Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3)

by Anders Jallai

  “That’s enough, George,” Harrison Bolt said.

  “Are there any drinks on board, something strong?” Modin asked, both because his mouth was dry, and because he wanted to tease the second-in-command.

  “You can have a sturdy whisky in the galley once we’ve finished here.”

  “You look as if you need it,” the second-in-command said, and again got a sharp look from Bolt.

  Modin ignored the second-in-command’s taunts and instead concentrated on the matter at hand. “I’ll need a floor plan of the vessel. I am sure they exist, although Swedish authorities claim they don’t.”

  “Of course I have the blueprints,” Bolt said, picking up the plan from the chart table. “Cabin 62-30 is here on Deck 7, near the Captain’s cabin.”

  Modin got confused when he saw the plan of the ship. “Isn’t that the crew area? What was a Russian doing in a cabin reserved for the crew?”

  “Good question,” Harrison Bolt said. “He was presumably working for the CIA and the Captain had been made aware of the secret items being transported onboard. He likely needed to be protected from other Russians onboard, those that wished to harm him.”

  “In other words, he was an American spy,” Modin said.

  “If that’s how you wish to put it. No more of a spy than your guys from Special Ops. They too were running errands for the CIA and NATO.”

  “I know. I was on board.”

  “You’re kidding,” Bolt said.

  “No.”

  “How?”

  “I was working for Special Ops. I had my family with me.”

  “Incredible, I didn’t know that. And what happened to your family?”

  Suddenly, Bolt seemed uncertain. Modin noticed as his jaw dropped. This was the first time since they had come aboard.

  “Their remains are in cabin number 43-03.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Of course it’s true!”

  Modin’s eyes welled up with tears. He tried his hardest to hold them back but couldn’t. Tears ran down his left cheek. They rolled softly down his unshaven skin and ended up on his lower lip. Now even the second-in-command looked surprised.

  “I’m so very sorry, Mr. Modin. Are you sure you want to dive?”

  “I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  “This complicates the operation, doesn’t it, Modin?”

  “Not necessarily. I’m the best you’re going to get. The best you’ve ever had. If anyone can succeed with this mission, it’s me. Nothing is going to stop me. I figure, it’s exactly what you need: a gladiator to save your national security.”

  M/S Estonia lying on the bottom.

  “You do realize that’s it’s dangerous,” Harrison Bolt said.

  “It is that knowledge that makes me suitable. I am the one who doesn’t care if he lives or dies. Only I can get there. And you know that, don’t you, Harrison? You would never have called us in if the mission wasn’t dangerous. The cabin is on the wrong side, so to speak. The vessel is lying on its side more than 90 degrees. The cabin is now upside-down, deep in the silt of the seabed at a depth of around 320 feet. Not even the U.S. Navy’s most professional diver can figure that one out.” He looked at the second-in-command, who looked down at the floor. “You won’t get anyone else to do that dive. Bergman and Järv will be my support divers, but they won’t be diving inside the wreck. That is an absolute requirement on my part.”

  Harrison Bolt was red in the face. This was clearly more than he could cope with. Modin was just as straightforward as he was rumored to be.

  CHAPTER 128

  SPECIAL OPS HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11

  Bob Lundin was still in his office alone. It was past six o’clock and it would soon be time for dinner in the city center. Over the years, Chris Loklinth had shown him all the dives in the Östermalm district. He liked that area. Clean and neat, not too many that would pick a fight, a little like it used to be, back when you could trust people. An area intelligence operatives could depend upon, an area where they wouldn’t constantly be called into question. But now, things were rocking under his feet. He could almost feel it. There was an earthquake under the building on Riddargatan, adjacent to the Army Museum. When former head of DSO Birger Elmér used to run the show, law and order prevailed. Lundin wondered if those days would ever return.

  Not given the Internet, that’s for sure. Too many lunatics get the opportunity to air their views publicly.

