The Russian President’s tone became icy. ‘Unless all American personnel are removed from LK-80 and the nearby base, we will send warplanes to bomb the base, and troops to retake the ship.’
‘Is it not better to continue to get the crew out now rather than delay any further?’ Donahue’s voice reverted to its previously calm tones. ‘Also I’ve been informed that a depression is building in the area. If we leave the rescue any longer we’ll have to wait until the storm blows over. This could be another 3 or 4 days, by which time all the crew of the submarine will be dead.’
‘I will not permit your military to occupy LK-80.’ President Duskin’s voice held no room for negotiation.
‘Pavla. Please don’t be so hasty.’ Donahue paused to lend emphasis to his next words. We all remember what happened to the Kursk.’
Duskin stood up, barely containing his mounting anger. ‘I want your men out now - storm or no storm,’ he shouted.
There was a moment’s silence. Vladislav could hear the American President’s sigh from thousands of miles away.
‘All personnel will be removed from the ship within 12 hours. The base will be cleared in the following 12 hours. That is the best offer we can make.’ Donahue ended the call.
President Duskin leaned forward in astonishment, jabbing the button to confirm the Americans had closed the call. He whirled round at Vladislav. ‘I want more planes in the air. Keep a constant watch on the activities of the Americans. If they are one minute over the 12 hour period, you have my permission to bomb them back to ashes.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DD arrived at the Domodedovo International Airport after a three hour long taxi ride. Even before he entered the building his luggage, consisting solely of his rucksack, was scanned by security. They asked him to open the laptop they found inside and start it. He was happy to oblige, knowing they would be unlikely to spot DD had a dual boot system. DD booted up into an innocuous operating environment, and the man let it pass.
DD entered the terminal, noticing straight away just how busy it was. Endless numbers were weaving their way with heavy baggage through the concourse, giving the impression of being totally disorganised.
But the airport halls, production areas and checkpoints were monitored by 24-hour video surveillance systems through a centralised control centre. Dog handlers were evident, used to detect drugs and explosives. DD knew the measures had only been implemented after several serious incidents at the airport.
He joined a long queue at passport control. Having accumulated three stamps on his passport, he was eventually let through. Before continuing he stopped to check his mobile. There were no calls, but he took the opportunity to open up an app on the phone.
Queueing seemed to be a free-for-all; many pushed past to get to the top of the queue. But the screening system was good; DD’s keen eyes spotted a gas analyser and a SafeScout 100 scanner. The latter used a millimetre wave scanner to identify any hidden objects.
He managed to get through without incident, and found a table in the coffee shop. Having paid an exorbitant price for a latte, he opened his laptop and paid another fee to join the café’s Wi-Fi. This network was encrypted, ensuring the connection would be more difficult to trace. Taking a sip of coffee, he checked the screen - it had already recognised his phone via Bluetooth. From the laptop he was able to see all the information his phone had collected during the time he had queued through passport control and security.
The app he activated earlier was a Bluetooth hacking program. The actual details of the program were secret, but DD knew it was capable of pairing with other Bluetooth devices, supplying all the necessary credentials and accepting pairing requests on the devices it targeted. The process took moments, but once the correct protocols were exchanged, the program could take control of the person’s phone. The app would then export all relevant data onto DD’s mobile and move on.
DD’s first action was to transfer all the contact information he had gathered to his laptop, and import it into a database. He used the next five minutes to search the database for a suitable target, and learn about the target’s contacts. DD could track the target’s home land-line, and match it to a contact with the same number. Most likely this was the target’s wife or partner.
He then placed a call with a small department in Harrogate, West Yorkshire. The section was part of the government’s GCHQ network, based in Gloucestershire. Having supplied the correct identification, and sent a double-encrypted pass-code from his computer, he was put through to a Russian specialist.
‘I’m about to make a play; standby.’
‘Ready to go.’
DD tapped the shortcut on the phone’s screen which dialled the target’s mobile. A couple of seconds later, he watched as one of the uniformed border officers reached for his mobile. DD touched a second key, seamlessly connecting the Russian specialist in Harrogate to the target. DD listened to the exchange. Although he was not fluent, he had sufficient grasp of the language to understand the general thrust of the conversation.
‘Is this Mr Ilyushin?
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘Dr Kovrov, Bezrukov Clinical Hospital. I’m afraid your wife Olga has been taken ill.’
There was a short pause as the target struggled to grasp the news. ‘How seriously - where is she?’
‘Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?’
‘Yes.’
DD saw the man place the phone on a side table, and pull out a notepad and pen.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Take this down.’ The specialist gave him a phone number formatted as a local Moscow number, so the target would not get suspicious. ‘Call this number, and they will put you through to the intensive care unit where Olga is being looked after.’
