‘What’s next?’
‘In two hours we declare a protection zone around the ship. To back that up we’ll have ..,’ Dimitry referred to a list. ‘Two fighter squadrons with MiG-29s; two bomber squadrons using the Su-24M; one assault squadron flying the Su-25 and 1 intelligence squadron. All operating out of Kotelny.’
‘Any signs the Americans are leaving?’
‘No, Pavla. More aircraft are arriving at their base, even as we speak.’
‘They promised they would be all gone by now! Dimitry, I want you to take back control of the ship. Use all means to achieve that end.’
‘We will need to deal with the American forces to do so. Are you authorising me to do that?’
‘Dimitry, have I not just told you?’
‘Very well, Pavla.’ One thousand two hundred miles away Dimitry put the phone down, his face a mask of disgust and fear. With no written orders he was being ordered to wage war. If it all went badly wrong he had no doubt the President would blame him for misinterpreting orders. But if he didn’t carry them out he would be hounded out of office.
Dimitry sat for a few moments, thinking through the conflicting tangle of impossible demands and loyalty to his office. Maybe there was a way to show he was carrying out orders, yet not implement them in full. He would need a little time to work out the details, but in the meantime his President expected him to execute his command.
If that was what he wanted, who was Dimitry Kamenev to refuse?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Inside the Airbus the Load-master handed Sean and Khostov mugs of coffee. Khostov put the internal phone back on its cradle.
‘That was a long conversation. How are they doing?’
Khostov sighed. ‘OK. I’ve advised them what they should do.’
‘Is it helping?’
‘Yes, I think so. They understand the concepts, but it is difficult to describe what procedures they should follow at the end of a phone. How long before we arrive?’
‘About five hours. You should get some sleep if you can. You won’t get a chance once we land.’
Khostov gazed at the vast empty belly of the plane, taking in the constant vibration and drone of the four Europrop TP400-D6 engines.
Sean laughed. ‘When you’ve been in as many aircraft as I have, you learn to sleep just about anywhere.’
‘I suppose you don’t often fly normal commercial flights,’ observed Khostov dryly.
‘Not really. I started by flying helicopters for some of our elite soldiers.’
‘What happened?’
‘After a year or two they asked me to join them on the ground.’
‘And did you?’
Sean eyed Khostov. ‘I did. But it’s a long story.’
Khostov opened the palm of his hands. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’
Sean drew a hand through his hair, unsure where to start. ‘I trained for the SAS.’
‘I have heard of them, your Special Air Service. They’re widely admired in Russia - though no-one in the military would admit to that.’
‘After a bit, I found I enjoyed the company. Sure, the work was difficult, but the blokes I met would do anything for you in a fight.’ Sean laughed. ‘They’d steal your food and your brew if you weren’t looking, but when it came down to the wire, they would give their lives to protect you.’ Sean reflected a moment. ‘And you would do the same for them.’
‘When I talk to some of my friends in the military, they tell me it is like a family.’
‘That’s how it was for me. I guess that’s why I stayed on so long. Then one thing led to another, and I wound up working for a clandestine part of British Intelligence.’
‘You sound like you’ve been there a while.’
‘Too long.’
‘Did you ever think about retiring?’
Sean hesitated. ‘Actually yes. I plan to leave sometime in the next six months.’
‘That will be a big step, no?
‘Yes. But now I’ve given my notice, I’m looking forward to it.’
‘So there is somebody – to go to?’
Sean reached for the St. Christopher medal in his pocket. Before he left he had called Natasha, but there was no answer on her mobile. Maybe she was in the middle of moving, and too busy to return his calls. He felt guilty at not being there to help her with the move, but he was puzzled she had not contacted him by now. ‘I don’t mean to be rude Alexei, but I do think you should try to get some rest.’
Khostov waved his hand in the air. ‘I had a rest at your wonderful place at Brampdon Manor. It’s like an old fashioned English hotel,’ he mused. ‘I felt I was on holiday after an exciting adventure.’
Sean glanced at him sideways to check if he was being serious. He was. ‘Well your little adventure nearly got you killed. And two men in Paris died coming after you.’
Khostov appeared crestfallen. ‘I am sorry. I didn’t intend to make little of your efforts to protect me. Those people were evil.’
They sipped their coffee in silence for a few moments, and Sean turned his attention to the job ahead. ‘How does something like a meltdown happen?’ Sean asked.
Khostov looked at Sean carefully, as though he were leading him to a trap. ‘Why do you ask?’
He shrugged. ‘Just curious really.’
Khostov took a deep breath and held it for a count of ten, then faced Sean. ‘Accidents happen. More often than not the cause is human error. You know, I have worked in nuclear physics all my life. That’s why I’ve devoted a lot of my career into making these systems safer - safer for the operators, and for the general public.’