  The new Defense Radio Law that permitted monitoring Swedish citizens had been ineffective. Internet users appeared not to give a damn about being bugged. The whole point of the law had been to deter, because the material could rarely be used in a court of law, and thus didn’t quite work as intel gathering for criminal cases. Public opinion would not allow it. No, in truth, the law had been counter-productive, just as he had warned his boss. No one had listened to Lundin.

  Because the Swedish Defense Radio Law had made everyone, even the anonymous cyber chat addicts on Internet, aware that they were at risk of being monitored. As a result, they were more careful of what they were saying and how they were saying it.

  Bob Lundin wiped his brow with the back of his hand. His shirt was sticking to his back, even though it was a chilly night, just under freezing point outdoors.

  We really have to stop Modin’s diving efforts, he thought. It’s a question of damage control rather than prevention. The damage is already done but should Modin, against all odds, find the documents onboard the vessel and hand them over to the CIA, Sweden would forever be entangled in the CIA nets. We’ll never escape. The documents will act as a fetter on little Sweden. We’ll be forced to cooperate, forever.

  Fucking Modin! Hope he dies!

  He reached for his cellphone and dialed, his hand shaking.

  CHAPTER 129

  NORTHERN BALTIC SEA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11

  Modin returned to the sleeping quarters in the aft area where Bergman and Järv were resting in their bunks.

  “How did it go?” Bergman asked, lifting his head.

  “Fine,” Modin said. “We’ll be there tonight. They want us to bring up a briefcase.”

  “A briefcase,” Jöran Järv said, still half asleep. “Is that all?”

  “It’s not just that. The cabin is very deep down, toward the seabed. It could well be covered in several feet of sludge.”

  “Fuck,” Bergman said and started to cough.

  “I am going down there alone,” Modin said. “It’s far too dangerous. You’ll act as my safety divers. One on the wreck and one closer to the surface.”

  “You won’t make it, Modin. Not in your condition,” Jöran said.

  “I’m the only one there is. The wreck could be radioactive.”

  “Did Harrison say it was radioactive?” Bergman asked, swallowing hard. He reached for his bag.

  “No, he didn’t want to alarm me more than was necessary, but he knows.”

  “We measured the radioactivity in the wreck,” Jöran Järv said.

  “Did you get to see the results?” Modin said.

  “No, we didn’t, but so what?”

  “There’s a nuclear reactor onboard,” Modin said.

  “How do you know?” Bergman asked.

  “I was in Estonia in 1994 and did business there on behalf of Special Ops. The reactor had been stolen from the Naval Training Facility in Paldiski in September 1994. It’s a small reactor belonging to the Soviet Navy flagship, the nuclear sub the Delta IV. It was state of the art in 1994 and hyper-silent. The Typhoon-class subs use a similar reactor, and they are still used by the Russian Navy. The Americans paid a fortune to get hold of it. It ended up at the bottom of the sea.”

  “That’s why you were on the Estonia? With your family?” Bergman muttered quietly. Then he asked: “What did they need a nuclear reactor for?” Bergman started poking around in his bag.

  “Mostly to analyze its characteristics, such as sound, revs, vibrations, and
so on. Knowing all those things makes it easier to identify submarines by SOSUS equipment. A nuclear reactor belonging to a nuclear sub was one of the most secret objects during the Cold War and, in fact, still is. But I imagine they were also interested of the Russian nuclear technology.”

  “Are you one hundred percent sure that the reactor is still onboard?”

  “It should be. Although Loklinth said that the U.S. had come and picked it up.”

  “Do they really have the resources for that?” Bergman asked. He finally found what he was looking for.

  “We can ask Harrison Bolt,” Modin said and jumped up onto the top bunk.

  “It doesn’t necessarily have to be radioactive,” Jöran Järv said. “Even if the reactor is still onboard, it doesn’t necessarily leak radioactivity. It depends on how it has been packaged and loaded. It could well have survived intact, even though the ferry itself is upside down.”

  “Is that why the authorities wanted to cover the vessel in a layer of concrete?” Bergman asked. His cheeks were now turning red.

