Major Pierce whispered into a mike concealed in his hood and the speed of the RIBs reduced to a mere 5 knots. The 470 HP Twin Caterpillar 3126 Diesels were capable of going much faster, but Pierce wanted to maintain a stealthy approach for as long as possible.
As they closed in on the icebreaker Pierce signalled to slow down. He pointed towards the stern of the ship, and the following RIB peeled off in that direction. The first and last RIBs beached on the ice 200 metres from the bow of LK-80.
Major Pierce jumped out. Standing upright, his tall frame seemed to fill the night sky. Before he could signal the command, everyone got out and the swicks began dragging the heavy boats up onto the ice.
The SEALS pulled on their rucksacks full of kit, and three men from each boat grabbed padded grappling irons and ropes. They checked their rifles and gave the Major the thumbs-up. From the water to being ready on the ice had taken just two minutes.
Pierce raised a pair of night binoculars to his eyes, checking the status of the ship. No lookouts had been posted. He checked the position of the RIB at the stern of LK-80. The men in that boat indicated they were all ready with their grappling hooks. He whispered into his mike, and Pierce’s team set off across the short stretch of ice to the icebreaker.
As they moved closer, Major Pierce noticed that the crew of the ice breaker had left an outside ladder in place. He shook his head. This was going to be easier than he thought. He motioned for one squad to approach the ship from the other side. That team would not have the luxury of a quick ascent, but it was essential that they boarded the boat from all points together.
When the squads reported ready, he whispered quietly into his mike.
‘All teams, go!’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘Some news from London.’ Lomax twisted so he could see both Sean in the driver’s seat and DD in the back. ‘GCHQ picked up a couple of transmissions, and have just decoded them. It appears Zlotnik is getting nervous about the possible abduction of Levushka. The boy’s movements are to be curtailed.’
‘When will it come into effect?’ asked Sean.
‘At the weekend.’
‘That blows our plan to take him.’ DD sounded aghast at the news.
‘We’ll have to bring the kidnap forward. It has to be tomorrow.’
For a minute they considered their options in silence.
‘We’ll have to do the snatch after Nina has left for work,’ said Sean slowly.
‘That might work in our favour. The rush hour will be well underway,’ replied Lomax. ‘I’ll lead. There’s bound to be some opposition.’
‘I still think the odds are too high. Remember they have a chauffeur, two heavies that stay with him at college, and one more in the flat. Those are just the ones we know about.’
‘You’ll be there too.’
Sean pulled a face. ‘The chances are stacked too highly against us.’
‘Working together we could take out three easily enough,’ replied Lomax. ‘I’ll be the straw man.’
‘It feels wrong - too rushed.’
‘There’s no option - unless you have a better plan?’
Sean thought for a moment. ‘I go first.’
Lomax looked at him steadily. ‘Your job is to get the boy to London. I need you to be ready to grab him when the time comes. I go first.’
‘Lomax, let’s not disagree about this - I’m the bloody agent after all!’
‘There will be no argument. You’ll have to trust me on this. Besides,’ he said with a grin, ‘I’m the bloody Executive.’
For a fleeting second, Sean felt relieved. With Lomax leading the charge, the chances of getting a serious case of the jitters would be reduced. But how effective was he going to be if he was already starting to think that way?
The helicopter jinked in the airstream as snowflakes whipped furiously past the cockpit. Hail rattled against the Perspex screen like the sound of thousands of tiny pellets. The radio crackled.
‘LK-80 to helicopter. The landing area is clear.’
The pilot raised his voice to be heard over the wind and engine noise. ‘Thank you LK-80. We will approach from leeward. Would appreciate some help with securing the copter once we’re down.’ He glanced at his passengers, the highest ranking officers of the mission. Although used to flying in atrocious conditions, he would not have ventured out in this extreme weather. The commanders insisted, and he had no option but to obey. He took a deep breath, preparing for the tricky touchdown.
Chief engineer Feliks Chayka watched as the copter approached. He saw the machine turn into the wind, side-slipping to reduce height. A sudden squall drove the machine sideways and the pilot made quick adjustments to keep it on course. As it descended towards the after-deck, a gust of hail and snow blew the copter downwards, nearly snagging the undercarriage against the ship’s rail. Feliks shouted instructions to the deck hands. They quickly attached lines and dragged it back towards the centre of the deck. Without further ado, the pilot cut the engines and performed a hard landing on the helo-pad.
As soon as the crew had secured the copter, Feliks moved under the slowing rotors. Two men dressed in Arctic whites descended and Feliks went forward to meet them. There was a shouted exchange. No-one could hear each other in the cacophony so they followed him inside.
The saloon was a large space where lectures, presentations and socialising took place. Once inside, Feliks motioned for a seaman to telephone the Captain to let him know the men had arrived. The Americans appeared anxious about the time they might have to wait. ‘He will not keep you. I will make introductions when the Captain arrives,’ promised Feliks.
