Sean planned to join Major Pierce and leave the ship with Khostov. The harsh crackle that boomed through the radio speakers almost drowned the voice. He waved the others away, knowing they needed to get off urgently.
‘…immediately…’
The message seemed to repeat. Sean twiddled with the frequency dial, hoping to catch some more.
‘…begin…’
The static drew Sean in. While the speakers repeated the announcement, he would not leave. He caught one more word the next time round.
‘…will…’
Sean couldn’t explain why, but he knew the message was important.
‘…bombing run…’
Bloody hell!
Sean ran to the lookout post outside the bridge. The skies were grey, the wind gusted strongly, but he still couldn’t see anything. Then he heard the shrill sound of jet engines, coming towards him on full throttle. Barrelling out of the cloud was a single F-35, already screaming for height. Sean watched it cross the ship and disappear into the clouds. A fraction later the bomb hit.
The Joint Air-to-Ground Multi-purpose missile was packed with a lethal shaped-charge capable of penetrating the most advanced armour, and a second delayed detonation blast fragmentation warhead. Although he couldn’t see it, he certainly felt the strike and the secondary explosion. The blast brought a deep rumble inside the mid-section, and the deck plates jumped in sympathy, throwing Sean onto his back.
He crawled to the side and stared out over the water. The first RIB was powering towards the ice.
A thousand questions raced through his mind, not least as to how he was going to get off the ship. Sean smacked the rail in frustration. Why the hell had the Americans decided to bring the bombing run forward?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The program manager experienced a jolt as the bomb landed, and was thrown to the deck. A second later the winch stopped. Dan checked the readout - the motorised winch had registered a stress reading in excess of its specification and had automatically cut out. Dan pressed the reset button helplessly, knowing that the built-in safety feature would prevent a restart for at least ten minutes.
He turned to stare at the ship over his shoulder, searching for the point of impact. He couldn’t find it. The awful realisation that there was nothing more he could do burned a pit at the bottom of his stomach. He whispered a quick prayer for the men below, and ran towards the rail for the last RIB.
In the rescue module both men felt a bump and the PRM stopped its gentle ascent.
‘What was that?’ asked the XO.
‘I don’t know Thomas, but it doesn’t sound good.’
Thomas picked up the handset. ‘Hello, what’s going on?’
There was no reply. ‘Hello, is there anyone there?’
There was no answer.
‘I think they’ve abandoned us,’ said Thomas.
The Captain took the phone from his XO, listened for a few moments and replaced it on the cradle.
Thomas regarded his Captain. ‘Did you hear what I just said? They’ve left us.’
‘Do you remember what I said, Thomas?’ Captain White placed a fatherly hand on Thomas’ shoulder. ‘Just think - nearly all the crew got away. I hope they arrive home safely.’
‘But what about us? You don’t understand my wife. She will go to pieces when she hears about me. And as for Emma and Georgina…’
The Captain noticed Thomas’ eyes moisten. ‘Sit down Thomas. I want to tell you something.’
For a minute they sat in silence, then Captain White began. ‘My children were older than yours. A boy, Peter, and a girl Zara. Peter married when he was thirty. His wife is a lovely girl. We still spend time with her.’
‘What happened to Peter?’
‘Two years after he married he got cancer. His wife was pregnant, and Peter died a year afterwards. I thank God he was able to see his son.’ The Captain sighed. ‘My wife and I spent a lot of time with Elaine and her son. I was granted a year’s leave of absence to do what I could.’
‘I’m really sorry. I knew you had some family difficulties, but I didn’t realise what they were.’
‘The point I’m trying to make Thomas, is this is something we all understand. But we cover it up, pretend it isn’t there. We will all die. But it was very hard when our son died before, well, before us.’
Thomas pulled a tissue out and wiped his eyes. ‘Yes, I see that.’
The Captain inhaled deeply, then breathed out slowly. ‘Right now there is nothing you or I can do to change anything. Now, wouldn’t it be better to go as the men our families know us to be?’
Sean raced into the bridge and around to the radio room at the back. He pressed the radio’s send button.
‘LK-80 to base camp. Cease bombing run. Repeat, stop your bombing run; personnel are still on board.’
He listened as the static filled the space, then repeated the message twice. About to repeat it for a third time, he stopped when he heard a whistling sound. The ship jolted as a second JAGM penetrated the power generation spaces aft of the reactor hall. He felt the deck tilt to starboard. There was no doubt the second bomb had holed the hull.
‘LK-80 to base camp. Cease bombing run. We have been hit and personnel are still on board.’
There was no response. Sean abandoned the radio and ran to the bridge lookout, grabbing a pair of binoculars from the plot table on the way. He scanned the sea; the last RIB was almost at the jetty on the ice. Sean screwed the focus ring, trying to make out who was in the boat. He spotted Major Pierce, Captain Grigori and the program manager Dan.