  “Could be,” Modin said. “I found a document last summer in Special Ops’ secret metal box describing how to clean up and sanitize after a radioactive accident and how to take care of the bodies that have been contaminated.” Modin lowered his head, and his eyes became slits.

  “I can understand that this makes your assignment that much more difficult, Modin,” Bergman said in a low voice. He was holding a small wooden box in his hand.

  “It can’t get any more difficult than it already is. That’s why I don’t want you with me inside the wreck. It’s enough for one man to become radioactive. I’ve got nothing to lose. You’ve got a wife and daughter to take care of, Bill.”

  “You could die!”

  “I know.”

  “Here, take the injection, now.” Bergman opened the small wooden box with the auto-injection needle that he had been given by the CIA officer from the Embassy. “It’ll help improve the odds.”

  Modin hesitated, but said nothing.

  “Go on, do it, Modin,” Jöran said.

  Modin rolled up his sleeve and stretched out his arm.

  “Fuck! I have nothing to lose,” he said when Bergman put the needle in his forearm.

  CHAPTER 130

  SPECIAL OPS HEADQUARTERS, STOCKHOLM, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11

  Bob Lundin stretched his stiff back and looked out the window. A black crow ominously sat on the ridge of the roof, waiting. At least that’s what he imagined. He tapped the windowpane to scare it away. It remained stubbornly perched.

  “Friggin’ bird!”

  He tapped more intensely. The windowpane rattled. The bird remained where it was. The bird gave him a coal-black look, as if it thought he was insane.

  Lundin tried to calm his breathing and returned to his desk, dialed the number of his contact at the Swedish Embassy in Tallinn, the Estonian capital, and pressed the receiver hard against his left ear.

  “Pierre, what’s going on?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. There’s something going down at a higher level than I have access to. We can see that the CIA is involved. A CIA Boeing 737 landed at Tallinn Airport today. We’re trying to find out what it’s all about. How’re things with you? Are you running the shop now?”

  “Temporary Head of the Department. Loklinth may come back. It’s all very uncertain. He’s got some bad cuts and bruises from a bicycling accident.” Lundin’s grip on the receiver loosened.

  “A bicycling accident?”

  “He’s getting old and ran into a utility pole, I think. We’ve got big problems here in Stockholm. I need to get in touch with the Barbro Team in Estonia. Can you help me, Pierre?”

  “I’ll send a message to the driver. What’s this all about?”

  “A dive down to the M/S Estonia. We need your help to stop it. According to Swedish and Estonian law, of course, but the diving activities must cease.”

  “When, and who?”

  “It’s a team of Swedish divers with a military background. They are skillful. And what’s worse, they are being assisted by someone with resources. The problem is that we don’t know who’s helping them. The diving could start anytime, even as we speak. They’ve already set off from the Swedish coast.”

  “I’ll relay your message. Will budgeting occur in the usual way?”

  “Via Defense Equipment. Put it under consultation fees within the European Union.”

  “Will do, thanks, and have a good one.”

  Bob Lundin put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the window again. The annoying black bird was gone. He rocked gently on the soles of his feet. Hope that’s a good sign, he thought. We sure could use some luck. We’re one step behind all the time. The Barbro Team and the Estonians will take care of this, he thought and nodded at his mirror imagine in the windowpane. They’re well trained, experienced and ruthless. Excellent guys.

  Gas bloated Lundin’s stomach, rose up through his body like an air bubble from deep down in the Estonia, and came out of his mouth as a long, drawn out burp.

  How damned sour! I must go to the pharmacy, buy some Andrews salts. Does that powder even still exist?

  CHAPTER 131

  NORTHERN BALTIC SEA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11

  Kim stepped inside the sleeping area, newly awake and beautiful, even without make-up. Modin noticed and opened his eyes wide, so that she could see that he approved. Women often looked more interesting without their faces exhibiting blotches of red and blue, not to mention pink.