‘We were under the impression that your Captain was indisposed.’
Feliks flushed with embarrassment and flapped his hand. ‘It was just a temporary condition. He is much better now, thanks.’ Feliks hoped that Grigori would appear soon; otherwise he would be made to look like a fool. He set about offering drinks and the door opened. The pilot joined the group having just checked the helicopter. Less than a minute later Captain Grigori entered the room.
‘I see you are enjoying our meagre hospitality!’
Feliks noticed the Captain’s sly smile and couldn’t help wondering what had caused the sudden change in mood. He was glad he had persuaded the Captain to have a shave and shower before the meeting. It wouldn’t do to show the officers just how far the Captain had let himself go.
Feliks gestured to the Captain. ‘Captain Grigori Burak.’ He was astonished when Grigori formally straightened his back and inclined his head sharply in salute.
The officer bobbed his head, returning the salute. ‘I am Colonel Grey. This is Lieutenant Colonel Markus Cooke, and this is our pilot Chip Greaves.’
Grigori checked that everyone had a full glass, and raised his own. ‘A toast to our two countries. May we always continue to work towards peace!’
There was an awkward silence, and the Americans appeared not to know how to respond. At last Lieutenant Colonel Cooke took a step forward and cleared his throat. ‘Thank you Captain for agreeing to meet. I’m sure you realise the importance we are giving to rescue the crew of the USS Montana.’
‘It was a very unfortunate accident. The navigator concerned has been disciplined and will face a court martial on our return to port. In the meantime, Colonel, I understand your concern for those trapped in the submarine.’ Grigori glanced at Feliks, as if looking for support. ‘Unfortunately we are having problems with our main reactor and are unable to move; otherwise my ship is at your disposal. We will do anything we can to assist you in your efforts, absolutely.’
Colonel Grey looked quickly at his Lieutenant. Their last briefing had left them in no doubt that the Russian government had refused permission to use their ship. What could account for this change of heart? The Colonel sighed with relief. ‘We’re really grateful; your help is sorely needed. How long do you think it will take to get your reactor going again?’
Captain Grigori turned to look at Fel
iks. Feliks shrugged his shoulders, understanding the game Grigori was playing. He needed to exaggerate the time. ‘Several days, I’m afraid. Our primary coolant is contaminated.’
Colonel Grey nodded, beginning to understand the game too. ‘What about your backup reactor. Is that broken too?’
Feliks was surprised at the American’s knowledge. He felt the pressure as all eyes turn to him.
‘Not broken Colonel, no. But we have a shortage of fuel rods and we didn’t want that to stop our ... expedition.’
‘So I suppose that it wouldn’t be possible to transfer the fuel rods in the working reactor to the backup?’ enquired the Colonel.
For a moment there was another expectant silence in the room. Then Feliks looked up, for a moment on safer ground. ‘We could, but that would take longer than to filter the coolant.’
The Colonel sighed, and then got up and walked over to the door. He opened it and immediately the temperature dropped as the bitter wind found its way in. Stepping outside he beckoned to an unseen shape, then re-entered the room.
‘Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to Major Robert Pierce.’
A huge figure in Polar whites filled the doorway.
‘LK-80 is now under our command.’
‘Het.’ Feliks shook his head.
Major Pierce inclined his chin to one of the SEAL team. The man took a step forward, un-holstered his assault rifle and pointed it at Feliks. Before Feliks could say anything, he fired. The shot pinged off the steel bulkhead of the cabin, missing him by inches.
‘We have two nuclear specialists here. We don’t need you, but we don’t want to cause any unnecessary deaths. Work with us Feliks, or we will put you over the side.’ The voice was delivered in such a bored matter-of-fact tone; Feliks knew he was telling the truth. His shoulders slumped; knowledge of the boat’s reactors was no longer a bargaining counter. There was no way out of the situation. For now he would have to do what they asked.
‘We need enough power to traverse to this location.’ Major Pierce slapped a chart down on the table and indicated a position with the tip of a pen. To drive home the point, he circled the area. ‘Here, within 20 metres.’ Pierce wrote out the exact coordinates next to the circle. ‘Do what you have to do.’
Feliks started towards the door, intending to make a start. A brawny SEAL stepped into his path, blocking the way.
‘Oh I forgot,’ continued Pierce in his flat voice. ‘The nuclear engineers will be with you at all times, backed up with Chris here. He has instructions to kill you if the experts do not agree with any actions you make. You have five minutes from now to start engines.’
A thousand thoughts whirled through Feliks’ head. Five minutes! It would take longer than that just to bring the core up to an operating temperature. The thought of that filled him with dread; they had no idea of the consequences!
They escorted him to the reactor hall and he talked to the American engineers. He told them about the previous problems they had had, the snags during sea trials, and the subsequent corrosion issues in the primary circuit. The two moved away to discuss the difficulties without being overheard. Feliks could see them arguing, while the burly SEAL called Chris looked on uneasily. After a long period of heated discussion they returned.
