot-proof instructions for disarming the warhead. He read them carefully and completed step one, removing the outer case. There inside lay the ball of white gold, surrounded by explosive charges and a timer. The read-out was counting down. Forty minutes to go. Thank goodness for that. Step two of the instructions told him to key in a code to access the timer’s controls. He did so, but nothing happened. He re-read the instructions and repeated the step. Again, nothing.