  Kim brought in with her a whiff of fresh shampoo. Suddenly, a stroke of weakness came over him and he thought of abandoning the whole operation, going home with Kim to start nesting, buying a new house, raising new children, playing football and golf on the weekends. How nice would that be!

  “What’s happening?” Kim said and cut through his daydreaming by knocking on the end of the upper bunk where he was resting.

  “We’re going to dive tonight,” he said.

  “All three of you?”

  “We will go through the details at nine tonight. That’s when we’ll plan the operation in detail with the officers onboard.”

  “What’s it feel like?”

  “Good. I’ve not been this close to the M/S Estonia since 1994. We just have another three hours to go…”

  Kim looked at Bill Bergman who was lying on his side, then at Modin again.

  “What is it?” she said as if reading their thoughts.

  “It’s a dangerous dive,” Jöran said in a low voice. “The vessel could be radioactive.”

  “Is diving possible?” Kim said.

  “We don’t know what it entails. Modin wants to go down solo or at least get into the wreck on his own. I will follow to the upper deck, which is at a depth of about two hundred feet. Bergman will be waiting on the way up. It will be Modin who will be most exposed to any possible radiation. I’ve got a Geiger counter with me.”

  “Do you have to go through with this?” Kim said.

  “Yes, we have to,” Modin said. “I must dive; on behalf of the President of the United States, but mostly for my own reasons. I will be going down to retrieve that damned briefcase. Then I intend to get a handsome reward.”

  “It’s all about a briefcase?” Kim said.

  “How much money will we get?” Jöran Järv said.

  “How much do you two want?”

  “I need masses,” Jöran said laughing. “A million?”

  “You’ll get five,” Modin said. “The rest of you too; five million each. I think that’s a fair price, assuming we find the briefcase.”

  “Seems to be a valuable briefcase,” Kim said.

  Modin lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes. “We can rest for a few hours. Then it’s serious business.”

  He pushed away thoughts about giving up and going home, and instead tried to concentrate on the upcoming dive, the most demanding dive of his life.

  Yet, instead of the dive and technical de
tails, what came to his mind were thoughts of death and putrefaction, rusty metal, and radioactivity; a huge failure and a symbol for Sweden’s vulnerable position in this volatile world.

  What good will all this do? Modin’s head began to spin.

  CHAPTER 132

  TALLINN HARBOR, ESTONIA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11

  Two hours had passed since the Military Attaché at the Swedish Embassy in Tallinn received orders to activate the Estonian branch of the Barbro Team, which now was a mixture of Swedish Crack of Dawn operatives and parts of former Estonian élite troops. Right now, they were busy loading up a torpedo boat in the eastern part of Tallinn Harbor with diving equipment, gas cylinders, and weapons of various kinds: MP5N machine guns, grenade launchers, and crates of hand grenades, as well as depth charges. They moved in single file between two grayish blue VW vans on the pier and the boat. The searchlights on the pier blinded them as they swung the equipment over the side of the boat. Most of the men were wearing thick winter jackets with tight-fitting military-green sweaters underneath. Their uniform of the day was camouflage pants and sturdy boots. A passer-by could easily mistake them for American élite troops such as the Navy Seals. They radiated the same attitude: immortality and invincibility.

  The engine of the 115 feet long torpedo boat was running and growled. The commander, a man with a long black beard that would have made the notorious Captain Blackbeard proud, stood on the bridge, his arms folded. He wanted to get going as soon as possible.

  He scratched his head under the blue captain’s cap and looked out over the harbor. At the other end, along the western part of the harbor, the new Estonia ferry to Sweden was moored. She was ready to depart.

  The goal of the high-priority operation, supported by the Swedish and Estonian governments, lay some hundred miles to the west of Tallinn Harbor.

  CHAPTER 133

  NORTHERN BALTIC SEA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11

  Rise and shine! We’ll be there in an hour. There are chicken burgers in the galley. We’re reviewing the orders at 21:00 hours.” The second-in-command stuck his head in and announced in a squeaky voice: “This is the real thing now, Mr. Modin.”