‘We’re going to ask for some expert assistance to be drafted in. In the meantime you should begin a scheduled start.’
Captain Grigori looked around his room for a means of escape. The Americans had confined him to his cabin after the take-over of his ship. He tried the door, but it was locked from the outside. His internal phone had been ripped out and his mobile removed - not that he would ever get a signal at this latitude.
Grigori sighed and made straight for the drinks cabinet. He opened the door and counted the bottles, wondering if the Americans had taken any when they searched his cabin. When he was younger he used to drink heavily, but as his career took off he drank less and less. He began to realise he needed to maintain a clear head to make progress. But the funeral of his ex-wife and the detention of his son triggered a profound switch back to the bottle. He was ashamed of his increasing need for vodka.
All bottles were present and correct. Tentatively he reached in and unscrewed the top of one, savouring the moment before the first sip. The choice was stark; he could accept his ship was in the grip of the enemy and carry on drinking, or he could do something about it. He took one more swig, then deliberately screwed the cover on.
No-one knew LK-80 better than himself. For months he had supervised the construction in the yards, yelling at the welders when they produced sub-standard work, forcing them to go back and do the job properly. He had scrutinised every stage of the building of the keel and superstructure against the plans. The only area where he lacked detailed knowledge was in the design and integration of the ship’s nuclear reactors. He understood the basic principles, but the actual processes of fission were beyond his comprehension. Everything that flowed from that - from the tolerances required to machine the parts to the safety and backup systems - he relied on the expertise of Feliks and his team of engineers.
When the primary reactor had started to give problems during sea trials, he looked to Feliks to provide him with answers. And when he failed to resolve the issues quickly, Grigori metaphorically shrugged his shoulders. If Feliks couldn’t fix the teething problems, then no one else could.
But when it came to the construction of the rest of the ship, Grigori was proud of his knowledge. He headed to the toilet in his cabin - a luxury. His fellow officers had to make do with communal lavatories. But because of the budget the small room was not provided with an electric extractor system. Instead, the square window over the toilet was hinged along the top to supply natural ventilation.
Grigori rarely opened the porthole because the cold air was less welcome than any lingering odour. As he checked the casement lock, he felt rather than heard the rumble of the ship’s engines. They were moving, even though Feliks had expressly forbidden it!
With a new sense of urgency, he swung the porthole out on its hinge. It opened just enough for him to crawl out. He returned to the cabin and strode to the wardrobe. Scratching his head, he inspected the contents. A suit and white shirt for the odd formal occasion hung on a hanger, along with a couple of sweat tops and some jeans. Underwear, thermal socks and a knitted bobble hat lay on a shelf. Some old gloves were tucked away in a drawer. He picked out a pair of patterned socks and turned them over. They were a present from his deceased ex-wife two Christmases ago.
They would have to do. He stuffed the clothes into a holdall, knowing that if he were to put them on inside the cabin he would be unable to squeeze through the porthole. He found his flashlight in the tiny bathroom and paused one more time opposite the sideboard containing the vodka. Reaching in, he grabbed a bottle and put it into the bag. As he returned to the toilet, a plan was beginning to form.
Grigori clicked on his flashlight. The beam travelled over the steel walls of the cupboard which was no more than three feet wide by six foot long. Though tall enough to stand up, Grigori sat on top of an overturned mop bucket. He took a sip of vodka from the bottle. It was cold despite the extra clothes he had put on from his bag. For now this equipment locker on Bridge Deck 2 would have to do.
He needed to get to the radio room on Bridge Deck 4, aft of the bridge on the starboard side. The only approach was through the bridge which would be manned by American soldiers. There were two entrances to the bridge, one from each side of the ship. He had to think of a way to distract their attention for five minutes, so he could get off a message.
He surveyed the locker in the flickering light from his flashlight. A collection of brooms leaned against a corner. Some old discarded fire hose lay in another, weighing down a pile of hessian sacks.
Grigori took a second swig and started to screw the top back on. He paused and checked the label. Eighty percent proof. The plan might work, but it would mean having to part with the vodka. He click
ed the flashlight off and shrugged in the dark.
As he opened the door to look out, a gust grabbed it and tried to wrench it from his grip. Grigori wedged it against his foot. The deck appeared to be deserted. He eased through, holding on to the jamb with both hands. Immediately he heard what sounded like a rivet gun coming from the stern.
With his back to the cabins, he worked his way up to Bridge Deck 3 without being seen by anyone. Grigori thought that most of the crew would have been herded into one of the larger salons below deck where they could be guarded by just a few soldiers.
The wind was still a problem; it could cause his diversion to fail. But as he had no other plan he felt forced to give it a try. He moved over to the port side to position himself directly underneath the bridge.
Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2) Page 17