Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2)

by Dominic Conlon

  Brindle Harris held up his hands. He had been friends with the President since their college days, but when Donahue was angry there was no room for friendship. Perhaps he could draw Jones into the line of fire. 'What info have you got about the incident?'

  Jones gave Harris an annoyed glance. 'We had no warning whatsoever.'

  'Then this was a deliberate and provocative action,’ interjected the President, ‘taken by a Russian vessel on an innocent and unsuspecting American warship.' The way the sentence was phrased left no doubt in Harris' mind where he was heading with this.

  'Correct,' replied Harris. 'I confirmed it personally when I spoke to the Captain.'

  'Who is he?'

  'Captain Gerry White. He's been in the navy seventeen years, the last five driving subs. He's as reliable as they come.'

  'What have the Russians been saying?'

  Harris glared across at the CIA director. 'We don't believe they know anything about the incident.'

  'What!' the President exploded.

  'It's true,' Jones replied. 'The lines between the ship and the Russian North Atlantic Fleet command should be hot by now, but there's no traffic out of the ordinary.'

  'Jesus! They'll know soon enough when I speak to the Russian President. I want you to raise the navy's level of DEFCON. Show them we're taking this seriously.'

  Brindle Harris leaned forward. 'I appreciate you need to take some action Mr President, but I think you are forgetting one thing.'

  Donahue glared at his Defence Secretary. 'I suppose you are going to tell me?'

  Harris coughed discreetly. 'No matter how provocative the act, the Russians can't have any general intention to start a war - otherwise we would know by now. The priority must be to rescue the crew. Time is running out.'

  The President took a deep breath and appeared to calm down. 'What's their position?'

  'The sub's lying on the sea bed. The latest count is five dead. They've stopped up the major hull breeches, but they're running low on oxygen.'

  'How long have they got?'

  Harris shrugged. '36 hours, maybe.'

  'How many men?'

  '116 enlisted crew and 13 officers, not counting the deceased.'

  President Donahue blew out his cheeks and paused a moment in thought. 'I'm sorry Brindle. You're right. We should concentrate on the rescue effort. Tell me what we are doing.'

  'We're sending submarine rescue equipment and operators. It's called the Submarine Rescue Diving and Re-compression System, shortened to SRDRS.'

  'ETA?'

  Harris sighed. This was the worst bit. 'The team is based in San Diego with 200 tons of kit. The first problem: it takes 72 hours to deliver.'

  'Jesus' muttered the President. 'You said that was the first problem?'

  Harris nodded. 'There is an even bigger problem. The kit can be loaded on huge transport aircraft and flown anywhere in the world within 72 hours. But once the kit arrives we need a Vehicle of Opportunity. They call it a VOO.'

  'What's that?'

  'Basically a ship near the downed sub where all the equipment is installed. A special crane is mounted on the rear, which lowers a pressurised container down to the sub. A tunnel mates with an escape hatch on the sub and sixteen people can go up at a time. The crane lifts the cylinder up to the ship, and the whole process is repeated until everyone is rescued.'

  The President pulled a face. 'Sounds really complicated.'

  'It's a tried and tested system Mr President. We know it works.'

  'Has it ever been tried in the Arctic?'

  Brindle Harris opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  'And have we got a Vehicle of Opportunity in the vicinity?'

  'That's the second problem Mr President. There isn’t a suitable vessel anywhere near.'

  'Suitable - what do you mean?'

  'The VOO must meet a certain spec. It has to have enough deck space, load bearing capability, stability, etc.'

  'Well, what about Russian ones - or vessels from other nationalities?'

  Harris shook his head. 'I said this was the biggest problem. There's nothing nearby.'

  'There must be plenty of ships in Russian ports.'

  'Yes Mr President. But they would need the permission from the Russian President to go to the rescue. Even if we had consent, we think none of them could reach the area in time. The ship that downed USS Montana took several days to get to its current position.'

  'Well, what about the icebreaker - is it still in the area?'

  'Yes. It appears to have stopped. The ship meets our spec, but we're not sure the Russians would allow it to be used.'

  The President drew a deep breath. 'I want an aerial survey - now - to see what's available. And get that Submarine Rescue system on its way.' He looked at the CIA director. 'I want you to make contingency plans. Get a full team working on this now! I am going to phone President Duskin and demand an explanation for this outrageous attack on our submarine. I will also demand to use the icebreaker as a VOO. We'll meet again in the situation room with a full crisis team in 3 hrs.'

  Sean's head slumped forward and he pretended to faint. To make it appear realistic, he was forced to prevent the involuntary gasps and grunts from the pain being inflicted on his injured finger. Curiously he found it easier to manage by completely relaxing his body and letting himself go into an almost trance like state. The sawing continued for several seconds longer before Desny told Urilenko to stop. He ordered a bucket of water from an outside tap.