This was DD’s cue to press another button on his computer screen. The effect was to immediately drop the link between GCHQ and the target and then render the target’s phone useless. The man tried to ring several times on his mobile, evidently unsuccessfully. Eventually he picked an internal phone and dialled from there.
From now on DD would not need to intervene; GCHQ would do all the heavy lifting. The number the target was using would be redirected straight away to their communications centre, and once they had a link they could use a wide range of program tools to explore the telephone network at the airport. When the target replaced the handset, GCHQ’s software could keep the connection open. They could even upload bespoke viruses onto the system at their leisure, without anyone becoming suspicious.
DD wiped his forehead with relief.
Captain Grigori shivered, pulling his thin clothes tight around his chest. During the last ten minutes the wind had died away. The snow stopped falling, the air became clear and the temperature dropped like a stone.
The Americans realised he had a radio and they came looking for him. But Captain Grigori Burak prided himself that no-one knew the ship as well as he did. While the soldiers searched, Grigori kept moving one step ahead. When he heard them getting close he moved from the equipment locker on Bridge Deck 2 to the forepeak locker. Later he had to shift to the steering-flat and finally the forward anchor chain locker. Then they seemed to give up and he returned to his original hideaway where it was marginally warmer and roomier.
He had been stupid not to realise they would search for him, but the reward was worth it. The short wave transmitter he stole could be key to his salvation. Instead of returning to his homeland, branded a coward for sending an unprotected submarine to the bottom of the ocean, he would be a hero. They would welcome him back as the man who singlehandedly fought the American aggressors, providing the military with the intelligence they needed to return the ship to his command.
He opened the door and peeked out. There was no-one on deck. The small window of calm was over; wind speed was increasing, picking up frozen hail and flinging it horizontally across the deck. He peered up through the squall, imagining the flash of a wing-tip. It might be a Russian aircraf
t. He listened carefully; seconds later he heard the sound of a jet engine growing louder as the plane descended below cloud cover. Twin vertical fins mounted at the rear and a flattened nose-cone at the front told its own story; she was Russian.
Grigori switched on the radio set, his fingers blue and stiff with the cold. He would have preferred to use it in the relative protection of the locker, but he believed the reception strength would be stronger from an open space.
He turned the dial to the plane’s frequency and pressed the transmit button. With dismay, he realised the battery was almost dead.
‘LK-80 to Platypus Two.’ Grigori had to shout above the wind. ‘Are you receiving me?’ After two attempts, a burst of static came from the head phones.
‘Platypus Two. Please confirm your identity.’
Grigori felt a surge of adrenaline. Now he would bring hell and damnation onto the heads of the Americans. ‘Captain Grigori Burak of the icebreaker LK-80.’
‘Go ahead, Captain.’
‘We have been boarded by US soldiers.’
‘What is your position?’
‘I am in hiding. Battery is low. I want you to take back my ship.’
‘Conserve your battery. I will ask for orders.’ The pilot took the aircraft up through the cloud ceiling.
‘We have only seven minutes of loiter fuel left,’ warned the co-pilot.
The pilot clicked the mike on his headset. ‘Platypus Two to base. I have confirmation LK-80 has been forcibly taken by US military. Captain Burak has managed to evade capture, but his radio battery is almost gone. What are your orders?’
‘Message acknowledged. We will respond.’
Nearly five minutes passed, and the pilot spoke to his co-pilot. ‘Get onto base and find out what they are playing at.’
The co-pilot clicked his own mike. ‘Platypus Two to base. We have two minutes of loiter fuel remaining. If you are unable to give alternative instructions in that time we will return home. Please acknowledge.’
‘Message acknowledged. Reconnoitre the American base before you return.’
‘Will do.’ He turned to the pilot. ‘Better make it quick,’ he said, tapping the fuel gauge.
The pilot switched to the plane’s intercom. ‘How many hours of the deadline remain?’
‘The Americans have four and a half hours remaining from the twelve we agreed to.’
‘So why are we being asked to reconnoitre?’
‘No idea.’
The pilot toggled the radio mike to speak to base. ‘Wind speed is increasing. Ground visibility is zero. We are unlikely to get a good look at the encampment.’
‘Do it,’ came the brutally short reply.
The pilot glanced across at the co-pilot who appeared resigned to the last minute command. Reluctantly he nudged the joystick to overfly the base. The co-pilot prepared the sensors to capture as much information from the fly-past as possible. As the warplane descended the airframe started to shake in the turbulence. The pilot held the stick steady, and at his command the co-pilot operated the avionics, gathering and recording a wide range of the electromagnetic spectrum from the sensors.