No-one had thought to check his whereabouts. Now he was marooned on a sinking ship, set to explode in a vast radioactive cloud.
‘Storm Flight 3 to Storm Flight leader!’
The leader of the Russian fighter wing dabbed his microphone button. ‘Report.’
‘Instruments detected an American warplane arming weapons system. I have him on visual.’
‘Give me a running commentary Flight 3 - can you see the target?’
‘He appears to be lining up on the ship.’
‘Not possible, Flight 3. American military vouched they are protecting their base and have no intention to launch an attack. I also confirmed this through military command.’
‘I’m telling you he is beginning an assault! My instruments indicate launch of an air-to-ground missile.’ There was a burst of static. ‘LK-80 has been hit! I repeat, LK-80 has been hit!’
The flight leader’s jaw clenched in a show of disbelief. He turned to his co-pilot sat alongside. ‘Contact the base. Find out what the hell they are playing at!’ Jabbing his mike, he resumed the exchange with Storm Flight 3. ‘Get photos and videos of the action. Keep up a running commentary!’
‘The Lightning has completed the first bombing run. It’s headed into clouds, ascending fast! I’ve lost visual, and my radar is unable to track it.’
‘The American base,’ interjected the co-pilot. ‘They’re saying they received a request to annihilate LK-80 from the Russian specialist on-board. He said the reactor is unstable and they must sink the ship!’
For the second time in as many minutes, the leader of Storm Flight couldn’t believe his ears. He clamped his jaw shut. The Americans plainly thought the Russian pilots were stupid. They were using their superiority in the air to run rings around his squadron. His ear-piece crackled with the next report from Storm Flight 3. ‘A second bomb has been released…impacting mid-ships.’
That was enough for Storm Leader. No matter that his own orders were to hold back, he was now the local commander and had to make his own judgement. Decision made, he jabbed the microphone. ‘Storm leader to Storm Flight. American planes have bombed LK-80. They are playing us for fools. They claimed peaceful intentions, yet they assaulted an unarmed Russian ship!’
He switched to the plane’s internal net and spoke to his co-pilot. ‘Contact base. Inform them what has happened. Tell them we are retaliating.’ He clicked the
microphone on his headset.
‘Storm leader to Storm Flight. Take the American warplanes out of the sky!’
Flight leader manoeuvred to gain height and engaged his weapons systems.
Sean ran to the other side of the ice-breaker, searching for any means of escape. He used the binoculars to scan the surrounding seas, hoping for some kind of flotsam he might use. There was nothing but the iron steely waves. Perhaps there was something he could throw overboard? He began to hunt in the nearby cabins.
A minute later he became resigned to his fate. He looked out again across the Arctic sea as the freezing wind burned his skin. His graveyard would be this harsh landscape. He had come a long way and survived many life-threatening events in his career. Whenever he contemplated death he imagined it would be quick, at the hands of an assassin or a sniper’s bullet. He always believed he would die in the dirt or a gutter somewhere far from home, but never in such a strangely beautiful place.
He turned back to the ship, unwilling to give up just yet. As he crossed Bridge Deck 4, he paused opposite the double doors of the reactor control room. Something about the entrance and the room that lay beyond gave him the shivers. A sixth sense made him stop and approach. The doors stood slightly ajar and he pushed them open and peered in.
Bright lights illuminated a figure bent over one of the control room panels.
‘Khostov?’
The man jerked upright and twisted around. ‘Sean. I’m glad to see you.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you leave?’
‘I told them I needed to try and contain the core.’
A loud rumble sounded somewhere deep within the superstructure.
‘And can you?’
‘No.’ Khostov breathed the word so quietly Sean hardly heard him.
‘Was there ever anything else you could have done?’
Slowly Khostov shook his head.
‘Then why did you stay?’
‘I felt I had to. I designed the safety circuits.’
‘But you have a boy, waiting for you back in England.’
‘And you have a girlfriend. Yet you’re still here.’
A moment of utter understanding passed between them. Sean sympathised with Khostov’s desire for atonement, but another roar from the guts of the ship interrupted them. The floor tilted, wrenching his thoughts to the present. ‘We have to get off.’
‘What about the lifeboats?’
‘All gone.’
‘The American RIBs?’
‘Gone.’
‘Contact the Americans. Let them know we need assistance. Perhaps they might send a helicopter over to take us off?’
‘I tried the radio, but I can’t reach them.’
‘Then we are lost.’
As if to emphasise their predicament the deck lurched with the impact of a third JAGM, closely followed by a deafening blast from the delayed secondary explosive.
The leader of Sentinel Flight stared at his instruments in horror. They were lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘Sentinel One to Sentinel Flight. We are under attack! Take evasive action. Do not fire back!’