  Within a minute Urilenko returned, throwing the entire contents over Sean's head. Urilenko picked up the knife again, but Desny stopped him once more. He told them to strap Sean face up on the table, and sent Urilenko out for another bucket of water. Urilenko came back with a bowl and a filthy rag he found in the kitchen pantry. He slapped the cloth roughly over Sean's face. At a nod from Desny, Urilenko poured water over the material. Sean's body twitched violently, muffled sounds leaking through the grimy cloth. Desny checked his watch, timing the process. After twenty seconds he signalled Urilenko to halt.

  Sean was drowning. A flash memory seared his brain. He was six years old at the swimming pool when a friend dared him to dive for the first time. Most of the other kids had gone in to the changing rooms. One last teacher was gathering up spare towels.

  'It's easy,’ said his friend. ‘You just stand on the edge, like so, hold your arms together, jump and dive hands first!' Sean obeyed, but after entering the water he continued to somersault, banging his head on the side of the pool. Two seconds later he was laid unconscious at the bottom.

  His friend ran to the teacher who fetched the swimming instructor. Within a minute he was out, coughing up lung fulls of liquid. The first thing Sean saw was a blue sky. His friend was leaning over him, fear and concern written all over his face.

  There the memory ended, and reality began. Sean wretched until his sides ached. When he opened his eyes Urilenko was leaning over him. For a whole minute Sean continued to heave until the spasms died down. Urilenko's broad hand pushed his face back and the stinking cloth went over his mouth and nose. Water poured down in a cascade, and within seconds he relived the experience of drowning.

  This time he recovered less slowly, knowing that no matter how much training he had had, he could not survive another session.

  'OK' he gasped after a full minute recovering. He lent over the side and vomited a yellow watery bile. 'I'm ready,' he said weakly.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The situation room in the basement of the West Wing was full. President Robert Donahue viewed the assembled staff; the vice President, joint chiefs and their advisers, and the national security team were all present. The Secretary of Defence Brindle Harris sat on his left, and CIA director Henry Alfred Jones on the right. Everyone had been briefed before the President rose to his feet.

  'I spoke to Pavla Duskin thirty minutes ago. He flatly denies their icebreaker was implicated in the incident.' The President clicked a switch in front of him,
and they listened as a recording of the conversation was replayed.

  'I absolutely deny any Russian vessel was involved in the sinking of the USS Montana.' The Russian President spoke good English, but his voice was raised as if the American President's suggestion was outrageous.

  Donahue's calm voice was in direct contrast to his opposite number. 'Mr Duskin, I have hard evidence from the Captain of the submarine, together with detailed digital data. This is proof which you cannot deny.'

  'You have my sympathy for the plight of your men, but I will publicly denounce any suggestion Russia is involved.'

  'Can I have your assurance you will do everything in your power to help rescue the crew? In particular, we wish to use the deck of LK-80 to position equipment to aid us in the recovery.'

  There was a moment's silence before the Russian President replied. 'President Donahue, I cannot let you use our vessels to place your equipment.'

  'Why not? May I remind you about the treaty both our governments signed back in 2011? We agreed to assist each other in the event of an emergency situation occurring in Arctic waters.'

  'How can I loan you a ship, when you continue to detain Russian airmen? Surely that in itself is contrary to all international laws. I'm afraid this alone breeches any agreements we made in the past.'

  'Are you refusing to help us? Over a hundred men's lives are now in danger. If you do not act, they will surely die.'

  'President Donahue, please do not deliberately misunderstand me. I said no such thing. Of course we will help you. We are a compassionate country. We might find it difficult to forget, but we forgive easily. As a gesture of peace between our nations I will arrange for the rescue of the crew of your stricken submarine. But it will be organised and handled by Russian sailors on Russian vessels.'

  The President leaned forward and switched off the recording. 'He wouldn't budge from that position' said Donahue bitterly.

  'They don't have the right equipment for a rescue. And they won't be able to get to site in time.' Harris commented.

  Brindle's deputy agreed. 'The Russians will play the waiting game, while proclaiming their offer of help to rescue the men in the submarine. Just look at the Kursk.'

  Several heads around the long table nodded, but others appeared puzzled. 'It was a nuclear powered submarine like the Montana,' explained the Chief of Navy Operations. 'Two explosions occurred on board and it sank. The Russians failed to give enough urgency to a rescue, and kept tight secrecy over the event. The President was on holiday and didn't respond to repeated attempts to get him to intervene. All 118 officers and crew died. Later they found that 23 sailors survived the explosions, and could have been saved if the President had accepted foreign help earlier.'

  For once, CIA chief Henry Jones found himself agreeing with Harris and his deputy. 'They will spin out their 'rescue'. By the time they are on site, the crew will be dead. The Russians will shrug their shoulders, but in the eyes of the rest of the world they will appear as heroes, beaten by an impossible deadline.'

  'May I remind everyone that five men have already lost their lives,' remarked the President quietly. One hundred and twenty nine lives of our seamen are still at risk. I'm now going to give you a few minutes to confer.'