At the end of the run-past, and without waiting for an order, the pilot pulled the stick up and headed on a bearing for home.
‘Platypus Two. We have an urgent message.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘We have just received a directive from Vice-Admiral Kostya Duboff. His orders are to turn back and bomb the American base.’
The lady checked her computer screen and updated it to indicate the couple had checked in. ‘No luggage?’ she asked in English as she handed the passports back.
‘No, thank you.’ Sean tucked both documents into a pocket.
‘Gate 14, but you will have to be quick. There is a long queue at passport control, and your plane takes off in an hour.’ The lady returned the boarding passes.
Sean put an arm around Levushka’s shoulder and steered him towards the queue. Sean was thankful he had stopped to disable Levushka’s three bodyguards in the car. That must have delayed headquarters by at least half an hour. However, it wouldn’t be long before an onlooker reported the abduction to the police. They joined the line, while Sean mulled over the probabilities. He wondered how many minutes it would take for the message to filter through the police bureaucracy to the right department.
The queue grew shorter. Behind the glass a bored official barely glanced at each passport as it was thrust over the counter. About to inspect the next person’s passport, the man’s phone rang and Sean watched him pick up the handset. He listened for a minute, inspected his computer, and replaced the phone with hardly a word. There was something about his manner which suggested he had been alerted to the abduction.
Sean slipped out his phone and dashed off a quick txt to DD. Now the official was scrutinising each passport more closely the queue went down more slowly. Five minutes later Sean was almost at the counter, sensing butterflies in his stomach. For a moment he grew angry with himself; Levushka appeared calm, yet the experienced agent escorting him was having kittens.
The man’s eyes widened fractionally as Sean placed his passport on the counter. The official scanned the papers again and regarded Sean and at Levushka standing beside him. Before he could return to his screen, Sean produced three other documents. The first was his entry/exit visa; the second, a power of attorney document signed by Khostov to allow the boy to travel; the third was a copy of his birth certificate showing Khostov was the father. Unhurriedly the official verified the papers and frowned. All three had been crafted by the Section, so there should be no problems with them.
‘Please step to one side.’ The officer stepped out of his cubicle and signalled to the waiting policeman.
Sean looked around. The alert was out and his options were strictly limited. Behind him the column stretched back, and two other guards lounged outside an office. The policeman was nearly here. If Sean attempted to escape with Levushka, they would catch him within seconds.
The phone rang in the cubicle, and the officer ducked inside to answer it. Sean couldn’t hear the conversation. The police officer arrived and stood calmly, surveying Sean and Levushka with an interested expression.
The phone conversation finished and the official examined his monitor. When he came out he spoke rapidly to the policeman. He nodded to Sean and returned to his spot. Sean raised his eyebrows in mute query.
‘I apologise for the interruption Mr. Ingram,’ the official said courteously. ‘You may go - and have a good journey.’
It took another twenty minutes to clear security, but there were no further holdups. When they were through, Sean spotted DD packing up his laptop. Pretending not to know each other, they walked to the gate. When they were in the line, Sean turned to DD.
‘Meet Levushka.’
DD shook hands. ‘Sorry about the scare.’
‘How the hell did you manage it,’ Sean asked quietly.
‘I got a colleague to put a call through on their internal system. He pretended to be one of the senior managers at Passport control. Said that the instructions he had been given were incorrect, and they should ignore them.’
‘As simple as that?’ asked Sean disbelievingly.
‘Well, no. It happens more often than you think, apparently. But we followed it up with an official looking email to his terminal. Once he saw that, he had the authorisation he needed to cover his back.’
‘Bloody hell. Don’t leave it so late next time!’
Platypus Two carried six KAB 500KR missiles which were un-powered glide bombs. Each had a nominal payload of 500 kg of explosive and were designed for small ground targets. In normal conditions the pilot could take out the American base easily, but as if to remind him of the difficulty, the warplane dropped steeply in a down-draft. It was going to be near impossible to bomb the base accurately.
‘I want you to take command of bombing duties,’ he told his co-pilot.
‘Understood. You know our sa
tellite navigation communications link is playing up?’
‘Most probably the storm cell. It looks like ground radar is being affected too.’ A high altitude pass was out of the question, and the pilot began to descend into the clouds. He had a sick feeling in his stomach. With the link down he would have to rely entirely on inertial guidance instrumentation. He steadied the aircraft as best he could. The lower he went the more buffeting the airframe took, until he reached a point where they were being constantly jolted in the high winds. His look-ahead and ground radar were virtually useless.
Through gritted teeth he spoke to his colleague again. ‘For the first run you let three go off at timed intervals, half a second between each.’
‘Understood.’ The co-pilot flipped the arming switches.
Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2) Page 20