‘So what went wrong here?’
‘People, Sean. Greedy, grasping, penny pinching people. I designed a complete safety backup system for this type of Pressurised Water Reactor. In order to shave costs from the project and to increase output power, the manufacturer removed the steel cladding. To compensate, the water jacket surrounding the core had to be increased in diameter. The water acts as a neutron-absorbing shield. But if the water is lost in an accident, the operators will receive a fatal dose.’
‘I see’ remarked Sean sombrely, not really understanding.
Khostov surveyed the large cargo bay. ‘That’s not the worst of it. These types of reactors are more complicated and expensive to build than conventional ones. Because it’s more complex, we have to take greater precautions when it comes to safety. So we develop several safety systems. The idea is that if there’s a problem with the first one, the second comes into play. And if that doesn’t work, the third one becomes operational, and so on.’
‘How many did you design into it?’
‘Four. Then some accountant took a look at the project cost and put a pen through the fourth. They had no idea what they were doing. With one stroke they shaved over 50 million roubles.’ Khostov brought his gaze back to Sean. ‘And probably cost the lives of countless people.’
‘At my briefing I was told it might cause a lot more deaths - nearly the whole of the Arctic could be contaminated.’
Khostov paused. ‘Yes and no.’
Sean regarded Alexei. ‘Which is it?’
‘It is true that if the melt were to react with the salt water, there would be an enormous explosion which would send radioactive elements into the atmosphere. But the engineers I spoke to managed to partially operate the second safety backup system. We have a little more time.’
‘How much?’
‘A few hours.’ Khostov shrugged. ‘We should arrive before then.’
’Supposing you’re not able to fix the second system?’
‘I will have to implement the third mechanism. It contains an aqueous solution of cadmium-nitrate which can be fed directly into the core.’
‘You don’t sound sure it will succeed.’
‘It’s awkward and needs several hours for mounting and start-up. It is very complex, and hasn’t been tested exhaustively.’
‘So it could fail?’
Khost
ov nodded. ‘In reality, it probably will.’
‘Jesus, Alexei. You’re not giving me much confidence.’
Alexei studied Sean. ‘I am telling you the truth. I am also saying, in all modesty, that I am the only person on the planet who has a hope of making it work.’
The British PM chose an anteroom in the Finanzministerium for the meeting. While he was in Vienna for the summit, he knew that most of the real business would be conducted in rooms such as this one - away from the Baroque elegance of the hall where ministers from the wealthiest seven countries of the world discussed mutual and global energy issues.
There was a knock and the PM’s bodyguard looked for approval to allow the person in. A man entered and handed two envelopes to the British PM. As he turned to leave, Terrance Ashdown motioned for him to stay.
Ashdown believed he knew what was in the envelopes. The day before he had issued invitations to the President of America and the President of Russia. In the letter he requested a private meeting for this evening. The PM thought the Russian response would be a polite refusal, but he was confident of the American President’s acceptance. After all, had he not agreed to the loan of Khostov?
He opened the Russian envelope. As expected it contained a courteous answer, declining his request. He opened the second letter, and his face fell. The text was longer, more flowery and apologetic. But the content was the same; the American President declined, citing pressure of work.
The PM sighed. While he had not expected Donahue to renege, the PM was prepared. He opened a drawer in the desk. Inside were four envelopes placed in two piles, separated by a thin pink ribbon. The PM chose the left pile, and handed both letters to the waiting messenger. ‘Please deliver these to the named recipients immediately.
They contained a much more strongly worded missive; the PM’s request for a meeting was not optional. Unless both Presidents attended he would announce a press conference where he would tell the world what dirty tricks Russia and America had perpetrated to secure their interests in the Arctic.
The PM sat back, regarding the ornate grandfather clock. It was a big gamble, and he still didn’t have all the information he needed for the meeting. Ashdown fretted; he was reliant on the security service to provide a significant bargaining counter before 8 pm. He reached for the telephone.
The Presidents look at each other coldly, barely acknowledging each other’s presence. They were punctual, but the Russian President was already checking his wristwatch.
‘I won’t keep you long, gentlemen.’ The PM contemplated the two men. ‘You both have had success in leading your respective nations, and I compliment you on your efforts. But some recent developments have given me grave cause for alarm.’
He checked to see he had their attention. ‘I believe that both your countries are making a ‘land grab’ for the Arctic. I have certain documents that prove beyond doubt that both your governments have engineered a confrontation in the Arctic in order to establish your right to extract hydrocarbons there.’ The PM gestured to the table where three files lay. They were coloured blue, red and black.