  Several minutes passed in hushed consultation. At last Harris turned back to the President. 'We agree that we should continue to send help in the form of the SRDRS. But given the Russian intransigence, not all of us are agreed whether that should be accompanied by the military. In any case we need to create a landing strip on the ice, which will have to be lengthened to accommodate the heavier planes to carry the rescue equipment.'

  'Henry?'

  'Sir a military force is bound to aggravate the situation. Maybe we should think about using a commercial outfit. And what about the Vehicle of Opportunity? Perhaps we could find a plane large enough to accommodate a suitable size ship, and fly it out there.'

  The President caught Harris shaking his head. 'This isn't feasible sir. We’re right up against the clock - every second counts. Our only option is to use the icebreaker as the VOO. San Diego checked the specs and confirms suitability for SRDRS.'

  'Sir,' Jones interjected. 'This could provoke the Russians onto a war footing. We’re detaining Russian aircrew and unless my ears deceive me, Russia has offered to rescue our submarine crew. The sight of an armed unit at the North Pole might trigger major hostilities between our two nations.'

  Brindle Harris leaned forward. 'There is a larger issue here - our inability to easily project a force in the Arctic. We are not nearly as well-equipped as the Russians. The only military hardware that can operate successfully in the conditions up there are aircraft and submarines. There are hardly any sea going vessels capable of dealing with the ice pack. We couldn't send a carrier group to the Arctic, let alone a few warships. The whole strategy needs to be thought out - but not today. Today American lives are at stake, and every minute we argue we lose time.'

  The President considered those present; many were nodding in agreement. 'Very well gentlemen. We will send a military force to accompany the SRDRS to the Arctic. I would prefer we kept the mission low key - no camouflage, just polar whites. We also agree for the establishment of an airfield on the ice.'

  'And the idea of using LK-80 for the rescue?'

  The President turned to Harris. 'I thought I just answered that question.'

  The bar was full of people, stopping off for a coffee or beer on their way home from work. Khostov waited impatiently for his contact to show. He was sitting at the back of the room, sipping an espresso when he spotted a small man with dark hair coming towards him.

  'You're an hour late!'

  The contact appeared unconcerned and took a chair. 'I came when I could - I told you it would take longer to get -' he glanced around to ensure no-one could overhear. 'Your document.'

  'Have you got it?' Khostov struggled to keep the tension out of his voice.

  'Maybe,' he replied with a non-committal shrug of the shoulders.

  'What do you mean - maybe?' asked an exasperated Khostov. 'Either you have it, or you don't have it!'

  'The man considered Khostov. 'It cost more than I thought.'

  'How much more?' Khostov asked uneasily, all too aware that Yakov's money was fast disappearing.

  'Five thousand euros.'

  Khostov calculated this would just about finish the remainder of his money. He was appalled that despite the large amount of cash he had started with, it had disappeared so quickly. He reminded himself it was only a means to an end.

  'Two thousand euros, no more.'

  The Frenchman shook his head. 'No monsieur. I will accept four thousand, no less.' He made as if to get up from the table.

  'Wait!' Several heads turned at the outburst.

  'Monsieur, you must lower your voice.'

  'Three thousand euros.'

  The Frenchman paused, considering the proposal. 'We meet in the middle. Three thousand five hundred. That is my final offer.'

  'OK. Three thousand five hundred.' Khostov reached inside his pocket.

  The Frenchman grabbed his arm. 'Not here monsieur.' He nodded towards the door. 'Outside in the park, where no-one can see us.'

  President Donahue pushed his fingers through his blond hair and sighed with exasperation. This was his second and final term in office and he didn't need this crisis, coming on top of all the other domestic issues demanding his attention. He had moved up to the oval office, away from the busy situation room, thinking he might get a better perspective with fewer people. With him were his two closest advisors, Brindle Harris and Henry Jones from the CIA.

  'Right, I want to know the plan gentlemen.' He eyed both of them. 'Keep it simple - no military acronyms you're so fond of - they just confuse the hell out of me.'

  Brindle glanced at Henry Jones, and began his briefing after receiving a small nod. 'We're calling this operation Project Gold. The rescue mission is being assigned to DEVGRU.' Brindle immediately appeared emb
arrassed. 'Sorry. Project Gold will be implemented by our Naval Special Warfare Development Group.' Brindle laid out a map of the Arctic on the table and Jones took up the floor.

  'The project involves creating an airfield near the downed sub. We begin with flying in reconnaissance units and engineering teams to lay an airstrip. We're going to need two Antonov 124s to transport the SRDRS equipment - that's a lot of kit. The Antonov needs 3,000 m of runway.' Jones drew a line on the map - 'here'.

  'That's a considerable length on the ice pack,' commented Brindle. 'At this time of year the pack varies in thickness between one and a half, and four metres. The ice will need to be levelled by snow ploughs first, and a temporary surface of updated perforated steel planking laid on top.'