He yanked the stick up savagely, and the g-forces began to drain blood from his head. Breathing quickly in his mask, he knew that if he didn’t get enough oxygen in the next few seconds he would lose consciousness. Normally this would not be critical for a short time, but he needed to keep his situational awareness intact. He pulled the stick back further and the airframe clawed the cold air for height. Right now the aircraft was vertical, acting just like a rocket, powering upwards towards thinner atmosphere.
He clicked his mike. ‘Base, we are under attack. Get all our assets up in the air! Use whatever you have to keep the Russians from bombing the airfield. If one bomb damages the runway, we are done.’
An insistent bleep started, and he observed several air-to-air missiles released by the Russian warplanes. He checked to confirm his Electronic Counter Measures was engaged. Now he would find out for real just how good the electronics were.
He rolled out of the ascent less than a minute after pulling the stick back. From a height of 60,000 feet, he studied the Barracuda electronics warfare package. The suite overlaid radar with infra-red tracking functions and electronic countermeasures, providing an aerial map of the battle below.
It was a complex and fast moving picture. The two squadrons of MiG-29s were the biggest threat; they had almost the same operational ceiling, but a smaller combat radius. As a short range fighter, they would have to leave the stage early. But what made the plane interesting was their ability at infra-red tracking. The R-73/AA-11 air missiles they carried were linked to the pilot’s helmet-mounted sights, meaning they would not need to use radar to key in a target - they could do that more quickly and simply by looking at it.
The pilot was less worried about the squadron of Su-24M. Although the Russian plane was faster, the F-35 supplied a better acceleration and a much higher ceiling. He realised that his big advantage - the F-35’s low visibility to radar and infra-red - had already been lost. By putting distance between his team and the Russian’s, he hoped to bring the advantage back into play. The MiGs were much more visible on radar, which would enable Sentinel squadron to get a shot off before the MiGs could re-acquire them.
The Russians had already loosed air-to-air missiles, and Sentinel leader caught an F-35 on the scope on its way down. He thumbed the microphone on the Russian’s frequency. ‘Storm Flight, break off your engagement. DO NOT FIRE!’
Another track arched across his visor, indicating the Russians had fired another missile. They must be deliberately ignoring his order. ‘Break off, break off. You are not under attack.’
The co-pilot clicked his mike. ‘Captain, Base says Storm flight saw us bombing the ship. They think we started the attack.’
‘Understood.’ The Captain clicked the mike to broadcast on the Russian frequency. ‘Storm Flight, break off your attack. We were directed to sink LK-80 by your own advisor. The ship’s reactor is about to explode. We were tasked to sink LK-80 to minimise the fallout. I repeat, break off your attack. LK-80 is being sunk at the request of your nuclear physics expert.’
For a second there was a lull in the fighting. Then the Captain saw a red trail in his visor.
The Russians had fired again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘That’s it,’ muttered Sean.
‘What?’ queried Khostov.
‘The helicopter, you talked about a bloody helicopter. It may be still there.’
Sean recalled seeing the machine while Khostov was attending the reactor. It seemed such a long time ago, but was probably less than an hour. Major Pierce had brought him on a quick tour of the ship and Sean glimpsed it tethered at the aft end of the bow deck. In all the excitement he believed someone would have flown it to base, but he couldn’t see the deck because the reactor hall was in the way.
‘Come on!’ Sean grabbed Khostov and pushed him towards the door. They staggered as an explosion ripped through LK-80, coming from the steam turbine or power generation area. Sean pushed him through the doors and they raced down the companionway to the bow deck. Emergencies were wonderful for showing where a person’s priorities really lay, thought Sean. Khostov’s strapped ankle didn’t seem to be holding him back at all.
Already seawater slopped over the steel plates. Immediately Sean felt the numbing cold as it soaked his boots. He continued to pull Khostov after him. Although the man possessed the same sense of urgency, he was too slow to be left to his own devices.
By the time they rounded the clinic at the corner, they were knee deep in seawater and the ship had a pronounced list. But there in front of them stood the helicopter, tied to the deck by four lines. Sean breathed his thanks. ‘Get in!’ Sean opened the door and shoved him through, then set about undoing the lines. The first three were easy to unhook, even under water, because they were slack. But the fourth was under tension, and impossible to release. Sean looked around for something to help. He r
ecalled they had passed a fire extinguisher and axe on their way aft, and he returned to the fire station, wading through water a foot high. He broke the glass with his elbow, pulled out the axe and ran back.
Sean saw Khostov sitting helplessly in the cockpit. Knowing it could take up to a minute for the engines to reach full thrust, he left the taught line in place. Wading around the other side, he dragged open the door and climbed in. As he went through the start-up procedure, he glanced at his passenger, pale and shivering.
Arctic Firepath (Sean Quinlan Book 2) Page 26