The PM picked up the blue file and flicked it open. He quickly scanned the first page, and then picked up a TV remote. He switched on a large flat-screen TV on the wall. It came up showing a map of the Arctic, with all the countries surrounding the Arctic sea. He pointed to an area off the most northern part of Norway.
‘This is the village of Ny-Ålesund on the Svalbard archipelago. It’s the only pure British research station in the whole of the Arctic. They have been researching cosmic rays for some years.’
The PM saw both Presidents looking at each other, no doubt wondering where all this was leading. ‘I will get to the point gentlemen. As part of this research, the scientists there make recordings of several regions of the electromagnetic spectrum, included the frequencies on which the Russian satellite navigation system GLONASS broadcasts.’
The PM turned to President Donahue. ‘I’m sure you know that this is the Russian equivalent of your GPS system, and it’s used by the military for navigation and tracking.’
The American President nodded.
‘Normally these frequencies are discarded by the researchers - they are more interested in extra-terrestrial particles. But nearly two months ago a researcher noticed a distinct change in the way the GLONASS signal was being transmitted. He sent the recordings on to an expert - Professor Ian Watkins at the University of Edinburgh. To cut a long story short, the Professor became intrigued. He ordered some heavy-weight computing power to try and “crack the code.”’
Both Presidents appeared to be puzzled and bemused by Ashdown’s introduction.
‘Well gentlemen, I can tell you now that the Professor succeeded.’
Donahue looked at his watch. ‘I’m sure this is very fascinating to a technical audience, but I do have an immanent appointment.’
The Prime Minister held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry, I am coming to the point. The Professor found that for a short period of time, and limited to an area in the high Arctic, GLONASS signals were faked.’
Ashdown used the remote control to play a video on the large wall-mounted TV. It showed a track, arching from southern Russia to the Arctic. ‘This is the path taken by two Tupolev TU-160 bombers from Engels Air Base six weeks ago.’ The PM studied the Russian President. ‘We know them as Blackjacks in Europe and America. They turn north and fly on a straight course for almost ten hours. Their route carries them over the Barents Sea, past our listening post on the Svalbard Islands, across the geographic North Pole, and then South towards the Beaufort Sea.’
The PM paused and pointed to western Canada. ‘We know that two CF-18 fighter-interceptors scrambled out of Canadian Forces Base Cold Lake in northern Alberta. They met up with the Russian planes over the Beaufort Sea, 200 km north of the mouth of the Mackenzie River. I’m told that normally the Russian and Canadian pilots would wave at each other, and then turn their planes around. They’re only there to check each other’s air defences.’
The PM pointed to the trail. ‘The “Blackjacks” change course towards Russian soil. After several hours, for some unknown reason, the Blackjacks turn again on a heading to Alaska with orders to test American air defences. The weather is bad with a raging Arctic storm which has lasted the best part of three days.’
The PM indicated Alaska territory on the map. ‘NORAD radar picks up the deviation, and Eielson AFB is notified. However the Americans are slow to respond, and eventually put up two F16s from the base.’
The PM scrutinised both of them. ‘Everything I have said is documented, and I will make this available to you both. Remember, the Russian planes were operating within storm clouds, and the navigators cannot see any ground reference points.’ The PM checked to ensure Donahue was taking in the message. ‘Then the Americans transmit new satellite signals, created by their own systems at the same time as blocking the Russians satellite navigation GLONASS system. The pilots think the storm is blocking their signals, and their equipment automatically turns to a new frequency. From their instruments they know they are well outside American territory.’
The PM showed the path of the bomber planes looping back towards Alaska. ‘The dotted line marks the path the pilots believe they are following - look how much nearer their actual track is.’
Pavla Duskin crossed to the TV to get a better view.
‘When the Blackjacks cross the Alaskan 12 mile boundary, the F16s order them to land at Eielson.’ The PM eyed the Russian President apologetically. ‘I don’t have cockpit recordings, more’s the pity, but I imagine the language would be ripe. I also understand that one of the Blackjacks tried to turn back, but was eventually persuaded to follow the F16s to base.’
Ashdown noticed President Donahue’s face had gone pale. He resumed the story. ‘They are both escorted to Eielson and land safely.’
‘I want that documentation now’ demanded Duskin.
‘Not yet, Pavla. The point is, those signals wer
e falsified for a very specific reason - to lure Russian planes overflying the Arctic into straying across American airspace.’
Robert Donahue appeared dumbfounded, shaking his head. ‘I don’t believe this is true.’
The Prime Minister turned to him. ‘I can assure you that the Professor’s work has been checked and double-checked by his peers. The signals were changed at a time when Russian aircraft were in the area.’ The PM addressed them both. ‘In such a way as to give a false reading to those pilots.’
‘Are you saying that we deliberately deceived Russian bombers?’
Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2) Page 23